He barked out a laugh. “I should have guessed. This place needs a warning sign on the front door, advising no one over five foot six to enter. I can’t imagine how James will live here.”
“He won’t. There’s a university house earmarked for him once they marry. Beth wants me to move into this house. I love it, but it’s better for Daisy if I stay at home. Easier for Mum and I to share her care.”
An unaccustomed surge of admiration flooded him. She put her child first. A good mother. Very different to his own.
Wasn’t that what he wanted for his children?
He nodded, but didn’t reply. Common sense told him not to get involved with her, even as something deep inside whispered that he should.
“I’ll get those blister plasters.” Remembering to bend his neck, he ducked in and out of the smallest imaginable bathroom without bumping his head. The sterile hydrocolloid dressings were precisely what Anita needed.
Kneeling beside her again, he lifted her foot and rested it across his leg to support it. Despite his efforts to keep things cold and clinical, her warm, vital calf against his thigh raised feelings he didn’t want to have for any woman yet, and especially not for her.
Suddenly, the room felt even smaller, closing in on them, pushing them together.
He peeled open the dressings and quickly applied them to the broken blisters. Once the task was done, he retreated to his seat at the dining table, as far away from her as possible in the tiny room.
Not far enough, but his professional mask added an extra layer of distance.
“The dressings will absorb any fluid seeping from the broken blisters. If a bubble forms, don’t break it, and don’t change the dressings unless they fall off. Leave them on for at least three days to let the skin heal.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, not raising her head to meet his eyes. She picked up the near-empty water glass and drained it.
“I’ll refill that for you and get rid of the bowl.” Careful not to touch her hand, he took the glass and busied himself in the kitchen.
Somehow, Anita Kiernan had broken through all his careful defences and evoked emotions he didn’t want to feel. Something had shifted between them, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
God, make me stronger. Strong enough to resist being misled by emotion. What counts is doing my duty to the mission. Don’t keep me waiting, get me out of England and back to my work.
Despite his prayer, thoughts of her lingered.
When the front door squeaked open and James and Beth exclaimed questions about Anita’s feet, relief pushed the air from his lungs. The less time he spent alone with her, the better.
The fragile connection forming between them was a mistake. It needed to stop now, before it went any further. He mustn’t be like his father, coming back from the mission field to be snared by the first pretty face he saw.
~*~
Five days later, Matthew concluded that either God didn’t hear his prayer in Beth’s kitchen, or He had other plans.
He stood in the quadrangle of his old Cambridge college and squinted at his watch in the bright sunshine. James, as always, ran late. Probably explaining some obscure aspect of theoretical physics to a keen learner.
Students thronged the old stone pathways surrounding the manicured lawn, obeying the Keep Off The Grass signs. Once, and only once, behind schedule for an exam, he’d taken a shortcut across the lawn. Breaking that rule tormented his conscience for weeks. Now, he was tempted to break a far more serious rule.
Impatient with standing still, he paced up and down the quadrangle.
At last, James ambled out.
Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, Matthew strode toward him. “I’ll ring your mother’s driver and tell him we’re ready. He went away, rather than risk a ticket waiting outside.”
Once he’d made his call, James beamed at him. “I’m glad you agreed to come today. Mother will be pleased to see you.”
Matthew nodded. “It will give me a good chance to assess her.”
His friend’s already stooped posture sagged further. “The last couple of weeks since she met with the oncologist have been tough for her. She trusts God, of course, and we’re all still praying for a miracle. Getting on a clinical trial would give her hope, if nothing else.”
“I’ve put out a few feelers to medical researchers who might know of something useful.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” The same need for hope gleamed in James’s eyes.
“Happy to help. I have little else worthwhile to do with my time. Shuffling papers at the Mission Trust and preparing fundraising presentations.” Acid soured Matthew’s stomach. He didn’t try to mask the bitterness tainting his voice.
