Thea Thomas checked her mobile. EMERGENCY CALLS ONLY was written in bold type across the top of the screen.
She tried connecting to her Wi-Fi.
Nothing happened.
Relief made her shoulders sag, as a wide smile knocked away some of the nervousness she felt about starting a new job in an unfamiliar part of England.
Here, she could avoid the constant barrage of social media alerts and unwanted texts, calls and emails. Here, she could start over.
*
Positioned at the top of a high rise of land, not far from the southern border of Exmoor, the Victorian manor house called Mill Grange rose from the centre of a gravelled drive, taking command of the surrounding scenery. Three tiers of a once-loved terraced garden fell away from the house in tatty overgrown rows. At the foot of these gardens ran a semi-encircling band of encroaching woodland, which the Ordnance Survey map Thea was clutching declared to stretch down to the River Barle on one side and the meandering River Exe on the other.
Huddled beneath her thick jumper against the sharp March wind, Thea was enfolded in a sensation of freedom and peace. The very stillness of the air, the lack of any visible overhead wires or street lighting, made her feel as if she’d driven into a Victorian time capsule. A Roman historian and archaeologist to the bone, she felt daunted by the prospect of taking on the restoration of a manor centuries removed from her field of expertise. With its fourteen bedrooms, seven bathrooms, numerous associated rooms, outhouses, and the mill after which it was named, a quarter of a mile away on the edge of Upwich village, it was not a task for the faint-hearted. However, the early spring sunshine, which caused the house’s granite walls to glitter with welcoming promise, seemed to be telling her it was going to be alright.
Alongside her Roman studies at university, Thea had trained in industrial archaeology and museum management, and was well-qualified for the job in hand. But this challenge, to turn Mill Grange into a heritage centre, was vastly different from her last posting at the Roman Baths in Bath. She could feel herself prodding the outer edges of her comfort zone.
At least she wouldn’t have to face the unknown alone. Her best friend, Tina, had been associated with the project for some time. Then there was the team of volunteers who’d been working on restoring Mill Grange, on a casual basis, for the last five years. A tingle of anxiety dotted Thea’s palms as she wondered how they’d take to being guided in their endeavours after pleasing themselves for so long.
Flicking an unruly stray brown hair from her eyes, she circuited the outside of the manor house. Thea’s boots made satisfying crunching sounds against the gravel as she attempted to banish her nerves, peering through each window as she went. The eclectic mix of original Victorian and reproduction furniture and artwork she saw within took her breath away. Squinting and pushing her eyes as close to the glass as she could, she studied the wallpaper. It was original. She was sure of it. With every new step and glimpse of the treasures within, she felt more exhilarated.
She could do this.
Thea checked her watch. The courier arranged to deliver the keys to the double doors that would take her inside Mill Grange would not arrive for another hour.
She stood still and listened. Birds called overhead. The breeze rustled the newly budding leaves. Otherwise there was nothing. In that moment Thea felt as if she might be the only human being left in the world.
Rather than being overwhelmed by the isolation of the place, as she walked from the house, down the sloping dew dampened grass towards the long-abandoned kitchen garden, Thea felt more relaxed than she had in weeks.
John would never find her here. It was for his own good. She couldn’t face another excruciating conversation like the one they’d had in February.