by Liz Fielding
‘Absolutely.’
‘And that includes buying Mr Bates a pint of ale. You can add that to the bill, too.’
‘Oh, but…’ She might not be prepared to get emotionally involved, but it had seemed like too good an opportunity to get him into the pub to miss. Get him into company. Which had to be a good thing. But he’d already turned away and was striding back towards the house.
And she hadn’t finished.
‘Mr Ravenscar…’ she called. Oh, yuck. Why did she have to keep on calling him Mr? It sounded so hideously cringe-makingly below-stairs. Apart from Dominic Ravenscar she hadn’t called any man “Mr” since the headmaster had invited her to vacate the sacred portals of his precious sixth form when he’d discovered that her “upset stomach” had less to do with a dodgy sandwich from the school refectory and more to do with the fact that she was pregnant. But it was too late to regret not sticking to “Dominic” now.
He didn’t stop and she was forced to follow him, only catching up with him at the French windows.
‘Mr Ravenscar, I—’
‘What?’ he demanded, turning on her.
She quailed beneath the ferocity of his frown. Wished she’d stayed at the far end of the garden. Too late now. He was waiting.
‘I just wondered if Mrs Ravenscar kept a diary?’
‘A diary?’ he enquired, his voice like flint. ‘And if she did? What possible business of yours could it be?’
What? ‘Oh…no!’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean a personal one.’ His face remained set in stone. ‘I, um, meant a gardening diary. I keep one—well, two, actually. One for my own garden and one for clients. Weather, planting, crops. Jobs done. Jobs to do. Cuttings to trade. Seed catalogues to order.’ Which was almost certainly more than he wanted to know. ‘Anything and everything,’ she added.
‘I see.’
‘Well does…did she?’
‘Is it important?’
‘It would help to know what exactly she was doing. Her vision for the garden. Not everything has survived.’ Her gesture took in the wide perennial border. ‘There are gaps. Well, you can see that for yourself.’
He glanced around. ‘I can’t see any gaps.’
‘You can’t?’
‘Quite the reverse.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ He was obviously one of those men who couldn’t tell his Passiflora from his elbow. ‘And when I’ve got rid of the weeds so will you.’
‘Maybe you should be getting on with it instead of wasting my time.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was keeping you from work.’
He caught her glance at the dust sheet still lying on the floor and his jaw tightened. ‘You’ve caught me between visits from the cleaner.’
‘Once a month, isn’t it? Forgive me, but I don’t think you can wait another two weeks.’
‘Are you offering to take on the dusting as well, Miss Lovell? On top of the two hours a day you’re sparing me? When you’re not busy talking. Are you sure you can spare the time?’
She gritted her teeth—metaphorically—and refused to rise to the bait. ‘I was going to suggest Mrs Fuller. She doesn’t work on a regular basis, but she occasionally takes on special jobs. I think this would come under that category, don’t you?’ Then, when she didn’t get any response, ‘OK, well, think about it.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’ Then, ‘No! Sorry. Look, if Mrs Ravenscar didn’t keep a diary, she might have had a working design. Maybe a planting plan?’ she prompted. ‘I’d hate to start digging and suddenly find I’m chopping into precious bulbs.’
He looked sorely tempted to tell her to go away and never come back. Instead he said, ‘You’d better come in.’
‘What? Oh, right.’ She kicked off her shoes and caught up with him at the far end of the big square hallway.
‘Sara used this room,’ he said, opening a door next to the kitchen. ‘She wouldn’t use the study at the front of the house because it didn’t overlook the garden.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s…compact.’
‘The estate agent referred to it as “the butler’s pantry”, but I think perhaps he was getting a bit carried away with the whole “gentleman’s residence” thing.’
‘They will do that,’ she agreed as she stepped passed him, although the security bars at the window and a glimpse of green baize lining the cupboard shelves suggested that he was not far out. But the shelves that had once held precious china were now filled with gardening and cookery books and a small desk filled the space at the end of room. A notebook lay open, a fountain pen and some coloured pencils near at hand. There were postcards, photographs of gardens clipped from glossy magazines and notes attached to a corkboard. And a photograph of Dominic looking young, happy as he smiled at the woman taking the picture.
It tore at her heart.
The room looked as if it was waiting. As if the occupant had just gone to make a cup of tea and would be back at any moment. She looked back, but he seemed unwilling to join her in the cramped space.
‘Can I look around?’
‘Help…yourself…’ The words sounded as if they’d been squeezed from him.
She picked up the notebook. Unlike her own utilitarian notebooks, it was covered in cloth that shimmered like a peacock’s feather and the handwriting was equally elegant, in keeping with the expensive pen Sara Ravenscar had used. As she turned the heavy, unlined pages, she realised the contents matched the exterior. This was far more than the basic working diaries she kept, with their occasional smudges of mud, but a record of everything that happened in the garden. From the sighting of a hedgehog, to the unexpected appearance of bluebells at the far end of the orchard. She’d illustrated it, too, with exquisite pen sketches.
‘Is that what you’re looking for?’
She looked up. ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. But there must be more. This is only a quarter used.’
‘Try the drawer.’
