Fragrance of Violets

FRAGRANCE OF VIOLETS

Paula Martin

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Fragrance of Violets

Presented by
Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery

Copyright © 2015 Paula Martin

Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Joshua Shinn

Design Consultant and Formatting Laura Shinn

Licensing Notes

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This ebook is licensed only for the private use of the purchaser. May not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author and/or publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Fragrance of Violets
is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author except for the inclusion of actual historical facts. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental except where actual historical characters are purposely interwoven.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.”

Mark Twain

Fragrance of Violets

Abbey Seton distrusts men, especially Jack Tremayne who destroyed their friendship when they were teenagers. Ten years later, they meet again. Can they put the past behind them?

Abbey has to forgive not only Jack, but also her father who deserted his family when she was young. Jack holds himself responsible for his fiancée's death. He's also hiding another secret which threatens the fragile resumption of his relationship with Abbey.

Will Abbey ever forgive him when she finds out the truth?

CHAPTER 1

“Jack Tremayne’s back,” Mrs. Garside said.

The delicate china figurine of Peter Rabbit slipped out of Abbey Seton’s hand and shattered on the floor. The two women turned toward where she’d been rearranging the window display. One was her mother, still slim and youthful looking despite her fifty years, in her usual place behind the shop counter. The other was Dolly Garside, the same age but buxom and with tightly permed hair, who was the village busybody.

“Sorry, Mum.” Abbey crouched to pick up the pieces and kept her face down. She didn’t want them to see the telltale flush that heated her cheeks. Not from embarrassment at dropping the figurine, but from shock at hearing Jack’s name again. “It was only one of the cheaper ones.”

“Abbey, be careful, don’t cut yourself,” her mother said. “Get the dustpan and brush.”

Abbey went into the storeroom at the rear of the shop and took a deep breath.

Jack Tremayne back in the village? A myriad of conflicting reactions threatened to shatter her into as many pieces as the small figurine. Feelings she thought she’d long since submerged. Happy memories of the fair-haired boy who had been her inseparable childhood companion.

No, she must forget all those, and remember only the night he tried to seduce her. Her jaw tightened at the echoes of their bitter fight which had followed, when he said so many hurtful things.

She forced the painful memory aside and picked up the dustpan, but paused near the door.

“Back for good?” her mother asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Garside. “Sandra heard it from Barbara who saw him getting out of a car outside Fir Garth yesterday evening.”

“I’m surprised he has the cheek to show his face here again, after all the trouble he caused.”

Abbey held her breath. This was nothing to do with the way her friendship with Jack ended. She’d never told anyone what happened between them. Her mother’s resentment, and that of many people in Rusthwaite village, was the result of an article he wrote for the local newspaper eight years earlier.

“He won’t be welcome here,” Mrs. Garside went on. “I bet Mike Barron won’t even serve him with a pint at the White Lion. No one has forgiven him.”

Abbey grimaced. She hadn’t forgiven him either, but her reasons were different.

She went back into the shop. “He’s probably only here to check on Fir Garth after the tenants left last month, Mrs. Garside.”

Dolly Garside huffed. “He’s never done that before. In fact, he’s not shown his face in the village since his parents moved away.”

“He left here ten years ago, when he was twenty,” Abbey said as she brushed the fragments of china into the dustpan. “That was two years
before
he wrote the article, and three years before his parents moved to France.”

“The Tremaynes left Rusthwaite because they were embarrassed about their son,” Mrs. Garside snapped. “And who could blame them?”

She straightened up. “Actually, it was because Mr. Tremayne went to work with the Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg.”

“Human Rights—huh!” Mrs. Garside huffed again. “His son wasn’t concerned about
our
human rights. Oh, but you were sweet on Jack Tremayne once, weren’t you?”

Abbey stopped on her way back to the storeroom. “Jack and I grew up together, but I’m well aware of the problems his newspaper article caused, Mrs. Garside.”

“Problems? I’ll say there were problems.”

“I know, and I’m not condoning the article for one minute but—”

“But what, Abigail?”

