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Chapter Eight

Kate watched Theo disappear over the fields and vanish into the dark. A few minutes later she heard a car door slam and an engine start. The car drove off and the headlamps arced over the fields briefly, driving away towards the campsite.

He'd called her "Cat". A strange slip of the tongue, given her current dual situation . . . But not unexpected — Kate, Cat. Whatever. It was an easy mistake to make. And yet, it made her uncomfortable. It was just too much of a coincidence. That and all the other things. Something seriously freaky was going on here and she didn't like it. Not one bit.

Her thoughts returned to Theo himself. She wondered whether she'd ever see him again or whether he'd just hover on the edge of her consciousness forever, nudging her every time she thought about horses or blacksmiths. Or even cheese on toast. She really felt as if she knew him, as if they'd known each other for years — either that or she had a slight obsession with him that had manifested itself into those bizarre episodes with Cat Tredegar. Kate didn't even know who she was. She certainly didn't know why her brain was making up visitations to what she oddly thought was Cat's life. She might be spending too much time in the environs of the Folk Museum, she supposed. Immersed as she was, living and working amongst things steeped in the lives of other people, it was only natural that sometimes the imagined past would intrude on the present. She'd taken on a lot more after Maeve had left, so it was just as well she loved her job really.

Putting all that aside, though, her mind told her it was highly unlikely she'd see Theo Kent again.

Her heart, however, had her daring to hope otherwise; it took a lot for Kate to admit that to herself, but it was true. So she thought it best if she buried that idea rather quickly and tried not to think about Theo any more.

Instead, she would head upstairs, wake up that laptop and do a little research. The thought of Blacksmith Will and Cat Tredegar wasn't going to leave her in peace anytime soon. She swept the crumbs from the plates onto the grass, and picked up the cups and crockery. Another quick trip down to the garden had her collecting the glass and the wine bottle. There was a peculiar sort of atmosphere to her little garden when she went down the second time — it seemed almost too still and too peaceful, and her senses tingled as she stood on the lawn and looked around her. She half-expected to see a Bath chair trundling down from the Hall; the sound of hammering from the forge and the whinny of a horse. She shivered and decided not to linger down there.

She hurried back upstairs and sat down at the laptop. She took a deep breath and started trawling around any resources she could find. She must have searched for about half an hour, getting distracted by all sorts of interesting information — but then she saw it. A newspaper report in a local paper about a heavy freeze in February 1885. It must have been a slow news day, but she was unutterably grateful for that; because within the report was a snippet that made her shake and her palms sweat:

"It is our unfortunate duty to report that MissCatriona Tredegar, a relative of the Countess of Hartsford, was today seriously injured in a fall on the ice during her stay at the Hall. MissTredegar, the only daughter of eminent traveller and historian Andrew Tredegar and his botanist wife, Matilda, is expected to convalesce at the Hall for the foreseeable future. Please be aware that the River Hartsford is not usually prone to freezing and this demonstrates that reckless behaviour and challenging the laws of nature do not meld well together."

Despite the rather pompous tone of the article, Kate was mesmerised by an illustration of the River, all frozen and beautiful and a figure sprawled face down on the ice. It was an artists' impression, that was all, but the Faerie Bridge was in the background and it was, in its own weird way, magical. At least it proved Cat had stayed at the Hall. Kate's head was pleased she had found something solid to back her experiences up in some way — but her heart knew she didn't need back-up. Not really.

Her eyes drifted outside and she imagined Theo snuggling down in his sleeping bag, perhaps just in his t-shirt and boxers. She imagined his arm resting on the top of the cover, the muscles firm and well-defined and his dark brown eyes closed as he slept, his lashes dark against his tanned cheeks—

‘Shut up !' she told herself angrily. She looked back at the laptop and wondered if she'd be able to trace Blacksmith Will at all. He might be more difficult — but she had resources in the museum, didn't she? Maeve had told her the cottage was the Blacksmith's, but it had never really seemed that important before to see it written down and to see his name in front of her.

Kate sat back in the chair and thought hard. Had Maeve ever told her this story? This legend about the family? Might it be that she knew it all subconsciously? It was a thought, but she didn't know why Cat and Will's situation had suddenly started haunting her.

Because the stars are aligning and it's time again.

The words were whispered somewhere very close to her ear and she jumped. There was, of course, nobody near her and she stood up, scraping the chair back across the floor, looking around. She wasn't even sure if it was a man's voice or a woman's.

Whatever it was, the words sent her hurtling downstairs, straight into the room that held the ice-skates. There were, she knew, some records of estate staff and handwritten notes there, amongst some other little exhibits from the Hall. If she searched through them, she might be able to see his name . . .

