*****
An hour later, Bev came to tell them dinner was ready, and they followed her to the delicious smells of toad-in-the-hole.
“Brilliant.” James grinned as he sat down, loving everything that remotely resembled Yorkshire Pudding.
Hunter sat down, noticing that Bev looked calmer now. It must have been the shock of seeing her daughter injured. Now the older woman was bordering on friendly.
Over dinner, they all started to chat about small things - Mrs Murphy quizzing the two men over every detail she could think of; how they’d gotten into witch-hunting? Had they gone to university? Oh, Oxford, what did they study?
She smiled down at her more reserved daughter. “I can see why you were so interested in witch-hunting, Sophie, not all professional is it? Yes, you’ll have to excuse my daughter, she does have a romantic side to her.”
Hunter had to stop himself choking on his food, and he looked up, seeing that James shared the joke. Sophie, romantic? Sure, if she wasn’t such a frozen bitch.
Sophie frowned at her teasing mother’s insinuations. “Behave yourself, mother, or I’ll lock you in the pantry again.”
The rest of the evening passed agreeably enough, but as they were all about to retire, Bev held Hunter back.
“Look, I know you mean well, and I’m sure you’re a nice boy, but I don’t want you to get involved with my daughter.”
Hunter was surprised at the cold look Bev gave him, “Look, Mrs Murphy-”
But Bev stopped him. “You should be going to bed, Mr Astley. I’m assuming that you’ll want to set off early tomorrow.”
Then she left him. Ugh, bloody parents. With the exception of his own mother, it seemed they were all over-protective.
Hunter went into the conservatory, where the settee had been pulled out into a double bed, James already sitting in it - fully clothed, thank goodness.
“Hey, there’s always the floor.” James laughed in response to Hunter’s grimacing expression.
“No, I just hope you don’t snore tonight. Budge over.”
The light was clicked off and the two mates lay there, both awake.
“So… Sophie’s mum seems ok, she really warmed up after a while. I thought she was gonna kick us out when she heard we were witch-hunters.”
“Yeah.” Hunter grunted noncommittally. Mrs Murphy had changed from hostile to friendly in the blink of an eye, finishing things off with that motherly warning. Hunter decided that he preferred Sophie’s frosty personality – at least he knew where he stood with her.
“I was thinking, about Sophie.” James continued, not taking the hint. “I mean, she’s a bonny lass. What do y’think, I got a chance? Or do you think the timing’s inappropriate, you know with Brian and all.”
Hunter sat bolt upright. “Look, just because we’re sharing a bed, doesn’t make this a girly sleepover.”
“Ah, sorry mate.”
Hunter lay down again. What did he think? That he was likelier to get any girl over James, harsh but true. But then he wasn’t interested in Sophie; cold, beautiful Sophie. At least, he wasn’t interested in that way. “Just do me a favour, James. Wait until we all get home.”
Seven
Home. Astley Manor was, and always had been a stuffy place to live. Growing up, Hunter associated the place with unspoken unhappiness, even before he knew about witches and his parent’s unhappy marriage.
But now, it was full of life for the first time in a long while. Sophie seemed to be settling in, and it was just common sense for James to stay too - there was plenty of room after all. And since Brian’s death, not a day went by without witch-hunters, Council staff, and especially Charlotte, coming for one reason or another.
Hunter enjoyed the company. His mother did not.
Hunter found it quite funny, how it riled the stuck-up old bag. Yes, of course he loved her, or at least he felt dutiful as her son, but Hunter definitely took after his father.
Sophie had a bit of a shock when meeting Mrs Astley. The first time they saw each other was in the breakfast room the morning after they came back from the Lake District. Sophie came down, still in her dressing gown and slippers, her unbrushed hair scraped back into a hair band.
Mrs Astley, in stark comparison was already dressed (in miserable black) and had done her hair and make-up before even daring to set foot outside her room. She was a very petite woman in her early fifties, but looked older, with narrow, pinched features. Her hair, which had once shone a silvery blonde was now pale, washed of all colour and pulled into a harsh bun.
Her cold eyes fell on Sophie, immediately analytical. “Oh no, George. She won’t do at all. Too fat and too common.”
Sophie was taken aback by the sudden harshness from the little elegant woman. She looked about the room and saw Hunter sitting rather sheepishly in the corner, reading a newspaper.
“Mother, Sophie and I aren’t… she’s a witch-hunter. In training, anyway.”