Different thoughts invaded her mind. Was it simply that Jack had been an ambitious young man, keen to make his mark in the world of journalism? Did he not realise the effect his article would have? Or didn’t he care?

She shrugged and gave the village harridan a small smile in an attempt to placate her. “But nothing, Mrs. Garside. What he did was unforgivable.”

The other woman smirked in satisfaction. “I’m very glad you agree, Abigail.” She turned back to Abbey’s mother. “Now, Edwina, how much do I owe you for these notelets?”

After depositing the china fragments in the waste bin, Abbey returned to the window display and ignored the small talk between her mother and Mrs. Garside. The revelation that Jack Tremayne was back in Rusthwaite had knocked her off balance, and she struggled to control the thoughts that jumbled through her mind.

Images of the past swam in front of her eyes—hikes on the Lakeland fells, bike rides around Windermere, sailing in Jack’s dinghy on Coniston Water, the hours they spent in the coffee bar by the lake, the fun and laughter and easy companionship…

A chill ran through her. Partly because he’d tried to turn their friendship into something she didn’t want, but mainly because he’d treated her with such mocking contempt. She flinched as all the hurt and humiliation came back in full force.

“Abbey?”

Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she turned. A quick glance around showed her there was no one else in the shop. “Oh, Mrs. Gossip Garside’s gone, has she?”

Edwina Seton gave her an amused smile. “Yes, she
is
a gossip, but you know how hard she works for the whole community.”

Abbey crossed to the counter and leant against it. “She’s a born organiser, Mum. All villages need someone like her, even if she does drive everyone to distraction at times.”

“That’s true, but her heart’s in the right place. She worked harder than anyone to raise funds for the restoration of the old gatehouse.”

“You did your fair share, with all the auctions and craft fairs you organised, and the carnival, of course.”

“Not forgetting the plastic duck race.”

Abbey laughed. “Oh, I couldn’t ever forget those silly duck costumes you made Louise and Ellie and me wear.”

She’d been working in London during most of the fundraising events but had come home for the weekend of the duck race. She and her two sisters threw over two thousand yellow plastic ducks from the bridge near the village, and several hundred people followed their progress along the river.

“Blame Ellie, not me,” Edwina said. “The costumes were her idea.”

“And was it Ellie’s idea that the net at the finish line would break?”

Edwina chuckled. “I can still picture the three of you trying to herd all the ducks to the side before they went over the weir into the lake.”

Abbey joined in with her mother’s giggles. “And then Ellie fell, and all the feathers on her costume got soaked, and she kept falling over backwards.”

They both laughed helplessly at the memory, until Edwina’s face stilled. “Abbey—”

Abbey’s laughter died. “What’s the matter?”

“You wouldn’t—I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but you wouldn’t take up with Jack Tremayne again, would you?”

“Take up with—Mum, are you going senile? Nothing in this world would make me take up, as you call it, with him again. He and I were finished ten years ago.” She clenched her fists at the echo of his contemptuous voice:
“So go to London and be an actress, but don’t come running back here when you’re one of the eighty percent out of work actors.”

She winced. That was exactly what she
had
done three months ago after being turned down for the role of Maggie Rycroft in the TV adaptation of
The
Rycroft Saga.
She’d come home to lick her wounds.

“I’ve never asked you why you fell out with him, Abbey, and I’m not going to ask now,” her mother went on. “But you will remember what he cost this village, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. I completely understand why you, and a lot of other people here, resent him so much. What I’d like to know, though, is
why
he wrote that article.”

“The reason is irrelevant. It was the result that caused us so many problems. He questioned the cost of restoring old buildings and argued—eloquently, although it pains me to say it—that the money would be far better spent on providing more tourist attractions here, such as water sports centres and organised outdoor activities. Personally, I would maintain that preserving our Lakeland heritage is as important as catering for the tourists.”

Abbey nodded. “I agree. That was the point Jack totally missed. Anyway, for all we know, he could be making a flying visit, which will soon be forgotten.”

