Pour yourself a hot drink and cosy up with the first chapters of our thrilling new serial, TheRosesOf Halloran Hall.

PART 1: Abby was certain she had never been there, but the place – and the people – were so familiar to her…

Abby Morris drew in her breath as she waited for the next sweep of the windscreen wipers. The taxi was stuffy; the heater going full blast.

She hadn’t eaten since breakfast which was several hours and two hundred miles ago. Distorted by the sleet, her eyes and her brain were clearly playing tricks on her. The wipers clicked. The sleet cleared briefly and the sensation was back sharper than before.

She was sure she had never been to Halloran Hall and yet she recognised the house. It was as familiar to her as the face of an old friend. How was that possible? As the taxi pulled up, its engine idling, Abby was aware of the driver talking but his words were lost to her, so entranced was she by the building in front of her.

“Miss? This is the right place, isn’t it? The Hall itself?”

Abby struggled to concentrate. “This is the right place.” She wasn’t sure why she felt a frisson of pleasure from saying those words. Until a moment ago, this had just been a job – a little on the unusual side, but a job nonetheless.

Now, Abby had the feeling it was going to be so much more.

Quickly paying the fare, she got out of the taxi and stood looking up at the building’s impressive facade. Carefully she took in every stone and lintel of the four floors, every sash window and, on the uppermost floor, the smaller attic windows set into the Mansard roof. She paid no heed as the sleet gave way to snow and the first flurries dusted her coat. She was vaguely aware that the driver was taking her case from the boot. She was eager for him to be gone so that she could be alone with the house.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked as he set the case down.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you. I’m meeting someone.”

“OK. If you’re sure.”

As the car drove away the only sound came from the rooks calling in the nearby copse.

“Hello, old friend,” Abby said aloud to the house.

Three half-moon steps led up to a double height front door framed by two columns standing sentinel over the entrance. The snow was falling in earnest now. Abby wheeled her suitcase into the stone-columned portico. Leaving it there, she turned up her collar and walked to the corner of the house to get a different perspective. That was the thing with old houses. Built by the same architects, following the fashions of the day, sometimes even the same plans, they often looked similar.

Abby scanned her memory. Her father had been a welder before retirement, her mother a seamstress. Most of their holidays had been in the UK. Typical bucket and spade holidays punctuated by what her mother called “a little bit of culture”. They had, as a result, visited various churches and stately homes. Had Halloran been on their list of sites to see? Abby couldn’t recall holidaying in Suffolk but perhaps she had been too young to remember the details. That was the only logical explanation.

The corners of the building had been faced with white limestone offset to create a stepped pattern running up to the roof. The rest of the facade had been rendered and painted in a mellow, almost golden tone.

Abby stroked the wall. “So, old friend, where do I know you from?” Her breath frosted in the cold air. Did we have afternoon tea once on the lawn after taking a tour of your rooms? Or do I know you from the pages of a magazine? Did a famous rock star or wayward Duke once own you and make you newsworthy?

Abby followed the line of the brick wall that ran from the side of the house. Halfway along was an arched, ironstudded, wooden gate. It too was familiar. Abby closed her eyes and snowflakes fluttered against her lashes. As her gloved fingers clasped the heavy iron ring of the handle, she pictured what lay beyond the gate and, still with her eyes closed, she opened it. In her mind’s eye she could see a formal kitchen garden to her right and on her left were the roses; a whole wall of yellow roses, staggering in their beauty. The image was so powerful that Abby could smell their sweet scent. She opened her eyes.

The kitchen garden was indeed arranged to her right, each bed surrounded by neat box hedging. To her left climbing roses covered an old stone wall. Despite the fact it was winter and paying no heed to the inclement weather, a dozen or so roses were in full bloom – a deep, golden yellow with yet more in bud still to open.

In the space between the gardens was a gravel path that split in two around a stone fountain. Abby stared at the fountain. That had not been there last time, she was certain of it.

Last time? She searched her memory for the image. Last time there had been a wooden bench and the path had not split in two but run straight and true through this formal space and into a wildflower meadow beyond. Perhaps she had been mistaken, then. Perhaps she had never been here before.

“Can I help you?”

Abby looked to where the wildflower meadow should have been. Emerging from the swirling snowflakes was a tall, thin man wearing a ski jacket, a beanie and a pair of fingerless gloves. “I’m afraid this is private property.”

