Page 5 of The Last Casterglass

“Get—out—now.” It was all she could manage. She turned away from him, tears blurring her eyes, her whole body shaking. It was an overreaction. She knew that full well, and Oliver wouldn’t understand it at all, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t keep herself from it. No one had seen that sculpture.No one.She’d carved it out of her own soul, created from the deepest, darkest parts of herself formed into wood, and he was looking at it as if it were some pretty trinket. Next he’d be asking her how much she wanted for it.

“Seph, look, I’m sorry—” He sounded both taken aback and genuinely apologetic, but at this point she didn’t care. Couldn’t.

“Just get out!” she half-screamed, the words torn from her throat. Tears were starting in her eyes, but her back was to him, so she hoped and prayed he couldn’t see. “Please.” She managed to lower her voice to something that almost sounded rational. “Please, just…leave.”

A few seconds passed, taut and quiet. The only sound was Oliver’s breathing—or maybe that was her own, coming in ragged gasps. Her heart was thundering. He was going to think she was an absolute basket case, beyond hope or help, but in this moment Seph knew she just needed to be alone. Immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quietly this time, meaning it, and then he walked out of her shop, closing the door behind him with a click.

Seph let out a trembling sob as she fell to her knees and buried her head in her arms. She didn’t know what was worse—that Oliver Belhaven had seen her sculpture, or that she’d freaked out on him over it. Either way it all felt awful, unbearable. She never wanted to lay eyes on him again, and yet he was here for three months, knowing her secrets without even realising that he did, thinking she was crazy. How on earth was she going to cope?

Chapter Three

Oliver stood bythe door to Seph’s shop and listened to her breath come in tearing gasps that sounded alarmingly close to sobs. He hadnotbeen expecting that reaction. He hesitated, then half-turned to go back inside, only to stop with his hand on the door. It had been abundantly clear that she wanted to be alone. He was a stranger, and she did not need him intruding into her moment of—what? Grief? Sorrow? Anger? He didn’t even understand why.

Slowly Oliver traced his steps back out of the courtyard. He didn’t feel like going back into the castle, now that the rain had mostly cleared, and so he decided to head into the walled garden, which he’d learned was Olivia’s domain. In November it was brown and bare, everything neatly tended but dormant, dead-looking. Oliver wandered through the winding paths, his mind on Seph.

Why on earth had she reacted like that?

All right, yes, maybe he shouldn’t have walked into her shop uninvited the way he had. Guilt prickled through him uncomfortably at the realisation. The trouble was, he’d been on his own all morning, poking his nose into all the dusty rooms of the castle as the rain had poured down. He’d got used to having a good old nosy—opening drawers, taking books from shelves, riffling through various cabinets and cupboards, all with Althea’s blessing. It had been interesting, in an abstract sort of way, although he’d felt very removed from the people of Casterglass with Pembury Farm on his mind.

Someone had helpfully put little plaques in each of the main rooms detailing the history of the castle and its barons—from the first in the fourteenth century, who had been given the castle as a wedding gift, to the dissolute ones during the Tudor period and the rogue one who sent troops to the Parliamentarians besieging Carlisle in the English Civil War. He’d learned about how one baron in the Victorian age had made some important scientific discovery—something about an element—and how the current baron’s grandfather had built part of the addition where the family now resided.

All in all it had been interesting but a bit lonely, and completely irrelevant to his own cause because he couldn’t turn Pembury’s farmhouse into a tourist attraction; it wasn’t big enough. It was the land and the barns he needed to develop, and so when the rain had downgraded to a drizzle he’d headed outside with a determined spring in his step.

By that time, though, he’d got used to going where he pleased, and so when he’d seen Seph’s woodworking shop empty, the door left temptingly ajar, he hadn’t thought twice.

Oliver faltered in his step as an innate honesty compelled him to acknowledge that that wasn’tpreciselytrue. Hehadpaused on the threshold, wondering if he should go in, and yet feeling remarkably curious about the woman with startling eyes and pink dreadlocks. Wanting to know more about her, something she, in her prickliness, wouldn’t reveal. And so he’d tiptoed in, and closed the door quietly behind him, and poked around, knowing, at least in part, that she probably wouldn’t want him there.

He still hadn’t anticipated such an over-the-top reaction, though.

By this time he’d made his way through the bare-walled garden, to a gate on the other side. Decorative wooden signs directed him to the campsite up the hill or to the beach, following a path along the river. He wondered if Seph had made them, and thought she probably had.

Recalling what Walter had said last night about the orchard, he decided to ignore the pretty signs and strike out on his own, up the hill and to the east, where the apple trees were meant to be. As he hiked higher and higher, his thoughts remained on Seph.

How could he make it better? Clearly he needed to apologise. The sculpture he’d peeked at had been extraordinary, but it must have been private. It had been under a dust sheet, after all. Still, Oliver had meant what he’d said—he’d liked it. Moreover, he’d been fascinated by it—the way the rough, unhewn wood transformed seamlessly into a silky, burnished sculpture. A tangle of vines bursting forth, curving upwards, some rough, some smooth, like an explosion in a heart, a sunburst in the mind. There had been something raw and powerful about it, starkly beautiful but also a little—despairing? There had been a kind of yearning to it, perhaps. He didn’t know exactly, but staring at that sculpture had made him experience a tangle of powerful emotions, and he wished he’d been able to communicate that to Seph, to explain to her how moving he’d found it. Instead he’d said something remarkably stupid about it being quite nice. How inane could he be? No wonder she’d freaked out on him; except her reaction still took him by surprise.

She hadn’t been angry, as he might have expected, but more…heartbroken. And that was his fault.

He’d reached the top of the hill now, breathing hard, the air damp and cold. The heavy grey banks of clouds were starting to clear to reveal pale patches of blue, and a weak, watery sunlight made the river below glint as it wound its way towards the sea. Oliver turned east.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he’d find the orchard, or if it would be overgrown by the spruce and larch covering much of the ground, but he was determined now to look for it. He’d apologise to Seph, he decided as he walked, and tell her what he really thought about the sculpture. He doubted she’d take kindly to either sentiment, but it still felt like the right thing to do. And he wouldn’t go into her workshop again, not if she didn’t invite him. But considering the kind of reactions he’d generated so far, he doubted she would.

The woodland tapered off and Oliver let out a puff of satisfaction as he saw what had to have been the Casterglass orchard, once upon a time. There were apple trees, knobbly and bent over like old women, in desperate need of pruning, brambles growing all the way up to their lower branches. Damson and cherry too, and even pear. He ran his hand along the trunk of a tree, wondering if he could possibly help bring this orchard back to life. Give something back to Casterglass, rather than just take the experience he needed to prove to his uncle he was capable of running Pembury Farm.

It was starting to rain again, a cold, needling sort of spray, and so regretfully, he turned back towards the castle. He supposed he should find Althea and figure out what was next. He was also still thinking about Seph, and how he could approach her.

As he came out of the walled garden, he ran into Althea’s fiancé John, carrying some boards towards the barn. His craggy face split into a smile as he caught sight of him.

“Oliver! How are you finding it?”

“I’ve had a good old ramble,” Oliver replied, smiling back. He appreciated John’s easy manner, his unassuming friendliness. “I found the orchard.”

“Did you? Well done! Is it as bad as I think?”

“Probably. Brambles everywhere, and the trees in desperate need of pruning. Not,” he added quickly, “that I’m an expert. Not even close.”

“I’m sure you know more than most of the Penryns,” John replied with a wink. “They’re all pretty lovably clueless, save maybe Seph.”

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