by Kate Hewitt
Mollie swallowed. ‘And then?’
‘This is private property, Miss Parker.’
Staring at him now, his eyes so black and pitiless, his expression utterly unyielding, every grudge and hurt she’d held against Jacob Wolfe crowded her mind and burst from her lips.
‘Oh, I see,’ she managed, choking a little on the words. ‘You don’t have enough space up at the manor. You need this little cottage as well.’
‘It’s private property,’ Jacob repeated. His expression didn’t flicker.
‘It was my home,’ Mollie threw at him. Her voice shook, but only a little bit. ‘And my father’s home. He died in the bed upstairs—’ She stopped the words, the memory, because she didn’t want Jacob sharing it. She certainly didn’t want him to pity her. Besides her four years doing a degree in horticulture, this had been the only home she’d ever known. It churned in her gut and burned in her heart that Jacob Wolfe was going to throw her out without so much as a flicker of regret or apology, especially considering how her father had given his very life for the wretched Wolfe family.
Yet how she could protest? She’d been living here rent-free for years, and Jacob was right, it was private property. It had never been hers. She’d grown up with that knowledge heavy in her heart; she could certainly live with it now. She swallowed, lifted her chin.
‘Fine. I need a little time to go through my father’s things, but then the cottage is all yours.’ It hurt to say it, to act so nonchalant, yet Mollie forced herself to meet Jacob’s hard gaze.
He was just speeding up her plans by a few days or weeks, that was all.
Jacob continued to look at her, his expression considering. His gaze swept over the cluttered room, seeming to rest on various telling items: her father’s boots, his pipe, her suitcase.
‘You have somewhere to go,’ he said, more of a statement than a question.
‘I want to let a place in the village,’ Mollie said. It was not precisely a confirmation, because she did not in fact have any arrangements made. Jacob must have realised this, for his gaze sharpened as it rested on her; it felt like a razor.
‘And what will you do with yourself? Do you have a job?’
Mollie bit her lip. ‘I run a gardening business,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But I’m hoping to expand into landscaping and garden design.’
‘Oh?’ His eyebrows arched as he took in this information. Then he nodded once, briskly, as if coming to a decision. ‘Well, in that case perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
Mollie stared at him in bewilderment. She could not imagine how anything between them could be mutually beneficial. ‘I don’t—’
‘If you’d like to stay in the cottage,’ Jacob cut across her, ‘you can earn your bed and board. You’ll work for me.’
Chapter Two
He remembered her now. She’d followed him—all of them—when they were younger, gap-toothed and tousle-haired, peeking at him and his brothers and sister from the tangled limbs of a tree or behind a hedge. She’d barely registered on his radar; he’d had seven siblings to protect and provide for. The gardener’s daughter had been completely outside his authority or interest.
More recently he’d seen her image plastered over the walls of Annabelle’s room. His sister must have taken Mollie Parker’s photograph a hundred times. And he could see why: with her pale skin and tumbling, auburn hair, she possessed a Titian beauty that seemed almost otherworldly, especially considering how he’d stumbled upon her in this enchanted little place. It had taken a moment to connect this flashily dressed interloper with the laughing, graceful girl on his sister’s bedroom walls, but now Jacob recognised the tumbling curls and creamy skin. She was beautiful, stylish, and he had no idea why she would be in this place. On his property.
Why had Mollie Parker gone off to Italy the moment her father had died? Why had she returned? And what was he going to do with her now? The look of uncertainty and fear in those soft, pansy-brown eyes annoyed him, because he didn’t want to deal with it. He didn’t want to deal with the outraged Miss Mollie Parker. He had enough to worry about, managing the renovation and sale of Wolfe Manor, and attempting, as best as he could, to repair his fractured family. Concerning himself with a stranger’s well-being was not on his agenda. He didn’t need the feeling those proud yet pleading eyes stirred in him: something between curiosity and compassion, something real and alive. He hadn’t felt anything like that in … years. Nineteen years.
