Page 2 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
Rachel shook her head slowly as she splashed milk into two cups. “I don’t think anyone has stepped foot in the greenhouse in years,” she said, and then glanced at her mother in something like challenge. “Not since you left.”
“No, I don’t suppose anyone has,” Anna replied. “It doesn’t look as if anyone has, at any rate.” Still with the light tone, although it pained her. Yet how else could she be? She’d already had an attempt at a heart-to-heart with Harriet a few days after she’d first arrived, when Harriet had been practically pulsing with pain from her father’s rejection. Anna had tried to explain what had happened all those years ago without actually giving much away, because she didn’t feel like the story was hers alone, or maybe she was just being cowardly.
In any case, while the conversation had reassured Harriet that she was Peter’s biological daughter, it hadn’t seemed to move her and Anna’s relationship forward. Harriet still avoided her, or threw her fulminating glances over the dinner table, and Anna was at a loss at how to proceed. She didn’t want to force herself on her daughters…and yet she was still here.
“No, we couldn’t really see the point of the greenhouse, I suppose,” Rachel stated rather flatly, and Anna felt herself stiffen. There was something accusatory about the way her daughter had made the remark, as if it was her fault that they hadn’t planted a garden or made use of the greenhouse, the way she had when she’d lived here.
“And I suppose you were busy at university,” she pointed out mildly, only to have Rachel glare at her.
“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” she replied shortly, and thrust a coffee cup towards her so Anna had to grab it, hot liquid sloshing onto her fingers.
Rachel turned and walked out of the room without a word while Anna stared after her blankly. What had she said that made Rachel so prickly? Rachel had been, over the years, the more reasonable one; they’d met up every so often—less and less, it was true, as the years had gone—for stilted conversations over lunch in some London restaurant. Anna had loved and hated those afternoons in equal measure; she wanted to see her daughter, but she hated the strained silence, the way Rachel treated her like an acquaintance, the palpable relief her daughter felt when she finally rose from the table.Well, I guess I’d better be going…
As for Harriet…she hadn’t spoken to Anna at all, for thirteen long years. Anna had called her, a few months after she’d first left, hoping to build bridges, only to have Harriet hang up on her. They hadn’t spoken since, although Anna had tried on various occasions, but admittedly not as hard as she could have. What were a few voicemails and texts when you were somebody’smother?
And yet each ensuing rejection had felt like a kick to the teeth; how long could you keep putting yourself through that kind of masochistic torture? Eventually she’d stopped, for her own sanity.
Still, something had clearly nettled Rachel about her remark; Anna just didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t know her daughters well enough anymore to guess.
She sat down at the table, nursing her mug of coffee, trying not to feel entirely disconsolate. Perhaps she’d drive to the garden centre outside the nearby town of Mathering, or take dear old Fred, now sprawled in his usual place in front of the Rayburn, for a walk. The fresh air might clear her head, even if she already knew it wouldn’t help heal her heart.
“What do you think, Fred?” Anna asked, and the spaniel’s plumed tail beat against the slate floor as he looked up at her with his droopy eyes. Ben had bought him for Rachel about a year before Anna had left; he’d still been a puppyish ball of energy when she’d walked out the door. “Shall we go for a walk?” she asked. His tail beat harder, but he didn’t move so much as an inch from his place on the worn carpet by the warm stove. Anna smiled faintly. “I don’t blame you,” she told the dog. “It’s cold out there.”
She couldn’t help but acknowledge that the most significant interactions she’d had in the last week were with the dog. Suppressing a sigh, Anna sipped her coffee—just as she heard footsteps down the front stairs, and then Harriet came into the kitchen, checking herself at the door.
Her daughter was dressed in her usual eclectic mix of brightly coloured wool and corduroy—in this case, a green jumper splotched with bright yellow sunflowers and an aqua-blue corduroy skirt with matching tights. Her curly hair was pulled up on top of her head, and she wore a pair of fuzzy slippers on her feet. Anna’s heart ached to see the closed look come over Harriet’s face as she caught sight of her.
She’d really hoped, after their conversation just before Christmas, Harriet might have thawed a bit towards her. Anna had felt as if she had, during the Christmas party at Quinn’s hotel, when Harriet had thrown her a few cautious smiles across the room, each one feeling like an olive branch. Anna had hoped it would lead to more conversations, more healing, but it hadn’t.
Whatever festive bonhomie her daughter had been feeling then had hardened into the usual stoic silence in the new year. They hadn’t spoken properly, or even at all, in over a week, and the conversation where Anna had reassured Harriet she was Peter Mowbray’s biological daughter seemed a long time ago now. It was clear she still hadn’t been forgiven…for anything.
“Would you like some coffee?” Anna asked when Harriet didn’t seem as if she was going to move from the kitchen doorway. “Rachel just made some, and I think there’s a bit left in the pot.” Anna started to rise to check, but Harriet shook her head firmly as she came into the kitchen.
“I’ll have tea,” she stated as she switched on the kettle, and Anna sat back down in her chair. She watched warily as Harriet moved around the kitchen, making tea and then putting oats in a pot on the Rayburn, adding milk, her movements all a little brisker than normal. The crack of the teapot being placed firmly on the counter made Anna wince.
“Would you like some help?” she offered humbly. “I could stir the oats, if you like.” She sounded desperate, she knew she did, but she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t know how else to show her daughters that she cared. She’dalwayscared…even if they refused to believe that.
Harriet drew a breath as if to reply, and then she placed her hands flat on the counter, her head bowed as she slowly breathed out. Anna watched apprehensively, unsure what was coming next.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this,” Harriet stated flatly, her head still bowed. She straightened and turned to face Anna, folding her arms. “I can’t play happy families with you right now, like we don’t havedecadesof history between us. I can’t, and I won’t.” She stared her down, her dark eyes simmering with what looked like fury, while Anna’s mind spun, trying to think how to reply.
I just wanted to make the porridgedidn’t seem like a helpful answer right then.
“I don’t want to pretend, Harriet,” she finally said, her voice quiet and a bit croaky. “I want to…” She hesitated, unsure how to finish that sentence.
Harriet arched her eyebrows, looking as sceptical as Rachel had about the snapdragons. More. “You want towhat?”
“Make things better,” Anna replied after a moment. “If I can.”
Harriet appraised her coolly for a long moment. “I’m not sure you can,” she finally said. “There might be too much water under the bridge.”
“Okay,” Anna answered after a pause. She wasn’t sure what else to say. She didn’t want to ask Harriet if she wanted her to go, because she didn’twantto go. Not yet. Not before she’d done…something. Something more, although she wasn’t sure what that was. What her daughter would let it be.
“Look,” she said at last. “I know you’re angry and you have every right to be. I’m not trying to push anything. But I’m here, and I can be helpful. At least let me help in some way…with your father.”
Harriet’s lips twisted. “Why do you care about him now?”
“I was married to him for twenty years, Harriet,” Anna replied quietly. “That did mean something, you know.” Even if it hadn’t to him.
