A Springtime Affair Read online

  Katie Fforde

  * * *

  A Springtime Affair

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  About the Author

  Katie Fforde lives in the beautiful Cotswold countryside with her family, and is a true country girl at heart. Each of her books explores a different profession or background and her research has helped her bring these to life. She’s been a porter in an auction house, tried her hand at pottery, refurbished furniture, delved behind the scenes of a dating website, and she’s even been on a Ray Mears survival course. She loves being a writer; to her there isn’t a more satisfying and pleasing thing to do. She particularly enjoys writing love stories. She believes falling in love is the best thing in the world, and she wants all her characters to experience it, and her readers to share their stories. To find out more about Katie Fforde step into her world at www.katiefforde.com, visit her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter @KatieFforde.

  Also available by Katie Fforde

  Living Dangerously

  The Rose Revived

  Wild Designs

  Stately Pursuits

  Life Skills

  Thyme Out

  Artistic Licence

  Highland Fling

  Paradise Fields

  Restoring Grace

  Flora’s Lot

  Practically Perfect

  Going Dutch

  Wedding Season

  Love Letters

  A Perfect Proposal

  Summer of Love

  A French Affair

  The Perfect Match

  A Vintage Wedding

  A Summer at Sea

  A Secret Garden

  A Country Escape

  A Rose Petal Summer

  To Briony Wilson-Fforde, Heidi Fforde and Anastasia Fforde, my girls, whose friendship and support I value so much. Thank you!

  Acknowledgements

  As always, a lot of people helped me with the research for this book, they were generous with their time and told me all I thought I needed to know. And as always, I will have made mistakes and got it wrong. It is not their fault! It is entirely mine.

  Among the many, are two wonderful weavers, Cyndy Graham, who has a thatched cottage in Donegal, with sensational views, and Nick Ozanne, the creator of Leto and Ariadne. They both produce beautiful and very different items and were both very kind to me.

  I heard about super recognisers from James Wilks, whose wife, Emma Wilks, is one. The moment I heard about this, I knew I had to put it in my book.

  Andy Rhoton, with her husband, Bill, used to run what must have been the best Bed and Breakfast in the country. Thank you, Andy, for all your in-put. (And funny stories – not in the book.)

  I happen to have the very best publishing team there is (in my far from humble opinion). They include Selina Walker, inspirational, supportive and full of brilliant ideas, who turns my words into a readable book. Cassandra Di Bello, who sadly now lives in Australia. (No connection, I’m sure!) Ajebowale Roberts who has taken up Cass’s role with equal efficiency and kindness.

  Thanks also go to the wonderful sales team,

  Laura Garrod, Rachel Campbell, Mat Watterson, Claire Simmonds and Sasha Cox. Not forgetting the magicians that are the marketing team, Sarah Ridley and Natalia Cacciatore, or the artists who create my covers, Ceara Elliot for art direction and Jacqueline Bisset for illustrations. And the people who get the books out on time and looking fabulous, Linda Hodgson and Helen Wynn-Smith. Last but not least, brilliant Katie Sheldrake, and as always my much loved friend Charlotte Bush in publicity.

  My copyeditor, Richenda Todd, who stops the clangers (there are always clangers!) and makes me look like I know what I’m writing about. So grateful!

  And to Bill Hamilton, officially best agent ever, my staff and stay.

  Never forgetting my family, who are now more than emotional supporters. I love you and I’m truly grateful to you.

  Chapter One

  Helena was not happy. She had nearly finished weaving a throw in quite a complicated pattern only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. But as she had an idea who was knocking, she didn’t feel she could ignore it. So, retying the scarf that was holding her hair back from her face, she got up from her loom, went to the door and opened it.

  ‘Yes?’ she said to the man standing there.

  He was surprisingly large and dressed in jeans, rugby shirt and what Helena thought of as builders’ boots. He was covered in dust and was smiling ruefully, possibly to make himself seem unthreatening.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you,’ he said, pushing his dusty blond hair out of his eyes, ‘but I have an animal emergency. I need someone a bit smaller than me.’ He cast his eyes rapidly up and down her. ‘And you’re a lot smaller. You’d be perfect.’ His smile was crooked and had a tinge of anxiety which made him hard to resist.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Helena was an animal lover but she needed some details before committing herself. He might want help with a flock of angry geese, for example, in which case she was not the best person to ask.

  ‘It’s a kitten. It’s my sister’s and Zuleika, the mother, is getting desperate. I’m keeping her in the house because if she gets in where her kitten is, she might well make everything a whole lot worse.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ said Helena, and shut her door behind her, not worrying about locking it. Her studio had been part of a barn that was near the farmhouse, which her landlord had just moved into, and it was all part of the same property, so it wasn’t exactly far.