And he wasn’t about to feel it again.
He watched her gaze steal to the boots by the door. Her father’s boots, he suspected.
Seven months on, she would still be grieving. He felt an uncomfortable jab in his conscience as he realised he could have been more sensitive; the unexpectedness of her presence, and her vulnerability, had caught him on the raw. For a single moment, with her fancy clothes and her trip to Italy, he’d assumed the worst. It had not taken long to realise his mistake, but then, it never did.
Still, Jacob didn’t want to have to deal with her. Think of her. Be affected by her. And yet something in her eyes reached out to him, spoke to him, and despite his misgivings and even his fear, he answered that silent call.
He would help her and at the same time assuage his own conscience. He’d given her the commission of a lifetime.
‘Work for you?’ Mollie repeated incredulously. She felt another sharp stab of anger. ‘My father worked for you for fifty years, and for the past fifteen he didn’t even get a pay cheque.’
Jacob stilled. Mollie realised she’d surprised him. She wondered if he’d thought of her father at all in the past nineteen years. He obviously hadn’t concerned himself for a moment with her. ‘I’m not talking about your father,’ he replied after a moment. ‘You are the one in need of a place to stay, and I happen to be in need of—’
‘I won’t be your maid. Or your cook. Or—’
‘Landscape designer?’ Jacob finished softly. Mollie almost thought she heard laughter lurking in his voice. She must have imagined it, she decided, for Jacob’s expression was as coldly foreboding as ever.
‘Landscape designer?’ she repeated, testing the words. ‘You can’t—’
‘You told me you were planning to start a garden design business. And I happen to need someone to landscape the estate’s gardens.’
Mollie blinked, realisation dawning. ‘That’s—that’s a huge job,’ she replied faintly.
Jacob lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.
‘So?’
‘But … a job like that.’ She paused, her heart beating with sudden, frantic desperation.
She didn’t want to disqualify herself for such an amazing opportunity, but her own conscience required that she explain to Jacob the absurdity of what he was suggesting. ‘An offer like that should go to a much more experienced landscaper,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a huge commission.’
‘I know,’ Jacob replied drily. ‘And you do too, apparently, yet you’re throwing it away with both hands.’
‘Why are you asking me?’ Mollie persisted. She could not fathom why Jacob Wolfe, after so many years away, would now offer her such a huge commission, and without even reviewing a CV or reference! Looking into his cold, hard eyes, he did not seem like a man to be moved by pity. So what did he want?
‘Because you’re here,’ Jacob replied, his voice edged with impatience, ‘and I need a landscape designer. I also need to turn around this place quickly, and I don’t have time to trawl through endless CVs of hopeful gardeners.’
‘Turn around?’ Mollie repeated. ‘You’re selling Wolfe Manor?’
Jacob’s mouth curved in a smile that was both bitter and mocking; there was nothing warm or funny or even human about it. Yet somehow the sight of that cruel little smile made Mollie feel only sad. No one should smile like that. She couldn’t even imagine the feelings that lay behind it, inside him. ‘Too much space for just one person,’ he said softly.
Heat flooded he
r face as she recalled the words she’d thrown at him. You don’t have enough space up at the manor. Well, she’d been angry. And she still didn’t know what Jacob Wolfe was about. Was he doing her a favour? Was this really pity? The thought made her want to throw the commission right back in his face, even if it was the stupidest thing she’d ever do in her life. ‘Still—’
‘It’s late,’ Jacob cut her off. ‘And frankly, when I went for a relaxing midnight stroll, intruders were not on my mind. If you’re so concerned about your own abilities, you can show me some initial designs tomorrow.’ He turned to the door he’d so unceremoniously kicked in just moments before. ‘And if you don’t, you can start packing tonight.’
Mollie watched him leave, his tall frame swallowed up by the darkness, and she sagged against the fireplace hearth. She glanced at the cosy glow she’d created moments before; all that was left was smoking ash.
