Chapter One
The Schoolmistress Arrives
The Schoolmaster stood on the platform at Combe St Peter station and waited - in what would be fair to say was a fairly agitated manner - for the arrival of the twelve fifteen from Barnstaple. Being a dependable kind of a chap he had arrived to meet the train and, therefore, his replacement early; if only he had been a realist instead, he wouldn’t have bothered, as it was now one o’ clock and there was neither sight nor sound of the hapless old engine. He occupied his time by pacing the platform. At the end of every fourth circuit he would stop, glance down the line, and take a moment to rotate his thumbs in an involuntary twiddle – the rotation of the thumbs was a habit of the Schoolmaster’s that was usually accompanied by a frown and today was no exception.
For any number of reasons his predominant emotion bordered on irritation: Mr Sparks (the Stationmaster) had failed yet again to either dead head or water the geraniums – geraniums he had donated from his glass house at great personal loss; the new man for the school was, in fact, a woman; and, in the past half hour, the sun had deigned to offer an appearance - which was an event to be grasped with an urgent disposition in that part of Devon. The first two were simply irritating in their own right, but the last was beyond the pale in the eyes of the Schoolmaster as he was, above all else, a keen gardener. In the history of the village (which was long and well documented), the arrival of the Schoolmistress was the first event ever known to come between Mr Saunders and his beloved garden on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
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Mr Saunders had taken to his garden in the first instance because on his arrival in the village six years before at the age of twenty six, he had been singled out as prime breeding stock - partly for his handsome looks and wavy blonde hair, but mainly due to his assumed intellect - by all of the unmarried ladies (and some of the married ones) aged between fifteen and forty five. His requirement to wear spectacles – far from diminishing this attraction - only added to his mystique.
In a manner akin to a farmer eyeing a prize bull on market day, many a fecund young lady had been known to wander seductively past the school gates at bell time, fluttering her eye lashes or flashing her more than ample cleavage in Mr Saunders’ direction…yet their commendable efforts remained unrewarded. In the Schoolmaster’s opinion, like a swollen udder at milking time, a heaving Devonshire décolletage was an asset that should not be taken on by an inexperienced bundler, but should be grasped only by a firm and skilful hand - a hand that Mr Saunders did not, both to his relief and regret, possess!
It was quite a surprise to the men of the village, therefore, that he neither singled out a prize heifer as a keeper, nor did he mooch around the field siring the lesser stock at regular intervals (although either option would have been regarded as perfectly acceptable behaviour in Combe St Peter); instead, the Schoolmaster averted his eyes (and his temptation) from the ladies, took to his spade and kept to the garden – a lot! His reputation for the speed at which he could double dig his sizeable vegetable patch, was second to none!
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Mr Sparks - who took a certain amount of devilish pleasure in the sport of goading Mr Saunders – looked through the window of the guard’s office and chuckled at the sight of the Schoolmaster, who had temporarily ceased in his occupation of pacing up and down, and had begun (with the precision of a surgeon to his hand) to remove dead flower heads from the window box. Sparks put down the tin cup that held the remnants of his coffee (his second since entering into his watch only an hour before), and opened the stiff office window with a firm push causing the Schoolmaster to jolt his head backwards to avoid the frame.
“Good afternoon to you Mr Saunders!!”
“Mmm? Oh, good afternoon…” His dismissive tone did not match the
Stationmaster’s cheery one. He looked up from the parched plants to glare at Mr Sparks through the open window.
“Could I ask you - once again Mr Sparks – to please make sure you water these plants daily?”
“I will try sir, I will try! But I’m so busy…so very, very busy all of the time; what with my job ‘ere…and the little ‘uns…and my postal round…and…”
Mr Saunders was more than familiar with this tale of woe so he cut him off at the quick.
“Yes, well, if you could - just - try…”
Mr Saunders returned to his occupation of staring pointedly down the line, but this was not sufficient enough an act to cease Mr Sparks’ conversational flow. Sparks leant his crossed arms on the windowsill and continued with his line of thought.