Lady Tetherton-Hart’s ancient Rolls-Royce pulled up outside the college before James replied. A smartly uniformed chauffeur jumped out with an agility belying his age and opened the rear doors, before taking the parcel Matthew carried and placing it in the boot.
James beamed at him. “Thank you, Jefferies.”
The vehicle purred through the crowded Cambridge streets, attracting curious stares, as if perhaps they were celebrities. Matthew stiffened in his seat.
“Sorry, old chap, I know you loathe this sort of display. But Mother’s determined to keep the Roller going rather than buy another car. Bit different to your usual mode of transport in Africa, I suppose?”
He loosed a short harsh laugh. “Very. It has windows and passenger seats, for one thing. And no livestock.”
James chortled with far more genuine humour. “I can imagine. Any word on when you’ll be going back?”
“None. The rules my grandfather set up appear unbreakable. A Coalbrooke must run the Mission Trust, or it ceases to operate.”
He fell silent. Saving lives at the clinic gave him a sense of value and worth in God’s eyes that shuffling papers never could.
James peered at him through his thick glasses. “What do you plan to do?”
His lips twisted. Should he tell his friend he’d considered the unthinkable, walking away from the family trust, headed by a Coalbrooke since the 1800s. He could run the Mapateresi clinic using his own money.
“My duty. Whatever that is.” His bitten-back tone should give his friend the clue the topic wasn’t open for further discussion.
James let it go. Gentle chatter about issues with the academic committee, his latest research project, and the house he and Beth would move into after they married took up the rest of the twenty-minute trip into rural Hertfordshire.
The car turned through a set of huge wrought-iron entrance gates and swept along the tree-lined drive to Tetherton Hall. Nestled into a valley, the mellow stone manor house looked what it was, a large family home able to hold at least a dozen children along with the staff to look after them.
A loved family home.
Very different from grim Coalbrooke House, isolated on the windswept fens.
James peered out the window. “I can’t help it. Every time I come here, I get the same thrill of excitement I did whenever Mother allowed me home from school. I couldn’t wait to get back into my laboratory or go exploring in the woods or fishing in the stream.”
Matthew bit back the thought he’d never felt the same. Instead, he forced a joke. “How many garden-shed labs did you blow up or set fire to with your chemistry experiments?”
James laughed. “Only two, before I realised physics was really my calling. One advantage of Mother and Dad so often being away from home, there was very little fuss about it. Jefferies simply built another one.”
He’d always looked on the bright side of everything.
The car stopped at the imposing front entrance, but as they started to walk up the wide stone steps, a casually dressed middle-aged woman walked around the far corner of the building, waving and calling out to them.
“I saw the car in the drive. We’re here, out the back. No need to go in. On such a lovely day, I thought we’d eat in the garden.”<
br />
Lady Tetherton-Hart? James and Anita were right—she’d changed a lot.
He examined her with a clinical eye. Linen trousers and cotton shirt hung loosely on her thin frame. The slight yellowish tinge to her pinched face suggested the cancer had spread to her liver. Not good.
But her relaxed air and joyful smile as she hugged her son displayed the biggest changes. Very different to the fashionably dressed woman he remembered from her token school visits, more concerned with the social whirl than spending time with her son.
She turned to him. “Dr Coalbrooke?”
He nodded.
“I’m very pleased to meet you again.” She didn’t give him the hug Anita had warned him about, but she did take his outstretched hand in both hers and warmly pressed it.
“Please, call me Matthew.” He held out the Pettett and Mayfields bag Anita helped him select. “I brought a gift, to thank you for your hospitality.”
“Thank you. And of course, you must call me Portia. Come with me. Mrs Jefferies has a lovely picnic prepared for us, and the girls are already here.”
Girls, plural.
Anita. His stomach tightened.
They rounded the building, and he saw them, still quite some distance away.
Beth perched sedately on a wrought-iron garden chair on the paved terrace, beside a wild and unmown garden. More like a meadow than the manicured lawn he’d expected.
