The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan

by Jenny O'Brien

  Things were different now. Things were impossibly different from last night. Last night she’d finally decided to have a no-strings attached fling with this handsome man with come to bed eyes the colour of amber and muscles to die for. Apart from being the envy of all her friends she’d finally be able to lay to rest the photo of her all alone in that café. The photo that had turned her from an anonymous girl to someone the whole of the British public seemed to feel sorry for. There’d been letters innumerable in both the Times and the Telegraph about the difficulties young women faced away from their parents, and the potential damage in releasing details of her whereabouts to the battalion of fortune hunters.

  It was only now she realised just how thankful she was to that cameraman. She hadn’t been able to go back to her apartment just as her favourite café was now a stranger. Cara and her boyfriend had come to her rescue by collecting her belongings and letting her move into their lounge until she’d found her new apartment; the unusually vacant apartment that is until she realised its proximity to the building-site opposite.

  What yesterday had been a fling, an exploration into her sexuality and what she might have been missing all these years was now something different. Now she was in love, impossibly, irrevocably in love with what her mother would term a bit of rough. Now she was lost because, no matter how wealthy or well educated he was, the barriers set in place by society meant that, whichever path she chose, would be a rocky one. Her grandmother would have understood, as would Aunty Popsy, but her mother would never understand. If she continued on her current journey she’d end up alienating almost everyone, apart from Cara and the Hoppers.

  So no, she wasn’t all right. She’d never be all right again. A fragment of a song, or was it a poem, suddenly popped out of nowhere, maybe Tennyson, she wasn’t sure. “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Was it? She didn’t know.

  Instead of replying she leant back and placed a soft kiss against his chin, the only place within reaching distance and changed the subject.

  “Come on, let’s go for that swim.”

  Chapter Five

  12th May. I don’t deserve to be called French. I’m a member of the most romantic nation in the world and yet I launched myself at her like a testosterone fuelled teenager. Where’s my reserve, my planning, my strategy? There was none, only instinct and my instinct told me to kiss her. I’m lucky I wasn’t slapped, more than lucky.

  He felt her distance and knew he was the cause. He knew he shouldn’t have kissed her; not like this, not here, not now. He should have wined her and dined her. There should have been flowers, lots of flowers and not just roses and orchids. Fresh bunches of sweet smelling lavender and stock; flowers like the ones that struggled to grow in his little patch of ground by the side of the house. He’d pick some for her later.

  He wanted to woo her like some lovesick pup just out of short trousers because wasn’t that just what he was? He’d fallen in love at first sight without even knowing her name, or who or what she was. He’d thought her French and then American until he’d finally realised if he ever met her he’d be playing with fire. He wasn’t sure which one of his mates on site had pinned the photo up behind his desk with the poor little rich girl caption, and in truth he didn’t care. They were good lads, all of them, happy to help with a day of grass cutting at the chateau. With good pay came loyalty, at least he hoped it did.

  No, he shouldn’t have kissed her. He shouldn’t have been tempted to spend more time in her company but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Their timelines had crossed and now seemed forever tangled, very much like the undoable knot he’d been forced to use on her robe. There was no way back for him now. There was no way back for him ever.

  Picking up her bag, along with the towels, he grabbed her hand in his and, pulling the door closed, started the long walk up the driveway. He’d have liked to place his hand across her shoulders and hug her to his side, their hips banging gently like lovers but he didn’t. He was well past the casual arm draping that came with friendship. He’d wanted to take her in his arms the first time he’d spotted her struggling out of that taxi all those weeks ago but, by the time he’d hauled himself down the side of the building she’d already disappeared into the apartment block. He’d remembered the ribbing from the building crew and had watched from afar; watched and waited for the ideal opportunity to introduce himself. Fate was on his side after weeks of inopportunity and he’d grabbed his moment with both hands.

  Now, as the silence between them turned from comfortable to oppressive, he knew he’d blown it. He’d been too quick, too impulsive, too demanding and, if her expression was anything to go by, she was about to make him pay for it with her silence.

  When she finally spoke her words were a surprise. “Are we gate-crashing, or trespassing or something? I don’t really want to end up in gaol.” She’d paused, pulling him to a stop, her free hand waving at the huge expanse of lawn interspersed with hydrangeas in need of a prune. “There’s been enough in the papers…” she stuttered to a halt, her eyes shifting from his as she turned her head back to the gardens.

  “No, we’re not trespassing.” He let go of her hand but only briefly so he could tilt her chin and look into her eyes. “Trust me, Sarah? I said I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you last night, and that includes getting you arrested.” He managed a laugh before pointing at the bend in the drive. “You’ll see as soon as we get to the corner.”

  * * *

  The driveway veered off to the left before twisting back on itself to reveal a large turreted chateau. Something clicked in her memory about turrets as she counted them; eight. Who the hell built a chateau with eight turrets? They only had two at Cosgrave Manor, two too many if Hopper was to be believed with all those spiral staircases to keep clean, not that he ever yielded as much as a feather duster or hoover. It was the army of women employed by the National Trust that came in on a daily basis to ensure not even the smallest dust mote remained.

