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He struggles not to laugh.
“Are you going to store more laughter?” I give his hand a squeeze.
“Am I going to regret telling you about the whole storage joke?”
“Of course.”
He lets out a chuckle. Then his eyes soften. “Thank you,” he whispers touching his forehead to mine. “Ask him, ask your grandfather before we take that step.”
“I’m not used to discussing my love life with my grandfather.”
“Please.” He insists quietly, his voice very serious.
I don’t really understand but “Okay. Now can you see the yellow flowers at the far end?”
He looks up. “Of course.”
“You think the sea is behind them?”
“Well...” He takes my hand and starts walking round the pond. “The water has to drain somewhere.”
We start walking around the pond towards the wall of yellow flowers at its far side. “Watch out.” I tug on his hand. “We must be close to the edge of Catcher Hill. It’s a long fall into the sea. I’ve escaped death once already and don’t fancy pushing my luck. Or yours.”
“I’ll be careful.” He glances back at me with such a warm, reassuring smile that it makes me worry for his safety even more.
I keep hold of his hand. “You shouldn’t trust the ground here, it’s already proved it has secrets, who knows where the next one might be.”
“You think there might be another secret passage to the beach below?” He squeezes my hand in his and we creep carefully around the pond.
By the time we come to the yellow bushes the slim branches which fan upwards are almost eight feet high and curtain the rest of the plateau. And behind them, we can now hear the sound of more running water.
“I think this is called Gold Broom.” I examine the yellow flowers. “They normally flower in late spring, but La Canette is warmer than England.”
“Aren’t you a proper encyclopaedia of botanical facts?”
“Am I? I’m trying to arm myself with knowledge. Over the last sixteen weeks, I’ve read for an hour each night, devouring anything the Du Montfort Library in the village has about the local fauna and flora.”
I stretch out a hand and push a few of the long stems aside. Behind them, there is no dangerous drop, just more grass, so we squeeze through. Then stop.
“Oh my word,” Hal whispers after a minute.
Oh his word, indeed.
There’s a stone path. Visible through overgrown grass and weeds. It circles around to a small cottage. A stone and wood hut, about the size of two rooms. The wood of the door is a faded yellow. An old chain and padlock secure it shut.
There’s such a silence around here, such a stillness. We both tiptoe through the yellow broom as if scared to make a sound, as if intruding on the secret hideaway.
The cottage must have been very pretty once. The roof is a shallow gable with a chimney. I brush away the thick cobwebs over one of the windows, but we can’t see inside. Chintz curtains block our view.
Chintz that looks like it came from a costume drama. For some reason it makes me think of a film about Marie Antoinette.
“What is this place?” I whisper.
Hal steps back to look at the entire front of the cottage then he meets my eyes, face full of wonder. “I think we just found Ada Montague’s secret,” he says.
chapter Thirty-Three
Elodie
