 Restoring
Grace
Ellie Summers’ life starts unravelling. A couple
of months ago, she was quite happy living with her boyfriend Rick
in their little cottage, producing paintings of local peoples’
homes. But now, finding herself pregnant – and Rick less than
thrilled about imminent parenthood – things seem rather more
complicated.
Grace Soudley’s life has been coming apart
for more than a couple of months. Abandoned by her husband, her
only real security is the wonderful old house she was left by her
godmother. But unless Grace can find a large sum of money to sort
out the dry rot, Luckenham House will disintegrate around her.
When Ellie and Grace meet, the two very different
women find they can help each other out. Ellie needs a place to
stay; Grace needs a lodger. Both need a friend. But then Grace’s
step-daughter Demi arrives on the scene, followed by the disconcertingly
engaging Flynn Cormack – who seems determined to help. And
when Grace discovers some beautiful painted panels hidden behind
the tattered dining-room curtains, the whole business of restoration
starts to get serious …
Chapter One
It’s a lovely house, thought Ellie. Perfect proportions.
Probably Georgian, Queen Anne, something like that.
There were five sets of small-paned sash windows in the house and
a couple of dormers in the roof. The front door had a fanlight above
it and a neat path led up to the jasmine-covered porch. Looks just
like a doll’s house, she thought, then laughed at herself:
doll’s houses were built to look like real houses, not the
other way round.
 The
high walls whch enclosed the garden were of fine grey stone and,
peering through the gate, she saw carefully pruned fruit trees interspersed
with something less formal, possibly roses, growing up them. A large
patch of fragile mauve crocuses broke up the green of the lawn and
there were clumps of daffodils lining the path. It was a perfect
time, and although the details of the flowers weren’t really
important from Ellie’s point of view, the house looked utterly
charming, despite the icy wind.
She put down her bag and inspected the gate. It looked sturdy enough
and she put her foot in the gap between the posts, trusting it would
take her weight, and hauled herself up for a better view.
Propped against a stone pillar, one of a pair that framed the gate,
she could see the house in its entirety. It was what estate agents
would call a gem. It looked empty, but there could easily be someone
observing her from behind one of the windows which glinted so symmetrically
back at her. Hoping fervently that there wasn't anybody looking
– it would be so embarrassing, humiliating even – she
jumped down. Then she remembered, and wondered whether, in the circumstances,
she ought to have jumped.
Sighing, she fished her camera out of her bag and climbed back
up to her vantage point. She adjusted the shutter speed and aperture,
and fiddled with the focus, wishing she had more up-to-date equipment
which would do these things for her. It wasn’t as if she was
a photographer, after all. She just wanted a picture of the house.
She took several shots, got back down to ground level and put the
camera back in her bulging raffia bag. Then she took out her nose-stud,
which was tiny and silver but could still appear threatening to
certain sorts of people, removed two of her earrings (leaving only
a single pair), and tweaked at her clothes and hair. It was important
to appear respectable; owners of Georgian rectories tended to be
on the conventional side.
As she tuucked a strand of scarlet hair under her bandanna, she
realised she had no real idea of the effect of her fiddling: she
could be making herself look like a tepee-dwelling New-Age traveller,
or the doorstep equivalent of a second-hand car salesman. However,
she put her shoulders back, picked up her bag and opened the gate.
This was the brave bit.
The owners of such a house must be affluent, she thought, determined
to be positive. She just hoped they didn’t have dogs.
‘Not that I don’'t like dogs,’ shee muttered,
in case they did have dogs and they were listening. ‘I just
don't want be bounced on, not just now.’
But no dogs came bounding up, plunging the friendly but forceful
paws into her stomach (as had happened in the last place), and she
made it to the front door unmuddied and able to breathe normally.
Then she took a deep breath and pulled hard at the knob which protruded
from the stone door jamb, hoping it was attached to something. It
jangled encouragingly, but waiting for the door to be opened was
always the worst part. She ran her tongue around the inside of her
mouth so it wasn’t dry, and her lips wouldn’t get caught
on her teeth when she stopped smiling. Then she relaxed so she could
smile sincerely the moment the door was opened.
 She
didn't have to wait long. A young woman wearing several layers of
jumpers, cardigans and scarves over her jeans, sheepskin boots and
an anxious expression, answered it quite quickly. Almost certainly
not the owner, Ellie decided, more likely the daughter of the house.
Probably a bit older than herself – late twenties, or early
thirties – she had an ethereal quality, enhanced by her draperies,
as if she had been out of the world for a while. Her hair was light
brown, recently washed and looked difficult to manage. Ellie thought
she probably needed some sort of product to get it under control,
but this woman didn’t look as if she’d ever heard of
styling wax or mousse. Her eyes were a sludgey green, reminding
Ellie of a semi-precious stone someone had brought her back from
India once, and a few freckles peppered her nose and cheekbones.
Ellie liked freckles; she had them herself, and seeing them on this
woman gave her confidence.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I wonder if I can interest
you in a picture of your house ... Your parents’ house?’
The young woman shook her head, making her shiny hair even more
disarrayed. ‘No, it’s my house.’
This was a bit of a surprise, but Ellie tried not to show it. ‘Well,
I’ve just taken some photographs of it, and if you're interested,
I could paint watercolours from them. See?’ Ellie produced
her album from the bag. In it were photographs of houses, and next
to them, photographs of the picture she had painted. Then, deftly,
she produced an actual painting, mounted but not framed. ‘And
here’s one I did earlier!’ She laughed, trying to lighten
the atmosphere.
The young woman took the sample painting. ‘It’s lovely.
The trouble is, I can possibly afford –’
‘I’m very reasonable. I could be one for about fifty
pounds. Unframed.’
‘That is reasonable,’ the woman agreed. ‘But
the thing is …’ she paused, sighing. ‘On the other
hand, a painting would be lovely if ...’
Ellie shifted her weight to other foot. It’d be fatal to
rush this woman when she might be about to decide to have a painting,
but on the other hand, her need to go to the loo, which had been
faint but bearable up to now, was becoming more pressing. Jumping
off the gate hadn’t helped.
‘I’m sorry I’m being so slow to make up my mind,’
the woman went on, still gazing at the sample painting with her
head on one side.
‘You’re not. People take ages.’ Ellie regarded
the woman more thoroughly. ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s
an awful cheek, but would you mind terribly if I used your loo?
Normally, I’d just hang on but I’m pregnant.’
She blushed as she said it. She’d told almost no one, not
even her parents, and it was shocking to hear the word out loud.
‘Oh! God! How lovely! Of course! Do come in. The place is
in a bit of a state, I’m afraid.’ The young woman opened
the door.
Ellie paused on the doorstep. ‘I’m Ellie, Ellie Summers.’
She took hold of the woman’s hand. ‘It seems sort of
rude to use your loo when you don’t know my name.’
The woman laughed and instantly became pretty. ‘I’m
Grace – Ravenglass or Soudley.’ She wrinkled her forehead
in thought. ‘I’m recently divorced and I can’t
decide if I should go back to my own name.’
As they shook hands Ellie wondered what it was about this young
woman that made her feel all right about mentioning her pregnancy.
Possibly it was because she appeared slightly vulnerable too.
‘Come in,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll show you where
to go.’
Cover Illustration: Mary Claire Smith; Calligraphy:
Stephen Raw
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