Abby opened her mouth but the

Abby Morris got out of the taxi and stood looking up at the impressive facade of Halloran Hall

words wouldn’t come. She stumbled back against the brick wall. There was something about the man’s stance, his walk, the tone of his voice. “Miss? Are you OK?” He was running now, running towards her, long legs, striding out. The snow that was gathering upon the path kicked up in a fine dust, coating his black boots. She stared at his boots. To look anywhere else was too disconcerting. What on earth was happening to her? “Miss?” He was beside her now. Black boots planted firmly on the path, his footprints already being painted over by the falling snow. She watched as if in slow motion as his hand came out to steady her arm. His touch, through thick coat, jumper and longsleeved top, was the jolt she expected it to be.

From somewhere deep within, she summoned breath into her lungs and words into her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her mouth did not feel as if it were her own. She tried again. “I’m sorry. I’m a little lightheaded. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“That’s not good. You should eat some chocolate.” He let go of her arm and patted his pockets before producing a third of a slab of chocolate still covered in its foil wrapper. “This will keep you going until you can get a proper meal inside you.” “I couldn’t…” “Take it. Please.” “Thank you.” She took the chocolate and broke off a square. She offered the bar back to him but he lifted his hand.

“I think your need is greater than mine,” he said.

She could hear the smile in his voice but still she could not look up into his face because if she did, how could she stop herself from tracing her fingers across his cheek or smile as she stared into those dark brown eyes? For she was certain his eyes would be such a colour. How would she stop herself from saying aloud, “We meant so much to one another once. Don’t you remember?”

The sound of a car engine broke the spell. They both turned to watch through the open gateway as a Range Rover pulled up.

“Are you here to meet with John?” the man asked.

Abby nodded.

She watched as a man in his fifties emerged carrying a bundle of papers.

“Sorry I’m late! Blasted snow caught me out. Not forecast, you know. Only supposed to be sleet for us.” He strode towards them. “Nice to see you again, Abby.”

“You too, Mr. Wiseman,” she said, shaking his hand.

“John, please. I see you’ve already met Spencer.”

Feeling calmer in the reassuring presence of the avuncular Mr Wiseman, Abby turned and lifted her gaze to Spencer’s face.

“Yes.” His eyes were as brown as she had known they would be, his cheeks ruddy in the cold February air. She wanted so much to cup his cheek in her palm. Unnerved by the strength of her feelings, she tore her gaze away.

“We hadn’t actually got as far as introductions,” Spencer said. “Abby was taken unwell. A bit lightheaded. Lack of food. An emergency ration of chocolate helped but a cup of hot, sweet tea would do her the world of good, I reckon.”

John looked concerned. “Let’s get you inside then and I’ll put the kettle on as Spencer suggests.”

He fished a large set of keys from within the pocket of his Barbour jacket. “The house has so many entrances and exits.” He found the key he was looking for. “But you’ll soon get used to it.” He turned to Spencer. “Abby is going to house-sit for me and work through Russell’s papers.” “Quite a job,” Spencer said. “Indeed. Any trouble with the cousins?”

Spencer shook his head. “This weather ought to keep them at bay for a while.”

John chuckled. “We can hope, but it’s meant to clear tomorrow.”

“Weekends are usually when they turn up.”

“Well, keep me informed. You have my number. Remember, you have more right to be here than they do as things currently stand.”

Abby watched as Spencer hung his head, cheeks becoming a little redder.

“Do you want to join us for a cuppa, Spence?”

Sayyes! Abby balled her fists inside her jacket pockets.

“No thanks. I’d better be getting back to work.”

She felt her shoulders sag at his response. Who was this man to her?

Why did she feel so drawn to him?

Reluctantly, she followed John to a wooden back door tucked under a small side extension. Spencer was walking back the way he had come. Halfway down the path, he turned and looked over his shoulder. Embarrassed to have been caught watching him, Abby blushed. Spencer raised his hand and gave her a cheery wave. Brightening, Abby waved back.

Did you bring any belongings with you?” John asked as he filled the kettle and put it on to boil.

“My suitcase is standing on the front porch. It’s undercover there. I can get it later.” She pulled back a chair and sat at the large wooden table. “What is it Spencer does here?” Abby asked, trying to fight the urge to smile simply from saying his name.

