Free Eden's Garden by Juliet Greenwood

that this was one of those times.
    ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, as she changed into her walking boots, ‘you’re not to worry, Rhiannon. You’ll always have a home. Huw and I will make sure of that.’
    ‘Yes, I know, cariad ,’ she replied. ‘We don’t need to think about anything like that for now. You need to get yourself well first.’
    She picked up her fleece from its hook next to the door and shrugged it on. ‘Find your lead, Hodge.’ Hodge’s ears, inherited from some collie ancestor and therefore inclined to flop at the tips in repose, stood to attention. He turned his head on one side, eyes bright with all the appearance of the highest intelligence. Rhiannon – who’d learnt long ago that the collie ancestor had been diluted over the dubious generations in between, particularly in the brains department – simplified matters. ‘Lead!’
    Hodge shot off into the house, returning a few minutes later in triumph, one end of webbing trailing from his mouth, the metal clip bouncing along on the slate tiles behind him in a trail of sparks. The lead was promptly flung at her feet, followed by Hodge vanishing through the door at the far end of the courtyard, to vent mounting hysteria at the magpies lurking with intent on the nearest cherry tree.
    ‘Dinner’s in the Rayburn, so don’t you dare try to do anything,’ called Rhiannon over her shoulder. There was no reply. David, she could see, was completely worn out and had already sunk into an uneasy doze.

     
    The air was cool as Rhiannon reached the ridge of high ground behind Plas Eden. In the distance, lay Talarn, gleaming orange and gold in the evening light, its castle a dark shadow against the sea. Windows of the tall B&Bs along the front sprayed out gleams of brilliance in the sinking rays of the sun. She could just make out the dots of families still on the beach, with a few that might be swimmers braving the water as evening swept away the last vestiges of warmth.
    ‘Come on Hodge,’ she called to the rustling amongst the bracken, where a dark shape shot, nose to the ground, deep on the trail of rabbits.
    Having reached the highest point, Rhiannon sat down on the single wooden bench placed facing the sea. The bench was new, scarcely weathered as yet, with its feet planted firmly in concrete. The metal plaque, still bright and shiny, bore the inscription ‘In memory of Hermione Anne Meredith, who loved this place’. Rhiannon leant back, feeling the comforting firmness of the wood against her.
    She should have known that day, she thought to herself, that this would signal the end of things. It had been a bright February morning, with frosts still lurking in the shadows, when Huw and David had trudged up the hill with the bench between them, Rhiannon following behind pushing the wheelbarrow containing spades and bags of quick-setting cement. It had been an unexpectedly cheerful occasion, with even Huw losing his dignity in the effort to dig holes in the rocky ground, followed by the tussle getting the spirit level to keep its little bubble between the lines in all directions.
    That had been their own goodbye to Nainie, even more so than the ceremony later in the afternoon, when the few tattered remains of the Meredith clan had gathered up here for the scattering of the ashes, just as Hermione Anne had decreed.
    They had seemed so much a proper family, drawn together by grief; there had been no thought of how much Nainie’s death would change them. David had taken over the mantle of Plas Eden in all but name for so long, the question of his not carrying on now had never even arisen. David was the eldest, the one who would take over the responsibility at some point. That was the way it would always be.
    Rhiannon shivered, pulling her fleece closer around her. Below, the Eden estate stretched out before her in all its rambling vastness. Plas Eden itself, long and pale between the trees. In front of the house, the lake, with the low cottage of Eden