Kate unlocked the cabinet with shaking hands and riffled through the documents — notes about dinner parties, guest lists and menus jostled for space next to orders for fabric from London and cheerful letters from guests thanking the Aldrichs for their hospitality. Kate was just beginning to despair, when she picked up a letter from Henry Aldrich, Earl of Hartsford. He was apparently writing to a friend within the horse-racing fraternity, raving with delight at the fact one of his horses had won at Newmarket in 1884:

"If Vane-Tempest can get George Stubbs to paint Hambletonian after his win, I say it is not outside the realms of possibility that I engage Heywood Hardy to paint Rowland after his win, what say you? I suspected the animal may have injured itself after the run, but young William Haddon, the estate blacksmith, checked and the steed is, thankfully, no worse for wear!"

Kate sank down onto the floor, holding the letter. George Stubbs had been a famous artist and she had seen that very portrait of Hambletonian, a beautiful, big brown race-horse, in Ireland.

‘You really did work here, Will,' she whispered and looked up, along towards his cottage. And Cat — MissCatriona Tredegar had been a guest here at the same time, and had an accident on the River, after ‘reckless behaviour' on the ice.

Part of her was thankful that she'd discovered all that. But another part, the bigger part of her, was absolutely terrified. The cottages didn't feel sinister in the slightest, far from it. In fact, as she sat on the floor and clutched the letter, she had never felt more as if she belonged there.

But she was terrified because she didn't know how things were going to progress for Cat and Will, two people who should never get together, never be allowed to fall in love; and she had a feeling that she was going to find out.

* * *

It had been a couple of weeks since her discoveries, and Kate hadn't shared any more incidents in Cat's life. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but her real life had to continue and was continuing, and as such she was heading down to London.

Chris had ended up working weekends, as he'd intimated, and it wasn't intolerable as such, it was just more difficult. Fortunately, with the museum being closed Mondays and Tuesdays, she had the chance to pop down to Chiswick, more than he had the chance to come up to Suffolk; but considering he often worked those days in the office, or was out and about seeing clients — sometimes not even in this country — it was by no means a regular arrangement.

However, Kate was going to London not just to see Chris, this time, but to see her brother. Tom was a historian too; his speciality was the Tudors, surprise, surprise, and he was always off doing learned things. Just like their parents, who were academics, Professors at Cambridge University and archaeologists first and foremost. Their children had been an inconvenience they had to suffer to keep the family name going — or so it had always seemed to Kate, who sometimes felt like the odd one out in her family. She was happy to settle in Suffolk and didn't really want to go anywhere else. She didn't have that Howard wanderlust, but Tom did.

‘I've got a couple of days in London,' he had told her via a crackly Skype call. The museum Wi-Fi had a horrible habit of dipping in and out as well as the mobile signal. ‘I'm staying over before I head to France. You fancy joining me?' He was on the trail of Mary Queen of Scots apparently, going off on one of his Tudor tangents. He'd been to Scotland and was working his way down the country in her footsteps or something.

‘Don't mind if I do. And the parents?'

He'd rolled his eyes. ‘Busy on a dig. Can't make it.'

That had made Kate think of Maeve, and then almost immediately of Theo Kent — as it always did. She'd tried to put him to one side, in a little box in her mind labelled ‘Theo', but sometimes she couldn't help taking the lid off and peeking into it. Today, however, she squashed the Theo thoughts down firmly. It seemed extremely disloyal to be thinking of him when she was planning to see Chris, but it was something that just seemed to happen without her being conscious of it.

Anyway, Kate hadn't seen Tom for months, so she was looking forward to the trip. It did make it a lot more convenient that she could stay at Chris's and not have to pay for accommodation. And despite the fact that Chris was working, the intention was that the three of them would all head out for dinner that evening, so that would be nice too.

Kate walked down the front stairs on the Sunday evening, all ready to throw her suitcase into the back of her car and start the journey down to Chiswick. As she turned the key in the lock, the clocks started chiming again in the reception area. She hadn't heard that for weeks — not since Theo had driven off to his campsite.

Kate unlocked the door and stuck her head back inside, her heart hammering against her chest. But there was nothing to see, and certainly nothing to hear. Everything was ticking away nicely, the cuckoo behaving himself and the Hall clock sitting there all smug.

She had to admit it — she was a little disappointed.

* * *

Chris's house had always felt wrong to Kate. It was an Edwardian two-bedroom end-of-terrace house — very nice and very beautiful. It had an en-suite bathroom and a private back garden with a high fence. It also had perfectly polished floorboards in a big, airy bay-windowed lounge, and a downstairs cloak room.