“He’s the Head Gardener. In summer he hires help but in the winter it’s just him. He lives in one of the tied cottages on the estate. By the way, he’s a dab hand at fixing the boiler if it plays up,” John said as he poured water into two mugs, dousing the tea bags. “My wife has stocked the cupboards and the fridge with some basics. There should be enough there to rustle up a few filling meals before you need to do a shop. And she also turned up the thermostat and put the immersion heater on so there should be plenty of hot water if you want a bath later.” “That’s very kind. Thank you.” He smiled. “Sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

She watched him take milk from the fridge and add a splash to each mug.

“I’ll give you a quick tour after we’ve had our tea. Russell lived mostly in this part of the house. The library doubled as his study, so I imagine you will spend most of your time in there. Let me know if you find anything that looks even remotely like a Will or a Letter of

Wishes. Russell was adamant right up to the last that he didn’t need to make a new Will, leading me to assume that he already had one. Although I advised him to let me hold it for safekeeping, he refused and wouldn’t even confirm its location or if indeed such a document actually existed which really was very strange.” John frowned.

“I’ll do my best to find it if it’s here,” Abby said. “What happens if I don’t find anything?”

“If he dies intestate, you mean? His next of kin will benefit. There are three very distant cousins: Gavin, Portia and Tiger. None of them had anything to do with Russell when he was alive. I doubt they have ever given him a second thought, nor he them. But, as I’m sure you can imagine, they’re taking a keen interest now they may have a share in the house and the land. Please don’t let the cousins into the house. I don’t trust any of them.”

“What is it you think they might do?” Abby asked.

“I wouldn’t put it past them to destroy any document that might disinherit them, or plant something that stakes their claim.”

It was an hour later when John bade Abby farewell. As he opened the kitchen door, Abby was touched to see her suitcase waiting for her outside.

“Spencer must have brought it round for you. He’s a good chap,” John remarked. “If I were you, I’d pop a ready meal in the oven, then have a nice bath and an early night.”

“Good advice.”

“If you need anything call me.”

It was after nine when Abby emerged from the bathroom in her pyjamas and dressing gown. She had feared the old house would be cold but the west wing was a modern addition and had none of the inconveniences of an old house.

Thankful, Abby padded across to her bedroom in her slipper socks. She had intended to read some of the papers John had left but, overcome by tiredness, she prepared instead to settle down for the night.

She was just reaching to turn out her bedside lamp when the sound of laughter caught her attention. It was high-pitched and playful, children’s laughter. She went to the window that overlooked the wall of roses and the vegetable garden. Impenetrable darkness greeted her gaze. She had forgotten how dark the countryside could be.

Quickly pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a fleece-lined jacket and boots, Abby went downstairs. A torch hung from the key rack. Sweeping it up, she unlocked the door and walked into the garden. The light above the kitchen door cast a halo across the gravel path. Shadows danced on the periphery. The snow was falling steadily.

“Hello?” she called. Silence greeted her followed by giggling.

“Who’s there?” She switched on the torch and cast the beam out into the garden.

Two children, around eight years old, dressed in heavy woollen coats, froze like statues on either side of the fountain. Then, laughing, they ran off along the path.

“Hey, come back…” Abby began to follow them. At the end of the path, wet grass licked at the top of her boots, soaking her trousers. Abby knew the children had run in the direction of the estate’s woodland. She didn’t know how she knew this, she just did.

Reasoning that the children seemed to know exactly where they were, she decided it was probably not the wisest move for her to go tramping around the woodland on a freezing winter’s night and instead she turned back towards the house.

Perhaps they were Spencer’s children? The thought struck her, as did the pain that accompanied it. She didn’t want them to be Spencer’s children, for if they were, it would mean he had loved someone else. Questions swirled in her mind. Why did this man, this stranger, mean so much to her?

Abby could see in the torchlight that an object had been left on the edge of the fountain. She picked it up. It was a beautiful yellow rose, not quite still in bud, not yet in full bloom but suspended between the two states.

The water in the base of the fountain was frozen solid. A stone plinth bearing a brass plaque stood in front of it. Abby swept the snow aside so she could read the inscription: ToTobyandLiza– TogetherForever.

Toby…Toby? Waves of warmth and love rippled through her. The name was like a shadow at the edge of her mind, beckoning her on then embracing her.

Abby turned to look up at the facade of Halloran Hall. There was something very special about this place, something important that she had to do. If only she could remember what it was.

NEXT WEEK: Why is Halloran Hall so familiar to Abby and who are Toby and Liza? Find out next week in the second part of our new time slip serial.

As she turned out her light, she heard laughter, highpitched and playful, children’s laughter