by Liz Fielding
‘Maybe I can tempt you with the rest of Sara’s notebooks?’ he said, using the one thing that he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist as a lure. ‘I found her garden plan, too.’
It had actually been easier looking for something specific, rather than going through the depressing piles of old bills and papers, shredding them. Feeling guilt at the destruction of things that Sara had touched.
‘Oh, well, now you’re talking,’ she said, and genuine pleasure lit up her face. ‘For those, Mr Ravenscar, you get your coffee.’
Which certainly put her priorities in perspective.
‘If I had an ego to dent,’ he said, ‘you’d be a major traffic accident.’
‘No offence, but I’ve seen what you do with hot drinks,’ she came back, not missing a beat. ‘I’ve also read your wife’s prose,’ she went on, bending to unlace her boots and kick them off as she stepped inside. ‘Frankly, there’s no contest.’
She had a hole in one of her socks, he noticed. And found himself wondering how she managed to support herself and her little girl. Why they were alone. Or maybe they weren’t. She hadn’t mentioned anyone, he hadn’t seen anyone at the cottage, but that didn’t mean a thing. He could be away…
No. If there had been someone in her life she wouldn’t have responded to his kiss with quite that hunger. Quite that warmth.
‘Your wife was a gifted communicator,’ she said, straightening. She was taller than Sara. Even in her socks she very nearly looked him in the eye. Maybe that was what made it so impossible to ignore her. She looked him in the eye and wasn’t afraid to hold his gaze. ‘Her enthusiasm made the garden really come alive for me. Reading her notebook made me feel as if I knew her. I can see why you miss her so much.’
Miss her? For a moment, just a moment, he’d forgotten…
‘I’ll put on the kettle,’ he said, abruptly. ‘You’ll find everything in her study.’
Dismissed, Kay found herself staring at his back as he walked away from her. What had she said? One moment he’d been close to teasing her, the next…bang. The shutters came slamming back down. It was like walking on eggshells. But then, as she was the first to admit, she had big feet.
She really should learn to keep her opinions to herself, stick to what she knew something about. Like weeding.
She put the notebooks to one side to study later and opened up the plan. It was perfect. Beautifully drawn and coloured, with the botanical names of the plants written in perfect copperplate script.
She was still admiring it when Dominic placed a mug beside her.
‘Oh, sorry!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I forgot all about making coffee.’
He leaned back against the desk, cradling his own mug, while she drank hers. ‘No problem. I should be the one apologising. Again.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose I don’t really know how to cope when people mention Sara.’ He shrugged. ‘I haven’t had that much practice. After she died most of our friends would have rather stuck hot needles in their eyes than talk about her.’
She glanced at him over the rim of the mug. ‘If you’re that touchy I can see why.’
No, no, no! She’d just crawl under the desk and extract her size nines from her mouth.
But he was staring into his coffee as if, in its depths, he might find some kind of answer and for a moment she didn’t think he’d heard her. Then he looked up. ‘Despite recent evidence to the contrary, it’s not because I snap their heads off. Unlike you, most people wouldn’t give me a chance to talk about her after she died. Now, well, it would seem I’ve forgotten how to.’
‘I’m sorry. It must have been very hard for you.’
‘They meant well. I imagine they believed that if they didn’t say her name I might manage to forget her more quickly.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘What other reason could there be for trying to wipe out all memory of her? To act as if she had never existed?’ He shrugged, drawing attention to his shoulders; he was spare, lean to the bone, and the fine linen shirt he wore hung from them, but his frame was still impressive. ‘All I got were offers to come and take her clothes away. Brush her life under the carpet as quickly as possible. Move on.’ He grimaced. ‘That was an expression I heard a lot of.’
‘Maybe they were hoping that if there weren’t constant reminders everywhere you looked, it would be easier for you to forget the pain,’ she pointed out gently. ‘They were wrong, of course. You need to talk about her. That way you can remember the joy. Going away wasn’t the answer.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mean running away?’ His eyes were slate in a chalk-white face.
‘There’s more than one way of doing that, but it’s only a holding measure. Sooner or later you have to deal with it face to face.’
CHAPTER SIX
“Here’s flowers for you:
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram.”
William Shakespeare
OH, GREAT. There she went again. Coming over all psychological. And, despite a few difficult moments, she thought she’d been doing quite well. She didn’t wait for the explosion but put down the mug and turned her attention back to the plan, as if she hadn’t just tossed off a metaphorical hand grenade.
‘And one of the things you’re going to have to deal with is the summer house, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘It’s a real shame; it must have been beautiful in its heyday. But unfortunately it’s got a severe case of decrepitus.’
‘What?’ He seemed to come back from somewhere a long way distant. ‘Is that some kind of fungus?’ Then he realised what she’d said and managed to find something that was almost a smile from somewhere. It was almost painful to see. ‘Oh, I see. That was another of your jokes, wasn’t it?’