“I hope so.”

“So do I. Fancy a cup of tea?”

“Lovely.” Edwina glanced at her watch. “Another hour and the day trippers will be arriving.”

For the rest of the day, the shop was busy with a steady stream of customers. Although it was only early March, the beginning of the tourist season, there were still plenty of visitors to the small Lakeland village, nestled in the Rusthwaite Valley. Bus tours often deposited their passengers there for a few hours to wander around the narrow streets and small squares of the attractive village with its whitewashed stone cottages and twelfth century church. The visitors browsed the shops which sold everything from high quality outdoor clothing to locally handmade crafts, and enjoyed the food in the quaint inns and teashops.

Their own shop offered Lakeland souvenirs and collectables, books, and other gifts. Started by Abbey’s grandmother fifty years earlier in the front room of the family home on the main street of the village, Barton’s Gift Shop had gradually expanded and eventually moved into a single storey modern building, conveniently situated near the car park.

The village had been Abbey’s home since she was nine, when they left London a couple of months after her father walked out on his family, and her mother brought them to live here in her own childhood home.

Even as a child, she’d always enjoyed working in the shop, rearranging the displays and chatting to customers, but today her nerves were permanently on edge. Every time the small bell sounded when the door was opened, she glanced around quickly.

Don’t be stupid
, she told herself.
He’s not going to come in here. In fact, he’s probably not even going to come into the village.

Even so, she started to wonder how she should react if she did meet him again. Polite but cool, she decided. Leave him in no doubt that she hadn’t forgiven him and never would, and make it quite clear that she’d moved on with her life.

They closed the shop at six o’clock, and walked up the narrow road to the main street and along to their home on the outskirts of the village.

“I was going to go to the warehouse to collect some more stock,” Edwina said, “but I think I’ll leave it until another night. My feet are killing me, and I’d much rather have a night in front of the TV.”

“Do you want me to go?”

Her mother raised her eyebrows. “I thought you usually went to the Folk Night in Coniston on Wednesday evenings?”

Abbey shook her head. “Not in the mood tonight.”

“He’s not going to turn up at the Folk Night, you know.”

“If by
he
, you mean Jack Tremayne, it’s not because of him at all. As I said, I’m not in the mood.”

“All right, if you say so.”

She knew she hadn’t fooled her mother. Knew, too, that she’d feel uneasy until Jack was no longer anywhere near Rusthwaite.

An hour later, after their evening meal, Abbey went out to her car. She had a list of the stock her mother wanted from the warehouse and intended to drive straight to Kendal, but hesitated when she reached the junction about quarter of a mile outside the village. After glancing up the narrower road to her left, she swung her car into the road.

Two hundred yards along, after the first bend, was Fir Garth, Jack’s childhood home. In her teens, it had been her second home. Jack’s father, a lawyer, whose gentle kindness belied a sharp intelligence, treated her like a daughter, while his mother, who taught at the Community College in the nearby town, talked to her as an equal and never as a child. She’d adored them both.

“Enough reminiscing,” she muttered, and tightened her lips. Why had she turned up here to see the house again anyway? She knew damn well why. She needed to find out if Jack was there.

As she approached the gateway, she slowed down. The large stone house, on a small rise, stood at right angles to the road, with a panoramic view of the Rusthwaite Valley. Any car in front of it was clearly visible from the gate.

A white Volvo was parked outside the house. It had to be Jack’s. “Oh God,” she whispered as her stomach contracted.

She continued further along the road, turned at a farm entrance, and drove back to the junction. This time she forced herself not to look at the house or the car.

He’s still here
. The words drummed through her mind as she continued along the main road to Kendal, even though she tried to convince herself it didn’t matter. Everything between her and Jack had ended ten years before. It was over. Finished.

Why, then, couldn’t she forget the image of the boy with the thick blond hair? The hint of dimples in his cheeks when he laughed. His hyacinth blue eyes. The feel of his hand holding hers as he pulled her up one of the steep climbs on the fells.