CHAPTER Five

Cassie’s first week passed more easily than she could have hoped. But after a lifetime spent working, it still didn’t feel right to have hours in the day when she had nothing to do but sit with Frances and listen to the radio, which was how Frances spent most of her afternoons. Cassie was no fan of classical music, and the hours dragged by – especially as, remembering Frances’ original stipulation of no chatter, she hardly dared speak.

‘Is there nothing you can do to occupy yourself?’ Frances asked one afternoon, when Cassie shifted in her chair for about the hundredth time that hour. ‘Do you not sew, or knit? What do you normally do to relax?’

As both ‘normal’ and ‘relax’ had been foreign concepts to Cassie for some time, she struggled for an answer.

‘I love to read,’ she said at last. It had been almost two weeks since she last touched a book. It felt longer.

‘Have you not investigated the library?’

‘I think Mel said the nearest one was in Clitheroe.’

‘The one in Clitheroe is a public library.’ Frances flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I was referring to the house library.’

‘I didn’t know there was one!’ Cassie tried not to sound too frustrated that Frances hadn’t thought to mention it when they had been discussing libraries before. ‘Where is it?’

‘In the north wing. What sort of books do you enjoy?’

‘Anything – as long as it’s fiction.’ Anything that offered her an escape from reality. The shrewd look that Frances sent her made Cassie wonder whether she’d voiced that thought aloud.

‘I doubt you will find anything to suit you in the library then,’ Frances said. ‘The collection was built for education, not pleasure.’ She stopped and studied Cassie, her expression as piercing and as astute as that of a woman half her age. ‘Come with me,’ she continued, rising from her chair.

Cassie jumped up.

‘Can I get you something?’

‘No, I want you to come to my sitting room.’

Sitting room? It was the first Cassie had heard of it, though it was hardly a surprise that there were still huge areas of the house she hadn’t discovered. She had barely scratched the surface on her first day. The place needed a guidebook and map, like a National Trust house, and Cassie was determined to ask Frances whether one existed.

Frances led the way up the back stairs, gliding up on the stairlift in stately fashion, back straight and hands folded neatly on her lap. She collected her walking stick – at Cassie’s suggestion, she now had one for upstairs and one for downstairs – and headed in the direction of her bedroom, stopping at an unmarked door before the one labelled Ribblemill.

Cassie had never been in here before, nor in Frances’ bedroom, and could hardly hide her curiosity when Frances pushed open the door and revealed a small, cosy room, decorated in shades of soft green and gold. There wasn’t space for much furniture, beyond two armchairs in front of the fireplace, and – Cassie’s heart soared – a bookcase that filled an entire wall, jammed full of books. She examined the spines: Elizabeth Taylor, Daphne du Maurier, the Mitfords, Elizabeth Bowen … It was a collection of some of the greatest female fiction of the last century, some that Cassie was familiar with and others that she didn’t know, and her fingers itched to pluck them from the shelves.

‘You will not find anything modern,’ Frances said. ‘Very little beyond the 1970s. I had less time for books than I would have liked.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ Cassie said. Her fingers trailed reverentially over what looked like a complete set of hardcover Georgette Heyers. ‘I love Georgette Heyer. I have all the Regency romances. Had them all,’ she corrected herself.

Who knew where they might be now? Had Mike disposed of them, along with every other reminder of her? He was spiteful enough to have done so. Cassie glanced over her shoulder to check if Frances had noticed her slip. Of course she had. Her body may be faded, but her mind retained all the agility of an Olympic athlete.

‘They have always been my favourites,’ Frances said. ‘It has been a while since I read them. The arthritis makes it too difficult to hold books now, especially the heavier hard covers.’

Cassie pulled out April Lady, wiping off the dust with the edge of her hand, and tenderly opened the pages.

‘What if I read it to you?’ she asked. When Frances didn’t immediately reply, she closed the book again. ‘Sorry. Of course you wouldn’t want to listen to me. I shouldn’t have…’

‘It is an excellent idea,’ Frances interrupted. ‘Will you take the book downstairs?’

‘Or we could read it here?’ Cassie suggested. She felt more comfortable here than in the formal rooms downstairs, perhaps because it was more a size she was used to. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Very well.’

Frances sat down in one chair, and motioned to Cassie to take the other. Cassie began to read, losing herself at once in the delicious words and floating off into another life. She had no idea how long she’d been reading for – she was firmly established two centuries ago – when she sensed Frances’ attention shift, and looked up to see Barney in the doorway, staring at her with inexplicable surprise. The words stilled on Cassie’s tongue, and she let the book drop.

‘What are you doing in here?’ Barney asked. He turned to Frances. ‘You don’t let anyone else in this room.’

‘You are in here,’ Frances pointed out.

‘I’ve been all around the house looking for you. You left a message that you wanted to see me.’

‘I did, several hours ago. But now that you are finally here, you can make yourself useful. I need you to add Cassie to the car insurance. I suppose she will be able to drive the Volvo?’

‘No reason why not, if she has a licence.’

