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‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, sweetheart,’ Simon said as he reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand, ‘but she does have two step sons.’
Grace snorted a derisive laugh. ‘One of whom is finally falling in love with me but can’t admit his feelings, and one of whom can hardly remember I exist. I think we all know which one of her step sons she meant. It was obviously Russell.’
‘I think I agree with Grace,’ Pat said. ‘It was probably Russell. He has been far more attentive recently.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hope. ‘Every time I turn around lately, Russell seems to pop up from nowhere. All joking aside, I think he’s definitely going to ask you to be his date for the dance.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind meeting Bianca on your own?’ Pat asked. ‘I can move a few things around and come with you, if you like.’
‘I’ll be fine, Mum. It’s not the first time I’ve met a client on my own. We’ve all done it several times. And this isn’t even a new client, really. We know Bianca.’
‘That’s precisely my point. Wedoknow Bianca. I don’t want her bullying you.’
‘She won’t bully me, Mum. I won’t let her.’
‘It was Grace who just bullied her,’ Hope giggled. ‘Did you hear how shocked she was when you suggested ten-fifteen?’
‘Oh my God!’ Grace leapt off her chair, knocking it to the floor and making Lady E, who had been curled up fast asleep in her basket beside the large green Aga, jump up and skitter back and forth for a second or two. ‘I’d better not be late. It’s five past ten already. Has anyone seen my handbag? And my iPad?’ She frantically glanced around her.
‘They’re on the window seat where you left them earlier.’ Hope pointed to the cushioned window seat where Grace had been sitting prior to taking Lady E for her walk.
‘Thank you,’ Grace said, grabbing the iPad and stuffing it into her large handbag. ‘Love you all. See you later.’
She hurried from the kitchen into the hall and deposited her handbag on the hall table and then threw on her coat, scarf, gloves and bobble hat which were all still a little damp from the earlier soaking. This time Grace did take an umbrella. Betancourt might be just across the road but the drive leading to the front door of the impressive but understated, frontage of the stately home was a good half a mile long.
‘Take your car,’ Simon yelled.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Hope countered. ‘Think of the planet.’
‘Think of catching pneumonia,’ Pat cried out.
‘I’m taking an umbrella,’ Grace responded, tossing her handbag onto her shoulder, and closing the front door behind her.
She opened the umbrella and after a quick glance from left to right, dashed across Folkestone Road. It was one of two main roads through the village and wound its way down the cliffside and into Folkestone. The other main road was London Road, but most of the traffic on this part of the coast travelled along the motorway, avoiding Betancourt Bay entirely.
The rain stopped the moment Grace shoved open one of the pair of ornate, black iron gates of Betancourt, and she virtually skipped along the sweeping curved drive, jumping puddles as she went.
The wide green lawns either side of the drive were mowed to perfection and looked immaculate even in December. The letter B – for Betancourt – was traced out, no doubt with great care, in the centre of each lawn. The only other greenery between the gates and the house were the rows of shrubs and trees lining the walls surrounding the estate. They were apparently planted to conceal the stonework but Grace was not sure why. The warm sandy colour of the natural stone was beautiful. Though perhaps, looking out from the house and seeing high walls all around, each and every day, might make the occupants feel as if they were in a prison after a while. Albeit a somewhat luxurious one.
The last time Grace was at Betancourt was for the annual Summer Fayre. Russell had come home for that but not Griff. Most of the stalls were set up on the front lawns each year, but afternoon tea was taken in the beautiful gardens at the rear of the house which were always resplendent and brimming with colour.
The rear gardens were enclosed by the continuation of the shrubs and trees shielding the frontage. The lawns to the rear weren’t as manicured as those to the front and were dotted here and there with more shrubs and trees. On each side sat a copse of trees and to the centre there was a formal knot garden, a rose garden – the bushes of which would now be pruned for the winter, a kitchen garden to the left and a wildflower garden to the right.
From a raised terrace running the width of the rear of the house, York stone steps led down to a broad path that zig-zagged to the left and right at various intervals, down the centre of the garden, as far as the eye could see, until it came to a large lake with a fountain almost as grand as the one on Lake Geneva.
Beyond the lake were the cliffs and below them, the sweep of Betancourt Bay, the sandy beach, and the sea. A pair of black, ornate iron gates, similar to those at the front, sat to one side of the garden at the edge of the cliff, and steps led down to the beach below.
The view from the garden was breathtaking and the view from the terrace and the house, more so. Locke Isle was clearly visible, but on a cloudless day, one could see far beyond the island and some days, even the coast of France was within sight.
The same vista could be seen from Lookout Point where, it could be argued, the view was even better as that sat on the highest part of the cliffs.
Grace loved looking out at Locke Isle, and she loved the stories and the legends about it. There was one story she loved above all others, mainly because it involved the Betancourts.
Legend had it that the Lockes and the Betancourts were once sworn enemies. Lord Locke, as that particular man was known, before he lost his title – and his head – to Queen Mary, or Bloody Mary as she was called by many, had three sons but only one daughter, Elizabeth. Much to his fury, she fell in love with a son of the then Baron Betancourt. But the two fathers hated each other and forbade the union.
Desperate and in love, Grifforde Betancourt, the Baron’s eldest son, and the current Griff’s namesake, took a boat to the island one dark night and Elizabeth Locke met him on the sands. They planned to return to the mainland and then to elope, but the weather turned suddenly, as it often did in this part of the English Channel, and when they were halfway across a storm swept in and gigantic waves cast the lovers into the bitterly cold sea.
Grifforde’s younger brother happened to be on his way home from a night in a tavern in Folkestone with some friends and as they reached Lookout Point, they all heard Grifforde and Elizabeth call out to one another, or so they said. At the time they had no idea where the couple were but there was a full moon that night and one of them spotted the lovers floundering in the high seas. Grifforde and Elizabeth managed to find each other in the swell but the waves and currents were too strong for them. They clung to one another and kissed before the sea dragged them down to the depths and to their deaths.
