But meeting the new gardener for the grounds had me thinking about my (somewhat forced) invitation from the earl to visit Broomewode Hall. I was itching to get inside as soon as I could. And then my mind went whirling back to Eileen’s box of photographs, especially the one she’d let me keep of Valerie, which was now safely tucked inside my recipe folder. I’d been so excited to get it, I hadn’t even asked Eileen to name everyone in the photograph, and now I was kicking myself. What if they still lived in the village like Penny and Eileen? Actually, why hadn’t I asked Eileen if Penny would talk to me, too? I’d let myself get carried away and hadn’t made the most of my time with the elderly villager.

  But I also knew it wasn’t just me. Eileen had been distracted even before her angina started playing up. Maybe I’d caught her on a bad day. I’d go back to the gift shop after filming today and bring the photo with me. Since Katie Donegal seemed to be sequestered in Ireland, maybe Eileen could help me compile a list of people who could potentially help trace my genealogy. Plus, maybe I could ask to see the box of photos again and this time hunt for men who might be my dad. Might Eileen remember who Valerie spent her time with that summer? Should I tell her more about why I was asking all these nosy questions?

  But then I thought about that warning note. Did I really think Maggie would stoop so low? No. Something wasn’t right in Broomewode, and I didn’t want to put a nice old woman like Eileen in any danger. I’d keep my guess that Valerie might be my mother secret for now.

  The sun was in its noontime glory, and I felt my cheeks flush pink under its warmth. Despite being preoccupied with the Valerie mystery, I never got tired of being in Broomewode’s beautiful grounds. I picked up my slow-jog pace and rounded the corner to run the short distance on the roadway to the inn’s entrance. I was running, and the sun was in my eyes, but I swear it was out of nowhere that a car appeared, going way too fast and headed right for me.

  In that instant that I realized I was in danger, I threw my hands out and yelled, “Stop!”

  I felt the power come from my hands, pushing, pushing against the speeding vehicle. Even as my heart was pounding, there was a terrific screech of rubber on asphalt as the silver car jerked to a stop, only narrowly avoiding running me down.

  The car’s driver glared at me through the window, as if it was my fault he was driving like a maniac. I stared back in shock, and we locked eyes as I slowly dropped my hands. The man looked vaguely familiar, mid-fifties, hair graying at the sides, but I couldn’t place him. And then, just like that, he roared past me, following the road around the pub.

  I stared at the retreating car. How could someone almost run a person over and then not even stop to check that they were okay?

  I wiped the dust from my lovely new denim skirt and scowled as the car disappeared from view. It had all happened so fast, I hadn’t even thought to check the plate number.

  I looked down at my hands, still tingling slightly. Maybe I wasn’t very good at spells yet, but there was some serious power in these hands.

  Inside the pub, it was busy. All the tables were full, and everyone was tucking into huge plates of food, and sipping on beers and wine. It had been so long since I’d had a proper weekend, with no work and no baking, that I could hardly remember what leisure time felt like. I promised myself that as soon as I was through with the show, I’d make some time to slow down. Go for long walks through the beautiful Somerset countryside, see friends and start baking for fun. Life was too short.

  I headed straight for Eve at the bar, and my expression must have said it all, because she rushed through an order of roast beef and horseradish baguette, poured me a refreshing pint of sparkling water with elderflower cordial, and then commanded me to sit.

  With a heavy heart, I told her that not only had my scones failed to impress Elspeth this morning, I’d almost been run over by some awful man with zero manners. I described him: about fifty, graying hair, red cheeks, in a silver car. I didn’t catch the make.

  “Did you see someone like that just in here?” I asked. “They came out of the inn’s car park.”

  Eve looked puzzled and shook her head so that her long braid flopped from side to side. “Look around. Loads of men in here fit that description. Between the locals, film crew and weekenders, it could be half the people in here. But you weren’t hurt?”

  “No.” I glanced around to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard. “I put my hands up and yelled ‘stop,’ and I think my magic saved me.”

