To an outsider, Cassandra Shaw's life looks perfect. She
lives in a beautiful, luxurious house in the English countryside, with a
handsome, wealthy boyfriend who insists she needn't do a day’s work in her
life. But Cassie knows that something is not right. Her boyfriend has grown
colder, treating her more like a housekeeper than a future wife. And her time
feels empty and purposeless.
Cassandra has always been riddled with insecurities and
self-doubt, but, just for once, she decides to take a chance on a new
beginning. She answers an advert for a live-in nanny, dog walker, cook and
all-round 'Superhuman' for a family living in a rambling manor house on the
rugged North Cornish coast. The work is hard and tiring, but Cassie has never
felt so fulfilled.
As Cassie learns to connect with the natural beauty unfolding
around her, Cornwall starts to offer up its secrets. Soon, Cassie starts
wondering if she was drawn to this isolated part of the coast for a reason. Why
was she guided to Foxcombe Manor? What are the flashes of light she sees in the
valley? Is it her imagination or does someone brush past her? And who is the
mysterious man living deep in the woods?
A beautiful romance with a hint of ghostliness, Beneath Cornish
Skies is for anyone who has ever longed to start their lives again.
I take a deep breath. ‘I wondered if you knew of any goings-on at Foxcombe Manor?’
He doesn’t answer immediately and I scrutinise his face. It’s
unfathomable.
‘Where’s that?’ asks a man in a plummy voice on the far side of the
room.
‘In the parish of Morwenstow. That manor, too, is of Saxon origin and I
believe there have been a few sightings.’
Although Hunter Harcourt answers the question, his intelligent gaze
never leaves my face and I have the distinct impression he’s gauging me. His
previous answers were so full and complete that I’m surprised by his reticence
to offer any further information. Suddenly I feel awkward and obvious.
I’m about to sit down when my mouth takes over. ‘Just how many ghosts
are there?’
Again, I’m aware of his assessment. ‘I believe there are three, possibly
four.’
A gasp comes from the audience but he swiftly closes the session. ‘Ladies
and gentlemen, we’ve covered a lot tonight and I don’t know about you, but I’m
parched! Allow me to grab a glass of something and then I’ll happily chat with
you and sign books.’
Clicking the remote, he switches off the projector and makes his way to
the rear of the room.
Uncertainly, I sit down. Why didn’t he elaborate? What is there to hide?
Ginny hasn’t given me much. In fact, I’ve learnt more from the children.
As the rows of seats empty and people flock to the tables piled high
with Hunter Harcourt’s publications, I glance at my watch. The evening has
flown by and I’m relieved to find it isn’t too pathetically early to return to
Foxcombe. Picking up my jacket and the bag of stationery, I follow the throng
of people to the rear of the bistro and decide to treat myself to one of the
author’s books. His talk tonight has made me feel less empty and it will be
good to have his written words to dip into.
As Hunter Harcourt chats to people and signs copies of his various
books, I observe him. It’s obvious he spends a great deal of time outdoors; his
tanned skin and dark blond hair laced with sun-kissed streaks testament to the
fact. The black-framed glasses suit his pleasant open face, suggesting educated
authority. Randomly, I wonder what he’s done with the Great Dane tonight.
Suddenly, I find myself face-to-face with the man and a brief, uncomfortable
pause ensues before he smiles.
‘So… you decided to give the stupid oaf another chance?’
Amusement flickers in his hazel eyes, and heat rises in my cheeks. I’m flattered
he should recognise me – after all, I was wearing a riding hat on our previous
encounter – but I feel as awkward as hell.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was concerned about Zac.’
Casting my eyes down in embarrassment, I notice his tanned hands – square,
the veins standing proud, with practical fingers and beautifully shaped nails.
‘Yes, but he appeared to be enjoying the speed at which he was
travelling when I last saw him. I trust he is all right?’
Despite my nervousness, I laugh. ‘Thankfully, he’s fine. And you’re
right, he thought it was cool. Zac says Dylan has never gone that fast before.’
Hunter Harcourt gives a small laugh. ‘So, you have an interest in
Foxcombe Manor?’
‘I do. I’m staying there.’
‘I see.’ He hesitates, his eyes searching my face ‘And the reason for
your question? Have you experienced anything unusual?’
I shake my head, and then recall the odd sensation of silk trailing
across my body.
‘Not really. I haven’t witnessed any apparitions, but the children
have.’
‘Your children?’
‘No. The Kinsmans.’
He smiles at me – even, white teeth and kind, sincere hazel eyes – and
my stomach does something odd.
‘It’s often youngsters who pick up on these things. They are yet to be
tainted by life.’
I glance at him curiously. I can’t imagine Hunter Harcourt knowing
anything about being tainted by life.
A long, awkward pause, and another amused look.
‘Would you like one of my books?’
‘Oh yes!’ Suddenly I remember why I’m standing in front of him. ‘A copy
of Cornwall’s
Old Ways please.’
Sliding off a copy from the top of a rapidly diminishing pile, he picks
up a pen and opens the front cover. ‘Would you like it dedicated to anyone in
particular?’
I shake my head.
He writes something on the title page and I glance around. Clusters of
people are desperate to chat with him but he seems in no hurry to end our
conversation.
‘Are you staying at Foxcombe Manor for long?’ he asks casually, as he
closes the cover and hands the book to me.
‘I’m not sure. It all depends.’
‘Well, maybe we’ll see each other again.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘And I
promise in future my dog and I will do our utmost not to upset the horses.’
I laugh and turn away.
‘And rest assured,’ he adds hurriedly, ‘Foxcombe’s ghosts are benign.’
So he does
know more! Immediately I turn back, but several people have surged forward and
now demand his attention.
Walking out into the still night air, I pause outside the bistro and
gaze across the canal. Floodlights now bathe the hotel’s façade, and sounds of
a fun evening drift over from the neighbouring pub. I look up at the ink-black
sky, so unpolluted in this part of the country and awash with stars, and then I
glance back inside the bistro. Hunter Harcourt, observing me through the
window, grants a warm smile before turning to his next customer. Despite the
cool night air, I break out into a hot flush. Curious to know what he’s written
in the book, I open the front cover.
To the enigmatic young woman who
doesn’t mince her words!
Until we meet again…
Hunter
H.
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