‘Our house might be connected to a painting? Goodness,’ Catherine James said.
‘My grandfather bought it from the family who lived here fifty years ago,’ Angelo said.
‘Not mine, I’m afraid,’ Catherine said. ‘We moved here twenty years ago. I can’t remember the name of the people who sold it—Peter, can you?’
‘The Fishers,’ her husband said.
Angelo exchanged a glance with Mariana. He could see the excitement in her face as she recognised the name. The same excitement that was fizzing through him—which also had a lot to do with Mariana being by his side, and he needed to get a grip.
‘We can give you the name of their solicitor. They might be able to put you in touch,’ Peter said.
‘Thank you for your help,’ Angelo said when Peter had found the details. Back at the car, he turned to Mariana. ‘So close and so far. Now what do we do?’
‘I guess we’ll just have to knock on doors until we find Billy Reynolds,’ she said.
They were halfway back to the village when Angelo’s phone rang. He answered on the car’s hands-free system. ‘Angelo Beresford speaking.’
‘Mr Beresford, it’s Hattie Webster. You left me a message about the village history society.’
Angelo and Mariana exchanged a glance.
‘Perfect timing,’ she mouthed.
‘Funnily enough, we’re in Barrington right now,’ Angelo said.
‘Then do come and see me. I’d be delighted to help.’ She gave them her address.
When they arrived, Hattie greeted them warmly, and seemed thrilled to be part of the search behind the painting.
‘Billy moved next door when he sold the farm,’ she said. ‘Though he moved to a residential home earlier in the year—he has arthritis and he was really struggling to manage on his own, and he refused flatly to move in with his daughters because he didn’t want to be a burden, even though the two of them are lovely girls and wouldn’t have minded a bit. But he’s sharp as a tack and I’m sure he’ll remember your grandfather, Angelo.’ She wrote the address down for them. ‘As for Alice, your best bet is to start with the census returns to see if she was anywhere in the village; and you could check the church records for births, deaths and marriages.’
‘Are the records all online?’ Angelo asked.
‘The census records are, and the church records will be at the Records Office.’ She scribbled down some information for them.
By the time they’d left Hattie, it was too late to call in at the residential home to see Billy Reynolds, or to go to the Records Office.
‘It’s pointless driving back to London and then back here in the morning,’ Angelo said. ‘Let’s stay overnight.’
‘Good idea,’ Mariana said. ‘We can work out our revised research plan over dinner.’
He drove to the nearest market town and booked two rooms at a former coaching inn. But, when they went up to find their rooms after dinner, Mariana’s key refused to work in the door.
‘I’ll come down with you to sort it out,’ Angelo said.
When Mariana asked for another key, the receptionist was apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Thackeray. There’s been a mix-up—I’m afraid that room was already reserved tonight, which is why your key didn’t work, and we’re full with a wedding. That room your friend booked was the last one we had.’
Angelo looked at Mariana. ‘We could try to find somewhere else.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s getting late. Look, we’re both adults. If you don’t mind, we can share your room.’
Share his room. He’d really need to keep his feelings under control. Bury the longing. Because he couldn’t offer her the future he knew she wanted.
‘OK. But I’ll sleep on the floor,’ he said on the way up to his room.
‘I might be a student, but I’m definitely too old to sleep on the floor—and so are you,’ she said. ‘The bed’s wide enough for us to share.’
Angelo was very, very aware of her beside him, and he was very, very careful to make sure he kept space between them, even though what he really wanted to do was to wrap his arms round her and kiss her until they were both dizzy. He closed his eyes and thought of knotty legal problems, pretending to be asleep until Mariana’s own breathing was deep and even. Then he lay there with his eyes open, wishing things were different. That he’d never had mumps. And he knew how pointless his wishes were.