‘Very nearly,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been trying to give them up. I’m down to five a day.’ Then, ‘Well, maybe not every day…’
The “almost smile” was pumped up to something that was scarcely distinguishable from the real thing unless you were really looking. And she was really looking. It almost broke her heart to see him making the effort for her and she wanted to take his hand, put her arms around him and tell him that she understood. That it would be all right. That one day it would be all right. She resisted the temptation. Whatever his reaction—whether he hugged her back, or recoiled in horror—it could only result in terminal embarrassment.
‘Please, don’t feel you have to laugh,’ she said. ‘It isn’t in the least bit compulsory.’
‘OK.’ And without warning deep lines fanned out from his eyes and the smile became the real thing.
‘I suspect it’s only the clematis that’s holding it up,’ she said, catching her breath, forcing herself to concentrate on the job in hand. ‘Which is only fair, since it caused the problem in the first place. That’s very old, too. It may even have been planted when the summer house was first put up. I imagine it seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘I remember Sara saying that it would have to be cut back hard, but she was waiting for it to flower first just in case…’
His voice trailed away, and to cover the sudden silence she said, ‘I can just see it from Polly’s window and it does look an absolute picture.’
‘The first flowers opened on the day of her funeral.’
Kay swallowed. What was that about eggshells? A minefield was more like it. An unmarked minefield…
‘I picked some to lay beside her, so that she would see them, but the petals dropped.’
“‘…You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed…’” she murmured. Then blushed as he stared at her. ‘It’s from a poem, I think,’ she said. ‘I, um, saw it on a calendar.’
“‘But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed…” It’s by Robert Burns.’ This time the silence seemed endless and she had no words to fill it. Dominic Ravenscar did it for her. ‘What happened to Polly’s father?’
The abrupt change of subject threw her a
nd she responded to this unexpected jab at a raw nerve in much the same way as he had. Instinctively. Defensively.
‘Polly never had a father.’
Her only excuse was that it had been a long time since anyone had asked her that question. Maybe, like him, she had erected some kind of warning signal over her own emotional no-go area. Or perhaps she’d blotted it out so thoroughly that she’d stopped noticing the way people tiptoed around the subject. Whatever it was, she just wasn’t prepared.
Ashamed of her instinctive reaction, her need to protect her own feelings, she tried again. ‘I… That is, he…’
It wasn’t usually this much of a problem. But then her standard answer—“He was young—he needed to find himself. He’s still looking…”—was calculated to make people laugh, give her an opportunity to change the subject. What was that she’d said about there being more than one way to run?
He shifted, put down the mug. ‘OK, what do you suggest?’
‘Suggest?’ she repeated, confused. What on earth did that mean? Then, belatedly, she realised that he was the one who’d changed the subject, rescuing her as she floundered, lost for an explanation that wouldn’t leave her stripped bare, exposed. She realised that she’d allowed her unresolved issues to stand in the way of a precious opportunity to help him open up, talk about his. And now she’d missed her moment. Failed him at the first real chance that had presented itself.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe if she could just find the words she could go back—
‘You’re the professional,’ he said as, taking his cue from her hesitation and taking a quick step back from the personal, he returned the conversation firmly to business. And the moment was gone. Lost beyond recall. ‘So what’s your professional opinion?’
She’d gathered herself, promised herself she’d find some way to put it right. Soon. In the meantime, all she could do was concentrate on the matter in hand. Which was…
‘Oh, yes. Well, I had a look at it this morning while I was waiting for the lawn-mower people,’ she said. ‘It’s beyond saving, I’m afraid.’
‘The summer house?’
‘The clematis.’ Then, ‘Well, both of them.’
This comment was met by a silence and for an endless moment she held her breath, conscious that she’d just ridden roughshod over what must be pretty raw feelings. How could she be so insensitive?
‘I could try cutting it back,’ she offered. ‘If you’d prefer that. It might recover.’
‘Sara clearly thought it would.’
‘Sara wasn’t going to pull down the summer house.’ She left it at that. His decision. She’d do her best, either way.
There was another long pause. Then, apparently coming to a decision, he said, ‘No. We should replace it. Them. A new summer house and a new climber. Something special.’
We?
Her heart, which had apparently stopped beating while she waited for him to tell her to go and never darken his door again for daring to suggest hacking down something so precious, did a wild pirouette before galloping to catch up.
‘Right. I’ll, um…’ She cleared her throat, made a point of folding up the plan so that she could avoid looking at him. ‘I’ll have a look on the ’net for suppliers, if you like. Get some catalogues.’
‘Are you telling me that you don’t know some man in the village who could design and build a replacement in his spare time?’
What? She glanced up, caught a glint of something that looked disturbingly like mischief lifting the corner of his mouth. He was teasing her?
‘Well, overlooking the sexist notion that it would take a man…’—it took considerable effort to keep her own face resolutely straight—‘I suppose next time I was mowing his lawn I could ask Mark Hilliard if he’d like to dash you off one of his award-winning designs. Or you could come to the harvest supper and ask him yourself.’
‘Hilliard? The architect?’
She thought that he was avoiding the invitation, rather than confirming the identity of his illustrious neighbour, but she obliged him.
‘He lives in the Old Rectory. On the other side of the green.’
‘That’s…handy. But does he do rural rustic?’
