A Family of His Own

by Liz Fielding

  His mouth tightened.

  ‘Just a bit childish?’ she offered, since he didn’t appear to appreciate her first suggestion.

  ‘Ungrateful,’ he said. And he moved his shoulders in what might, just, have been a shrug. ‘I suppose I should go the whole hog and confess that I threw away the toast, too.’

  ‘Well, now I’m shocked,’ she declared. Just as it occurred to her that maybe he was the one who’d needed an excuse to call. That maybe her unaccountable carelessness had been the result of her subconscious working overtime when she wasn’t looking. Maybe it knew more than she did.

  Maybe she was fooling herself.

  ‘You do know there are starving people out there?’ she said. His face remained expressionless, his eyes giving nothing away, and she realised that he had no way of knowing when she was teasing, when she was being serious. ‘Of course you do. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Aid work?’ When he didn’t reply, she relented. ‘OK, I’ll forgive you this once. Only because you didn’t ask me to make it and I guess busybody do-gooders must expect the occasional knock back.’

  He shook his head, and this time when his mouth tightened it edged nearer to a smile. Possibly. Which was something of a relief.

  ‘Perhaps I should make a donation to the vicar’s fund for famine relief,’ he offered. ‘Would that put it right?’

  ‘Oh, look, I didn’t mean… You’ve done your bit. You don’t…’ She stopped herself, suddenly realising that she was being teased back. ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ The almost-smile died. ‘Actually, what I really wanted to say—’

  ‘No. Stop right there.’ No woman wanted to hear a man say he was sorry for kissing her. ‘That’s quite enough apologising. This morning is wiped from the slate.’ She held out her hand, accepted the pocket knife. It was still warm from his hand, his body. ‘Thanks for returning this. I don’t know what I would have done without it.’

  ‘Broken in through the gate again?’ he offered.

  ‘Oh, that’s a low blow. I’ll have you know that when I fix a bolt, Mr Ravenscar, it stays fixed.’

  ‘I guess you’d have had to climb over the wall, then. When you were quite sure I was not at home—’

  She was grateful for that.

  ‘—and rescued another shrub from certain death while you were there, no doubt.’

  ‘I always find it hard to resist temptation.’ Which was probably not the brightest response in the world. But she still found herself close to smiling as she turned and walked back into her kitchen, leaving him to follow or not, as he chose. When she turned he was standing in the opening, blocking out the sunlight so that his face was in shadow.

  ‘About the garden,’ he said.

  Her heart gave a little flutter that wasn’t entirely connected with the possibility of some work. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re right. It is in a terrible state. I’d like to have it restored, put back the way it was before…’

  He couldn’t say the words, she realised. ‘Before it wasn’t in a terrible state?’ she offered.

  He glanced out at her own garden, crammed to overflowing with cottage favourites. ‘You seem to know what you’re doing.’

  Kay reached for the kettle, clamping her mouth firmly shut to prevent herself from telling him that she was more than interested. Gripping it tightly while she filled it in order to prevent herself from flinging her arms around him and demonstrating exactly how interested she was.

  Throwing her arms around him would not be a good idea. And certainly not professional. Tempting, but not wise.

  Like taking the job, she realised with a sinking heart.

  It would be a great business opportunity for her, of course it would. A terrific selling point for her embryo company that she had begun with such high hopes. By now she’d imagined it would have taken off sufficiently for her to buy a decent van, take on some help, but it was still bumping along at ground level.

  Oh, right. As if she cared about any of that. She wanted to do it for the pure pleasure, the personal satisfaction of working in the peace and calm of the walled garden. Restoring something beautiful, bringing it back to life.

  But much as she wanted to grab it with both hands, she needed to forget her own needs here and concentrate on Dominic Ravenscar. The one thing she had learned this morning was that he had not come to terms with his loss, and she was almost certain that seeing her at work in the garden his wife had made would not do anything to help him let go.