Anita sat in the long grass. In a loose white dress with her hair flowing over her shoulders in wild curls, she looked more earth mother than glamour girl. Daisy giggled in her lap as she recited, “He loves me, he loves me not,” and plucked the petals from a flower.
Beautiful. He couldn’t help smiling.
“Don’t they look lovely,” Portia said. “I wish…” Trailing off, she drew in a deep breath and pulled back her hunched shoulders.
James stopped and put an arm around her. “Beth and I don’t plan to wait, Mother. You’ll see your grandchild.”
She sighed and smiled up at him. “I hope so. Seeing you and Beth start a family would mean so much to me. But it’s all in God’s hands.”
Something hopeful in her voice and expression turned a dagger in his heart. He silently prayed for her. But another concern needled. If he was starting to feel for patients, losing the armour that kept him safe and allowed him to do his work, how would he manage going back to Africa?
The answer was to build those defences up again. To be strong, not weakened by emotion.
When he spoke, his professional mask settled firmly in place. “I’d like to discuss your health with you, if I may, and get your permission to speak with your doctors.”
Portia inclined her head graciously. “Of course. I’ll do anything that might help. We can talk after lunch.”
Oblivious to their approach, Beth and Anita remained engrossed in the game they played with the child. As they neared the group, Anita reached the last petal. “He loves me. He loves me, Daisy!” she declaimed dramatically, clutching her chest. Daisy and Beth both giggled at her playacting.
Then she glanced up, and her startled gaze met his over the child’s fair head. She looked so sweet, so caring, so clearly a nurturer. Called to be a mother. Unbidden, an image flashed into his mind of her at Coalbrooke House, bringing life and colour and sound to the dour empty space.
Not only to his house, but to his life. His heart rate accelerated, pounding in his throat like he’d run a mile cross-country.
The thought was ridiculous. He knew it was. He’d be betraying generations of Coalbrooke tradition and all his grandfather had taught him, if he made the same mistake his father had by marrying an unsuitable woman. Yet his mind and body responded to her, against his will.
And would marrying a woman like her be worse than breaking the Mission Trust?
Anita looked away. Wild colour flooded her cheeks as she scrambled awkwardly to her feet, wincing and hobbling a little. Those blisters wouldn’t have healed yet.
Ignoring him, she spoke to the child. “The boys are here, Miss Daisy. It’s time we sat at the table like grownups do.”
Her glance didn’t stray his way again.
He didn’t know how he felt about that. Relief warred with a peculiar sense of loss. All he knew was no woman had ever roused the mix of emotions in him Anita did.
Chapter 11
Ignoring Matthew was difficult. The man had such a presence. Even though Anita didn’t as much as glance his direction, awareness of him filled her. Impossible to pretend he wasn’t there, without being obvious and impolite.
Daisy beaming, pointing, and shouting, “Man!” didn’t help.
“Matthew,” he corrected her, just as he had at the airport. Anita didn’t dare peek at him, but the hint of a smile in his voice warmed her.
“Daisy, shhh. Here, have some juice.” Busying herself with Daisy gave her a good excuse to pretend he didn’t set her heart in a silly flutter.
Her cheeks still burned over being caught sitting on the ground like a child. She probably had grass stains on her dress too. Pretending she didn’t care, she sat at the table with her head held high and focussed on Daisy and the others.
Portia, though she looked worse to Anita’s concerned gaze than last time they’d met, seemed determined to be cheerful.
“Let’s give thanks before we eat,” Portia said. “Matthew, you’re the missionary, would you like to pray for us?”
Anita’s gaze flew to him, catching a moment’s surprise he quickly masked behind his Dr Bluebeard expression.
“I’m a doctor. My work is saving lives. I let others do the praying.” He spoke lightly, but a bitter edge sharpened his voice.
James, always the peacemaker, jumped in. “I think that’s a slightly touchy subject, Mother. Matthew is desperate to get back to his medical work in Africa, and his Trust insists he stay here.”
