The Chain Garden by Jane Jackson

Author:Jane Jackson [Jackson, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780709080657
Google: yBVCAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1909335274
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2012-09-24T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Just after ten on the last Sunday in July, Edwin left the manse carrying an overnight bag to make the five-mile walk to Godolphin Wollas where he would preach an afternoon and evening service. Heavy dew still spangled the grass that edged the road, the glittering droplets indicating a fine day. In a bluebell sky small clouds were piling into fleecy billows that trailed shadows in their wake as they sailed high over the landscape.

From the hillside he looked down onto woodland boasting every shade of green from the dark gloss of holly to the pink-tinted jade of sycamore and the burgundy richness of an occasional copper beech.

Cut hayfields looked scalped and pallid against lush pastures where cattle grazed. Scarlet poppies dotted fields of ripening wheat and barley like splattered blood. The thought –a dagger thrust between his ribs – stopped his breath. He thrust it away and inhaled deeply. Not now. Not today. Concentrate on something else. His eye caught by two peacock butterflies fluttering above a pale green field of oats that rippled in the breeze like water, he thought of Grace.

Her portrait lay in the bottom of his bag protected by two sheets of writing paper. She had glowed that day, her lacy gown a change from her usual skirt and blouse. Even allowing that she had been her mother’s principal nurse and companion, closer to her than anyone else, bereavement had affected her more severely than he would have expected.

Now a door had closed on part of her life. What would she do with the rest of it? How he wished…Such thoughts were worse than foolish. She deserved so much more than he could offer. But knowing that didn’t ease the ache or stop the yearning.

It was almost eleven-thirty when he reached the farm. A broad carriage drive led up to a heavy front door, which on most Cornish farms was only ever used by the undertaker. Edwin walked round to the back.

The house was large and solid, the granite walls softened by a green tangle of ivy and Virginia creeper that reached to the eaves and fringed deep white-painted sash windows whose many small panes reflected the sun.

Following the flagged path that separated the house from the kitchen garden he arrived at the ever-open back door as his host came out to greet him.

Norman Angove was wearing his black Sunday-best suit, a starched collar, a gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat, and a broad smile.

‘How do, Mr Philpotts.’ Seizing Edwin’s hand he gave it a hearty shake. ‘Handsome day, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is,’ Edwin smiled.

‘Surely better ‘n the last time you was here. Mind you, we needed the rain. Come on inside.’ He led the way into an airy kitchen rich with the savoury aroma of cooking. Edwin’s stomach gurgled and his mouth watered in anticipation.

‘Morning, Mr Phillpotts.’ Lucy Angove glanced up, her plump face flushed and smiling. On the top of the Cornish range three saucepans bubbled. Gripping one corner of a

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