  In fact she was almost certain he was choosing her more for the similarity in their appearance than for her gardening skills. To feed his fantasy that she was still somehow…there.

  She might not be any great shakes when it came to psychology, but she had a very strong feeling that restoring the garden would not be in Dominic Ravenscar’s best interests. At least not this way.

  ‘To be honest, I was just looking for a few hours’ work clearing the place up,’ she said. ‘Making it look tidy so that it wouldn’t put off potential buyers. I’ve done that before. Estate agents use me for that and for the gardens of their rental properties because I’m cheap.’ If he thought that she was a complete no-hoper with ideas way above her skills, so be it. ‘Total restoration is something else. It’s a major project and you’re going to need a proper landscape-gardening company for that. Someone with plenty of staff. They’ll give you a quote for the whole job so that you’ll know how much it will cost up front.’ All this was true, but she still had to swallow hard as she threw away such an opportunity. ‘It would probably work out less expensive to do it that way,’ she added. ‘In the long run. I’d take forever.’

  ‘Despite the fact that you’re cheap?’

  ‘I’m only just starting out,’ she said. ‘I have to give companies a good reason to employ me. Once I’m known as reliable, I’ll be able to charge a more realistic rate.’ The truth was that when she’d costed the full price of her labour, with overheads, transport and allowing for the possibility of taking on someone young and fit to do some of the heavy work, she’d quite lost her nerve.

  ‘Once you’re known as cheap, no one will ever pay you a realistic rate,’ he responded. ‘The word will go round and you’ll be forced to accept the minimum, while your friendly estate agents will no doubt pass on the charge to their clients at the maximum the market will bear. You need to value yourself if you want other people to take you seriously.’

  ‘What makes you different?’

  ‘Cost is not a factor in this case. Nor is time. What I need is someone who cares about the garden.’

  She ignored this call to her wallet. ‘Who says I care?’

  It was his turn to let silence do the talking for him. Which would teach her to go all bleeding-heart over a peach tree in trouble. Doing CPR on a witch hazel that was being slowly strangled by bindweed.

  ‘You’re going to sell the house, Mr Ravenscar,’ she said, her voice firm enough, but the rest of her very wobbly indeed. His motives might be mixed, but so were hers. She wasn’t at all certain whether she was being frank with him, totally honest, or just running scared. Of the job. Of the responsibility. Of the man. ‘Just let it go.’

  The advice, at least, was sincerely meant.

  ‘I promise you there won’t be a repeat of what happened this morning,’ he said stiffly. ‘If that’s what’s bothering you.’

  ‘No!’ she declared. Then, confronted by his mouth, her memory inconveniently supplied a vivid recollection of their first encounter and she coloured up again. This morning was still very fresh in her mind and she suspected his, too, or he wouldn’t have brought it up. Not that she doubted his assurance for one moment. It was Sara he’d wanted. In his head it had been her he’d been kissing.

  Even so, if he was set on this, he’d be better off with some beefy bloke who wouldn’t wrench at his heart-strings whenever he caught sight of him bent over the perennial border.

  ‘Forget this morning. I have,’ she said,
her flushed cheeks betraying her, even as she crossed her fingers behind her back. She would never forget the magic of that kiss. ‘It’ll take me months to get your garden back to the way it was and I’ve already got a part-time job at the village shop as well as my regular clients.’

  ‘I see.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Are you telling me that you won’t do it?’

  ‘I’m saying that maybe I’m not the best person for the job.’

  ‘That’s an unusual way of building a business.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m being honest here. I really think you need to think about it.’

  ‘I have thought about it. Sara spent so much time and effort designing, planting, tending…’ His voice died away and for a moment he seemed to be somewhere else. Then, realising that she was looking at him, ‘I don’t want it destroyed. If it’s in good order, looking as she left it, there won’t be the temptation for the buyers to rip it all out and start again.’

