The Sweetest Thing
Read The Sweetest Thing Online
Authors: Cathy Woodman
If only everything in life was as simple as baking a cake…
Jennie Copeland thought she knew the recipe for a happy life: marriage to her university sweetheart, a nice house in the suburbs and three beautiful children. But when her husband leaves her, she is forced to find a different recipe. And she thinks she’s found just what she needs: a ramshackle house on the outskirts of the beautiful Talyton St George, a new cake-baking business, a dog, a horse, chickens…
But life in the country is not quite as idyllic as she’d hoped, and Jennie can’t help wondering whether neighbouring farmer Guy Barnes was right when he told her she wouldn’t last the year.
Or perhaps the problem is that she’s missing one vital ingredient to make her new life a success. Could Guy be the person to provide it?
ContentsChapter One: Chocolate Brownies
Chapter Seven: Lemon Drizzle Cake
Chapter Eight: Rich Fruit Cake
Chapter Nine: Scones, Strawberry Jam and Clotted Cream
Chapter Ten: Apple and Cinnamon Muffins
Chapter Eleven: Marbled Chocolate and Raspberry Cake
Chapter Twelve: Chocolate and Beetroot Cake
Chapter Fifteen: Victoria Sponge
Chapter Seventeen: Cherry and Walnut Cake
Chapter Eighteen: Feather Cake
Chapter Nineteen: Uphill Cider Cake
Chapter Twenty: Hummingbird Cake
Chapter Twenty-One: Walnut, Date and Honey Cake
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN 9781407088518
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books 2011
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Cathy Woodman, 2011
Cathy Woodman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-099-55163-8
To Tamsin and Will
Cathy Woodman was a small animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. She is also a lecturer in Animal Management at a local college.
The Sweetest Thing
is the third book set in the fictional market town of Talyton St George in East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her husband, two children, two ponies, three exuberant Border terriers and two cats in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.
Trust Me, I’m a Vet
Must Be Love
Acknowledgements
I should like to thank Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, Gillian Holmes and the rest of the wonderful team at Arrow Books for their enthusiasm and support.
After that, the life-changing event that was the big D, I swore I’d never fall in love again. I resolved to harden my heart and steer well clear of emotional commitment, yet here I am, completely besotted – and before you say anything, I’m not talking about a man but what has to be the most beautiful house in the world.
Nestled part-way up the hillside which rises from the valley where the River Taly meanders down towards the sea is Uphill House, a longhouse dating all the way back to the sixteenth century. It has diamond-leaded windows set deep into thick walls of cob, painted the palest pink, and a hat of golden thatch. It sits in four acres of land on the outskirts of the East Devon market town of Talyton St George. The house hints of security, comfort and forever-ness, if there is such a word, and I can only hope that after all the heartbreak my family’s been through, this relationship will be permanent.
Having left the car at the front, I make my way through the rickety picket gate and beat a path through
grass and flowering mallow up to my waist, to the porch that consists of half-height walls and worn upright timbers which support a tiled roof. Ducking beneath a tangle of faded wisteria, pink and yellow climbing roses and honeysuckle, I reach the front door.
I lift the edge of the mat which lies on the stone step, pick up the envelope beneath and open it up to find a note and a key. I scan the note. It’s very brief and hardly welcoming, which isn’t surprising considering the way the writer of the note has behaved over the sale. Buying Uphill House has been what you might call an uphill struggle, but then – I smile to myself – when has attaining the object of one’s desires ever been easy?
To J. Copeland. Have oiled lock. G. Barnes
.
G. Barnes has communicated to me through estate agent and solicitor so far. I still have no idea what the ‘G’ stands for or what ‘G’ looks like, although I have been told that he’s the farmer who lives in the house next door. When I say ‘next door’, the farmhouse is a good thirty metres or so further along the drive, and on the opposite side. The handwriting on the note is a scrawl suggestive of a character with few manners and poor social skills, although I suppose that splashing oil over half the door and the step could be interpreted as a thoughtful gesture on his part.
Taking care not to get oil on my green embroidered tunic and black cropped trousers, I slide the key into the latch, jiggle and twist it until it turns. I push the door open. It creaks on its hinges, whether in welcome or protest at our arrival, I’m not sure. Its rather dilapidated condition suggests that it has been left in peace for some while.
Inside at last. It’s quite a shock, stepping from the
glaring sunshine and intense heat of the hottest day of summer so far, into the cool, dark hallway. I pause and breathe in the scent of the house, a rural perfume of rose petals, damp timbers and farmyard. I let my gaze travel along the hall that is lined with dark oak panels, to the grimy glass window at the end, through which I can see a slightly distorted view of the back garden with the paddock that slopes up to the copse beyond, and my pulse thrills with joy and anticipation.
Finding myself single again at forty after fourteen years of marriage was the last thing I’d expected, but now that I’ve got through the divorce, I’m going to grab this opportunity – new home, new business, new life – with both hands. I can’t wait to get into the kitchen and get started.
However, there is the small matter of a lorry full of possessions to unload, the unpacking to do, and the children to settle before I can begin to master the Aga. I turn to my three offspring who have followed on behind me, clutching various bits and pieces they’ve brought with them from the car: headphones, iPods, a teddy bear and the cool bag. They are unusually quiet; apprehensive and overwhelmed by the sight of the new house, perhaps. It’s been a stressful few days.
‘Well, what do you think?’ I ask brightly. It’s the first time they’ve seen it, apart from the virtual tour on the agent’s website which was filmed in soft focus to disguise the cracks in the walls and all-enveloping brown dust. I did bring them with me the first few times I came house-hunting, but they were soon bored with the whole idea and in the end it was easier for me to come to Devon alone while they were spending their allotted weekends with their father. I look at my eldest in his bright orange Hollister T-shirt and jeans down
around his thighs so you can see his boxers. Adam’s fourteen going on twenty-four, taller than me now, and lanky with an unruly mop of brown hair, grey eyes and a smattering of teenage spots. He’s growing up so fast, growing away from me. I can feel, with a pang of regret, a dull ache in the centre of my chest, that Adam doesn’t want to think of himself as my little boy any more.
‘Well?’ I go on.
He shrugs.
‘It’s okay, but I don’t know why you care what I think now when it’s too late to change our minds and go back home.’