  “Good girl. Follow your instincts. Your magic’s powerful. I can feel it.”

  “I wish it was powerful enough for me to drag that guy back and give him a piece of my mind.”

  My sandwich arrived. I checked my watch. I only had thirty minutes left before I was due back at the tent. I sipped water, and between bites of the delicious sandwich, I told Eve that I’d had tea with Eileen Poole yesterday and that she’d given me a photo of Valerie. Eve asked me to fetch the photo so she could take a look.

  I knew Eve had only been in Broomewode for a few years, but maybe she might recognize someone who’d attended those legendary garden parties. After missing a golden opportunity to ask Eileen yesterday, right now I needed all the help I could get. I ran up to my room for the photo.

  When I returned and showed her, Eve’s kind eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Look at the corner table over there.” I followed Eve’s finger as she pointed and saw an older gentleman and woman lunching. They both looked pretty bored and weren’t even speaking as they ate.

  “That’s Bill Morrison. I’m sure that’s him in the photo there. Him and his wife, though they were a lot younger then.”

  I squinted at the photo and then back at the couple. It was them all right. What luck! I hesitated to interrupt a complete stranger’s lunch with a photograph of them from over twenty years ago. But I had to make it back to the tent in time for filming. Also, it didn’t look like I was interrupting much.

  The woman was immersed in something on her phone, and the man was staring out the window.

  I walked over to their table and cleared my throat, and they both looked up. I introduced myself, apologizing for interrupting their lunch, and explained that I was tracing my family history at Broomewode Hall and wondered if they could tell me more about the garden parties.

  The man looked delighted. “Of course, sit down, sit down.” He gestured at a stool. “I’m Bill Morrison, and this is my wife, Barbara.”

  Barbara smiled and put down her phone. “We’d be happy to help, if we can.” She touched a bottle of rosé that was bobbing in an ice bucket. “Could we offer you a glass?”

  I would have killed for a cool glass of rosé, but I still had to bake this afternoon. I thanked her and sadly declined. “You’re one of the bakers. We were watching for a while this morning. It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” And before I had to remind them about the nondisclosure agreement, she shook her head and laughed at herself. “And very good for business in the village. Brings in lots of tourists. Well, we’ll watch for you specially when the show airs. Now, how can we help you?”

  I took out the photograph and put it on the table. Bill studied it and laughed.

  “Look at me with all that hair. And you, Barbara, look how slim you were back then.”

  Barbara’s smile slid from her face. “And look at you, staring at that pretty young waitress.”

  My heart beat double quick. She was talking about Valerie. Now was my chance.

  “Did you know the young waitress?” I asked, trying not to hold my breath.

  They both shook their head. And then Bill said, “She wasn’t here long. I remember that she had a lovely laugh.”

  Barbara’s head snapped up, and she glared at her husband.

  “A lovely laugh?” I asked, hoping for more information.

  “Yes, it was a proper belly laugh. You could hear it across the lawn,” Bill replied.

  “Do you remember anything else about her?” I tried again.

  But Bill shook his head again.

  I tried not to look disappointed. They were both still staring fondly at the photograph.

  “There’s Eileen, of course,” Bill said. “She runs the gift shop, you know. Never married. Shame. The rumor was that she had a soft spot for the Jones boy. What was his name?”

  His wife closed her eyes. “Oliver.” She took a sip of rosé and then sighed.

  “That’s it. I was only a boy myself when he went missing.”

  “Missing?” I asked, intrigued. If they couldn’t tell me about Valerie, who was also missing from Broomewode’s collective memory, then maybe there might be a link with this Oliver guy.

  “Yes. He disappeared. Back in the sixties, I believe,” Bill said.

  His wife corrected him. “It was the fifties, not the sixties, Bill. I remember because he was fifteen years old, the same age as my eldest brother, Graham. Oliver ran away from home. It was a sad, sad business.”

  Bill took up the tale. “It was in all the papers. The police conducted a search right across the county. There was talk of murder, kidnapping, witchcraft and all sorts.”

