Love in Spring BoxSet

  LOVE IN SPRING

  Jenny Lane

  © Jenny Lane 2019

  Jenny Lane has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Family Secrets

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Rhianna stared transfixed at the phone.

  “I’m sorry, who did you say you were?” she asked the woman on the other end of the line, convinced that she must have misheard.

  “Your grandmother, dear – Letitia Delroy.”

  “My grandmother,” she repeated incredulously, “then I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I don’t have a grandmother.”

  “Oh, but you do and I am she,” the elderly voice quavered insistently. “As I’ve already said my name is Letitia Delroy – ring any bells?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, although we certainly share the same surname. You see my grandparents died many years ago - before I was born.”

  “So that’s what your parents told you. And of course, you can’t ask them, can you because they’ve both passed away now, haven’t they?”

  A tiny shiver ran down Rhianna’s spine. “How do you know that?” she asked.

  “Because I’m your grandmother,” the elderly woman repeated patiently, as if she were speaking to a rather slow child.

  Rhianna didn’t like to put the phone down because it was obvious the woman needed to talk to someone.

  “Why were you trying to get hold of me – I mean your grand-daughter. Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asked gently.

  There was a pause. “I might be – there are certainly things going on here that I’m not happy about. Look, is there any chance of us meeting up? I’d really like to talk to you.”

  “I – um – where are you?”

  “I live in Kent. Look, I’ll have to go now, but I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  Rhianna felt as if she had been having a particularly strange dream from which she was going to wake up at any moment.

  *

  “Your grandmother! If she’d said your sister or cousin it would have been more feasible!” Fiona Field exclaimed, leaving the picture she was hanging dangling precariously in mid-air. “I bet it’s a hoax – Marcus playing tricks.”

  Rhianna shook her head vehemently. “No, it’s not Marcus’ style.” She told her friend and co-owner of the gallery where they both worked. “Whatever else my ex-boyfriend might be, I’m sure he’s not capable of that sort of behaviour.”

  She thought briefly of Marcus and the pain he had caused her when firstly he’d told her he’d found someone else and secondly pulled out of the gallery they’d worked in together. He’d told her their relationship had been going nowhere and, on reflection, she’d known he’d been right. They’d been drifting apart for months.

  Fiona scrambled off the stool. “Forget him,” she advised for the umpteenth time, catching sight of her friend’s expression. “Now, what d’you think of this?”

  “It’s looking good,” Rhianna said, surveying the effect, head on one side.

  The gallery with its white-washed walls was a perfect foil for the vibrant landscape paintings of the local artist.

  “Of course there is just one problem…”

  Fiona glared at her. “Go on,” she challenged, a glint in her hazel eyes.

  “It would be even better if we had any customers.”

  Fiona tossed back her mane of red hair. “Oh, that problem. Well, it’s always a bit sluggish this time of year but our online shop is doing well.”

  “Huh, the art and craft materials might be flying off the shelves, but we’ve sold exactly two paintings in the past month.”

  “Well, business is always rather slow after Christmas and we’re still in a recession. Perhaps we should consider running a few more workshops – now, I could murder a cup of tea. How about you?”

  Rhianna nodded. She looked around the small gallery with a sense of pride. Her father had helped her and Fiona to set it up when they’d left Art College. It had been the fulfilment of their dreams.

  Since her father had died, almost a year ago, they’d made a few changes, but there had always been Marcus in the background, ready to step in should there be any problems. She blinked back the tears.

  “Didn’t you ever want to know about your family tree?” Fiona asked, as they sat drinking tea and munching digestive biscuits.

  “Nope. We were a happy family unit - just the three of us and we had plenty of friends, but now…Well, I suppose it would be nice to discover I’d got one or two relatives. I’d always understood I was the last of the Delroy line.”

  “Yes, I can’t imagine what it must be like to be an only child.”

  Rhianna suddenly snapped her fingers. “I’ve just remembered something. There was that beautiful floral tribute at Dad’s funeral with the message, Always in my thoughts, M. I never did discover who’d sent it…”

  Fiona stared at her. “And now you’re thinking M could stand for Mother!”

  Rhianna bit her lip. “Well, it certainly wasn’t Marcus. His wreath was very distinctive. Oh, I don’t know. It seems a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it? I think I’ll stick with your theory about someone trying to wind me up.”

  They sat in companionable silence, staring out at the bleak February afternoon and the deserted street.

  Suddenly Fiona sprang to her feet. “Great we’ve got a customer!”

  *

  Rhianna had virtually dismissed the incident when the letter arrived. The woman claiming to be her grandmother had withheld her phone number and Rhianna was the only Delroy listed in the directory.

  Letitia Delroy’s handwriting bore an uncanny resemblance to Rhianna’s father, Joe’s.

  Rhianna read and re-read the letter. It was concise and to the point. Mrs Delroy was very keen to set up a meeting.

