The Woven Thread

by Claire Lorrimer

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Jennifer Winfield goes to work as a residential secretary at the Manor House, where the elderly Lady Barclay is researching a book of the family history. Jenny intends the job to be merely a means of filling the time until her fiancé, Peter, returns from an assignment abroad. But although life is initially uneventful in the secluded Manor, it does not remain so for long? The unexpected arrival of Simon Barclay and a young American, Allan Howe, turn Jenny?s world upside down. Unprepared for the powerful attraction she feels for two very different men, Jenny?s emotions veer chaotically out of control. Now unable to face Peter, she breaks off their engagement? but knows there is no certainty that either Simon or Allan will want to take his place. Then, history seems to repeat itself as the Barclay ancestors merge with the present in an intriguing, disturbing and strangely romantic manner? but with sinister undertones that threaten tragedy.

Release date: January 30, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

‘You must be the Old Trout’s new dogsbody!’

I looked up into the most compelling pair of eyes I had ever seen. Green? Or hazel? It was difficult to decide, but there was no difficulty in reading the mocking glint in them. I bristled. Although I often thought of Lady Barclay as ‘the old girl’, for me it was a term of affection. Simon Barclay’s choice of description of my employer was vaguely disparaging.

He laughed at my expression of disapproval, his thin brown face suddenly outrageously attractive. So was his voice as he said impudently:

‘Come off it, sweetie! You know very well she’s as crazy as a coot. You must be too, choosing a job like this.’

‘I’m very fond of Lady Barclay and I like the job very much.’ I hoped the remark came out as stiffly as I meant it to, but his smile was infectious and I was in danger of catching that infection.

The young man perched himself on the edge of my desk and favoured me with a long stare of appraisal.

‘Mother told me Lady B. had a new secretary but I didn’t imagine anyone like you. Large, stout, with a grey bun and spectacles, I thought. I’ve been wasting my time! I …’

‘And now you are wasting mine,’ I interrupted, furious to feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. I put out my hand to snatch back the manuscript he had picked up, but he held it out of my reach and still laughing, began to read it aloud.

‘“… did on this Eleventh Day of January in the Year of our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Four attend at the Guildhall in Chichester the trial of his young friend William Blake, poet, falsely accused of uttering Seditious and Treasonable remarks such as ‘Damn the King, damn all his Subjects’. William did magnificently deny such Falsehoods even as the Soldiers were uttering their Evidence and, quite rightly, he was shortly acquitted. Our mutual Friend, William Haley, was in attendance, despite his recent accident, to swear to Blake’s good character. It was indeed a Proud Moment when in defiance of all Decency, the Spectators cheered his Verdict. After the acquittal I did accompany my two poets to sup at Mrs Poole’s in Mid Lavant …”’

Ridicule threaded through Simon Barclay’s voice, but it was a pleasant voice to listen to and as he came to the end of the page I realised I had been more intent on that than on what he was reading.

‘What’s all that meant to be?’ he asked without real interest, but, I suspected, just to see if I knew.

‘It’s a letter from Sir Frederic Barclay to his father. He was a patron of art and literature and the poets Haley and Blake were friends of his. But you must know all that …’

‘I don’t and don’t want to know anything about any of the Barclay lot.’

Simon’s voice was suddenly curt and I could have kicked myself for not remembering in time that he was, in fact, a Barclay by adoption only. None of the fascinating people in Lady Barclay’s book were blood relatives of his.

But I need not have worried. He was back to teasing good humour with bewildering swiftness.

He stood up and stretched his long length with easy grace. I was used to big men. Peter, my fiancé, was nearly six feet tall, but Simon must have topped that by several inches and he loomed high over me as he grinned and said:

‘Come and have a drink. You must need one after typing out all that tripe.’

I didn’t want a drink, but quite suddenly I did want to be in the company of young people again. For a whole month I had spoken to no one but my elderly employer, and much as I liked her, it would be a relief to be with my own age group if only for a short while. Even so, I hesitated, but Simon gave me no time. He took my arm and said persuasively:

‘Come on. There’s no need to be bashful. I’m told drinking with me is an elevating experience and one no girl should miss!’