  ‘I’m so grateful,’ said the man as they set off. ‘I probably spent rather too long trying to sort it out myself but I’m just too huge.’ He stopped. ‘By the way, I’m Jago, Jago Pen—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Helena. ‘Your name is on the lease of my studio.’

  ‘So it is,’ he said and set off again. ‘Come on. Let’s get that kitten out of bother.’

  It didn’t take them long to cross the courtyard to what would one day be a very lovely house. It had a rather ‘cobbled together’ look about it: a small original house had had bits added on to it over the centuries at a time when no one worried too much if a Georgian section would look odd next to a bit built in far earlier times. But the years had blurred the edges and it was now charming. It belonged to Jago Pengelly, Helena’s landlord, but although he had owned it for over six months, he had only just started working on it. His presence indicated her notice was up; he was about to turn her out of her studio, which was wher
e she not only did her weaving but also lived. She really wanted to hate him but her sense of fair play made it difficult: six months’ notice was more than generous and if she had concentrated more she would probably have found alternative accommodation for her and her loom by now.

  ‘We need to go round the back,’ Jago said.

  Disappointed that she wasn’t going to get a look inside Jago’s house, Helena followed him to where he was standing in front of a huge pile of soil and rock. He was looking anxious.

  ‘There was slippage. I wouldn’t have started with the digger if I’d known Zuleika and the kitten were anywhere near while I was working. I thought Zulie was shut in but she must have slipped out after me and the kitten followed.’

  ‘Where is the kitten?’ asked Helena.

  ‘Behind there.’ They were at the back of the house now and he indicated a huge pile of soil and stone.

  ‘Oh my God. Can’t you just climb up and get her?’

  ‘Not without dislodging more rubble, which could bury her, poor little thing.’

  ‘So how can I help? The same thing could happen if I climbed up.’

  ‘There’s a window in the house that opens on to the bit behind the slippage. Come inside, I’ll show you.’

  The inside of the house was pretty much a building site, but Helena hardly had time to be disappointed and she hurried behind Jago to the back of the house.

  ‘There.’ He pointed to a window. ‘If you look through there and down you’ll see the kitten.’

  And there it was, absolutely tiny, its little mouth opening pinkly in what was obviously a persistent cry. It was on a much lower level than where they were standing.

  ‘There’s no way through from the cellar,’ Jago went on. ‘I’ve been through every possible solution, and this is the only one. We have to get a ladder out of this window and you have to climb down and bring the kitten up. Maybe in a bucket?’

  Helena swallowed as she contemplated her task. Refusing wasn’t an option but she felt perspiration prick along her hairline at the prospect of a ladder and a small space. She wiped her hands down the side of her jeans. ‘OK, let’s do it.’

  Jago went to fetch a ladder while Helena did some deep breathing which was somewhat disturbed by the sound of an anguished mother cat – Zuleika – trying to escape from behind a door. The yowling and the scratching was agonising to hear.

  ‘Right,’ Jago said cheerily, carrying an extending ladder, unaware of Helena’s misgivings. ‘I’ll try not to squash the kitten when I put the ladder down.’

  ‘Is there room for me as well as the ladder?’

  ‘Check for yourself.’ He was struggling to manoeuvre the ladder and was obviously surprised by her question.

  Helena didn’t move until the ladder was in place and then she didn’t bother to look – knowing wouldn’t help. ‘OK!’ she said brightly. ‘I’m going down!’

  Getting out of the window wasn’t straightforward. It involved balancing on the window ledge as she was too short to just swing her leg over to the ladder, which wasn’t quite long enough to reach Helena’s level.

  ‘I could get a taller ladder,’ Jago offered after a bit of undignified heaving on Helena’s part and shoving from him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, panting slightly, ‘my foot’s on the top rung now.’

  ‘Before you go down, take this.’ Jago handed her a flexible plastic trug with a rope tied to the handle. ‘Put her in this and I can haul her up. Then all you need to concentrate on is getting up the ladder.’

  He made it sound so easy, thought Helena. It was easy – a few steps down, scoop up the kitten, put her in the bucket and then back up the ladder and away, out of the coffin-shaped space and back into the house. Piece of cake.

  Physically it was easy, she told herself, trying to forget her fear of confined spaces. But trying to forget her fear brought it to the forefront of her mind. Her foot slipped on the muddy ladder and suddenly she was nearly stepping on the kitten. The space was too narrow for her to move in.

  Jago, leaning out of the window, saw the problem. ‘I’ll have to withdraw the ladder,’ he said. ‘There’s not room for it and you down there. Stand on one leg until I get it out of the way. Then I’ll pass down the bucket.’

  Helena closed her eyes and breathed deeply while he hauled up the ladder. When she opened her eyes again she was face-to-face with a pile of earth. She could smell it and felt as though she could taste it too. It was like a vertical grave, she thought, and started to sweat.

  ‘There’s not much room down here,’ she said, to herself as much as to Jago. ‘We’ll have to do without the bucket. I need to turn sideways.’

