Free Wickham Hall, Part 2 by Cathy Bramley Page A

‘What is it for?’
    â€˜A little
amuse-bouche
for our thirtieth-anniversary menu: the quail eggs represent pearls.’
    â€˜Wait a second and I’ll give you my verdict,’ said Benedict, scooping up two and popping them one after the other in his mouth.
    â€˜You’re supposed to savour it, you glutton!’ Jenny tutted.
    I giggled at the look of indignation on her face.
    â€˜Very moreish,’ declared Ben, reaching for a third. ‘If a bit small.’
    â€˜Oi.’ Jenny twisted away out of reach. ‘Let Holly have a taste.’
    I bit into one. ‘Mmm, delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had quail eggs before.’
    â€˜Too small for me,’ said Ben, trying to get past Jenny’s hand to pinch another. ‘Give me a good old-fashioned hen’s egg any day.’
    â€˜Actually, quail eggs
are
old-fashioned. Quite popular in Elizabethan times,’ I argued. ‘I’d have thought you’d have known that, Mr Fortescue.’
    â€˜You tell him, Holly.’ Jenny held out the last cocktail stick to him and then made her way back to the kitchen.
    He unravelled the Parma ham from the cocktail stick and dropped it into his mouth.
    â€˜I can see why you like sitting in here.’ He grinned.
    â€˜I’m trying to finish the festival guide.’ I leafed through the loose pages, found the section that mentioned his parents’ thirtieth anniversary at the hall and slid it across the table towards him. ‘Perhaps you’d read this for me?’
    His forehead furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed in the text, his full lips moving as he read silently and I found myself wondering what those lips would taste like . . .
    He looked up. ‘You’re staring.’
    â€˜Sorry.’ I popped the rest of my strawberry tart in my mouth and prayed my face didn’t give me away.
    â€˜Yeah, that’s good.’ He handed back the page and stood to leave. ‘Fancy a trip to Stratford? I’m going to the college to collect the photos for my exhibition from Steve.’
    â€˜Um . . .’ I hesitated. It was tempting to spend a couple of hours with him away from Wickham Hall. But duty called. ‘No, too much to do. But would you please let Steve know I’ll give him his photograph back when I see him at the festival.’
    I’d made a copy of Steve’s photograph but I hadn’t got round to showing it to Mum yet. The time wasn’t right. She had started seeing a therapist. I’d been over the moon at first but she was finding the sessions hard and came back emotionally exhausted. The therapist had given her exercises to do at home, too. But she seemed to have regressed a bit and the dining room, which we’d started to clear, had accumulated another three bags full when I looked at the weekend. It was early days, though, and I was determined to help her crack it.
    â€˜OK.’ Ben pretended to look wounded and began to stride away.
    â€˜Oh and can you ask him for his mobile number?’ I added. ‘I’ll arrange for him to see my mum’s newspapers if he’s still interested.’
    It had to be worth a try.
    â€˜Sure.’ He grinned. ‘Now try not to miss me too much when I’m gone.’
    â€˜It will be difficult,’ I twinkled my eyes at him, trying to ignore the thumping of my heart, ‘but I’ll do my best.’

Chapter 7
    A week later, very early in the morning, when it was still dark – or at least dark enough not to be able to see my watch – I was woken by an insistent, repetitive noise coming from downstairs. It was the door: someone was knocking on the front door.
    What on earth . . .?
    I stumbled out of bed, picked up my phone to turn it on and pulled back the curtain. Adrenalin began to race through me as I spotted movement in the semi-darkness. Beneath the window, a shadowy figure was leaning on the wall of the cottage and then . .