“I don’t know, George. Taking in all these waifs and strays - it’s just not nice.” Mrs Astley said to her son, as though Sophie wasn’t there. “Filling the Manor with all sorts. Well, I suppose your late father would have approved.” Disgust entered her thin voice. “Cursed be the day I met him.”
“Mother.” A sharp warning came from Hunter, who immediately folded up his paper and stood up. He didn’t look particularly angry, more resigned to suffering her bad manners.
“Come on, Sophie, I’ll get you some breakfast.” Hunter invited.
“That is what Charles is for!” The sharp voice followed as they left the room.
“Sorry about her. I think she enjoys adding more misery to the world.” It was harsh, but true. Mrs Astley seemed to have no purpose in life except to criticise everyone else.
Later, once Sophie was dressed (although not to Mrs Astley’s standards), Hunter offered to give her the guided tour of Astley Manor. It was a beautiful old house and they walked through the array of rooms, all stuffed with priceless antiques and portraits, Hunter keeping a running commentary as they went.
“There’s George Astley II. He was the first to own the Manor.” Hunter informed, pointing to a portrait cracking with age, where a suitably regal looking fellow posed in gold clothes and a white permed wig.
“I see the resemblance.” Sophie retorted, almost making a joke. “Where’s your portrait?”
“Ah, I don’t have one. I keep putting it off.” Hunter confessed. Then invited her to continue the tour. They occasionally passed more portraits of increasingly recent George Astleys, the clothes changing drastically, but the faces all familiar.
They stopped at the newest portrait, painted in the 1970s when the man in the picture was the same age as Hunter now. Hunter looked up with a sad recognition.
“And this is my father, known to one and all as Young.”
Sophie gave him a questioning look that made him smile, and he hastened to explain. “It gets confusing when you’re all called George Astley. I get called Hunter because that’s the nickname my friends gave me. My father was always called Young, because his father was known as Old George. See, it all makes perfect sense.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sophie replied, unconvinced. But she continued to look up at the portrait. “He looks nice.”
“He was. He was lively, always off having adventures and coming back with wild stories. He’d make friends with everyone he met. And of course he was a great witch-hunter.”
“You sound like you miss him.” Sophie added in her usual cold manner, that Hunter almost felt offended.
“Come on, I’ll show you the gardens.”
Outside the sun was shining, it was another lovely summer morning and there was the lazy buzz of bees over the well-kept flowers. Hunter and Sophie walked side by side through the perfect flowerbeds and sculpted hedges.
“When did he die?” Sophie asked, not being distracted from the topic of Hunter’s father.
/> “Just over five years ago.” Hunter replied. It wasn’t that he was ashamed, or emotional talking about Young, he just never did. “I was in my first year at Oxford when the news came. The witches finally caught up with him.”
“I’m sorry.” Sophie said perfunctorily.
Hunter shrugged, “It happens, inevitably. But hey, how do you like the gardens? My mother keeps them. Not that she’s particularly green-fingered, but she does enjoy ordering the gardeners about, telling them how to do their job and so on.”
Mrs Astley was a character for endless jokes and ridicule. The old bag was probably aware that she wasn’t popular with people in general, but that didn’t stop her.
“Your mother, she’s…” Sophie paused, wondering how best to phrase it. “Your parents were very different, weren’t they?”
“Oh yes!” Hunter replied with a laugh. “They were too different, absolutely hated each other, they were always arguing when I was young. Oh, the memories.”
“But they got married?”
“Yes. I suppose they were in love at one point. My father was the rich, handsome witch-hunter that saved a beautiful young lady from being sacrificed.” Hunter gave the summary of their meeting. “As you heard, my mother often expresses the wish that she had been left to be killed. I can honestly say that I had an interesting childhood, growing up in that atmosphere.”
On that sorry note, they continued quietly about the gardens, allowing Sophie to view the Manor from every angle. And it was a beautiful and suitably impressive place. There was just one small, niggling little detail.
“How on earth do you have a place like this and stay safe?” Sophie asked, her eyes fixed on the building. “You said that famous families were a target for witches. Surely this Manor is a beacon to them.”
Hunter looked at her, it was a smart question, and he was surprised that she remembered what he had said so long ago. “You’ve still got the necklace I gave you?”
Sophie’s hand went to her neck. “Yes.”