  Damn. She was sure he hadn’t been taking any real notice when she’d been playing Freud. His response to her reality check was apparently to turn the place into a lasting memorial to his wife.

  Was that a good thing? Or was it just asking for trouble? And was it really any of her business?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “With burdocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow…”

  William Shakespeare

  ‘I CAN’T…I won’t let anyone see it the way it is,’ he said abruptly, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  ‘You’ll have a job to sell the house if you won’t let anyone see the garden,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I’m going to call the agent tomorrow and take it off the market until the garden is fixed. How long that will take is down to you.’

  ‘Oh, now, wait. You can’t—’

  ‘How many hours a week can you spare?’

  He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, she realised, but despite the little lift in her own heart she was determined to give it one last go. Try and make him see how impossible it was.

  ‘Ten hours, maximum. My mornings are pretty much taken up so I can only give you my afternoons. Two hours, five afternoons a week.’

  ‘Two?’ he repeated. ‘Two hours? That’s an afternoon’s work? You don’t push yourself, do you?’

  ‘For a man who seems desperate to employ me, you aren’t going out of your way to be polite,’ she responded, losing her practised calm in the face of his rudeness. ‘For your information I finish at three-fifteen when Polly comes home from school.’ It was one of the reasons she chose to work for herself. ‘That is not negotiable.’

  As the kettle began to whistle on the Aga, she turned away to move it from the heat and had to force herself not to take another deep breath—at this rate she’d be hyperventilating. And her pulse could behave itself and stop fluttering right now. It was time to put a stop to this.

  ‘That’s the best I can offer, Mr Ravenscar,’ she said formally. ‘Thank you for thinking of me, giving me the opportunity to undertake what will, I’m sure, be a very rewarding job. But, as I’ve already told you, you’re going to need full-time help if you want this done in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘I know what I need, Ms Lovell,’ he replied, immediately picking up her tone and responding with equal formality. ‘I need you. If two hours each weekday afternoon is all you can give me, then so be it. Until further notice. At a realistic hourly rate. Can we shake hands on that?’

  There was the gleam of something that might have been a challenge behind a pair of very dark eyes. As if he knew she was running scared.

  On the point of showing him who was scared, she lifted her hand in automatic response. It was still covered with flour.

  ‘I think you should sleep on it,’ she said, rubbing her hands down her apron in a belated move to avoid the one he’d extended. Suggesting that it was her floury hand she was saving him from rather than a binding commitment. She needed time to think about it. Come up with some really convincing reason why he shouldn’t be doing this. Why she shouldn’t be going along with him. ‘And in the meantime I’ll check and see what other work I have in my diary for the next couple of months.’

  ‘There can’t be much if you have to work in the village shop to make ends meet,’ he pointed out.

  ‘You see?’ she declared. ‘There you go again. Being downright rude. I guess you just can’t help yourself. I’ll have you know I enjoy working in the village shop.’

  ‘Really? How much? Do you, for instance, break in there and stack shelves out of hours?’

  ‘I did not “break in’”—she used her floury fingers to make quotation marks—‘to your garden! I pushed the gate and it opened. The bolt loop had rusted through. I did you a favour!’

  ‘Fine. You can add the cost of fitting the new bolt to your first month’s invoice.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ she said, pointedly ignoring this further provocation—she’d already done more than enough to demonstrate that she was not the kind of woman anyone in their right mind would want to employ—and taking one of the leaflets she’d produced on her aged computer out of the dresser drawer, ‘you might like to look at this. It sets out my terms. And my experience.’

  ‘Nil, if this is how you conduct your business.’

  She ignored that. ‘It’ll take a lot of work and, while I may be cheap, I’m not that cheap.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I might not be able to afford you, Ms Lovell?’ he asked, taking the leaflet but not looking at it. ‘Despite your cut-price rates.’

