The Rarest Rose Read online

  Synopsis

  Beautiful Eleanor Teal has accepted the tragedy in her life and gradually become reclusive, living alone in her Georgian home in the Oxfordshire Cotswolds—a place she once shared with the woman she loved and lost, and a place where she feels safe and cocooned with her memories. But suddenly the house doesn’t feel safe anymore. Things start to happen there—things distinctly paranormal. She finds her life being haunted by the presence of a ghost who is desperately trying to tell her something.

  Help comes to Eleanor in the unexpected form of Kiernan Foyle, a freelance photographer with an abundance of Irish charm and wit but who hides a secret that makes her recoil from love.

  Brought together by the haunting, they soon discover the power of true love, but are they willing to risk loving again?

  The Rarest Rose

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  The Rarest Rose

  © 2013 By I. Beacham. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-923-7

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: July 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Sanctuary

  The Rarest Rose

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted, as always, to BSB publisher, Len Barot, for continuing to trust in my abilities, imagination, and dreams. You are the best.

  Huge thanks also to Cindy Cresap, my editor, for her excellent guidance, patience, and outstanding sense of humor. I have learned much and feel a better writer.

  Finally, but never least, to the entire BSB team for their continued support.

  Dedication

  To Jan and VKP

  For your time, encouragement, and dogged support.

  You are both treasured beyond any words.

  Prologue

  He passed each window, peering into the depths of the house. No sign of her. When he approached the large front door, he stopped and stared, willing it to open, needing to see her. She wasn’t home. He returned the way he had come, back along the windows and across the drive. She was not here. He waited.

  Chapter One

  The winding road seemed longer as Ele Teal negotiated the bends and slight inclines of the English lane that led home. Dusk was falling, and with it, a rapidly thickening fog that licked the grassy meadows on either side of her. It wrapped itself like an unwanted passionate embrace around unresponsive, insensitive farm buildings. Fields of sheep in wet, green grass grazed contentedly, penned in behind miles of traditional country iron railings, oblivious to the miserable weather.

  Ele applied more pressure on the accelerator than was wise on country lanes like this. If an approaching driver took a bend too wide, the outcome would be something neither of them wanted. She reduced her speed and accepted that “slow but sure” was the safest way home this evening in such weather.

  She turned left and onto her graveled drive, completing the final 800 yards through a short wooded area that led to an opening, to her Georgian home set in the lower half of the Oxfordshire Cotswolds.

  She breathed a sigh of relief to be at her journey’s end. Ele switched off the engine and allowed herself a few moments of simple indulgence as she let the peace of this place wash over her—as it always did, always had. Memories of laughter and love immediately seeped, for the trillionth time, back into her veins and she let a small smile rest on her lips. Would there ever be a day when she would sell this place? Not while oxygen nourished the planet.

  Drops of rain appeared on her windscreen, pulling Ele back to the present. With a chill in the air increasing, she dashed to the rear of her eight-year-old Land Rover and pulled open the back. The door hinges creaked. She grinned. Still faithful and ever reliable, her car had never let her down, but was now past its glory days, and it felt obliged to bellyache now and then to remind her.

  She leaned in and began gathering her weekly shop of groceries, pulling plastic bags together and throwing escapee apples that had rolled in every direction, back into them. It was a routine, mundane action, like every other week for so many years, and it should have progressed in its customary fashion. But it didn’t. Not this time. Something made Ele stop. Stop immediately. She held her breath, and as she did so, her fingers froze around the bright orange plastic bags she now clutched tightly. In the passing of a second, what had always been repetitively monotonous, at once became unusual and abnormal.

  Her hearing ached for sound, but found none. She jerked back and stepped away from the car to look around. Something—not a noise, not a movement—had grabbed her attention.

  She swept her eyes left and right like a windscreen wiper in a rainstorm, searching for whatever had forced its way into her comfort zone and now made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up like sentries outside Buckingham Palace. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath quickened. She scanned her surroundings and saw nothing, just the trees in the driveway, the little orchard down to her right, and the acre of lawn and garden in front of her. Everything was still. Everything was as it should be. Nothing moved except the thick, creeping fog that rolled over her home. She felt and saw only its heaviness, its clinging dampness, like a life force.

  Ele wasn’t a nervous woman. When she grew scared, there was always a damn good reason. Why then did she feel like this? Her strange sense of alarm had nothing to do with the weather conditions. She was English for heaven’s sake and born to the vagaries of its climate. Fogs and mist were as common as politicians’ broken promises. But she knew enough to trust her instincts, and right now, they were telling her that something was not right.

  After a final glance, she resumed gathering her shopping and slammed the car shut. She heard nothing, but the sound of her feet on gravel as she dashed to the house. Her discomfort scarcely lifted once she stepped inside and shut the door behind her, throwing the locks and bolts.