  They were facing the front entrance now, her eyes drawn to the large impressive studded door guarded by a pair of Baroque porticos more suited to an Italian villa than a French country residence. Her gaze flickered across to the many similarly ornate windows expecting to see movement; the edge of a curtain, a picture or two, a face. But all was silent, empty even or should that be eerie?

  Letting go of his hand, she moved away to peer across at the sandstone frontage. “I don’t get it,” her eyes narrowing. “It doesn’t make sense. Who owns…?”

  “I do.” He grimaced before grabbing her hand again. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”

  He pulled her gently around the back to where “the rest” of the chateau should have been. The rest was a shock.

  She’d been expecting more of the same. Instead there was crumbling fire blackened walls and collapsed wooden beams reminiscent of something out of a Jane Eyre movie finale.

  He squeezed her hand, his eyes wandering over the charred remains of what should have been his home.

  “There was a fire,” his laugh dry now. “Of course there was a fire. I was away at Cambridge when I got the call. My uncle lived here on his own, with just his nurse and some servants to keep an eye on him. He was in a wheelchair by then, crippled with arthritis but still managing to get around, still managing his own affairs to a fashion; still a stubborn old Frenchman reluctant to take help when it was offered.”

  He dropped to the ground and pulled her beside him his fingers still linked in hers. “He’d taken me in after my parents’ plane crash. He was all I knew really, all the family I had, and I was all the family he had.” His eyes now back on the rubble. “They never worked out how the fire started but he used to smoke so it was probably that. All the servants escaped but they couldn’t get to him.” His voice trailed off to nothing and silence surrounded them like the aftermath of a wake, a silence more difficult to breach than the by-product of any kiss.

  Sitting there holding hands she didn’t know
what to say. He’d lost everything; his parents first and now this.

  There was nothing left other than the two of them staring at the wreckage of his life, and yet he was still trying to carry on with his dream, despite or because of the fire? Suddenly she had to know.

  “Surely it can be rebuilt, brought back to its former glory. What about insurance?”

  “He’d let things slip, ma chérie. I should have noticed. I should have been there to help but I was off gallivanting at university.”

  “But that’s what he would have wanted. He’d have wanted you to make the most of yourself?”

  “It didn’t help him in the long run though, did it? He died alone in that upstairs room he refused to leave because of the memories it held. They couldn’t get to him because he was a silly old man too wrapped up in the memory of his wife.”

  “But don’t you see he wanted to be where he was happiest?”

  She watched his face as she tried to think of something else to say to break the sadness that layered itself around them like a thick fog obliterating the sun. She had to think of something positive, something to change the mood back to what it had been. But there was nothing positive to be garnered from such a tragedy, only sadness.

  She’d thought her life a misery, saddled as she was with the never ending pressure of not knowing who to trust, but at least she’d had a good childhood. No one knew more than her about the imperfections of her parents, wrapped up as they were in their own sense of personal wealth and importance. Nevertheless she’d been loved and taken care of. If it wasn’t for that stupid will the world would have been hers for the taking.

  She blushed now at how selfish she’d been; how selfish she still was. Here was a man who’d lost everything. Yet he’d still managed to crawl out from all that devastation to make something positive out of his life. He didn’t moan at the injustices sent his way. He just got on with it.

  Feeling tears prick the back of her eyes was the only encouragement she needed to change the sudden sad tempo. If she didn’t move she’d be crying like a toddler who’d just lost the top off his ice-cream and that would never do.

  “So where’s this pool you were promising me then?” she said, pulling him to his feet with a mighty yank even though it felt like she was trying to shift a boulder.

  He dragged his hands across his face briefly before lifting up her bag. “Good idea,” his hand again reaching for hers. “There are far too many ghosts roaming about today for a poor French builder.”

  The soft golden water in an oasis of greenery was like a little bit of heaven after the oppression and memories of moments before. She knew it would be cold, but she didn’t care. After all, they had an outdoor pool back at Cosgrave Manor so she was used to it.

  “Hey, that’s cheating!” he muttered, watching as she pulled off her top to reveal a simple black racing Speedo swimsuit. “I thought I said a bikini? What’s this with you Brits and one pieces anyway? If us blokes had our way they’d be banned,” he continued, moaning under his breath as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  “It’s not your lucky day, Pascal.” Her eyes careful to avoid the large expanse of washboard stomach now he’d thrown his shirt alongside her top.

  Oh God, he was beautiful, too beautiful to feast her eyes on. Instead of staring with her jaw dropped to her knees, she raced to the edge before executing a perfect dive, her body hardly causing a ripple as it punched through water. She felt rather than heard him follow, his arms slicing through the air like an Olympian. They met at the far end, their hands holding onto the side of the blue tiled edge.

  “When I mentioned a swim, I didn’t think you’d be a champion diver or anything?”

  “I’m not; I’m just an enthusiastic amateur.” She caught sight of the smile pulling at his lips as she listened to the way her words sounded and blushed. “Race you.” She did a quick tumble turn and was off like a rocket only to find him waiting with arms folded at the other end.