She did so, but it didn’t budge.
‘The key must be there somewhere.’ She opened a small box that contained paper-clips, drawing pins, a couple of rubber bands. Before she could sift through them, a beeping sound emerged from one of her pockets. Kay fished out a small alarm clock and turned it off. ‘My watch battery died,’ she said, when she saw his what-on-earth-have-I-let-myself-in-for expression. ‘I have to go, it’s three-fifteen. School’s out in five minutes.’
‘I remember. Your daughter comes first.’
‘I did tell you. If you have a problem with that—’
‘No. Absolutely not. Don’t keep her waiting for you. I was only irritable about short hours because I wanted you to get the garden finished quickly.’
‘I did say—’
‘I know. You never stop “saying”. Just go. I’ll look for the key. Maybe the plans are in the desk, too.’ He walked with her to the door. Then, ‘If you’re going to be spending any amount of time at home working on this, please keep a note of your hours so that you can invoice me.’
‘Oh, no. That isn’t necessary. What else would I do in the evening?’ Once Polly was in bed.
‘I can’t advise you on that. Merely that you won’t be in business for long if you don’t value your time. You should have a standard contract that sets out that sort of thing. Ask your friends the Hallams. They’re both successful in business. I’m sure they’ll advise you.’
She knew what their advice would be. Forget it. Stop fooling herself…
‘Think about it,’ he said, abruptly, when she didn’t answer, clearly wishing he hadn’t bothered.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she offered, ‘if you’ll promise to think about getting Dorothy Fuller in to give this place a going over.’
‘What is this? Have you got the whole village paying you a commission for work? Forget gardening. You should set up your own little domestic agency.’
It was the “little” that irritated her. What was it about her that made everyone assume that she was incapa
ble of doing something big? But she didn’t let it show, just regarded him thoughtfully and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re in the market for some hand-knitted sweaters? Winter’s coming and I know a couple of old ladies who can produce the kind of stuff that would sell for telephone numbers in Knightsbridge.’
‘Haven’t you got a child to collect? I’ll open the gate first thing so that you can let in the lawn-mower people,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget to add that time to your account, too.’
‘I’ll ask Dorothy to call and see you, then, shall I?’
‘Goodbye, Miss Lovell.’
‘Until tomorrow, Mr Ravenscar.’
Dominic watched as she ducked beneath a low branch of an old copper beech that dominated what had once been a perfect lawn and, as she bent, displayed a neat rear smeared with greenish dust from its encounter with the low wall where she’d sat for a while drawing a rough plan of the garden.
Waiting until he heard the thump of the gate, then realising that it was still unlocked, he followed her and bolted it.
After that, avoiding an immediate return to a house that would seem even emptier without her presence to fill it with chatter, he went to look in the shed, to see for himself what kind of condition the mower was in. A small ride-on machine that he’d bought not long after they’d moved in, it was indeed covered in cobwebs and dust except for a wide sweep where Kay Lovell had brushed against it as she’d checked it out. Cobwebs, dust and worse, no doubt, if the tools, rusting in their clips against the wall, were anything to go by.
He took down a trowel, rubbed his thumb over the surface. It came away red, leaving the surface pitted and scarred. As he replaced it, he wondered what Kay Lovell would have to say about that.
That she would have some pithy comment to make he didn’t doubt, because she had plenty to say about everything else.
Irritating woman.
Kay saw the lawn mower safely off the premises, expecting Dominic to appear at her side at any moment with some dry comment about paying her to stand around doing nothing. Again. He was, however, noticeable only by his absence.
She’d had to force herself not to keep glancing towards the house, half hoping to see the French windows open and the man himself walking down what was beginning to be a noticeable track through the long grass towards her. Surprised how much she minded when they stayed firmly shut.
No, she chided herself as she let herself out of the garden. Everything was shut up, which meant he’d gone out, and that had to be good. He was spending far too much time alone.
She walked around to the front of the house and slipped the envelope she’d planned to hand to him in person through the letterbox. The old village houses had doors that fronted directly on to the street and she was already turning away when a car pulled up alongside her. The kind of car that men drooled over and girls dreamed of being swept away in. Expensive, fast, upholstered in leather-scented luxury. Several yards longer than was entirely necessary for the basic purpose of transport.
‘What did you put through my door?’ Dominic Ravenscar unfolded himself from the driving seat and joined her on the pavement. ‘Have you changed your mind about the job?’
She dragged her gaze away from the car and, reminding herself that she was way too old to drool, turned to face her new client. It was no good. In a cashmere jacket, linen shirt and a pair of immaculately cut trousers, he would make anyone drool.
Then she said, ‘If I’d changed my mind, I wouldn’t put a note through the door, I’d tell you to your face.’
‘Yes, of course you would. So? Don’t keep me in suspense. Was it an invitation to the harvest supper? The new issue of the parish magazine hot off the press? A list of the latest “specials” at the village shop?’
‘None of the above,’ she said. ‘I just came by to oversee the removal of the mower and thought I’d give you my contract at the same time.’
‘Your contract?’ It was pathetically gratifying to realise that she’d taken him by surprise. ‘You didn’t waste much time thinking about it.’