  “Witchcraft?” I felt an uncomfortable tightening across my chest. I hoped no one had witnessed my little speeding-car-stopping stunt earlier.

  “Aye. It was a more superstitious time.”

  “I remember being afraid of all the police cars,” Barbara said. “Frightened that a child could go missing. There were people out day and night, searching. But they never found a hint of him. No clues. The whole village was in despair.”

  Bill nodded. “But then there was the letter.”

  “The letter?” I asked, literally on the edge of my seat now.

  “Yes, one day a letter arrived for his parents. It’d been sent from Canada. He wrote that he’d run away because he was unhappy at home and bullied at school. He’d ended up making friends with a Canadian and had gone back there with him, where he’d stayed.”

  Wow. That had to be a hard letter for his parents to read. What had happened in that household to make a fifteen-year-old boy want to leave? Wait. A letter from Canada? I’d seen one of those just yesterday.

  “His sister still lives in the village. Penelope.”

  Oliver Jones was the name written at the top of Eileen’s letter. And he’d written from Vancouver, Canada.

  “That’s Penelope Jones, there,” Bill said, pointing at the photograph again where Penny was standing with her arm around Eileen. “That’s his sister. Ooh, those two used to fight like little maniacs. Close they were, but dreadfully competitive. I remember seeing them run races through the village or challenge each other to duels.” He shook his head. “Such a sad thing. She missed him terribly when he was gone.”

  Barbara said, “She went to visit him once. But the parents were too old to travel by then. He wrote them every so often, but he’s never come back. It broke his parents’ hearts.” He paused and shook his head sadly. “And Eileen’s, I’ve always thought. She was sweet on him.” Barbara leaned in. “That’s why we all thought she never married.”

  I decided to keep Eileen’s most recent letter to myself. I didn’t want to stir up any more village gossip. Maybe she was enjoying a long-distance love affair with her childhood friend. And why shouldn’t she enjoy it in privacy?

  I thanked Bill and Barbara, and they told me they’d come and watch some of the afternoon taping.

  I checked my watch and realized I was going to have to sprint it back to the tent. But this time, I’d be on the lookout for any crazy drivers. I was going to need my toes intact to stand up and bake, thanks very much!

  Chapter 9

  “And where on earth have you been?” Florence demanded, giving me a sulky face. “I won, and my favorite person on set wasn’t even here to have a celebratory lunch with me.” She flicked her red hair over her shoulders.

  “Oh, Florence, I’m so sorry.” I paused. I needed some kind of white lie to get me out of this one. “I had to run back to the pub to feed Gateau because I forgot to give her breakfast this morning.” I touched the amethyst around my neck and hoped that it would protect me from any consequences of a white lie. “And then I saw Eve and ended up eating at the bar. Forgive me. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise. We’ll do something lovely in the evening to celebrate properly.”

  She frowned at me. “Honestly, Poppy, you are so mysterious sometimes. It’s like you have another job or something.”

  Hmm. She’d kind of hit the nail on the head. Looking for my family was like having another full-time job. Now I had to get myself together and bake on national TV for millions of viewers. But after my wobble with the scones this morning, my near brush with death, and new information about Broomewode Village, my head could not have been more out of the game.

  “Poppy?” Florence said, breaking me out of my worry bubble. “Are you okay? You seem a bit frazzled.”

  I relayed my awful incident with the crazy driver and said it had shaken me up.

  Immediately Florence pulled me into a hug. She smelled divine, and I was already regretting my “light jog” earlier. “Aw, you should have said. I’ve been in two car crashes myself, and I’m so nervy on the roads now. You must be spooked.” She pulled away and then slipped an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry I was cross. Let’s get you straight to Gina.”

  By the time Gina had fixed my makeup and hair and I’d had a chance to calm down and catch my breath, I was the last to reach my workstation. Everyone else was ready to go, and I got a few raised eyebrows from Hamish and Gaurav. I hoped that they didn’t think I was off playing detective again. Although come to think of it, I was, but I was trying to be the detective who solved the mystery of my own life story.