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“Well, not to worry, you’ll be off to pastures new soon…when is it you’ll be leaving Combe St Peter again sir?”
“December.” replied the Schoolmaster without turning.
“Where’s that to?”
Mr Saunders was familiar with the West Country vernacular.
“Sussex.”
“You’ll be moving on to another school I suppose?”
“No.”
“What then?”
The Schoolmaster sighed. He despised passing on personal information, particularly to Sparks.
“I shall be assisting a prominent botanist in his studies - for a year or so - and then we shall see…maybe some travel abroad…”
This revelation meant nothing to Sparks.
“Ah! You’ve a good three months or so to get the new teacher all settled in…I suppose you’ll be here to meet the new chap from the train just now?”
The Schoolmaster allowed himself a glimmer of a smile.
“Yes…only the chap that you refer to is, in fact, a lady…”
Even Sparks was taken aback.
“Well well well! A Lady eh?” Don’t think we’ve ever had a mistress at the school!”
“Yeees.”
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“Can I ask you sir…?” Sparks had a very definite twinkle in his eye and a feigned innocent expression to his face as he spoke, “This new
Schoolmistress…is she a gardener like yourself?”
“I have no idea Mr Sparks.”
A protruding vein on the Schoolmaster’s temple began to twitch.
“Only I was just after sayin to Mrs Sparks the other dinner time…ooh we were ‘avin a lovely bit ‘o beef…” Sparks diverted down a rabbit hole at the thought of the succulent meat. “…Old Maude from Winterside gave it to me for getting stuck in with a difficult calving. That poor cow…no beast should have to suffer like that…” Sparks sighed and took a second to give the beast of burden (or, perhaps, old Maude) a moment of considered silence before returning his gaze to the Schoolmaster (although he was still addressing the back of his head) and asking, “’Ave you ‘ad any of the
Winterside beef yourself sir? Fair melts off the bone it does…”
“No, I haven’t.” Mr Saunders took a deep breath and continued to peer down the line. Where was that damn train?
“I’ll see if I can get you some…and while I think on it, I’ll ask her to save you a goose for Christmas - you’ll not get finer than a Winterside goose!” Sparks tilted his head and furrowed his brows in concentrated thought, “What was I sayin’ again Mr Saunders?” The Schoolmaster turned around, defeated.
“I shall have no requirement for a goose as I shan’t be here for
Christmas, and your conversation ran something along the lines of you conversing with your wife.”
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Sparks put a hand to his chin and took a second to recap his thoughts.
“Oh, that’s right…” He nodded and pointed a finger in the air to reiterate the fact that he had remembered. “Me and the Mrs were after sayin’ that, when the new master – or mistress now ‘o course – moves into the school house, pound to a penny of a pinch ‘o salt that beautiful garden of yours will start to falter…just go to rack and ruin!” He shook his head slowly and reverently before issuing the final death knoll. “The weeds’ll take over and then that’ll be that – dead! A sad day that’ll be Mr Saunders, a sad day…and all those years of work! It must break your heart, really it must…well, that and missin’ out on the goose ‘a course!”
Mr Saunders walked to the edge of the platform; he didn’t care a fig about the goose, but, at the thought of his beloved garden transgressing into a veritable jungle, he considered the option of throwing himself in front of the next train…if only the damn thing would ever arrive!
Mr Spark’s pleasure at observing the Schoolmaster’s disturbed mental state was temporarily halted at the sound of a high whistle and, overcome by a sense of his own importance, he retrieved his green flag, donned his jacket and cap, and rushed onto the platform (although his vigour was quite unnecessary) in anticipation of the train.