‘Was I supposed to? Sorry, but it’s a commodity in short supply.’ Which was probably the worst thing she could have said; she really could do with an intensive course in “tact”. ‘In my life.’ Then, ‘Nice car,’ she said, hoping to distract him. She made a gesture that measured its length. ‘Very…’
‘Black?’ he offered, with an edge to his voice that suggested she was walking a very narrow line.
‘Clean.’
She’d been about to say “sexy”, and suspected that he knew it.
He very nearly smiled and she thought if she could get him to go the whole way it would be worth any amount of embarrassment.
‘Since I’m staying for a while, I thought I’d better do something about transport.’
‘Transport? That isn’t “transport”. A bus is transport. That is pure self-indulgence.’
‘There’s a bus service?’ he said. He might as well have said “mind your own business….”
Quite right.
‘Regular as clockwork,’ she assured him. ‘Three times a day.’
‘As often as that? If only you’d told me yesterday.’ He turned away to open the front door and bent down to pick up the envelope she’d just pushed through the letterbox. ‘You’d better come in.’
About to tell him that there was no hurry, she actually managed to stop her runaway mouth. It had occurred to Kay that if she really wanted to twist Dominic Ravenscar’s arm over employing Dorothy Fuller—and he really needed someone like her to get the house straight, someone who wouldn’t wait to be told what to do, but just get on with it—she’d better fulfil her part of the bargain and not only think about a contract, but also come up with one. And quickly.
It wouldn’t be difficult. All she had to do was pick up the phone and Amy or Jake would, she was sure, be able to provide her with some kind of standard document. And a lot of sound advice. All of it tempered with the “Are you sure you can do this…?” undertone that she wasn’t in the mood to listen to.
It was time to stand on her own two feet. Metaphorically, if not legally, speaking. Whilst she was perfectly well aware that she knew as much about the law as Dominic knew about gardening, one of her OAPs had a son who was a lawyer. Mowing his mum’s grass—so he didn’t have to leave his busy life in London and do it himself—had to be worth a few minutes of his time, she figured. He clearly thought so, too. He’d not only emailed her a suitable document, with blanks for her to fill in her own details before she printed it off, he’d also spent some time on the phone going through her legal responsibilities. Making sure she had appropriate insurance. Encouraging her to think bigger. Get a proper name for her company. An image. And he’d promised to find out what start-up grants were available for new businesses, too.
It had been refreshing to be taken so seriously.
He’d even wanted to pay her for mowing his mum’s lawn, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He was far more valuable to her as a source of free legal advice.
‘How did you manage to organise it so quickly?’ Dominic asked, lifting the flap of the envelope and taking out the document headed with her new logo—she’d had a busy night—and company name. Daisy Roots: tough, persistent…and rhyming slang for boots. The lawyer had really liked it.
‘I took your advice,’ she said, and when he looked up, ‘I thought about it and I realised that you’re right. I might have a very small business, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have ambition. And be one hundred per cent professional.’
It also occurred to her that it would be easier to convince the estate agents that she would only work for a realistic hourly rate if she wasn’t just Kay Lovell, occasionally jobbing gardener, working for herself. She’d had a lot of fun producing her own letterheads, business cards and a pile of leaflets she’d left at the local gardening centre earlier that morning. She’d put enough business their way, after all.
‘There are two copies,’ she said. ‘You just have
to sign them both on the dotted line and give one back to me.’
‘Is that all? Haven’t you missed out the most important bit?’ When she frowned. ‘The bit about reading it first?’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve already read it.’ Then she grinned.
No! Not professional…
She pulled her face back into line and said, ‘Sorry, very bad joke. Take your time. I’ll pick it up this afternoon.’ Then, because she didn’t want to appear too pushy…she was new at this “professional” lark… ‘Or whenever.’
‘It won’t take that long,’ he said as she stepped back and turned to leave. He opened the door wider. ‘Why don’t we get it over with? Unless you have to rush off to some other job.’
Well, there was a pile of ironing that never seemed to get any smaller. She had promised to catalogue the resource materials for the village school before half-term, too. And there was Polly’s birthday party to plan. That was going to be a surprise, so she’d have to do it all during the day…
But she suspected he meant a real job. The kind that paid money.
‘I’ll allow you to make us both a cup of coffee while I read it,’ he persisted.
‘Oh, right.’ Professional? Who did she think she was kidding? ‘Who could possibly resist an offer like that?’
Dominic didn’t want her to go.
He hadn’t admitted it to himself at the time, but he’d gone out this morning to avoid seeing her. Not because she reminded him of Sara, but because she reminded him that he was a man.
Coming back and seeing her on his doorstep dressed in unflattering working clothes, a dusty cobweb that she must have picked up in the tool shed clinging to her hair and without a scrap of make-up on her face, didn’t appear to make a blind bit of difference.
There was something refreshing about her. Totally natural. She constantly put her foot in her mouth, but when she did she laughed, or blushed, or looked momentarily distraught. But she didn’t quit. She just took it out again and ploughed on. That was rare.
As a result, he’d probably talked to her more in two days than he had anyone of his acquaintance in the last six years. About anything but work, anyway.