  ‘Anyone who leaves a valuable property empty to moulder for six years probably has more money than sense,’ she responded. Oh, great. That was professional… ‘I’m simply suggesting that you shouldn’t rush into anything, Mr Ravenscar.’ Then, ‘I work in the village shop tomorrow morning until one o’clock. I’ll call in on my way home and you can let me know if you want to proceed then. You will be at home?’

  ‘Home?’ He frowned. ‘Oh, I see. It doesn’t matter. I’ll leave the gate unbolted. Bring your tools with you and you can start work right away.’ With that, he nodded, and before she could ask him if he would like that cup of coffee he’d gone.

  Actually, that was probably just as well. He’d already demonstrated what he thought of her catering, and if she was going to work in his garden she didn’t want any confusion about who she was. It would be much wiser to keep it strictly professional.

  Mr Ravenscar and Ms Lovell.

  Right.

  The man might have forgotten how to live, but he certainly knew how to give orders. Start work right away. Of course, sir. Three bags full, sir. Why would she need to have lunch?

  So much for empathy. For her fanciful notion of paying forward the debt that she owed Amy Hallam. Forget “being there” for him. At this rate she was more likely to crown the wretched man with her stainless-steel spade and put him out of his misery permanently.

  She cleared up the flour, then began again, this time putting all her concentration into making the pastry before setting it in the fridge to relax. Only then did she make herself the promised coffee and take it outside to sit in the sun and reassure herself that she was doing the right thing in shying away from the Linden Lodge job.

  Things weren’t that bad. OK, so work was slow to come in but she had a few steady clients in the village. She took care of Mike and Willow Armstrong’s garden, for instance. It was extremely low maintenance; a gravel and paved courtyard and a paddock for the children to run wild in. All she had to do was pluck out the occasional weed and keep the pots filled with seasonal plants. She suspected they’d taken her on out of charity, just to encourage her. But it was a job.

  The Hilliards, in the Old Rectory, gave her a couple of hours a week, too, and she regularly mowed the lawn for some of the pensioners. Of course, they couldn’t afford to pay her, but instead knitted little things for Polly. Her daughter had more woolly hats and mittens than she would ever be able to wear in one
lifetime. Maybe she should organise them all into a collective, channel their energies in something saleable and set up a stall in Maybridge market. Then they could pay her in hard cash.

  No, no… Concentrate.

  The hard truth was that two hours’ work every afternoon would make a big difference to her finances. A big difference to Polly, whose sixth birthday was coming up fast and about to overtake her on the blind side. Polly, who wanted a party in the village hall. And a bicycle. And deserved both.

  So what if there was something about Dominic Ravenscar that unsettled her, made her remember all the things that she was missing, that most young women took for granted? Romance. Love. Sex…

  She was grown up. She could handle it.

  It would have been easier without the memory-jogging early-morning close encounter with his mouth. But she could handle it.

  In the meantime, what she needed was vigorous exercise to distract her from the memory of Mr Ravenscar’s square shoulders, his naked chest, hips that had narrowed appealingly beneath his towel.

  Her breasts crushed against that same chest.

  Her hips nestled against…

  This would, she decided, be a very good moment to turn the compost heap.

  ‘He kissed you? Dominic Ravenscar kissed you?’

  Polly, having rushed in to say she was back, paused only long enough to exclaim that she’d had ‘…a brilliant day…’ and dump her belongings before rushing out again to race around the green with the Hallam boys after being cooped up in a car for longer than infant flesh and blood could stand. Which left Kay with an opportunity to tell Amy all about her close encounter with her neighbour.

  ‘Not me,’ she explained. ‘It was quite clear that he thought I was a vision, or a ghost, or something. Of his wife.’

  ‘And now he wants you to work for him? You must have been very convincing.’

  ‘Must I?’ There was something a little bit “off” about Amy’s tone, although on reflection, to someone hearing about it cold, it must sound a bit odd, but it was difficult to explain what exactly had happened. ‘Maybe he was just relieved that I didn’t crack him round the head with a weeding fork,’ she said, hoping to raise a smile.