‘Well, no. Not usually. But I bet he’d design you something absolutely stunning in glass and steel.’ Then, when his eyebrows shot up, ‘Just kidding.’
‘So was I.’
‘No, you were mocking. There is a difference. I realise that Upper Haughton must seem a bit quaint after travelling the world—’
‘No, I’m sorry. It’s a lot more than that. We moved here in the first place because it was the kind of place that people care about one another. Where there’s always someone who knows someone who could do exactly what you need at that very moment. Where giving a neighbour a pot of your prize-winning home-made jam is as natural as breathing.’
‘To be honest, with the jam it’s just showing off,’ she said. ‘We’re neighbourly, but I promise you we can be as gossipy and small-minded as the next place when we want to be.’
‘Don’t disillusion me.’
For a moment they seemed to hover on the edge of something. Possibilities hung in the air waiting to be put into words that neither of them seemed able to summon up. Then he said, ‘Maybe you’d like to give some thought to a suitable climber?’
‘Me?’ She was deeply touched that he would ask her and without thinking she reached out and touched his hand. ‘Thank you.’
He looked down, then up into her eyes.
She carefully withdrew her hand. Cleared her throat. Of course he’d ask her. Who else would he ask? He clearly didn’t know “Nelly Moser” from Nelly the Elephant. It didn’t mean anything.
‘I’ll do some research, Mr Ravenscar. Find some suitable candidates for you to choose from.’ Then, ‘It’s quite possible that Sara had already given some thought to the matter. Clematis are tricky and she must have known that hacking back the montana might have proved terminal. She hasn’t put anything on the plan, but I’m sure she’d have thought about it. Made notes in her journal. Can I take the rest of the books home with me?’ She had to get out of that tiny room so that she could breathe. ‘Or maybe you’d rather look through them yourself?’
‘No,’ he said, in a voice that seemed hazed with emotion. But while he was thinking about his poor dead wife, her thoughts had taken an altogether earthier turn. She felt scorched by that brief touch. Inflamed by the nearness of him. ‘You need them more than I do at the moment.’ Then, more forcefully, ‘Don’t forget to make a note of the time you spend reading them.’
Which was the verbal equivalent of a bucket of cold water.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve had advice from a lawyer. He took the time to explain all about charging for every minute. Every phone call. Every letter,’ she said, hurt that he was still dragging money into their relationship. OK, so it was a business relationship, but even so…
‘Can you afford someone who charges by the minute on your hourly rate?’ he asked with an edge to his voice, suggesting that he’d got the message.
‘We used the country method of invoicing. It cuts down on the book-keeping.’ She dredged up a grin—it felt more like a grimace from where she was standing—and plastered it on her face. ‘He gave me half an hour of his time and in return I mow his mother’s lawn.’
‘How long for?’ he demanded, horrified.
‘As long as she needs me to, but then I’d do it anyway, so to all intents and purposes I get his time for free. You needn’t worry, though, gardening is different to practising law—I don’t charge by the minute. Besides,’ she added, glancing down at the pile of notebooks, more to avoid looking at him than to reacquaint herself with the peacock covers, ‘reading these isn’t work, it’s a pleasure.’
‘Let’s argue about that at the end of the month when you submit your account. In the meantime, here’s your contract, duly signed, Miss Lovell,’ he said, extracting the folded document from the pocket of his shirt and handing
it to her. And they were back on an even keel again, after a stormy few minutes.
Maybe they’d even moved forward a little. At least he’d moved forward a little; she needed to be on her own to work out where she was. But at least he now trusted her with more than his weeds. She placed the contract on top of the plan and notebooks and gathered them up in her arms, holding them against her chest.
‘I’ll see you this afternoon,’ she said, as she headed for the front door and he opened it for her. ‘That’s if you’ll be here?’ She glanced at the car standing in front of the house as she pushed her feet into her boots. Then looked around helplessly for somewhere to set down her burden while she did up her laces.
‘Here, let me,’ he said as, seeing her difficulty as she struggled to control the pile of books, he retrieved them before they shot everywhere. Their fingers momentarily collided, his hand brushed against her breasts so that she was glad to stoop and take her time doing up her boots, giving her quick blush time to fade.
When she straightened he held out the books so that she could take them—very carefully—and said, ‘I have no plans to be anywhere else this afternoon.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, not quite able to meet his gaze. ‘In that case I’ll bring Dorothy Fuller with me and she’ll tell you what needs doing in the house.’
It was possible that he said something. Under his breath. She didn’t ask him to repeat it.
Kay scarcely noticed the walk home. Someone spoke to her and she replied, but could not have said who, or what was said. Only that a few minutes later she found herself at her gate.
How was it that after a really intense kiss she’d felt safe enough, sufficiently in control to contemplate working for Dominic Ravenscar, yet that single touch to his hand had felt like the most dangerous thing she’d ever done?
Even now, the tips of her fingers tingled and she curled them hard against the palm of her hand in a vain attempt to put a stop to the disturbing sensation before it spread up her arm and escaped into the rest of her body. Tingling like that could cause total havoc in a confined space. Such as the heart.