Her mind spun in dizzying circles. It was all too much to process: coming back home, seeing her father’s things, meeting Jacob Wolfe again and now this commission … The past and the present had come together with an almighty crash.
Sighing wearily, Mollie pushed her tumbled thoughts to the back of her already disordered mind and, after closing the door—Jacob had as good as vanished into the night—she retrieved her torch and headed upstairs. It didn’t matter that there was no light, or water, or even food in the non-working refrigerator. There were sheets on the bed, only a little musty and damp, and she was exhausted.
Kicking off her Italian leather boots, shedding the clothes that she’d never truly felt comfortable in, Mollie tumbled into bed and then gratefully, blissfully, into sleep.
She woke to bright summer sunlight streaming in through the diamond-paned windows of her bedroom. She blinked, groggily, yet within seconds it all came crashing back: the cottage, the job, Jacob.
She leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes, yet the image of Jacob danced before her closed lids. He’d looked so much older, so much more rugged and weary somehow.
What had he been doing for the past nineteen years? Why had he come back now? Was he in need of a little cash? Was that why he was selling Wolfe Manor?
Mollie told herself not to rush to conclusions. She’d thrown enough accusations at Jacob last night. She’d tried and judged him years ago, even when Annabelle, who as his younger sister had far more cause, had not. Annabelle, when she’d talked of her family, which had been rarely, had always seemed willing to forgive Jacob, to assume the best.
Last night Mollie had assumed the worst.
Had Annabelle seen Jacob? Did she know he was back? Did any of the Wolfe siblings know? So many questions. So few answers. And, Mollie acknowledged, sighing, none of it really concerned her anyway. She’d always danced on the farthest fringes of the Wolfe family, watching as Jacob and Lucas took their younger siblings out for a picnic, or played hide-and-seek amidst the vast grounds. No one had ever known she existed, until Jacob had left and Annabelle, scarred both inside and out, had retreated to the manor, refusing to show her face in public again.
Then Mollie had been a friend, because she didn’t have any others.
But the other Wolfes—Jacob included—had never so much as looked in her direction.
And they’d never considered what it would mean to her or her father to let Wolfe Manor fall into such desperate disrepair.
Shrugging these thoughts away, Mollie got out of bed. Now was the time to think of the future, not the past. Jacob Wolfe wanted some landscaping designs by the end of today, and she’d give them to him. Mollie didn’t know when she’d decided to accept the commission; but when she’d awakened in the morning she realised she already knew. This was too important to throw away in a moment of pique or pride, and there was something redemptive, something right, about restoring Wolfe Manor’s gardens to their former glory. She wasn’t doing it for Jacob, or even for herself. She was doing it for her dad.
She pulled on her old gardening clothes—jeans and a worn button-down shirt of her father’s—and tied her hair up in a careless knot. No point impressing Jacob Wolfe with her stylish new clothes. He hadn’t looked impressed last night, and the effort would be useless considering without water she couldn’t even have a shower or so much as brush her teeth. Armed with her notebook and a couple of pencils, Mollie put on her wellies and headed outside.
It was one of those freshly minted days of early summer, when the trees, impossibly green, glinted with sunlight, and every furled flower was spangled with diamond dewdrops.
Mollie took several deep breaths, filling her lungs with the fresh, damp morning air. She felt a rush of feelings: happiness, homesickness, sorrow and hope. Excitement too, as she left the cottage’s little garden for the unkempt acres beyond.
Over the years, as her father’s condition had worsened and he’d been unable to tend to his duties—few as they were—on the estate, Mollie had taken over what she could. She’d kept up the small garden surrounding the cottage, enabling her father to exist in his own little make-believe world where the manor was lived in and the gardens were glorious, the roses in full bloom even in the middle of winter. Meanwhile, all around them, the estate gardens had fallen into ruin along with the house.
Now she walked down a cracked stone path, the once-pristine flower beds choked with weeds. Sighing, she noticed the trees in desperate need of pruning; for many, pruning wouldn’t even help. There was enough dead wood to keep the manor stocked with logs for its fires for a year.