The Lynmouth, a somewhat decrepit and out-dated narrow-gauge engine for 1934, puffed at an achingly slow pace as it struggled to pull five cosy carriages – painted pillar box red – up the final ascent towards Combe
St Peter Station. Mr Saunders was possibly the only person on the whole of
Exmoor who did not possess a kind of nostalgic adoration for the little train,
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and on this particular occasion he thought that, if he only owned the tack for a shire horse, he should have put the saddle on his back, harnessed himself to the engine and physically pulled the damn thing up the hill and into the station. Mr Saunders was a strong man – for a schoolmaster – and there was no doubt that such an action on his behalf would have expedited the process by several minutes!
A short while later – which felt like an age to Mr Saunders as he watched (with resigned acceptance) the sun bid a temporary retreat behind a wave of westerly clouds – the train came to a grinding halt at the platform.
To be fair, ‘grinding halt’ is too wild a description, as all the poor Lynmouth could manage after the exertion of Combe St Peter hill, was a relieved wheeze and a breathless stagger!
The train was never busy on a Saturday morning which meant that
Mr Saunders could watch Miss Davey step out of the first class carriage with an unencumbered view. He knew for certain that the lady alighting the carriage must be the Schoolmistress as none of the locals could afford to travel first class – or if they could they would never admit to it – and, as he watched, he was relieved to see that the pair of stout shoes (which he noticed had landed simultaneously on the platform with zestful leap) carried a woman who, although quite short in stature, appeared to be of sound physical fitness: Combe St Peter is a village on a hill – on several hills in fact
– and the Schoolmistress would need both appropriate footwear and good health to meet it head on!
Mr Saunders also noticed (to his consternation) that despite her slight frame, Miss Davey harboured the sure-footedness and assured air of a very
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confident woman. Her auburn hair billowed from under her hat and rested on her shoulders…wouldn’t it have been more appropriate for the
Schoolmistress to have tied her hair back he thought?
“Mmm…” he murmured with furrowed brows (it wasn’t even a word, but as an utterance it spoke volumes in his mind), “…this one could mean trouble! And to arrive first class…” He shook his head, “…most inappropriate!”
As they approached each other on the platform and he fixed his gaze on her pointed little nose, the split second decision that he had made moments earlier on the character of his replacement was confirmed in his mind.
“Mr Saunders?” Miss Davey held out a hand – her left hand - which took him by surprise.
“Err…Yes…That’s me…” The Schoolmaster smiled briefly and juggled the dead flowers from his left to his right hand – temporarily and uncharacteristically unsure of himself – before taking her hand firmly in his.
He gathered his wits.
“I’m very pleased to meet you Miss Davey.”
She looked up at him and smiled. It was a warm smile he thought, although this could be the act of trickery – women were good at that!
“There really was no need for flowers…”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, taken aback.
She nodded towards the dead flowers in his hand. He scrunched them hurriedly into a ball and proceeded to stuff the ball into his jacket pocket…an action that he would regard as being unaccountably rash
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when he thought through the events later in the day - Mr Saunders always pondered on significant events later in the day.
“Oh…” he glanced towards the window box in explanation, “I’ve been dead-heading; I’m afraid I didn’t think of…”
“I was joking Mr Saunders…”
She smiled again, touched his arm in re-assurance, and turned quickly to Mr Sparks – who had taken the initiative to pile her luggage onto two barrows and was now standing next to the Schoolmaster and smirking.
“Could you ensure that my luggage is taken to Ivy Cottage Mr…?”
“Mr Sparks maam!” She opened her purse and handed Sparks a tip.
He responded with a smile that mirrored her own and added a firm nod that implied, ‘at your service!’
Mr Saunders looked on with a knowing frown. Sparks had never acted in such an amenable manner when he himself had arrived at the
Combe six years previously…but then he hadn’t been so generous with the tip! He was just about to lead Miss Davey away from the platform and down to the village when Sparks stepped in.
“I’ve a quick question for you maam…if I may?” Sparks continued with a grin.
“Yes?”
“Well, me and Mr Saunders ‘ere were just wonderin…where would a pretty young lady like you stand on gardens?”
