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60 pages

English

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Extrait

Description

A man who represents everything Penny Chapman dislikes confuses her when he offers friendship and help.

Sujets

Romance

Informations

Publié par	eBookPartnership.com
Date de parution	13 février 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781908886002
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

BELOVED ENEMY
By Frances M Carr
Copyright
2012 Frances M Carr
Frances M Carr has asserted her rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Frances M Carr
First published and printed in 1999
First published in eBook format in 2012
eISBN: 978-1-908886-00-2
(Printed edition: 978-1-408-41273-2)
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Ebook Conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com
Contents
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
About the Author
From the same Author
CHAPTER ONE
Who the devil is it? Roger Fenleigh thundered at his bewildered accountant and friend of many years standing.
I m afraid I don t know. I didn t realise there was a sitting tenant on the estate, came the reply.
You say there is no evidence of any rent payments? the taller and darker of the two men snapped as he paced backward and forward in front of Simon Osbourne s desk.
None at all.
So where has this person come from two weeks before I sign a contract of sale?
Simon Osbourne, of Osbourne, Osbourne and Clark, rose from his chair and walked around the desk.
I was talking to a chap last week from the Tyne Tees Television lot. He was babbling on about some up-and-coming writer. He said she lived on Greensfield Estate. I told him it must be a mistake, as nobody had lived there since your great uncle. He was most insistent, so when I came back to the office I went through every file I could find and nothing. Next day I sent young Phillips out to the estate and he came back with the news that a person was living in the old boathouse.
Squatter! Roger spat out.
More than likely, his friend agreed, settling himself on the edge of the desk top. Move them on in no time, you ll see.
Roger Fenleigh stopped his pacing and, turning a cynical smile upon his friend s beaming confidence, said, The letter of the law, eh, Simon?
Quite, quite so.
No go, I m afraid. I m going down there now and if I find any trespassers, heaven help them.
Look here, Roger, that won t help anything.
Simon thrust himself away from the desk and hurried after his friend who was striding purposefully towards the door.
Isn t it a bit late in the day? I mean, why don t we go down together on Monday?
Goodbye Simon, have a good weekend and give the family my regards.
Roger Fenleigh left the building that housed Osbourne, Osbourne and Clark and crossed the road to a pedestrian passage that led him back to the multi-storey car park where he had left his car. The red sporty model glowed in the drab light between the concrete pillars of the half-empty car park. But for once the sight of it did nothing to lift the scowl from its owner s face as he lowered himself into the driving seat.
The car shot down the ramp and out on to the street with a squeal of tyres. Once through the city and out on to the open road, the frown across his brow disappeared and the tightness around his shoulders eased. Driving always helped him to relax and clear his mind for the next move. It was this ability to click problems through his brain, like slides through a projector that had helped him get so far and do so well.
In the twenty years he d been on his own, he had worked his way up through building sites and part-time education to university, partnerships, directorships, and eventually to the expensive consultancy he now enjoyed with the mammoth building conglomerates. Work was his pleasure from waking to sleeping, driving him along as did the purring engine beneath the bonnet of the car.
With a click he set his present problem under his mind s eye and thirty minutes later turned off the main road on to a narrow, country lane. A short distance farther on he swung the car in through two tall stone pillars, alongside one of which dangled a dilapidated gate resting against a confusion of trees and rhododendrons. The house, when it came into view, was of mellow stone in the classic lines of its Georgian architecture. Everywhere, weeds, ivy and moss encroached, blocking out light from sleeping windows, pushing up through gravel and stonework.
The house meant nothing to him. Oh, he admired it for what it had been, a beautiful house in its heyday, but he had never lived there, nor even visited. He d never heard of great Uncle Chesterton and had been as surprised as anyone when notified of his inheritance. Now, on only his second visit, his eyes wandered knowledgeably over the front of the house. It was a plain rectangle of solid construction with rows of tall sash windows. The entrance was enclosed by tall columns and covered in by a hood. The roof fell backward from each side and the front slope was pierced by a row of dormer windows. His fingers plucked the bundle of large keys from the pocket of his driving coat as he approached the main entrance.
It was early March and the light was already fading. Simon had been right to advise him to wait. Of course it would have been far better to inspect the place in daylight, but he was here now and might as well take a look around. Pale statues stood sentinel in alcoves around a square, marble-floored hall. Deep doorways gave on to large, shuttered rooms, until he came to a library. Bookshelves lined three walls of the room, their shelves still stacked with books. He ran his fingers appreciatively along the bindings.
Leather skirts hung down from the shelves above to protect the books beneath from dust. Grilled doors at floor level guarded tomes of ancient script. Heavy drapes were tied back from the windows and the evening light showed no dust sheets on a large, central table or a high wing-backed chair to one side of the Adam fireplace. Someone still used the library, he noted, running a finger across the dust-free surface of the table.
Heading up the main staircase to the second floor, he moved from room to room and window to window. There was still enough light to survey the surrounding parkland in front of the house. He traced the river s course along what he knew to be the western boundary, until it disappeared into the uneven edge of the wood.
That s where it will be, he told himself, calculating distance and direction.
Leaving the room with every intention of finding his way to the boathouse, he was distracted, when passing an open door on the right at the head of the stairs, by a flash of something bright on the hillside behind the house. He crossed the space to stand looking out of the window. It was the bright red of an anorak worn by a girl silhouetted against the darkening sky. Her hair and skirt flew out around her in wild disarray as she stood on the outcrop as though carved from the same stone.
Minutes passed as he watched, then without warning she was gone. As though released from a dream, he turned to leave.
A sharp crack was the only warning before he was hurled forward across the floor, gathering splinters in his hands as he tried to save himself. It was seconds before he recovered his wind and attempted to sit up. When he did, the cause of his accident became painfully obvious. He had gone through the floor, or at least one of his feet had. When he twisted to try and release the trapped ankle there was an ominous grinding sound and the pain increased to a point where black clouds threatened his consciousness. After much grunting and groaning, he managed to break away the surrounding rotten floor boards and ease his foot from the trapped shoe. Gritting his teeth, he made his way to the head of the stairs.
* * *
Penny Chapman stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking Greensfield Park. Tuck, the retriever, lay panting close by while the two other dogs, Bonnie and Clyde, foraged for rabbits. Bonnie was half collie and had to be watched when in the vicinity of sheep but Clyde was only fifteen weeks old and as yet his lineage wasn t showing.
Penny s skirt whirled around her legs as the winter sun slid from the one and only patch of blue sky. A jet screamed overhead, a blade of grey steel, slicing into the encroaching evening. The wind, that was a constant factor here on the high moors of North Northumberland, gently coiled Penny s long hair around her throat only to snatch it back again and whip it across her eyes. A tumble of stones down the hillside behind her heralded the return of Bonnie and Clyde.
Come on dogs, time for home, she said.
A soft mist cloaked the river that ran like a stocking from the estate below her to the grey line of the sea on the horizon. The dogs ran ahead as she climbed down on to the narrow sheep track that would lead them back to the broken wall that had once surrounded the park, but was now only a pile of scattered stones.
They scrambled over the wall and crossed the wilderness of parkland that had originally been set out by the famous Capability Brown. Turning the corner of the kitchen garden, Penny was startled to see a red sports car standing in the drive. She looked around the wide sweep of weed-covered gravel and back to the tall house whose surroundings failed to dim its elegant beauty.
Where was the owner of the car? Surely they couldn t be in the hous