The manor’s rose garden was a particular disappointment. It had once been the pride of the estate—and her father—designed nearly five hundred years ago, laid out in an octagonal shape with a different variety of rose in each section. Henry Parker had tended each of these beds with love and care, so often absorbed in nurturing the rare hybrids that bloomed there.
Mollie’s heart fell as she saw what had befallen her father’s precious plants: as she stooped to inspect one, she saw the telltale yellow mottling on the leaves that signalled the mosaic virus. Once a rose bush had the infection, there was little to be done, and most of the bushes in the garden looked to have contracted it.
She straightened, her heart heavy. So much loss. So much waste. Yet there were still pockets of hope and growth amidst all the decay and disease: the acacia borders were bursting with shrub roses and peonies; the wildflower meadow was a sea of colour; the wisteria climbed all over the kitchen garden’s stone walls, spreading its violet, vibrant blooms.
She found a bench tucked away underneath a lilac bush in the Children’s Garden. Her father had known all the names of the formally landscaped plots, and he’d told them to Mollie.
The Rose Garden, the Children’s Garden, the Water Garden, the Bluebell Wood. Like chapters in a book of fairy tales. And she’d loved them all.
Now she laid her notebook on her knees and took out a pencil, intending to jot down some ideas, but in truth she didn’t know where to begin. All she could see in her mind’s eye was the weeds and waste … and her father’s lined face, concern etching his faded features as he worried about whether Master William, long dead, would be disappointed to see the beds hadn’t been weeded.
Perhaps landscaping the Wolfe estate gardens was too big a job for her. She had so little practice, so little experience, and the thought of ploughing under even an inch of her father’s beloved flowers and trees made her heart ache. Yet clearly this couldn’t just be a patch-up job; the Rose Garden alone would have to be nearly completely replaced.
Leaning her head back against the stone wall, Mollie closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face, the sweet scent of lilacs drifting on the breeze. She felt incredibly weary, both emotionally and physically. Too tired even to think. She didn’t know how long she sat there, her mind blank, her eyes closed, but when she heard the dark, mocking tones that could belong to only one man her eyes flew open and she nearly jumped from the bench.
‘Hard at work, I see.’
Jacob Wolfe stood i
n the entrance to the garden, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
He wore a steel-grey business suit, his cobalt tie the only splash of colour. He looked coolly remote and arrogantly self-assured as he arched an eyebrow in sardonic amusement.
‘You can’t rush the creative process,’ Mollie replied a bit tartly, although her mouth curled up in a smile anyway. It was rather ridiculous, having Jacob catching her practically taking a nap. She straightened, aware that unruly wisps were falling from her untidy bun and her clothes were sloppy and old. Jacob, on the other hand, looked cool and crisp and rather amazing.
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he murmured, and Mollie’s smile widened. Were they having a civil conversation? Or were they—unbelievably— flirting? ‘I’ve just been walking through the gardens to assess the damage,’ she explained, her tone a little stilted. Her heart was beating just a little too hard.
‘So you’ll take the job.’
Now she actually laughed. ‘I suppose I should have said that first.’
‘Never mind. I’m glad you got right to it.’
Jacob looked so grave that Mollie’s tone turned stilted again. ‘Thank you. It’s an amazing opportunity.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He glanced around the enclosed garden. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.’
‘It’s the Children’s Garden.’
‘Is it?’ He continued looking around, as if he’d find a stray child hiding underneath one of the lilac bushes like some kind of fairy or elf.
‘I always thought there should be something more childlike about it,’ Mollie admitted ruefully. ‘Like toys.’
Jacob nodded in the direction of the fountain that reigned as the centre piece of the small space. ‘I suppose that’s where it gets its name from.’
‘You’re quick,’ Mollie said with a little laugh. ‘It took me years to suss that.’ She glanced at the fountain of three cherubic youths, each one reaching for a ball that had just rolled out of reach. It was dry and empty now, the basin filled with dead leaves.