Cassie nodded, but Barney still looked suspicious.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve no plans to go anywhere,’ Cassie replied, suspecting that Barney was hoping that wherever it was, she would be making a one-way journey.

‘I need Cassie to be able to drive me about,’ Frances said. ‘It will spare you the trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘I need you to make the arrangements before Sunday. There is a visiting preacher I would like to hear. I expect you will be glad to be spared God’s scrutiny of all you have been up to for the last fortnight.’

And there it came again, the momentary flash of a smile almost but not quite obscured by the beard, exposing the depth of affection that Barney held for Frances.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if all I had to worry about was God’s scrutiny.’ He turned back to Cassie, all trace of the smile gone. ‘You’d better give me your full name and date of birth.’

‘Cassandra Jane Bar …’ Cassie stopped short, muted by a spasm of panic. She had answered automatically, without thought, and without caution. She tried to disguise the error in a cough, but it didn’t uproot the suspicion on Barney’s face. ‘Cassandra Jane Bancroft,’ she repeated firmly, and gave him her date of birth.

Barney tapped the information into his iPhone. It seemed an incongruously modern gadget for someone who looked like a half-groomed tramp.

‘You’re thirty-three?’

‘Yes. Does that matter?’

‘No. Only it seems odd that someone your age would give up their life to live with a stranger, bringing nothing more than a rucksack.’

It wouldn’t seem odd at all, if he knew the life Cassie was giving up. It wasn’t a life at all; yet it had taken her days, months, years to recognise that – years of being ground down, of being played to believe that all she had was all she deserved. Barney could stare at her all he wanted, with that unblinking gaze, which seemed as if it could draw out the truth whether she liked it or not. She wasn’t going to tell him, or anyone, what had happened to bring her here.

It was over two weeks before Cassie felt that she was beginning to make something of her role of companion, and, she hoped, to make a difference to Frances.

‘She’s looking better since you came,’ Ruth said, as Cassie prepared Frances’ afternoon tea: Earl Grey served in a china teapot, with proper cups and saucers. ‘So are you. You’ve lost that haunted look you had. Although, I wish Mrs S didn’t insist on that uniform. Black isn’t your colour.’

‘This isn’t a uniform.’ Cassie glanced down at herself: black trousers, black jersey top and black shoes. It was dull, but that was the point. She dressed plainly so she would be overlooked, and these cheap, easy-care clothes had been perfect when she was working as a cleaner. She was under no illusion that they flattered her. ‘These are my clothes.’

‘You never chose those for yourself!’ Ruth looked up from her ironing, a pair of men’s boxer shorts dangling from her hand. Cassie didn’t want to contemplate whose bottom they belonged to. ‘You need to meet my daughter, Becca. She works in a clothes shop in Clitheroe. She’ll sort you out.’

‘I can’t afford any new clothes.’

‘Don’t worry about that. She can use her staff discount. You can’t come to the party dressed like that. You’re dressed for a funeral, not an engagement.’

‘What party?’ Cassie sloshed hot water round the teapot to warm it up, and glanced over at Ruth.

‘Haven’t I mentioned it? Becca’s having an engagement do in a few weeks in the village hall. The whole village is invited.’

Cassie spooned tea into the pot.

‘I don’t think that includes me.’

‘Of course it does. You’re one of us now. And it’s a ceilidh! You can’t miss that.’

Cassie thought she easily could miss that, but Ruth wouldn’t listen, however many times she said no.

‘Come to the No Name one night and I’ll introduce you to Becca. You can make plans for your shopping trip.’ Ruth winced and rubbed her back as she bent to pick up the next item from the laundry basket. ‘I hope this isn’t another bout of sciatica. I need to be fit for dancing. I’d better have a word with Barney.’

‘Barney? What can he do?’ Cassie laid out a selection of biscuits on a plate. ‘You should see a doctor. Is there one nearby?’

She hadn’t expected Ruth to answer the question with a gust of laughter.

‘Down the corridor, third door on the left. You can’t get much nearer.’

‘Third door on the left?’ Cassie repeated, failing to see why this was such a joke. ‘But isn’t that Barney’s office?’

‘Yes. Surely you know?’ Ruth beamed widely. ‘He is a doctor! Or perhaps a “Mister”. I’m never sure how that works.’

‘Barney’s a doctor? Of medicine?’ But even though she asked the question, Cassie couldn’t doubt the answer. So much of his behaviour now made sense: his bizarre curiosity over her fictional period pain at their first meeting; his fussing over her hand; and his evident concern over Frances. His caring attitude had been there all along, if hidden by the worst bedside manner she had ever seen.

‘He worked in the hospital, until a couple of years ago,’ Ruth said, steam rising around her from the iron. ‘Until there was that bit of bother. Not that we ever believed he did anything wrong, whatever the papers said. You could tour ten hospitals and not find a doctor so caring or so committed. We all go to him first with our aches and pains, and he tells us whether it’s worth troubling the doctor in the next village. Half the time he spots that something’s amiss before we know ourselves.’

Did he? Cassie was glad of the warning. All the more reason for her to stay out of his way before he could spot all that was amiss with her.