Chapter 3

A smile came to Flora's lips as she remembered her emotional reaction to the wildflowers. She had come out of a dream to see Peggy beaming her special smile in her direction.

‘Is it really all mine? Even the little wood that runs on from the meadow?' she breathed.

‘It is' replied Peggy with a satisfied air. ‘One of your – of Sybil's ancestors got the land and wood, Pookey Wood it's called, from the local farmer. Later, when the farmer's descendant was ennobled, becoming Sir Ralph Peverel for services rendered during the civil war, he signed the deeds of this cottage and its land, over to all descendants of the Gardwickes.'

‘I'm not a Gardwicke, I'm a Goode' frowned Flora.

‘To all intents and purposes, you are a Gardwicke. This is your cottage, no doubt about it. Signed over to you by Miss Sybil Gardwicke herself.'

As Peggy stepped out onto the driveway, she nodded towards Flora.

‘I wasn't sure if this Flora Goode was going to be the sort of person to appreciate her inheritance and what it means – but I can see now that you are. It can't be a coincidence that your life was set on the same course as Sybil's long before you knew anything about her or this cottage. It is fate. I knew from the moment you mentioned Natural Healing that you were the right one.'

*

Looking back now, that would have explained the reticence, the wariness on the other woman's part at first. She didn't want her friend's legacy to be covered in concrete and trampolines. There was no chance of that. This wildflower meadow was something she could only have dreamt of. Her original plans had been to replicate this in miniature - she counted herbs and wildflowers as the same thing, they could almost all cure, soothe or heal all ills – and sometimes make you ill or even kill, if you didn't know your plants. Luckily, she did. Now she didn't have to plant anything. Sybil had done it already, as if to Flora's own specifications.

When she had thought of planting her herb garden, she thought of a fairly small garden, not land. And to have the wood as well. That wasn't for planting, apart from the flowers that grew best in shade and they would probably grow naturally there. No, she wanted it to walk in, to breathe the air, smell the trees, enjoy their shade. She wanted to be able to hug and talk to them if she wanted. In her frequent trips to the forest near her hometown, there had always been others around. Lots of them. The grown-ups would probably have carted their children off to safety if they'd come across her hugging a beech tree or having an intense conversation with a sycamore. Mind you, she'd probably have got more sense out of the sycamore than she'd have got out of most of her friends.

They weren't bad people, her friends, they just wanted nightclubs, drinking, loud music and lots and lots of men. And she…didn't.

The will had been written just after Sybil's visit to see her, just over seventeen years ago. It was lodged with her solicitor, not just until Sybil's death but of her parents, Bill and Hester Goode's deaths, if Sybil should predecease them. In the event, they had died five and three years ago respectively. Flora had puzzled over this stipulation but when she asked the solicitor, he just shrugged and said that Sybil Gardwicke was known to be mildly eccentric. This only made Flora wish she'd known her, at least for the last three years when she didn't have any family whatsoever and even a fake great aunt would have been better than being an ‘abandoned orphan'.

Her parents had been well into their forties when they'd had her – ‘a late blessing from God' they said, although they were never particularly religious. She hadn't expected to lose them quite so soon.

Sighing and changing her train of thought, she looked out at the meadow and thought how alike she and Sybil must have been considering they were not relatives and the title of Great Aunt, according to her mother was one of respect. There was an awful lot to ask Peggy. What was that she'd said as she left? It was fate? Flora was ‘the right one'? What did that mean?

*

She examined the rest of the house after Peggy had left. She was pleasantly surprised at its condition. There was the most perfect little sitting room at the other side of the passage, looking out to the front. It was just big enough for her – and her alone. After a couple of failed relationships – alone was what she wanted. It had an old brick fireplace in the same narrow, hand-made bricks the cottage was made from. There was an open fire with a dog grate. At either side was a thick stone pillar with some carvings on it which looked as old as the stone itself. Possibly limestone, being Yorkshire but that was just a guess. One of the carvings looked familiar and she was surprised to see it was very similar to the odd bookshop woman's dangly earrings.

Through the tiny-squared glass window, she could make out the bow window of the bookshop. She was looking forward to going to restock her books, as long as the strange woman didn't run off every time she took some books up to the counter. Her husband seemed nice at least.

Sybil's furnishings were still in place. Instead of finding this a bit spooky, she felt somehow comforted by it. There was a small desk underneath the window and a beautifully simple, carved wooden chair pushed underneath it. A pot with pens in was standing on it, with a bottle of black ink next to it. There was an old comfortable–looking armchair next to the fire with a brightly-coloured, knitted throw over the back of it.

To the left of the chair was a round wooden table and on the far wall stood an old squashy red sofa. An Axminster-style rug stood in the centre of the polished floorboards surrounding it. There was a bookcase in the far corner to the left of the fire with all the books still there. It all combined to make Flora feel that Sybil had just walked out to go to the grocers and would be back any moment.

There were two and a half bedrooms at the top of a winding wooden staircase. One was a smaller empty one to the front which she would appropriate as an office for the business she hoped to have. There was a box room next to it, used as a storage space, which would be handy. However, at this precise moment, she didn't have a lot to store. Then there was the bedroom at the back which she had picked as hers. It was obviously Sybil's too as there was an old metal bed frame in the centre of the right-hand wall and an old, honey-coloured wooden chest of drawers against the other wall. A small high wicker table stood next to the bed, a reading lamp still in place.

The whole cottage was much lighter than she thought it would be, but because it had been empty for so long, it needed a good airing before she could move in. She decided she would just buy a new mattress for this bed frame as it rather appealed to her sense of history. Flora would wait to talk to Peggy until she had found a room for a couple of days. The old woman hadn't invited her to stay at her place, but to be honest, she didn't really look the sociable type. She had melted a little though when she realised Flora had the same aims as Sybil. It seemed like she had been marked ‘Approved'.

The Peverel Arms had rooms advertised on the internet. It was a walker's paradise around here and therefore a walker's pub. It was to be hoped the said walkers hadn't booked all the rooms up before she could get there. She locked the back door whilst memorising the meadow then went to leave the kitchen by the side door.

‘Oh, what are you doing here?'

She bent down to stroke a small black cat with a white streak behind its ear, that made a beeline for her and rubbed around her ankles. She wondered briefly if she'd inherited a cat from Sybil too but dismissed it. It only looked like a young cat, could it have come in here with Peggy?

‘Whatever' she said to the cat, ‘you can't stay here. I'm locking up.'

She shooed it outside and was treated to a very disdainful look.