“And I told you that was personal protection. Well, the Manor is filled with layers of enchantments and protective amulets and wards built into the very walls and doorways. No witch is ever going to find this place, and even if they did they couldn’t do anything.”
“What about sharing this protection?” She asked sharply. “I think Brian could have benefited from it.”
Hunter was shocked to see fire and anger in her expression. Did she blame him for Brian’s death? How could she? “Sophie-”
She cut him off by walking away. But Hunter wasn’t about to let her go with this misconception. He caught up with her, grabbing an uninjured section of her arm and ignoring her fierce glare.
“Look, all witch-hunters and Council staff have the best protection the MMC can provide. But sometimes a strong group of witches can overcome these measures. We all do the best we can. And yes, I thought Brian was safe. Obviously not. I will not feel guilty about the safety of the Manor - as for sharing, I couldn’t even if I wanted to because I don’t understand half of it.”
“Finished?” Sophie asked curtly.
Hunter felt the heat from his rant fading quickly. “Yes.” He replied quietly, releasing her arm and watching Sophie walk away. He stayed where he was. He couldn’t be blamed for Brian’s death, no more than he could be blamed for any fallen witch-hunter, unless he invited them all to live in his Manor.
He kicked the nearest plant, sending petals flying. Now he would feel guilty about that - his mother would probably blame this imperfection on the gardeners when she saw it.
Oh well. He went back inside, making straight for his library. But Hunter stopped by the door, it was open and together at the desk, Sophie and James sat conspiratorially close.
Did Hunter feel jealous, looking at that cosy little scene? No, it must be something else. Whatever it was, Hunter felt no compulsion to join them just now. Let James have time with Sophie, so he might learn how unforgiving she was.
Eight
Every once in a while they all suffered to sit through the charade of a civilised dinner. Hunter, as master of the house, sat at the head of the table; his mother, styling herself as Astley Manor’s own dowager empress, sat opposite him at the far end of the slightly too long table. This suited Hunter to have his mother seated as far away as possible, and he often employed the use of candelabras or a vase to block her from view completely.
James and Sophie submitted to sitting wherever Mrs Astley decided in her elaborate ideas of a perfect seating plan, even for such a small party. After all, it was easier to go along with something so harmless to keep the stubborn bag appeased.
Unfortunately today Mrs Astley was in a talkative mood, and she raised her sharp voice so that her unimportant comments could be heard clearly down the table.
“And at least Mrs Harsmith has daughters to keep her company now Mr Harsmith is gone. All Mr Astley deigned to give me was an adventurous, cad of a son. Although I don’t doubt you have half-sisters across the whole of England, George. But why I couldn’t have had a daughter instead. You must get married, George, so that I might have a daughter-in-law, preferably before I die of old age.”
Hunter smirked and nearly choked on his soup. In the corner of his eye he could see the slight shake of James’ shoulders, as he too found Mrs Astley amusing. The newcomer, Sophie, seemed frozen in her seat, eyes wide at the open berating at the dinner table.
“Don’t slurp your soup, George. Oh, you are too much like your father - I had hoped that a man from such an old family would have been well-mannered - well-moneyed was more like it. Young was as disgustingly common and ill-behaved as those football louts that always appear on the news.”
“No he wasn’t mother.” Hunter corrected, protective of the memory of his father.
“Don’t be so sure. Going to scruffy pubs, coming back drunken on cheap beer, swearing.” Mrs Astley broke off, aghast at the mere thought of it. “Oh, I wish the witch had killed me, death would have been preferable to a torturous lifetime with Young.”
“Mother, please remember that we have guests.” Hunter said, before she could get too depressive.
Mrs Astley looked up, as though surprised to see James and Sophie there, she frowned at her son’s assumption.
“Guests? I see no guests. I see two of your witch-hunter underlings that have the cheek to live off our kindness. That you live beside your staff as equals, George! It is most unbecoming.”
“They are my friends, and as I am master of this house they shall remain here as my guests for as long as they like.” Hunter replied with bite.
“Friends? Oh, you keep such bad company. When I think back to the boys from school - why don’t you keep in touch, invite them to stay? Better them than these two. The girl is pretty, I admit, but I doubt she has a drop of good blood in her body. As for the young man, that hideous voice resonates through the house, the indecipherable accent - and what’s more he’s proud of it!”
Hunter sat back in his chair, a clenched fist by his mouth and his body near shaking. He was torn between anger and amusement, his mother was irritating and offensive, but the old girl was bloody entertaining.