However, at the back of the house was a great big glass extension, which seemed very out of place to Kate. It was possibly because she was a stickler for history and the way things should look traditionally, and to walk into what should be a kitchen and be faced with nothing but a massive glass wall always threw her. It was super-clean and super-clinical as well. Much different to her little kitchen, which usually smelled of burnt toast and permanently had a pile of dishes on the draining board. If she got her breakfast dishes washed and put away before the next morning, it was something of an achievement. Having said that, if she had a cleaner like Chris did, then maybe her kitchen would not be so hovel-like.

The terraced house had looked quite different when she lived there. It was almost as if every trace of her had been eradicated, and she had been pushed to one side. She cringed as a memory came into her mind of one of Chris's interminable business dinners just after she'd left:

‘Oh, yes, Kate used to live with me, she used to work in the British Museum, you know? Yes — I know. I have no idea why she decided to move up to Suffolk .' An amused, sidelong look at her. ‘Kate's a country girl at heart, I think. I know! She won't find very exciting exhibits up there, but it's what she wants to do, so . . .' A shrug of the shoulders and an apologetic smile. ‘ I've got to support her, haven't I?'

Ugh . It had caused a massive argument when they got home, but he'd talked her round and apologised, and she'd reluctantly forgiven him.

And his terrace was a beautiful house — just not to her taste, unfortunately.

Kate's mind drifted back to the blacksmith's cottage at home. She'd always felt comfortable there, and she'd always felt welcomed by the Hall, whether she'd gone in as a paying guest or popped in to see Elodie or Cassie in the private wing. She had thought it odd how a person could just connect to some places and not others.

She unlocked the door to Chris's house and carried her case in. She didn't dump it in the lounge as she usually did at home; she kicked her shoes off and carried the case straight upstairs. There she unpacked everything, hanging her clothes up in the wardrobe, shunting along the stuff she already had there, folding other things neatly into the drawers. Her toothbrush was still there, and she had her own toiletries, along with some bits and pieces of make-up so she didn't feel like she was packing for a holiday, just to see her boyfriend. She didn't bother with make-up much at home; just a slick of lip-gloss and some mascara, along with a dusting of blusher and she was good to go. They usually went out for dinner when Kate came to stay with Chris though, and she felt as if she needed to make more of an effort in that respect.

Only when her case was unpacked and hidden in the spare bedroom Chris used as a study, did she go downstairs and shed her coat. Chris had texted her and said he'd be in about seven o'clock. It would be a quick turnaround as their meal was booked for eight-thirty, so Kate's plan was to have a shower — well, go on, a nice, deep bubble bath, as he had the most amazing bathroom — and pamper herself until he came home.

Kate looked at her mobile and wondered whether she risked phoning him to tell him she was here. It would only go to voicemail if he couldn't answer; it wasn't as if he would be disturbed in a meeting.

The phone rang three times before he answered it. ‘Kate?' he asked, sounding flustered.

‘The very same.' She frowned. ‘Is everything okay? I only called to tell you I'm here. If it's a bad time I can call back.'

‘No, it's not a bad time, exactly.' He laughed, a little shortly. ‘It's just not a great time. I'm supposed to have a conversation with this client in the US and my computer has crashed. The tech guys are here now. I can't really risk letting the client down, so I feel a bit screwed, to be honest.'

‘Is it Skype?' Everything seemed to be Skype at the moment — Kate's brother was a great advocate of it; and to be fair if he'd never told Kate about it, she probably wouldn't have known what it was herself.

‘Yes. That's right. Hang on.' There was a crackle and a thump as, Kate assumed, the mobile was thrown onto the desk and Chris began a muffled conversation with someone who sounded as if their native tongue was Russian or something. A tech guy, perhaps.

‘Chris!' Kate shouted down the phone. ‘Hellloooo! Chris!'

She had hung on for a few seconds feeling really silly, when he eventually came back to her.

He sounded pretty panicked. ‘The mother board's gone, he says. I'm well and truly shafted. Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell —' That was followed by some rather less innocent swear words. Then, finally, ‘Look — I'll have to go and see if I can sort this out. I'll see you later . . . Oh, God — that's what I meant to tell you — I can't get home for seven. I'll meet you there. Just get a taxi. It's The Arch, Great Cumberland Place, okay? The taxi-driver will know where he's going.'

This wasn't altogether unexpected. It happened on a regular basis. Kate had, in fact, acquired a sort of pet taxi driver who she usually asked for when she rang the company. She knew she could trust him and he always took the shortest route, which was obviously excellent news for her.