  Her heart continued to race and only calmed when Featherstone, her three-year-old black cat with a bushy tail like a squirrel, tore down the stairs and bounced toward her. He wrapped himself around her legs with wild abandon and purred as if his life depended on it.

  “Oh, so now I’m your best friend again, eh?” She bent and stroked him. “Where were you when I went out?” His purring became louder. “You’re so fickle, Feathers. I can see through you like clear river water. You just love me because I bring you tinned tuna.” Featherstone meowed and gave his true intentions away as he stared toward the bags of shopping at her feet with the focus he might give to a mouse about to be slaughtered.

  “If you knew how to use a can opener, I’d be history.” She stroked him once more before lifting the shopping. “Come on then. Let’s go unpack.” As she watched him run ahead of her down the hallway and into the kitchen, she felt a welcomed lightness. Perhaps she was being stupid, but just knowing that Featherstone was at ease made her feel better. This was a cat that
growled at the wind and arched his back when a leaf moved unexpectedly across his path. If he was mellow and more interested in his stomach, then all was well with the world—or at least her little part of it. If anything was wrong, Featherstone would have told her.

  Chapter Two

  Kiernan Foyle flicked her shoulder-length hair back off her face as she heaved camera equipment onto her shoulder and simultaneously hit the lock button on her car key fob. Straightening her back, she glanced up at the house.

  Very nice, she thought. Not too big, not too small, it was a typical, well-designed Georgian-style house that she guessed was built out of period around the 1870s. She admired its elegance and clean-cut simplicity. It had a square, symmetrical look with paired chimneys, pillared door, and the distinctive sash windows. Set in the middle of about an acre of land, Kiernan liked that it wasn’t built in the usual Cotswold stone that lent the area so much uniformity. Not that she didn’t love consistency, but it was satisfying to find something different every now and then. This was a delightful place that looked cared for and loved.

  As she moved toward the center-paneled front door with its slim stone pillars either side, it opened, and the unmistakable figure of Eleanor Teal appeared. Though older, she was still instantly recognizable. She seemed taller than Kiernan remembered, but her elegant poise remained. This was the attractive woman whose early morning TV breakfast show once dominated the ratings. Natural honey blond hair fell in waves past shoulder length, encasing pale skin. On anyone else, that complexion might have implied some fragility, but her rosy cheeks suggested health. Conservative and model-like in her movement, she still possessed a subtle hint of boundless energy in her step.

  Ele had retired suddenly from everything public about ten years ago, and Kiernan calculated that she was somewhere in her mid to late thirties, not much younger than herself. Although the fresh, alluring brush of youth that had so enamored her to the British public was gone, Ele retained her natural, English rose appeal that was enhanced by the way she was dressed this morning. She was in a stylishly cut, plain navy blue dress that emphasized a petite waist and long, slim legs. Her narrowness of build somehow made her appear taller than she was. Kiernan grinned as she wondered if the woman ever suffered from altitude sickness—something she would never be accused of at just under five and a half feet tall.

  However, as always, it was Ele’s eyes Kiernan noticed. From the minute she’d first seen her on screen all those years ago, she’d been drawn to them like dowsing rods to water. They were unusual, an intense radiant green reminiscent of an emerald gem reflecting light, or some sea grotto that mesmerized tourists. It was no wonder TV had grabbed her as a presenter and front woman as a way to wake up the nation and increase their ratings. Even now, the years past, Kiernan considered Ele’s eyes still breathtaking.

  Kiernan raised her hand to shake Ele’s already outstretched one. “Good morning. I’m Kiernan Foyle, the photographer from Oxfordshire Countryways Magazine,” she said as she handed over her business card.

  Ele broke into an easy smile. “It certainly is a good morning.” Her refined BBC classic English voice shone through, her diction clear and precise. Kiernan thought how old-world it sounded, like someone speaking in a 1940s movie. Ele’s style of speech was becoming an unusual commodity these days. Everybody seemed to have an accent, almost wearing it with pride. She guessed it was a finger’s up to the old class system. But it made Kiernan feel nostalgic. It was nice to hear that crispness, and she found herself thinking how it contrasted with her own lilting Irish brogue.

  “I was worried last night’s fog would hang around, but I see you’ve brought the sunshine with you.”

  “Oh, that?” Kiernan looked up at the sun with cavalier mockery. “It’s just something we photographers like to arrange for our photo shoots. That way we can capture our subjects in the best that nature can offer. Rain, fog, snow, it’s all fine, but you can’t beat a good ray of sunshine.”

  “Well, I thank you for bringing it.” The response oozed genuine warmth. “Now, what do you want to do? Where do you want to start?” Politeness acknowledged, Kiernan suspected her subject was keen to get the photo session over. “How long will all this take?” Ele asked as if reading Kiernan’s mind.

  She was already preparing her camera. “I’m afraid I’m one of those awful photographers who likes to have too many shots so I can pick the good few that will best sell the article and do you true justice.”