Despite the Schoolmaster’s annoyance at Sparks’ insistence on making conversation with Miss Davey – and therefore delaying their departure by at least a minute – he couldn’t help but gaze intently into the
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lady’s face in eager anticipation for her response; and, despite having had a random question fired at her by a perfect stranger almost the moment she had stepped off the train, Miss Davey folded her arms and awarded the question with some considered thought.
“When you say ‘stand on gardens’ Mr Sparks, do you mean metaphorically or physically?” She tilted her head to one side and waited for a response. Sparks scrunched his face slightly in confusion and, looking for help, averted his eyes to Mr Saunders, who in his turn maintained a questioning gaze on Sparks as he had no intention of helping the old toad out!
Saved by the whistle, Sparks excused himself without answering.
The train was ready to depart.
Mr Saunders turned to Miss Davey, issued a smile that could be construed as being a little warmer than the one he had given at their first meeting only minutes before, and led her away from the station and down the narrow, steep road towards the heart of the village…the school.
The pair had not walked much of a distance before Miss Davey suggested that they would stop for a moment in order to take in the view.
Mr Saunders acquiesced, but took out his pocket watch as an automatic response. Miss Davey ignored the inadvertent hint that he had somewhere else he really ought to be, as she was far too enraptured by the sight before her…a sight that she had been looking forward to witnessing for some time in fact.
An undulating meadow, carpeted with ankle-high grass, rolled – fairly steeply - down towards the main body of the village. The houses in the
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village were nestled within a protective geographic bowl that had been forged by nature but taken advantage of by early settlers. A blanket of green divided by a patchwork of towering hedgerows climbed curvaceously away from the village in all directions.
“The village isn’t quite as large as I had expected.” Miss Davey said, maintaining her gaze towards the bottom of the hill.
“Oh, that isn’t the whole of it…Combe St Peter is actually a collective name for two hamlets… in fact, three hamlets. The main body of the village lies in the area that you see now, which is where the London Inn stands, and then there is the ford where Ivy Cottage lies…it’s behind some trees a little way on (you can’t quite make it out from here).” He turned through
180 degrees as he spoke, “And then there is Church Town which lies behind the Halt - that’s where the old church and the ale house are - and then there is the ‘big house’…” He turned through a final 90 degrees and pointed to a grand looking property that was situated in the third corner of what was effectively a mis-shaped triangle – a triangle that constituted the boundary of the village, “…which is the Rectory…”
“Interesting geography…and the school?”
“Is in the centre of it all, just down the lane…next to Ivy Cottage in fact.”
Miss Davey smiled heartily.
“Just as it should be…” she whispered, taking a final look at the view.
“Ready to continue?”
“Absolutely Mr Saunders!”
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The pair hadn’t ventured more than twenty yards further down the road before the melodic sound of approaching hooves interrupted their companionable silence. Within seconds a chestnut mare appeared around the corner of the lane – roughly a hundred yards ahead – carrying a man who was dressed in the clothing usually associated with a well-to-do country gentleman.
Mr Saunders could not help but exhale a deep sigh (Miss Davey would discover that the residents of Combe St Peter had a tendency towards an exaggerated exhale of breath, even though they had very little to be troubled about…perhaps it was the inordinate amount of hills that played an adverse effect on the lungs).
Miss Davey glanced at Mr Saunders, looked again at the man on the horse who was approaching rapidly at the trot, stopped in her tracks and asked pointedly,
“Is this the squire?”
Mr Saunders shook his head.
“We don’t have a squire…”
She narrowed her eyes, scrunched her nose slightly and continued to analyse horse and rider.
“He dresses like a squire…interesting. So, is he friend or foe Mr
Saunders?”
“I beg your pardon?” The Schoolmaster halted and looked back at
Miss Davey from two paces further down the hill. He was confused.