  “So what took you so long?”

  Treading water while she caught her breath was the wrong thing to do as it meant she took her eyes off him for a second, but a second was long enough. Before she knew it he’d grasped her around the waist and plunged her deep into the water.

  “Hey,” she spluttered, as she broke through the surface with water streaming down her face.

  “All’s fair in love and war,” his arms lingering around her waist, his fingers spanning the skin on her back setting up little tingles of anticipation across her body. Their eyes locked and, lifting her arms across his shoulders she joined her lips to his, eager suddenly to feel the pressure of skin against skin. As the kiss deepened, she wrapped her legs around his back, keen to increase the pace and pressure of his touch.

  She never wanted this to end but end it did and at his hand. If it had been up to her they’d have stayed sandwiched up together for the rest of the afternoon.

  He lessened his grip and, staring down at her flushed face, gently lowered her back into the water.

  “We need to stop, Sarah,” wrenching his hand through his hair.

  “Why do we need to stop?” she paused, her look changing from loving to suspicious in an instant. “You’re not married are you?”

  “Me?” He let out a loud laugh scaring the birds in the trees. “Sarah, if I was married, believe me, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “That doesn’t stop most men from at least looking…”

  “Well, I’m not most men.”

  “So, why do we need to stop then?” she replied, levering herself out of the pool. But the only answer she got was his silence.

  She’d just discovered how much it hurt to be rejected and she didn’t like it one little bit. There must be a reason for his rejection, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what it might be. But, bending down for a towel before starting to dry her hair, she promised that before the day was out she’d make him tell her.

  “Here, let me do that, I don’t want you getting cold.” He wrapped the spare towel around her shoulders and taking the other raised his hands to her head.

  “Such long hair…”

  “It’s to make up for the boring mouse colour.”

  “Mice are pretty little things, small and delicate,” he added, his eyes wandering down only to stop at the ugly mark on her leg.

  “My god, you’re hurt.” He knelt on the grass and ran a gentle hand over the bruise.

  “It’s nothing, really. I just walked into a chair yesterday.”

  “What am I going to do with you, ma petite? First you bang your head, not forgetting your ankle and now this.”

  “As I said, its nothing.” She grabbed her jeans and started pulling them on, keen to return the conversation back to his behaviour in the pool,

  “You didn’t answer my question, Pascal. What’s the problem? We’re both young, free and single.” She wasn’t about to let him off the hook without a fight. She felt like someone had just stolen all her Christmas presents from under the tree.

  “None of us are free,” his gaze not quite meeting hers as he fastened his shirt buttons with undue care.

  “What, you’re telling me you’ve got a girlfriend, or you’re engaged?” She threw him a look laden with suspicion.

  “Sarah, I wasn’t talking about me. I was talking about you. What about this Rupert chap? What about this inheritance thing?” He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers instinctively curving in the gentlest of caresses. “Perhaps this was a bad idea, perhaps we should just go back…”

  “No you don’t.” Her gaze steely. “You promised to feed me and I’m keeping you to it.”

  “Okay, but no more launching yourself at me, I only have so much willpower.”

  “You started it!”

  “Yes, and now I wish I hadn’t.” He grabbed her hand and then the rest of their belongings before heading back to the gatehouse.

  And now I wish I hadn’t

  The words reverberated around her head filling her mind with an array of tho
ughts. Why, what was wrong with her? Was it because she was clumsy, or perhaps inexperienced? Was it wrong to reach out to him in the pool, after all a woman knew when a man fancied her? Why else had he asked her on a date? Was it even a date? Maybe he just wanted to be friends?

  Backwards and forwards her thoughts went as she tried to make sense of it all.

  Now she knew about the chateau and a little more about him she’d started to allow dreams to fill her mind, tentative dreams where the chateau was miraculously restored to its former glory; dreams where her parents happily consented to her marriage to this would-be builder-landowner. He obviously had an impeccable background, which was all that interested her parents for; despite not needing their consent, she wanted it all the same.

  Staring up into the cloudless sky, she couldn’t believe how her hopes had come full circle. After Paul she’d given up on ideas of love and marriage. She’d long given up on the idea of filling her house with the sound of children’s laughter. But now she’d allowed that dream back to invade her heart, and he’d burst it like a bubble. There was something he wasn’t telling her, she just wasn’t sure what.

  They’d arrived back at the gatehouse and she watched as he carried out the basket before setting it on the large tartan blanket he’d thrown across the centre of the lawn.

  “You were right about the amount of food.” Her eyes glued to the basket as he pulled out smoked salmon parcels, hard-boiled eggs and numerous pots of assorted salads, not to mention a full quiche lorraine. There was even a box full of Buffalo wings, which he offered her with a smile.

  Plates loaded they rested back on the cushions he’d pinched from the sofa as they sampled a little of everything.

  Stretching out on the rug, her hand rested on her arm as she stared up at him. “That was gorgeous; I won’t be able to eat for a week.”

  “What, no room for coffee and a chocolat religieuse?”

  She sat up quickly, squinting across at him. “You haven’t? Those funny little shoe bun men covered in…”