Product Description

Agnes Campion is 30 when she inherits Flagge House from her uncle. Struggling with its upkeep whilst looking after her elderly aunts, juggling her work, and nursing a bruised heart, she doesn't bank on falling for handsome property developer Julian,whose job is everything she despises. But Julian has commitments of his own: Kitty, his long term mistress, won't give him up without a fight: seemingly fragile, she's really as tough as nails. Nor does Agnes imagine that stoical Andrew, whose organic farm is being wrenched away from him by a planning application, will fall for her too. Slowly, surely, a love quartet is developing, but relationships are messy things, and only two people can find happiness at the end of it all ...

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Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #281662 in Books
• Published on: 2003-05-29
• Original language: English
• Binding: Paperback
• 400 pages

Amazon.co.uk Review
Secrets of the Heart has all the impressive observation of Elizabeth Buchan's earlier books, allied to a warm and nuanced sympathy for her characters that is completely unforced. The finest romance titles nowadays have all the requisite elements but are written by authors who are real stylists, with an intelligence and grasp of character that was a rarity 10 years ago. Readers of romantic fiction have every right to expect the very best these days and it is writers like Elizabeth Buchan who have wrought this change. Gone are the days when the genre could get away with slapdash writing and a parade of clichés.

In Secrets of the Heart, Agnes Campion has reached the age of 30 when she takes on the squabbling aunts and decaying splendour of Flagge House, which has been left to her. Just maintaining this troublesome property is keeping her more than occupied but she is also dealing with two distinctively different suitors, both involved with other women. Julian is a property developer, suave and handsome, but a man who sets all kinds of ideological alarm bells ringing in Agnes's mind. Andrew, an organic farmer struggling with both a marriage and a business that are falling apart, is an even more tricky prospect. Completing an emotional quartet, Kitty, Julian's deceptively fragile mistress, has Agnes in her sights as an enemy. All four characters are beautifully fleshed out by Buchan with the subtle touches that her admirers have come to know well, and even the slightly predictable schematic of the book (it's clear early on that two characters will find happiness, while two will not) actually adds to the pleasurable juggling with the genre conventions that Buchan does so well. Take the vengeful Kitty's examination of her own motives:

The anger never seen by others stirred in Kitty's soul. She knew, from experience, that anger tightened the ligaments in her neck and hardened her features. Oh, Kitty, Kitty, what a sham you are. If she was truthful, and Kitty tried hard to be so, her anger was really a form of grief and impotence, not the strong, cleansing emotion that psychotherapists advised it should be.

The author's first book, Daughters of the Storm marked Buchan out as an impressive writer, and when her third novel Consider the Lily won the 1994 Romantic Novel of the Year Award, expectations were very high for subsequent work. If Perfect Love lost a little of the momentum, it is triumphantly regained here. --Barry Forshaw

About the Author
Elizabeth Buchan lives in London with her husband and two children. She was formerly a fiction editor for a publishing company, and now writes full time. She also writes reviews for a national newspaper. She is the author of several highly praised novels, the most famous of which is CONSIDER THE LILY, which won the 1994 RNA Novel of the Year.

Excerpted from Secrets of the Heart by Elizabeth Buchan. Copyright © 2000. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved
A month or so before he died, her uncle went blind. 'No matter,' he said, in his gentle way. 'It is to be expected.'

Her heart breaking for the second time in a year, Agnes sat by the bed in the blue room where the spiders made free in the cornice and the cracks ran in dark tributaries across the walls. It was shrouded by the drawn curtains, and borrowed heaters exuded uneven pockets of warmth. She held his hand. 'Is there anything I can do to make it more bearable?'

His flesh felt lifeless. 'There is one thing,' he said. 'Do you think you could bring up my Jane Austens and put them on the bedside table? I miss them.'

Trying hard not to distress him with her weeping, Agnes went downstairs into his study, searched for the books amongst the papers and unpaid bills and carried them upstairs. She guided her uncle's fingers over the pile, which she had placed as close to him as possible. The encounter between his fragile fingers and the worn bindings was of old companions. 'All my life,' said John, 'these have been my friends, and I don't want to abandon them now.' Exhausted by the effort, he lay back and was quiet.