“The impressive looking gentleman on the horse…he looks pleased with himself! Is he friend or foe? Affable or oaf?” She threw him an
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impatient glare. “Quickly Mr Saunders! He is bound to stop and it is vital that I set off on the right foot…”
Crumbling under the pressure of her urgency, and a little annoyed that she had referred to the rider as ‘impressive’, Mr Saunders could only state the truth as he saw it.
“Well, if you must persist…oaf!”
Mr Saunders was taken by surprise at his own honesty; he disliked being uncharitable in his speech (although his thoughts were rarely anything but candid!), and felt ‘taken in’ by the Schoolmistress.
Horse and rider drew level. Mr Saunders looked up but was not the first to speak. Instead, he raised a hand to his forehead to block out the
September sun that was positioned directly behind the man.
“A fine day Edward; I was surprised to find you absent from your garden, but now I see why.”
The rider looked at Miss Davey quizzically.
“Miss Davey, this is Mr Delaney…he farms on the common.” Mr
Saunders’s tone regarding Mr Delaney’s occupation tended towards the dismissive, and a glimmer of a wince passed over Mr Delaney’s chiselled profile at the word...common.
“And this is Miss Davey, who will be taking over as Schoolmistress…”
He turned in his saddle towards Miss Davey and doffed his cap
(revealing a striking quiff of raven hair), to which the recipient nodded curtly in reply. He ran a hand through his hair, did not replace the cap but held it against the whip, while his spare hand maintained a firm hold on the reigns.
“And how do you like our village Miss Davey?”
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“I’m yet to see it Mr Delaney.”
Mr Delaney smiled flatly.
“And what brings a pretty young lady like you to our neck of the woods?” He looked at Mr Saunders and raised his brows with a smirk, “A broken heart perhaps?”
Had the gentleman known Miss Davey better he would have realised that this quip would not go unrewarded, and she released an almost imperceptible sigh – it was obviously catching!
“If we are to have a conversation Mr Delaney, I wonder if you would humour me and dismount…”
Miss Davey’s request took both gentlemen by surprise. “Only I have developed an acute pain in my neck simply in the process of looking up at you.”
Mr Delaney’s expression was blank. He ran his tongue over his top teeth before answering.
“I’m sure that we shall meet again miss.” He replaced his cap and gathered the reigns.
“I’m sure that we shall…” continued Miss Davey, “…but at a time when we are both on either four legs or two would be preferable.”
Mr Delaney threw his head back and emitted a spontaneous laugh.
His horse mimicked him perfectly by pulling at the reigns and snorting.
“An equal footing is something that is important to you then Miss
Davey?”
“Precisely so Mr Delaney…”
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Mr Delaney turned towards Mr Saunders and adopted the tone of an authoritative squire. Miss Davey smiled at Mr Saunders, lowered her head and turned to take in the view.
“So, have you told her about the train?”
“No…”
“Have you told her about the church?”
“No.”
“Have you told her about the meeting?” The annoyance in his manner of address became increased (as did the pitch of his voice), with each consistent answer to the negative.
Mr Saunders’s irritated fingers rubbed his aching forehead.
“James,” yet another sigh, “the lady has just this second stepped off the train; we are to have tea, settle her at Ivy Cottage and - in time - I will tell her all she needs to know regarding the comings and goings of Combe St
Peter.”
Mr Delaney tightened the reigns once more and narrowed his eyes in an impolite frown.
“I take it you will be in attendance at the Village Hall tonight?”
Mr Saunders’ shoulders sagged.
“The petty politics and antiquated antics of this village have long since failed to amuse me; I have no intention of…”
Mr Delaney took immediate umbrage.
“Your alliteration and assonance do you proud Edward…your lack of loyalty to the village (and to me I might add)…does not!”
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The Schoolmaster rallied! Had Mr Delaney dismounted as Miss Davey had requested he would no longer have been in possession of a nose - not a straight one at any rate!
“I know full well how best to serve this blessed village James, and will continue to do so until the day that I leave it! Combe St Peter is not best served by having its Schoolmaster seen arguing with the parents of his pupils at a village meeting - a meeting that, as you well know, will prove to be entirely fruitless!”