I still hesitated. Although Simon himself had issued the invitation, I was not at all sure how his mother would receive my appearance. Lady Barclay’s description of her screamed, ‘Snob, snob!’ She might regard a secretary as a glorified servant and have strong views on such an addition to her party.

Simon was getting impatient, pulling me none too gently towards the door and laughing at my reluctance.

‘I absolutely insist that you come with me,’ he said. ‘But first tell me your name. I can’t dangle you on one hand, wave the other airily and say, “Mother, this is ’er”.’

‘It’s Jenny,’ I said, and laughed. It was impossible not to in the face of his absurdities.

‘Jenny?’ he repeated. ‘Very oldy-worldy for a modern miss. I shall call you Jennifer.’

It was a silly thing to be pleased about, but I was. Peter never called me Jennifer and to have a new name was like starting a new chapter to a book.

Although I liked Simon well enough, I can’t say I liked his friends. They were an odd collection. Most of the girls had high-pitched ‘society’ voices and seemed incapable of using them in anything but an inane babble of senseless chatter. And the men were not much better – Hooray Henry types. All of them seemed pretty tight to me, though I couldn’t see much drink circulating.

Julia Barclay appeared only briefly and was much as I imagined she would be: brittle, hard, smartly dressed and made up so cleverly that she looked very little older than her son and his friends. She weighed me up with a long stare when Simon introduced me, and I stared back, waiting for the snub I felt sure would come. To my surprise she made an obvious effort to be pleasant.

‘You must join in all the young people’s fun,’ she said. ‘Life must be very boring stuck down here alone with my poor old mother-in-law.’

I was about to deny I was bored, but she had lost interest in me already. She turned her full attention on Simon. To me it was obvious she genuinely adored her son. In fact, her manner toward him was more like a lover than a mother. She almost flirted with him and Simon seemed to like it. He patted her hand affectionately and said:

‘What about a little drink for you, Ma?’

She shook her head as she moved off to greet a middle-aged man who had just entered the room. Simon scowled.

‘God! I might have guessed he’d be here. That, dear Jennifer, is Jason Macclesfield, author, and Ma’s current passion.’

He seemed to see nothing unusual in his candid remark, but I admit I was slightly shocked. With my suburban background ‘aristocracy’ had never had the chance to become more than a romantic idea. It was disconcerting to discover a real ‘Lady’ could behave in a way that, to my mind, was anything but aristocratic. I felt better when I remembered Julia had married a title and had not been born with one. Delving into Lady Barclay’s family history had bolstered my illusions and there was satisfaction in the thought that I could keep them.

I took the first opportunity to slip out of the room. The brief party had proved highly disappointing. I didn’t ‘fit’ with Simon’s friends and although he rather intrigued me I wouldn’t care if I never saw the rest of the party again.

I kept well out of their way that day, spending the time typing out a chapter of old Lady Barclay’s book. According to her, Charles II, while trying to escape, had travelled from Hampshire into Sussex in 1651 and had been hidden by one of her ancestors, called Percy, in a charcoal-burner’s hut in the nearby forest. Poor Percy was later shot by a Cromwellian soldier on Duncton Beacon.

I had been so wrapped up in the story that the dinner gong came as a surprise and when I joined Lady Barclay in her wing of the house it was almost a shock to find her in the ankle-length old black velvet dress which was her usual evening get-up. Buried deep in the past for hours, I would have been far less surprised to see her in the elaborate garments worn by her female ancestors. There were plenty of examples of them hung about the walls of the Manor.

The Polish couple who looked after us when we were alone were quite incapable of dealing with an influx of guests and a catering firm had been called in. Old Lady Barclay and I stuffed like starving schoolgirls on the food sent up to us – a distinct improvement on our usual simple fare.

She glanced at me sharply as I sat down opposite her. I must have been looking a bit faraway and vague, for she smiled at me and through a mouthful of salmon mayonnaise said:

‘I can see you are beginning to feel the pull of the past, my dear.’