  She edged her feet to make a bit more room and sent another heap of earth tumbling down. For a moment she didn’t dare look to see if the kitten was all right; then she heard a tiny squeak. Nausea, more sweating and a fear of fainting told her she hadn’t got long; if she collapsed down here she’d squash the kitten and it would take forever to get her out, especially if more soil fell on top of her. She gulped, reached down and snatched round her ankles until she found the kitten, grabbed it and stuffed it down her top. ‘Ladder!’ she called shakily, knowing she might vomit, hyperventilate, cry or all three at any moment.

  The kitten tried to escape from her cleavage, but she clamped her hand over its head, hoping she wouldn’t suffocate it while trying to save it.

  At last the ladder came down and by climbing on to the pile of earth she made room for it. Then she stepped on it and climbed up.

  Jago caught her when she got to the top and hauled her through the window, supporting her when she almost landed on the floor. He kicked a chair under her and she collapsed on to it.

  ‘Were you suffering from claustrophobia just now?’ he asked.

  Helena nodded.

  ‘You should have said! I’m so sorry! If I’d known, I’d have found someone else to help. Come into the kitchen and I’ll get you some brandy.’

  He put his arm round her and half carried her. She still had her hand round the kitten under her top, who was now struggling. When they got to the kitchen she fished it out. ‘Here, she’s getting claustrophobia now.’

  He took the wriggling bundle and guided Helena to a scarred and paint-splattered table. ‘Sit down while I reunite this ball of mischief with her mother.’

  In the few moments he was gone she recovered a little and looked around her. She had longed to get a look inside this house and now was her chance to at least see the kitchen. She would have preferred not to be in a state of shock and covered with mud when she did it, though.

  It was large and had windows at both ends and at first glance seemed to be several kitchens joined together. Helena realised that although the principle of adding bits together was the same in here as it was outside, the effect wasn’t as pleasing. It was obviously a work in progress.

  Jago reappeared with a bottle of brandy. ‘I feel terrible. It never occurred to me you’d feel claustrophobic. You really should have told me.’

  ‘I hoped I’d grown out of it,’ said Helena, feeling a bit foolish.

  He frowned and shook his head but she couldn’t tell if she was the one he was annoyed with, or himself. ‘I’ll put the kettle on too. It’s what people do when they don’t know how to be really helpful.’

  ‘A cup of tea would be quite helpful, and I’d actually prefer it to brandy right now, if you don’t mind.’ She watched him make the tea. ‘You haven’t exactly got all mod cons in here yet, I notice.’

  He laughed. ‘This room at least has leccy and running water, which is a bit scarce everywhere else, so as far as I’m concerned this is full-on luxury.’

  ‘How do you manage without electricity?’ Helena asked, her interest in her surroundings growing.

  ‘Torches. And I have a big industrial light that’s plugged in elsewhere. That works.’ He laughed again. ‘Everyone I know thinks I’m mad to live on site but I’m trying to do this whole thing as cheaply as possibl
e. Why waste money renting?’

  Helena shrugged and sipped her tea.

  ‘Now, how can Zuleika and I repay you for being so noble and overcoming your claustrophobia to rescue her kitten?’

  ‘I suppose letting me stay in my studio for another three months isn’t an option?’

  Jago frowned and bit his lip, but then smiled and shook his head. His crooked, quirky smile lit up his grimy, unshaven face like an industrial light in a house without electricity. ‘What about another cup of tea and sandwich instead?’

  Helena shrugged and smiled back. ‘If that’s all that’s on offer, it is about lunchtime, I suppose. But I’m a bit muddy to eat.’

  ‘One day there’ll be a wet room with a waterfall shower head. Currently it’s a bucket and a sponge, taking me back to my car-washing days.’

  ‘I’ll just go back to my studio then, but thank you for the offer.’ She started to stand up but he was up before her.

  ‘Go back and shower but, please, come and eat the sandwich afterwards. Or I’ll just feel terrible.’

  Helena considered telling him how terrible it was knowing one was about to become homeless, and, more importantly in her case, studio-less. While she could always stay with her mother, her large loom could not – it took up far more space than she did. But what was the point? ‘OK.’

  ‘So, what can I make you? Cheese and ham on sourdough with salad, mustard and mayonnaise? I could toast the bread – might be nice?’

  ‘Hold the mustard,’ she said, ‘and toast the bread and it sounds like the perfect sarnie.’

  ‘It may not be perfect, but it will be good, I promise,’ he said. ‘Don’t be too long!’

  Helena’s hair was still wet and knotty when she returned. She had put it into a rough plait and tied the end round with wool as it took so long to dry properly. She hadn’t put on any make-up, because, as she would report to Amy later, she wasn’t going to dress up for a man when she didn’t want a man. She did, however, want a sandwich.