Mr Delaney bowed out at the last comment, kicked his horse on with unnecessary aggression and issued some final words.
“Just so long as you don’t concentrate on that damn garden of yours and forget about what’s important…you know full well what has to be done!”
He turned to Miss Davey.
“Good day to you miss.”
“Good day.”
Mr Delaney nodded his farewell to Mr Saunders and started at a trot up the road. Twenty paces on Mr Delaney glanced back from his lofty position to catch a final glimpse of the Schoolmistress…who had also turned to catch a final glimpse of the rider.
Miss Davey widened her eyes and raised her brows questioningly as they moved on, but Mr Saunders seemed impervious to the altercation!
“Is Mr Delaney always so…forthright?” Mr Saunders dropped his head and smiled.
“Oh, pay no attention to my brother Miss Davey…he means well I suppose!” Miss Davey stopped in her tracks, finally wrong footed!
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“Your brother?” she exclaimed. “But you have different surnames…”
She turned in the direction of the departed rider and threw out a hand,
“Aaand you called him an oaf!”
Mr Saunders felt the need to correct her.
“No Miss Davey, you made me choose – at the rush I might add between affable and oaf…and, as he is not particularly affable - to me at least - I had no choice but to go with oaf! And as far as the different surnames are concerned...he is my half-brother and it is a long story…” He lowered his head, “…Another time perhaps?”
She nodded in agreement and they continued on their journey down the lane.
“James and I seem to have the unfortunate knack of rubbing each other up the wrong way; my occasional ambivalence towards the village and its… ‘goings-on’, frustrates him. My brother is a man who is in a great hurry to get to where he is going…” He stopped mid flow. Once more, the
Schoolmaster was surprised at the amount of honest detail he was prepared to impart to the stranger walking next to him.
“And where is Mr Delaney aiming to get to in such a hurry?” Miss
Davey asked, un-phased by the personal nature of the question.
Mr Saunders shook his head slowly and looked back in the direction of his brother; he spoke, more to himself, than to Miss Davey.
“I’m not sure that he knows…or that he will even realise he has arrived at his destination when he gets there…” Mr Saunders returned to the present moment and let out a laugh. “Tell me Miss Davey, do you make
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it a rule never to speak to anyone astride a saddle?” Miss Davey smiled, her eyes glimmered with mischief.
“I would probably cope if the saddle was perched on a Shetland
Pony…although I would pity the poor pony that carried Mr Delaney!” Mr
Saunders laughed again and flashed the Schoolmistress a conspiratorial glance.
“When one is 5 feet 3 inches tall Mr Saunders, it is important at the first meeting not to give a certain kind of gentleman the upper hand! I am of the opinion that height gives a person an unfair advantage in life and can lead to hoity-ness…I do not hold stock with hoity-ness!”
Mr Saunders stopped again and turned to Miss Davey. First of all, he did not believe that the school dictionary would carry such a word as ‘hoityness’ and, second of all, her reasoning made no sense to him – no sense at all!
“But my brother is over 6 feet tall…so when you meet him on ‘two legs’
– as you say – he shall still tower over you and, by your rational, still have the advantage.”
Miss Davey gave this a little thought and then laughed out loud.
“Then I shall stand on a chair!”
Mr Saunders decided not to quibble and point out that, in such a circumstance, one of the party would still be on four legs! Instead, he shook his head with a smile and congratulated himself on his initial prognosis: he was right, this one was going to be trouble…but in a good way perhaps, if, indeed, there was such a thing!
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“Well, I am six feet tall and you seem to be able to converse easily with me without the need of a chair…or an ache in the neck…I hope!”
“But you are not an oaf Mr Saunders.”
He smiled again. me…”
“And you simply take my word for it that James is? It was unfair of
Miss Davey considered this for a second.