I nodded, returning her smile. When I took on the job of resident secretary, to type the book Lady Barclay was writing about her family, I think I had expected a boring series of lavender and old lace memoirs; boring to me because I was interested in history rather than in historical romance. She never did tell me her age, but I knew she was well over seventy and I couldn’t have been more wrong in my first impression of this frail, vague old lady! She might seem almost senily absentminded about everyday affairs, but the research she had put into her family’s past was an astonishing accomplishment. Drawing on old documents, reference books, memoirs, old letters and anything else she could lay her hand on, she had compiled a fascinating account of her family from the time of the siege of Arundel Castle in 1102.

‘It has taken me a lifetime to gather the facts for this book,’ she had told me at our mutual interview a month ago. ‘Now, with your help, my dear, I am ready to write it.’

Any doubts I may have had about taking on the job for a whole year evaporated then and there. The old lady’s almost obsessional enthusiasm for the task was infectious and she discussed it with none of the rambling, flowery phrases she had used when writing to tell me more about the job she advertised. I must admit her letter had depressed me and I was in anything but a hopeful frame of mind when I went for the interview.

Because of my ruined wedding plans and what I believed to be my broken heart, my one idea was to get as far away as possible from London, with all its memories of Peter, the man I should have married this very June. With the wedding date fixed, the mortgage on a country cottage signed and sealed, Peter had suddenly decided to take a two-year appointment abroad. I had given in my notice to the firm where I worked and was too proud to ask them to take me back. In any case, they had filled my job already.

If Peter had chosen a country where I could go too, it would not have mattered. But the job he wanted was strictly for a bachelor and nothing I said could change his mind about applying for it. I fancy the big money was the attraction, although he said the engineering experience would be of enormous value in the future and that was what he was after. He took the view that I was unreasonable to make such a fuss over the two-year postponement of our wedding.

I tried to believe I was being selfish, but I did not convince myself. It boiled down to Peter preferring material advantage to marriage with me. We had a flaming row which nearly ended in a broken engagement, but I was too much in love to let him go away nursing a rage against me. I swallowed my pride, apologised humbly and went to Heathrow to see him off. Tall, with serious blue eyes and a too determined chin, Peter went through passport control and waved himself out of my life. He was twenty-five, the age I would be when he came home again. Dry-eyed, I watched him go, knowing that I could never have left him and still completely unconvinced that it was right to put a career before love.

The cottage we were buying was a dream. Built of Sussex stone with a tiled roof and smothered in wisteria and roses, it was the answer to any calendar painter’s prayer. Both Peter and I had long ago determined to live in the country when we were married. Here, between Chichester and Midhurst, it would have been easy enough to commute to London. The cottage had seemed ideal and now I was faced with the dismal task of letting it, instead of moving in as Peter’s wife.

The local paper seemed the obvious place to look for tenants, so I bought one at the station on my way to see the estate agents. It was while I was travelling back to London with nothing to read but the paper that I saw Lady Barclay’s advertisement. On the spur of the moment I decided to apply for the job and as soon as I arrived back at my dreary bedsitter I wrote to her. Her reply was so vague I doubt if I would have followed it up if the estate agents had not telephoned asking me to go down and point out what fittings and furniture I would be taking away from the cottage. I hated the idea of strangers using the stuff Peter and I had bought for ourselves, but it did seem silly to start removing things if it could be avoided. I went down to see the agents and since the cottage was at the bottom of Lady Barclay’s drive I decided I might as well call on her at the same time. We took to each other at first sight and I moved into the Manor a week later.

Until now our solitude had been unbroken. I had yet to meet Lady Barclay’s brother, a man in his sixties, who spent most of the year in London. His passion in life was politics and he haunted the House of Lords. Lady Barclay said it was his refuge as well as his occupation. He had lost his first wife in a riding accident, and not long after his only child, Charles, the son and heir, in a ghastly fire in the east wing of the Manor. Lord Barclay had become a recluse until some years later, when to everyone’s surprise he married an old school friend of his dead wife’s and adopted her son by her first marriage. Simon was now twenty-four; ‘handsome and weak’, was how Lady Barclay described him. For some reason she did not like talking about him, but of her little nephew Charles, who had died in the fire, she spoke often and lovingly. The little boy would, I knew, feature at the end of her book, for he was the last of the Barclay family – unless, of course, Julia prod. . .