Neither Maud, John's wife of forty-five years, nor the nurse approved of this sentimentality. At regular intervals, they attempted to move the books out of the way of the medicines and necessary equipment. At one point Maud, threatened by what she saw as Agnes's indulgence, snatched up Persuasion and threatened to throw it away. Agnes won and was rewarded by her uncle's patient smile.

In the lucid moments that were left, John chose to say the things that Agnes already knew but wanted to hear again.

'I'm glad the house will be yours, Agnes. It is right. No one better.' The breath was measured between each word.

As the last surviving Campion, Agnes had known that she was to inherit Flagge house, since her uncle explained the position on her sixteenth birthday. It was a trick of fate and fertility that continually brought her up short.

There was another struggling pause. 'I'm glad we've always agreed on what needs to be done. But you will have to find ways. I've told you, there is no money.'

Agnes's mental image of the house grew hazy, and reassembled in sharper detail so that the defective roof and rotting windows were observable. For a second or to, she was shaken by doubt. Then she touched her uncle's cheek with a finger, willing him into peace as he laboured on. 'It won't be easy, Agnes.'

Inheriting an historic, if smallish, manor house was tricky at any time, and a rather vexed subject in the world in which Agnes had chosen to make her career. But she had thrashed that one out with herself. She had been lucky and others were not and, if the golden apple had been tossed into her lap, it was best to make the most of it - precisely because others suffered and had no luck. Anyway, there were her feelings for the house and she loved her uncle. Thatwas important. Why waste energy on unnecessary scruples?

She bent over to kiss him. 'I promise to do my best.'

While John fought his last battle, she sat on through the bleak January afternoons and silently said goodbye to the security of their relationship. Resting on the sheets, John's hands were almost as white as the cotton and, occasionally, they clenched in pain. She stroked them, anticipating the time when he would not be there. No longer would his place be laid at the table; his key would remain on its hook in the hall; his voice, having joined the voice of the dead that crowded the husk of the house, would not be heard.

What a stealthy thief Death was, and what a dark and private business dying was. She had encountered it and its effects in her work more than once. They were lucky in the west: the span between the green light and the red was usually reasonable and, very often, by the time the latter flickered, you were aching and ready to go. She glanced at her uncle. That was true in his case but it did not make the passage easier.

Agnes squeezed out a cloth in warm water, to which had been added a drop of Lavender oil, and bathed her uncle's face and wrists.

'Uncle John...' she whispered, but longed to say 'Father'. 'Thank you for everything. Thank you for looking after me all those years.'

He turned his head towards her. 'You were my daughter,' he said simply.

He shut his eyes and fell into one of his lightning dozes. Outside, in the dark winter world, the wind rattled frozen branches. It was grief-stricken weather: wild, moody and battering, which was only fitting. Slowly the sun abandoned the short day, leaving Flagge House and the water-meadow to the gloom. Complete and turned into itself, the house and the land settled for the night.

'Are you frightened?' she asked, when he woke with a start. She thought she saw that his features had sharpened.

He stirred and grimaced. 'I lost God a long time ago.'

Agnes did not bother him any more but sat, quiet and watchful. Slowly, infinitesimally slowly, John Campion raised his hand and traced the shape of the books he could no longer read.

Are They There, Agnes

When she woke the next morning, still exhausted from her late-night watch, Maud appeared in her bedroom and told Agnes abruptly that her uncle was dead.

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Customer Reviews

Genuine dilemmas, page turning quality
In most fiction you can spot which couple is going to end up together by about page 7. Here, you genuinely don't know how it's going to end until it does. In this story about the delicate balance between conservation and progress, Elizabeth Buchan shows that you can be both a fine writer and also a good read for those who don't want intellectual pretension.

What a fantastic writer she is!
I picked up this book expecting an "anaemic" romantic tale; I couldn't have been more wrong. Buchan has the ability to get inside her characters' hearts and to identify with the feelings of very different types of women. I am now going to read everything she has ever written.

You must read this novel!
If you want to be gripped and moved read this portrait of three women at different stages of their lives. Tender, truthful and wise, this is about England, its changing countryside and the choices life today poses.Can't be bettered.