“You are a gardener are you not?” He nodded, his questioning eyes betraying the fact that he had lost her train of thought...something that would happen regularly over the coming months. “I feel that a man in touch with nature will seldom be wrong…” She faltered a moment and hurried to clarify her comment. “…with regards to character of course…”
“Of course…”
Miss Davey paused for a second before changing the subject in a decided tone.
“Do you think it would be possible to adopt Christian names when addressing each other? I heard your brother refer to you as Edward?”
He fixed his gaze on the row of three cottages that had come into view at the bottom of the lane and gave the suggestion some unnecessary thought.
“Yes…Edward…absolutely.” Glancing in Miss Davey’s direction he added, “But away from the children naturally…”
Miss Davey smiled.
“Naturally…And I’m Lucy.” She held out her hand jovially.
“Very well…” he said, shaking her hand, “Lucy it is!”
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The Schoolmaster stole a quick glance at the Schoolmistress as she sauntered happily down the lane. He hadn’t given his garden much thought in the past few minutes! Perhaps he had been a little uncharitable when he had thought her nose to be pointed. He assessed her nose again…buttonlike perhaps, but definitely not pointed.
………………………………………………………………………………..
Three months later, when Edward Saunders was to stand on the platform at Combe St Peter Station and wait for the train to take him away from the village for the last time, he would look back on his first meeting with Lucy Davey, smile, and regard it as a great shame that the Lynmouth had not been a powerful enough engine to have engulfed the platform with great swathes of steam as it arrived at the Halt. Given the events that were about to unfold in the village, it would have been highly appropriate for Lucy to have arrived at Combe St Peter with great atmospheric aplomb!
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Chapter Two
While Edward and Lucy had ambled slowly down the lane, James set off at the trot up it; or, rather, his horse had done the trotting while the rider had done the thinking! His impromptu meeting with Edward and the uppity…yes uppity…schoolmistress, moments before, had left him with a bizarre mixture of emotion nudging around between his ears.
Edward’s easy-going attitude towards the planned village meeting
(combined with his typical do-gooder manner) irked him And then there was this new school mistress (James’ mouth couldn’t help but twitch into a halfsmile as he thought of her…). There was something in her manner that made his teeth itch and his heckles rise, and yet there was something else…an attractive, sparky quality about her. The pretty smile she had awarded to his brother as they had departed down the hill had been far too freely given for James’ liking...but then he laughed out loud at his foolish, momentary concern that Edward could ever be a possible challenge to any future advances he, James Spencer, might make towards her; yes, his brother had a certain pretty-boy charm about him, he supposed, but was surely lacking flare or tenacity when it came to the fairer sex! No, Edward would be little consequence when he decided to show his hand and take on the flighty gelding that was Miss Lucy Davey!
At that moment his thought process halted as he had reached the common and, therefore, the boundary to High End Farm – his farm. He opened the heavy wooden gate without the need to dismount, expertly held the excited mare back for a moment while he closed the gate behind him, and then, with a flick of the leg and a loosening of the reigns, finally gave
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her her head and the flamboyant pair set off at the gallop across the Exmoor hills: exhilarated and encouraged by an adrenalin induced high of the gallop, James Spencer began to devise a plan…to add to his numerous other
plans that had already been set into motion.
…………………………………………………………………………………..
The children
Horse manure…look at house like it is heaven…doesn’t matter about so and so, ive founf my idyl! Saunders looks on in wonder. Meets rose
Discuss the school
School inspector
Geese!!
The meeting!
He will end up concentrating on the garden – teach her how to garden
When she meets Delaney ‘she’ will be on four legs but he will be on two…cannot have it both ways…grabs a chair..they laugh…next time meet on horseback!
Slowly spends less and less time inj the garden.
Not a rider (father died on a horse fall) not a car, Prefer Shanks’ pony…who’s
Mr Shanks? I was joking Edward!
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Fattening up the goose…protect from the fox…who eats the goose…Mr
Delaney
April May and June
Chapter 3
The Meeting at the Village Hall
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