Hallowshill

So, here's the first chapter of Hallowshill, a story about the relationship between CONN WAKELIN, a world-weary author suffering writer's block and ROBIN HOWE, a sparky, small-town historian who come together to solve an historical puzzle at Hallowshill House whilst struggling to overcome the differences that threaten their happiness.

Chapter 1

The long, sweeping driveway down to Hallowshill always made her happy. Robin could imagine what it must have been like to approach the house on horseback or in a creaky, unsprung carriage. Bouncing through woods past the quirkily turreted gatehouse, the visitor would follow the towering avenue of trees as it crested the hill for that first, heart-stopping sight of the house. Then the glorious swoop down towards the golden stoned mansion standing proud in its formal gardens.

Today, however, was not the day to admire the view. Pedal to the metal, Rob, you're late, you're late, for a very important date. Well, late to give a lecture anyway. With luck and the traffic gods on her side, she'd make it to the House in time to set up her presentation before the visitors arrived.

Ten minutes later, with fingers still crossed on the steering wheel, she wheeled into the staff car park, tyres squealing. Then she was out of the car, skipping across the courtyard, already unzipping her laptop bag ready to pull it out.

Justin glowered at her when she rushed into the room.

“Hmmmm, nearly made it on time, I see.”

“Sorry! Sorry, I know I should have left earlier. At least I'm here now. Will you forgive me?” She sent him her best winning smile.

The estate manager sighed, rubbed a hand over his balding head. “I suppose so.”

Robin blew him a kiss as she typed her password into the computer. He was a big softy really. People were just starting to arrive, choosing their seats and chatting amongst themselves. Once the room was filled, Justin stepped forward.

“How wonderful to see so many Friends of Hallowshill here today for the first in our summer lecture series with Dr Robin Howe. Robin's from the university and has been researching the history of this lovely house. We thought it would be fun to share some of her findings.”

Fun, well, that was one way of putting it. Robin tried to smile enthusiastically as a ripple of polite applause greeted his introduction. As manager of Hallowshill, Justin thought everything about it was fun. Though Robin loved her subject, she wasn't so sure a history lecture could be described as fun to anyone else. Her audience looked exactly as you might expect paid up members of the Friends of Hallowshill House to look, a plethora of middle-class silver foxes wearing far too  many twinsets and golfing sweaters.

Except for him. Her attention was caught by the man who came through the door at the back of the room. He stopped when he realised that Justin was in full flow and leaned casually against the door frame, waiting until he could move to a free seat. He was definitely not a silver fox. Long and lean, with dark, rumpled hair, he looked completely out of place; a black panther that had found its way into an English country garden. Robin swallowed. Good lord, that was some serious totty. Quite, quite gorgeous. What on earth was a man like that doing here?

Justin finished his introduction. As she fiddled with her laptop to bring up her presentation, she hissed at him.

“Who's that?”

Justin didn't need her quick nod in the man's direction to know who she was referring to. He sucked in a breath between his teeth and whispered.

“Oh, you spotted him, did you? That, my dear, is our new writer-in-residence. Connell Wakelin. You know, the one who wrote that thriller last year.  God knows why he's agreed to come here for six months.  Total babe, huh?” Indeed he was. “I love that tall, dark, untamed look. Fight you for him?”

Robin snorted. “Not a chance, he's way out of our league.” 

She went back to the laptop and tried to get her thoughts in order. She couldn't remember her mouth ever having gone dry at the mere sight of a man before. She cleared her throat and smiled brightly. This was just a lecture, after all, she gave them several times a week to audiences much less sympathetic and interested than this one. There was no reason for her to be at all concerned about what the man now sitting at the back of the room thought of her.

“I'm going to talk today about Eliza Carteret, a woman who lived at Hallowshill in the eighteenth century and led rather an unconventional life.” It didn't go too badly, all in all and she wound up with an invitation. “I thought some of you may want to take a closer look at the woman who had such a dramatic effect on the society in which she lived. Her portrait is on the first floor gallery, so do follow me up if you're interested.”

It took a little while to leave the room with those visitors who wanted to check out Eliza's portrait. Robin talked first to several people who had comments or questions about her lecture. It was difficult to answer questions lucidly when she was also trying to see where the lovely writer-in-residence had got to. To her disappointment, he seemed to have made a speedy exit at the end of her talk. She obviously hadn't interested him enough to go and see Eliza's picture. Oh well, what had she expected?

Finally, she managed to start moving the group towards the main entrance hall, telling them how the scandalous eighteen year old Eliza had slept with the forty-five year old artist commissioned to paint her portrait. The portrait was an engaging one, showing a pretty girl with a rather winsome expression and blonde curls dressed in a shepherdess' costume, holding a crook in one hand and a very clean lamb under her other arm. As Robin studied it, a coolly amused voice behind her said,

“She was a bit of a madam, Miss Eliza Carteret, wasn't she?”

She squeaked, turning. Connell Wakelin was standing at her shoulder looking up at the madam in question.

“Oh yes, definitely. But she deserves some leeway. I think she must have been terminally bored living here. Being a madam was probably the only entertainment she had.”

She thought she deserved congratulations on sounding reasonably articulate. It was a challenge given the way her libido was licking its lips at the sight of the man beside her. He gave her a slow look, up and down, appraising everything from her gold Converses to the stud in her nose and she felt her mouth go dry again. Good lord. He cocked his head, holding her gaze with assessing grey eyes.

“She was pretty special, then? You have to wonder what kind of a career she would have made today with all the choices open to her.”

“I've always thought I'd hate her.” She was not sure the words coming out of her mouth made sense, since her brain was simply refusing to do anything except quiver like a lime jelly. “Something about this picture makes me think she'd be one of those women who only like men and do their best to undermine the rest of us in case we poach on their territory. I reckon she'd have ended up on TV – Jeremy Paxman with lipstick.”

He seemed to find this amusing. “If you don't like her, why research her life?”

“I might not like her, but I do admire her. And I knew there was a lot of source material that hadn't been used before. It's a good project to start with. She's going to be one of the subjects of my book about the women of Hallowshill.”

And why on earth had she let that secret out? The book was her own special dream, she hadn't told anyone at all about her plans to write about the women who had lived in the house. Now she'd blurted her silly little ambition to a man she'd only just met. An incredibly good looking, clever, sophisticated man from London who just happened to be a published author. The intense blush rose from her toes to the top of her head and the fact it did embarrassed her nearly as much as the reason for it. Somebody shoot her, please. Best put her out of her misery before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

It was with unalloyed relief that she heard Justin's voice from the bottom of the staircase.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would like to repair to the dining room, afternoon tea is being served.”

“Sorry, I should...” She waved her hand helplessly at the rest of the group as they milled around on the landing.

He just shrugged. “Go ahead.”

For the next few minutes she was occupied with shepherding the chatty group downstairs to the afternoon tea that came in the ticket price for the lecture, all the time giving herself a severe talking-to over the completely ridiculous idea that maybe she'd be able to get to know Connell Wakelin better. When she finally settled everyone with their tea and cakes and had the chance to take her own cup to any table in the room, he had gone. It seemed he hadn't stayed to be bored by chat over cups and saucers with the Friends of Hallowshill. Damn it.