‘It’s Rowton Hall,’ she explained, ‘owned by the family whose estate the village is on. Nothing to do with Jane Austen, though it was supposedly the inspiration for the manor house inAnne of Ardenby Georgiana Scott.’ Amy made a face, as though this knowledge tasted bad.
‘Hmm. Never read it, but I bet my mum has. Nice gaff, anyway,’ Kit said, whistling and slowing the car by degrees so they wouldn’t speed past it too quickly. ‘Is it a National Trust place? Can you go in?’
Amy barked a short laugh. ‘No,’ she said. ‘So don’t go getting ideas. It’s still a private residence. As far as the current owner’s concerned, opening to the public is very much an “over my dead body” situation.’
‘Isn’t it always an “over my dead body” situation when these places get passed into the care of the nation? Some posh old white guy dies and his offspring discover there’s no money left?’
‘How should I know?’ Amy grumbled, willing Kit to put his foot on the accelerator.
Failing to notice her discomfort and still thrilled at the sight of the Hall, Kit said: ‘So you know the owners, then? Like, personally? Who are they?’
Amy sighed. ‘Viscount Waverley and his family,’ she told him. ‘Everyone in the village has had dealings with them at some point– but from what I remember,His Lordshipisn’t exactly a man of the people.’ She wrinkled her nose at the memory of Roger Ainsworth’s stand-offish superiority.
‘So there’s a wife? Kids?’ Kit asked.
Amy found herself wishing very powerfully that she’d hired a van and driven herself back to Rowton.
‘Yes and yes,’ she said.
They were past the house now, in sight of its landscaped gardens and the rough little scrap of woodland Amy had always loved. The memory of being caught there after hours by Sam Ainsworth swooped down on her, and before she could stop herself she was recalling their walk back to her grandmother’s cottage– the fizz and crackle of tension that had ended in their kisses outside the kitchen window.
‘And?’ said Kit, clearly dissatisfied with Amy’s monosyllabic response.
‘And what?’ she answered him, playing dumb.
‘You are beingveryevasive,’ Kit said, narrowing his eyes as Rowton Hall and its surrounds retreated in the rear-view mirror and the car picked up speed.
Damn him. He knew her too well.
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he continued. ‘I’m asking what the rest of the family is like, if the dad’s a pompous old mardy-arse. Are they awful, too?’
Amy burst out laughing.Pompous old mardy-arsewas the rudest and most accurate description of Sam’s father that she’d ever heard. She wondered what Sam would have made of it.
‘The Viscountess– Pamela– is as snooty as you might imagine,’ Amy told him. ‘Only ever seen in riding gear or a skirt suit. Multiple strings of pearls at all times … Carefully coiffed hair that would probably survive a tornado. You get the idea.’
‘And what about the children?’ Kit asked. It was too much to hope that Amy’s efforts to describe Mrs Ainsworth might sate his curiosity about the family.
‘Two, I think,’ Amy said vaguely, even though she knew full well there was only Sam and his younger sister, Megan.
‘Male or female?’ Kit demanded.
‘Bloody hell, Kit, are you building some sort of dossier? One of each.’
‘How old?’
For fuck’s sake!
‘The son is my age,’ Amy conceded, her throat suddenly dry and her voice a little rusty. She considered stopping there, then reasoned she might as well offer a little extra information rather than have it squeezed out of her. Reluctance to confess that she knew Sam would only supercharge Kit’s nosiness if he uncovered the facts later, which– given his relentless mood– he was bound to.
‘He and I were at the same sixth form,’ Amy said. ‘We had English classes together and a few mutual friends.’
There,she thought. That was more than enough detail, delivered in a way that wouldn’t rouse any inconvenient suspicion.
‘The daughter’s a few years younger, I think,’ Amy went on, hoping she could push the conversation past any further need to focus on whether she and Sam had been close. ‘Sweet girl, from what I remember.’
‘And was the lad sweet as well? Did he have a name?’ Kit asked, smirking, a knowing gleam suddenly bright in his brown eyes.Amy felt herself starting to redden and cursed her parchment-pale complexion.
Nothing she said now would exonerate her. Kit had clearly decided there was something Amy wasn’t telling him, and since she had no intention of spilling it, she was better off keeping her mouth shut.He could spot half-truths and outright fibs at fifty paces, and obfuscation would only convince him there was something juicy to find out. Amy wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep her history with Sam off the agenda with her best friend– but for some reason it was suddenly very important.