Anita’s heart clenched for him. Feeling a strong calling and being denied the opportunity to do it must hurt deeply. She had no sense of calling or purpose in her work at all. That was a kind of ache in itself.
“I’ll say grace,” James continued. “Lord, thank You for the sunny day, for the wonderful food Mrs Jefferies has prepared for us, for bringing us all here together. May the food bless our bodies and give us health and strength, and may the good company bless our spirits. Thank You.”
“Amen,” everyone murmured.
Portia passed around a plate of cucumber sandwiches. Anita took two, handing one to Daisy. Her niece sat at the table like a little princess, wearing the daisy crown she’d woven for her while they sat on the rough meadow grass, full of wildflowers.
“Good girl,” she whispered.
Daisy grinned back at her. The kid was so responsive, so secure in the certainty she was loved. Nothing must ever happen to change that.
“I had another batch of RSVPs in today’s post,” Portia said. “But nothing from your father yet, James.” Sadness darkened her eyes for a moment.
“I’ll email him to check he got it. He might be travelling.”
Portia brightened. “True. We have most of the other replies. Perhaps after lunch we can go through them, Beth? Begin working out who to sit together? Having the reception here in the garden will be so lovely.”
Anita’s tummy quaked. She and Matthew would be placed together, for sure. The best man and maid of honour almost always were. Better not to think about it.
Definitely no more than a few sips of champagne, just enough for the toasts. She couldn’t risk doing or saying anything she’d regret. Like telling him how much she’d been thinking of him since Saturday evening.
Though for him, maybe what he’d done for her was just work, what he’d do for any patient. Maybe she was being silly imagining his gentle touch and that certain something she’d glimpsed in his eyes meant more.
Reminding herself so would make getting through this a whole lot easier.
She just needed to convince that pesky part of herself that wanted to believe in
something more. At least all the chat about wedding seating made a good distraction.
“Always a challenge getting the tables arranged right at a wedding, if your family is anything like mine.” Beth laughed. “Remembering Uncle Johnny won’t sit at the same table as Auntie Ruth since the Christmas Trifle Episode of 1998, and all the other little family squabbles.”
James blinked behind his glasses. “At least our wedding won’t be cluttered up with exes like that scene from Four Weddings And A Funeral you tease me about. We waited all those years for each other.”
Beth touched his hand on the table and gave him a sweet smile. “We did.”
“You will have one ex attending, James,” Portia said. “Imogen and her husband have accepted their invitation. Even her mother unbent enough to accept.” She chuckled softly. “I do hope she’s forgiven you for turning Immy down, and doesn’t intend to shout ‘It should have been my daughter,’ at a crucial point in the ceremony.”
“Only fair if she does,” James said. “We managed to disrupt Immy’s wedding at a critical moment, after all.”
The engaged couple exchanged a look full of so much love and joy and shared memory that something in Anita’s chest seemed to crack and break.
She was happy for her friends. Of course she was. Just…she wanted love like that for herself.
It was what she sought in her dates, but hadn’t found. Might never find.
Not via the dating website, anyway. Some people did. Some successful marriages happened that way. Just not hers. Not yet, and she knew with sudden certainty, not ever.
The man God intended for her wasn’t filling in profile forms on the Internet.
Inevitably, her thoughts went to Matthew.
Pointless thoughts.
He wanted to get back to Africa, to his important work. She had no skills to help in that sort of life, and she had Daisy to consider, too. Besides, she wanted a marriage based on love, like James and Beth’s. Not marriage to a man who only valued his wife to produce an heir.
Matthew was so obviously the wrong man for her.
Knowing all that didn’t stop her thinking of him. Her gaze crept to him across the table, and their glances met and held for a long breathless moment. He didn’t smile, but his eyes glowed with unexpected warmth.
Teapots & Tiaras: A sweet and clean Christian romance in London and Cambridge (Love In Store Book 5) Page 9