  I hurriedly prepped my station, and then Florence returned to hers just in time for Fiona, the director, to announce that the technical challenge would begin filming in one minute.

  As part of biscuit week, our technical challenge was to make brandy snaps. And I was worried. Biscuits really weren’t my thing (I was definitely more of a sponge kind of girl).

  The sound guy, Robbie Denton, rushed over with a mic. He’d trimmed his full beard since last filming and now he looked more like someone in their early twenties. “Where have you been? You should have been back ten minutes ago,” he admonished me.

  Oh, man, I’d upset everyone today.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  He clipped my mic and adjusted the wires before running off set.

  Jilly and Arty came into the tent first. I wondered if the two of them were keeping up their flirtation. Jilly must have been ten or maybe even fifteen years older than Arty, but perhaps their shared love of comedy was enough of a bond?

  Maybe I just didn’t understand enough about romance. It had been a while since my last boyfriend, and I truly enjoyed living in my own place, doing things on my own terms, so much so that I hadn’t given any thought to dating lately. Gina was always going out on dates; nothing thrilled her more than spending hours swiping left and right, choosing the perfect outfit, curling her hair, putting on “her face,” as she called it. But I’d rather take a long hike through the countryside than go to a fancy bar and drink cocktails. And romance seemed like a lot of heartache. Just take Eileen and the missing boy Oliver, for example. If what Bill and Barbara had told me was true, Eileen never got over her first love.

  The two celebrity judges came in next, and Jilly announced that our technical challenge was to bake a brandy snap. “Is this a tricky technical challenge for our bakers?” Arty asked Elspeth.

  “Oh yes,” replied Elspeth. “It may appear to be simple, but there are hurdles that each baker will have to overcome. First is getting the right consistency, dissolving the sugar correctly, and then spacing them properly on the tray to bake will play a big part in their success. It’s tricky, but I think they’re fun, too.”

  Fun? Who was Elspeth trying to kid here?

  “I like brandy as much as the next bloke,” Arty chimed in. “And I might have got snapped once or twice.”

  Brandy Snaps was not good news. I’d made them before but usually burned them so my confidence was pretty low. The problem with brandy snaps was that they were supposed to be light, super-sweet, and crunchy––not too brittle and not too soft. It was a tricky balance. And then you had to get the cream filling the perfect consistency.

  I could tell he was about to do the countdown so we could begin. I hoped this challenge went smoothly and I managed not to burn the biscuits. With luck, we’d be finished in time for me to pop up to Broomewode Hall and remind the earl that he’d promised I could sketch his dining room. I really wanted to do it while Ophelia was in residence so he wouldn’t give me the brush-off.

  “Pops!” It was Gerry, sitting on my workstation and waving his hands in front of my face. In a frantic tone, he said, “Stop staring into space and get baking.”

  I looked around the tent and saw that we’d been given the go-ahead and everyone else was dutifully weighing out ingredients. I had to snap out of this mood and into brandy snaps! The time restriction was going to be one of the hardest factors in this challenge, and I was already behind.

  “Thanks, Gerry,” I said softly.

  “It’s not Maggie,” he told me. “Tell you more later, but I read her diary. She thinks you’re lovely. And her block printing doesn’t match the writing on the note. FYI, she’s not so keen on Florence, though. Thinks she’s two-faced.”

  “Later,” I whispered, though I was relieved to know Maggie hadn’t tried to sabotage me. Some good news, at least. I thought she’d been a bit harsh about Florence but reminded me she’d written in the privacy of her own diary and I should try and forget what I’d heard.

  I weighed my butter and demerara sugar and combined them in a pan so that the sugar sat on top of the butter. My panic began to subside. Maybe I was getting over myself. But then I realized why I suddenly felt calm: Elspeth was looking at me, and I could tell she’d sensed my mental upheaval and was calming me down.