  “I could arrange for Mrs Blackett, at the post office, to put you up for a day or two. I enclose her phone number. I’ve told her to expect a call from a young woman called Rhianna Soames, who was the daughter of a friend of mine. I think it would make sense to keep the real reason for your visit between ourselves for the time being, don’t you?”

  Perhaps you could bring some identity with you. Your birth certificate would be good and a photograph of your parents. Also, if you happen to have come across a painting entitled, The Woman in Blue, amongst your father’s possessions, I would dearly like a photograph of that.”

  *

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Fiona said, studying at the letter. “Of course, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it – this painting. Have you the remotest idea what she’s talking about?”

  Rhianna frowned. “Well, yes actually. There is a picture fitting that description in the attic, but I’m sure it isn’t worth anything – Dad would have said, wouldn’t he? The frame might be worth a few pounds though.”

  Fiona handed back the letter. “Well, there’s nothing to stop you going down to that place - wherever it is - is there? I mean the gallery’s so quiet at the moment it could practically run itself and we’ve already discussed closing for a month or two and just running the business online. Why don’t you suss it out - otherwise, you’ll always be wonde
ring what it’s all about.”

  Rhianna got cold feet for a moment. “Will you come with me, Fi?” she asked.

  Fiona shook her head. “No, Rhia this is your thing, not mine and, besides, one of us needs to keep an eye on things here. Anyway, where exactly does this woman live? What’s her address?”

  “She hasn’t given me one. Just the one for the post office. It’s in a village called Brookhurst in Kent.”

  “Sounds like a set-up to me. You have to admit it’s weird. Would you like me to look this place up on the internet?”

  “Yes, please, Fi, that would be brilliant. Somehow, I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

  Rhianna slipped out to the post office. When she came back, it was to discover there was a customer in the gallery. She registered two things about him; first that he was extremely good-looking, probably mid-thirties, with a mop of rich chestnut hair and a finely chiselled profile and, second, that he was looking intently at their computer.

  “Hallo, can I help you?” she asked coolly.

  Startled, he looked up and she found herself gazing into a pair of eyes that were like chips of jade. She swallowed, finding his intense stare un-nerving.

  “Sorry. I’m afraid I’m something of a computer bod. It’s my line of business along with dabbling in painting, as I was explaining to your colleague just now.”

  “I see – well please feel free to take a look around. Is there something in particular we can help you with?”

  “Oh, actually, I was just passing and thought I’d take a look – never could resist a gallery. I love the colours of those paintings. They’re very vibrant.”

  “Yes, that’s a collection from a local artist, Matt Collins. He’s extremely talented. We try to support as many as we can. Are you a collector?”

  He shook his head. “Regretfully, no. I’m afraid I don’t have the space, but I sometimes buy for other people. You don’t have any portraits?”

  “Not at the moment, no, but we try to change our exhibitions on a regular basis so it’s worth dropping by, although we’ve only just finished assembling this one.”

  To Rhianna’s relief, Fiona reappeared at that moment, clutching a couple of catalogues and some postcards which she handed to the man.

  “So what do you two do? Is any of your work exhibited here?”

  Fiona pointed to her sculptures. “Those are mine. Rhianna is very versatile - as you can see from the postcards. At present, she just has those photographs of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee at the far end.”

  Rhianna pushed back a strand of honey-blonde hair, uncomfortably aware that the man’s attention was focussed on her.

  “I’m inclined to work from photographs - land and seascapes - mainly watercolours and oils. Sometimes, I do pastel drawings - mostly of animals or children.”

  His green eyes were full of interest. “Very impressive.” He crossed to the display of photographs. “Wow! These are amazing.”

  “And what about you?” she asked curiously.

  He was still studying her photographs. “Oh, as I’ve said, I try my hand at painting, but it’s mainly a hobby.”

  Shortly afterwards, the visitor departed.

  “Fi, you really ought to be more careful. He was looking at our computer.”

  Fiona raised her eyebrows. “So where’s the harm in that? It’s his line of business – computers. He told me so. Drop dead gorgeous, wasn’t he?”

  Rhianna pursed her lips. “If you say so. Can’t say I noticed.”

  Fiona laughed. “You’re a hopeless case, don’t you know that? How could you have helped noticing that physique? He must have been at least six foot tall and in really good shape. Bet he works out.”

  Rhianna shrugged. “I’m not the slightest bit interested. Have a heart, Fi! I’m just getting over one broken relationship and - so far as I’m concerned - men are a lost cause…Anyway, whatever would Dave say?”

  Fiona grinned as she thought about her current boyfriend.

  “Oh, Dave’s not the jealous type. Besides, he knows we’re solid. Now, let’s have a brain-storming session to see if we can come up with some brilliant ideas for some more workshops.”

  *

  Letitia Delroy picked up the phone and listened intently as Lawrence told her about his recent trip to the gallery.

  “So, what conclusion did you come to, Laurie?”

  “She’ll do,” he told her. “You’ll like her.”

  He had no intention of telling Letitia of the impact Rhianna had made on him. He had a sudden vision of her slim, well-proportioned figure, hair like spun gold and expressive, deep-blue eyes - like sapphires, he’d decided.