  Kiernan didn’t know why she said that. No shot in heaven would do this woman an injustice. She could tell before the camera even clicked that Ele Teal would be loved by the lens. She was a Grace Kelly type, and certain things were just given. “I may be here for a good hour, but I promise to make it as painless as possible.” Kiernan arched a brow in humor.

  “To begin with, I’d like to get a few shots of you outside this beautiful house, maybe some here and then a few over there.” She directed her eyes across the driveway to a corner of the garden where an old wrought iron gazebo stood. “After that, some in the house, Mrs. Teal, if you don’t mind. The readers love to see people in their natural environment—where they nest, where they eat—”

  “You make me sound like some rare species of bird,” Ele quipped before adding, “and for heaven’s sake, Kiernan, call me Ele. You make me sound like my mother.”

  Kiernan caught the grin as she nodded her head in acknowledgement. She also thought on Ele’s confident use of her first name. Normally, clients either called her Miss Foyle or just avoided her name altogether. The former always made her wonder if they saw her as a spinster, the type unlikely to be married, or if their instincts tagged her as a lesbian. Not being called anything made her feel invisible. As she set her tripod, she noted that she liked the way Ele said her name. There was friendliness in it and a sense of connection. She maneuvered Ele so she was facing the sun, and began taking her first shots.

  “I don’t see the attraction of an article on me. I mean, I’ve been out of the limelight for ages,” she said. “The request from your magazine stunned me.”

  “Not actually my magazine,” Kiernan said from behind the camera as she clicked away. “I’m freelance, but I’ve done quite a bit of work for them over the years. Move left a bit,” she directed her, preoccupied with her task. “I think your appearance at the opening of the Swan Centre mall raised your profile. When the editor learned you’d also written a book, well, you’ve become someone the magazine would like to do an article on for the ‘Then and Now’ pages.”

  Ele gave a tense laugh. “I think the readers are going to be very disappointed.” Her tone was diffident and spoken in a way that hinted of uncertainty.

  Kiernan surfaced from behind her camera, all action temporarily on hold. That self-effacing voice had taken her by surprise. She felt compelled to balance it. “Doubtful. You were very popular. When you left the breakfast show, I think you threw half the men in the UK into therapy.”

  Ele seemed to hesitate for a moment. Kiernan thought she registered gratitude in her eyes as she lightened up a little. “Only half?” Large eyes sparkled, their intensity focused on Kiernan.

  “Not all men confess to seeing a therapist,” Kiernan bantered back, her eyes drawn to Ele’s.

  “Oh, that’s all right then.” Ele’s face lit up with friendly eagerness, and as Kiernan returned her attention to the job at hand, she found herself thinking how much she was enjoying this particular assignment. Too many of the people she photographed were walking egos on legs and puffed up with their own self-importance. It was rare to meet someone who was different.

  “My book has just been accepted by the publisher. It may not sell. An illustrated study of British woodpeckers isn’t exactly the competitive alternative to Harry Potter. A bit dull, don’t you think?”

  Kiernan straightened from behind her camera again. Working with Ele Teal was exasperating, for the woman never shut up. “Well, like it or not, you’ve been unearthed by Tom Mitchell, the editor, a
nd if he decides you’ll make good reading, well, you could have written the sequel to Alvin and the Chipmunks. He knows you’ll make good reading.”

  Ele shrugged. “I don’t share his enthusiasm,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think your photos are going to have to be spectacular.”

  “They will be, if I can get you to stop talking,” Kiernan said as she hooked a hand on her hip and deliberately displayed a look of patient amusement. Ele dipped her head in mock guilt.

  “Sorry. Believe it or not, it was my chattiness that landed me the job on TV. I could hold a conversation with a Trappist monk.”

  Kiernan frowned.

  “Their vows forbid them to talk,” Ele clarified.

  “I believe you,” Kiernan whispered back, though she doubted Ele was hired only for her verbal skills. Every woman in the UK must have secretly yearned for a figure and looks like hers. There would also have been much jealousy as they watched their husbands drool. And all that during breakfast!

  She was done with these photos, and with a gentle touch to Ele’s elbow, indicated that they move toward the gazebo. She chatted about the house as they cut across the lawn. “I’ve driven past your place a few times, but never seen it because it’s hidden by the trees. I’m amazed what’s here…all the garden and the house. So unexpected. This is a fine place.”

  “Yes, it is now, but it wasn’t when we bought it. Frankly, it was a nightmare. Rafters falling in, woodworm, rotten wood, dry rot, wet rot. We hoped the latter two would cancel each other out when they met in the middle.” Ele rolled her eyes theatrically. “You name it, we had it. It had been empty a long time. The owner didn’t live in it, but wouldn’t sell. It never takes a property long to run to seed if it’s neglected.”