‘Okay.' She tried not to let the resentment show in her voice. ‘I'll see you there.'

‘Yep, see you. Sorry — I'll have to go. Bye.'

‘Chris—' she said, but he'd already hung up.

So much for exploring new technology for a virtual office in Suffolk — he couldn't even cope when it failed in London when he had a raft of tech guys to sort it all out for him. He'd probably have a heart attack if the Wi-Fi dropped out in Hartsford and be on the first train down to London to get a more reliable signal.

* * *

The taxi driver dropped Kate off in front of what had originally been a row of Georgian houses. They'd been converted into a boutique hotel, not far from Mayfair, and looked stunning. She was to meet her brother in the champagne lounge, then Chris was meeting them in the restaurant.

The foyer was large and modern, belying the quaint exterior of the hotel. Kate's heels echoed across the floor and she nodded to the girl on the reception desk as she headed through the bar into the champagne lounge. The place was quite busy, residents and guests lounging on the comfy sofas and chairs, indulging in one of the nicest pleasures there is — a crisp, cold, bubbly glass of champagne.

Only one of the banquette areas had the silky, silver curtain closed and Kate grinned. Knowing her brother—

‘Good evening, Thomas,' she said as she pulled the curtain back.

‘Katie!' Tom sat there, half-cut already on fine champagne and smiling at her in genuine pleasure. He was the only one who ever called her Katie. ‘How did you know I was here? I was hidden so very, very well.'

‘Not well enough.' She slid into the booth and leaned over to kiss him. ‘You're hairy. What happened?

‘I forgot my razor.' Tom rubbed his fingers across his strawberry-blonde beard and frowned. ‘Never got round to buying one. So — you didn't answer me. How did you know it was me?'

‘I guessed. It was the only one closed and there was only one shadow behind it.'

The curtains were quite translucent and gauzy. Tom was thin and rangy, all arms and legs. She'd seen his shape behind the curtain and knew he was always early for his appointments. Plus, he had quite a sense of humour and would have enjoyed hiding out in there. He also liked to factor in plenty of time — so she knew he'd be here already. And he was really good at keeping in touch, so if he was going to be late, he would have told her. It was hardly rocket science. Whatever, it was good to see him.

‘Chris is going to be late,' Kate informed Tom.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘I'm saying nothing.' He pushed a glass towards her. ‘Here, have some champagne.'

Kate knew Tom's opinion of Chris. Her own was pretty close to Tom's right now, in fact. She reached out and took the glass, glugging back a huge mouthful. The bubbles fizzed and burst in her mouth and damn, it was good.

Tom leaned over and squeezed her hand. ‘It's not like you see each other regularly. He could make the effort.'

Kate sort of agreed, but then, giving him the benefit of the doubt, they were both busy people. Busy in different ways. Her job was hardly as high pressure as Chris's, but she still had responsibilities and customers to keep happy.

‘You're a fine one to talk,' Kate said, defensively. ‘You're showing no signs of settling down. You're not making any effort to see anybody.'

‘My point exactly,' replied her brother. ‘It's much better for me just to enjoy the moment. No commitment, no regrets and no promises.'

‘Listen to Lothario Howard.' She was faintly offended by his comments. He'd had a brief fling with Cassie, and it had ended as all his relationships did — on good terms, and with no malice.

‘I've had no complaints,' Tom poured another glass of champagne and topped up her glass as well. ‘Like I said, no promises. They know what the boundaries are when they walk into it.'

‘You are a vile human being.' Kate sighed. ‘What if someone was treating me like that? You'd not think they were a nice person, now, would you?'

‘No.' Tom sipped his champagne thoughtfully. ‘But then, you would have been given the facts before the very first kiss, so . . .' He shrugged and she knew he had a point.

‘Well I know the facts about Chris and it's shit but I'm a bit stuck tonight.' She hoped to end the conversation there. ‘Now, tell me about your travels.'

‘Ah! Yes — it's fascinating. You see . . .'

And he was off. Her brother was like a wind-up toy. Set him going on his favourite topics — himself and his research — and he'd talk for hours. Kate only half-listened to him, as always, and instead let her attention wander around the champagne lounge.

The room had, she suspected, been part of a house originally, but she wasn't sure which room it might have been. She squinted a little bit, trying to imagine it without the stunning furnishings and the guests and the quirky champagne-themed graffiti on the ceiling. In fact, she leaned her head back to read some of the quotes better, and then sat upright again when she felt herself drifting off to sleep. An empty stomach, champagne, a two hour plus drive from Suffolk, a taxi ride for nigh on half an hour across London — she was done in . . .

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