  Letitia let out a sigh of relief. “And what’s this gallery like?”

  “I’ve told you, Tish. It’s in a cottage in the high street – two rooms knocked into one. Quite small, but adequate. Both girls have an eye for display and their website is pretty good too.”

  Letitia smoothed her white hair nervously. “And did you, er, see any sign of the portrait?”

  “I’m afraid not. There were no portraits there at all - just some rather colourful landscapes by a local artist and a few animal sculptures, oh and some superb local photographs that Rhianna had taken of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations.”

  “Well, perhaps Joe sold it. You didn’t ask?”

  He laughed. “No, Tish, I didn’t ask. How could I, without explaining my real purpose for being there? You’ll just have to be patient.”

  “Do you think she’ll come to see me?” Letitia asked now.

  “Look, don’t get your hopes up,” he told her. “I’ve sussed things out like you’ve asked me to. Rhianna Delroy is a young woman who knows her own mind. I could tell that from our very brief acquaintance. Other than that, I can’t say. We’re just going to have to wait and see.”

  Letitia sighed. “Well, thank you for everything, Laurie. It would be wonderful if she came.”

  “Yes, I hope she does,” Lawrence told her sincerely. “Look, keep me informed. Let me know what’s happening, won’t you? If she does decide to visit you, then I’ll make a point of being there too. I’d like to see what transpires.”

  And he’d like to get to know Rhianna Delroy better. He had had his own reasons for that.

  *

  Fiona rang Rhianna that evening. “Rhia I’ve looked up the Brookhurst Post Office. It’s all perfectly bona fide. You’ve nothing to worry about in that respect. And, listen, to this. I’ve also had a go at looking up Delroy. It seems that your grandfather was born in Kent. Reginald Delroy married a Letitia Horton and they had one son, Joseph, who must have been your father.

  “Spooky, isn’t it, to find you’ve got a grandmother after all this time when you thought she was dead – it’s like a voice from the grave! Exciting though!”

  That wasn’t the word Rhianna would have used for it. She felt a little shiver run down her spine. What was she going to do now? She had two options - to ignore the situation or suss it out. If she did nothing it would always be at the back of her mind and, one day, she would wish she’d done something about it.

  On an impulse, she decided to ring Mrs Blackett the following morning. She seemed to be a perfectly normal lady who had been expecting Rhianna’s call.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you on Thursday,” she told her.

  Rhianna could only hope she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.

  *

  It was a slow journey to Brookhurst because several of the roads were poorly signposted. The twisting lanes were so narrow that there was no room to manoeuvre. She was stuck behind a tractor for what seemed like an eternity.

  The only reason she could come up with for making this madcap journey was curiosity and an overriding desire to get away for a while and shake off all remaining memories of Marcus.

  As Fiona had said, it was time to move on. Rhianna intended to recharge her batteries, and throw herself into the business; there would definitely be no place for
men in her life from now on!

  A couple of times she lost her way and had to double back along lanes no wider than tracks. The shadows were lengthening. Just as she was beginning to think she would never find the village, she went through a wooded area and suddenly, over the rise of a hill, she spotted some ragstone houses nestling down below and smoke spiralling into the grey sky. Signs of habitation at last!

  A van suddenly shot out of a side turning and hurtled towards her. She swerved, narrowly avoiding it. Shaken, she saw the sign post read, Brookhurst 2 miles. The natives round here aren’t very friendly, she decided. She heaved a sigh of relief when she finally reached Brookhurst. She parked near to the post office and, walking back the short distance rattled the handle. The sign read OPEN - but it was shut. She frowned. It was only about four thirty. Now what? A woman crossed the road towards her.

  “Is she closed? That’s odd; I was in there a little while ago. My daughter-in-law works in the shop.”

  “I’m supposed to be staying with Mrs Blackett,” Rhianna told her.

  “Oh, yes you’ve come to see Mrs Delroy, haven’t you? Mavis said. I’m Irene Blake, by the way.”

  Irene peered through the post office window. “Oh dear Lord! I think that’s Mavis lying on the floor. Quick! Let’s see if we can get in round the back.”

  Filled with a dreadful premonition, Rhianna followed Irene along a narrow passageway that led to the back of the shop. Her suspicions were confirmed. The gate was hanging off its hinges and the backdoor was open.

  A muffled sound, accompanied by a bumping noise, came from the kitchen. Lizzie was tied to a chair, a scarf bound tightly round her mouth.

  “Lizzie. Oh, my dear girl what have they done to you?”

  Rhianna went to the aid of Mavis Blackett who was lying half behind the counter. She bent over her, trying to remember her first aid.

  “Mrs Blackett’s unconscious – think she’s been hit over the head,” she called out and, whipping out her mobile, phoned for the police and an ambulance.

  Much later, after the ambulance had taken Mavis Blackett and Lizzie to the hospital with a policeman and Irene Blake following behind, Rhianna gratefully accepted the cup of tea offered her by the remaining police-woman.