by Ashe Barker
“Get. In. Now.” He growls the words.
One final glance at his now scowling visage is sufficient to convince me. I hop in and reach for the seatbelt.
“Right, let’s get you home and into some dry clothes.” The engine gives a deep growl as he accelerates up the road.
“Don’t have any. I’ll just stuff these in the dryer…”
“What do you mean?”
“My other clothes are still damp from the wash. I’ll just stick them all in the dryer and—”
“Holy fuck. Do you even have a coat? Waterproof shoes? A bloody hat?”
“Of course I do. I have a nice coat. Several in fact. And boots.”
He turns to me, one sardonic eyebrow raised. “So?”
“I just didn’t bring them with me, that’s all. I meant to borrow Mrs. Richardson’s umbrella.”
“Now that would have made sense. And you didn’t because…?”
“I forgot.”
“Ah.” He makes no further comment, as though my simple but truthful explanation was entirely reasonable and sufficient. And not a surprise to him in any way, shape or form. People forget their brollies all the time, in the midst of enough rain to float an ark.
“It wasn’t raining when I set off.” Even I consider that a lame excuse.
“It’s been raining for fucking weeks.”
I press on regardless, “It had stopped, and…I wanted to go down to the village.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to join the library.”
“I see.”
“Yes. I got a ticket and…” I drag the soggy mess from my pocket, the pale yellow card now reduced to a pile of mush in my hand. “I… Oh, well, they said they’d send out a permanent one soon.”
“Miss Byrne, if you insist on continuing in this vein it won’t be a library card you’ll need, it’ll be a snorkel.”
“Ha ha. If you hadn’t trashed my car I wouldn’t have had to walk. When can I get Miranda back?” A change of subject seems to be called for.
“I can’t believe you don’t even have a coat.” It seems Nathan Darke is not about to be sidetracked.
“Well, I don’t. Thank you for the lift.”
We are passing through the huge gate into the Black Combe grounds now, and the car rolls to a stop close to the house. I hop out and sprint round to the kitchen door. I’ve managed to let myself in with the spare key provided by Mrs. Richardson and I’m crouching beside the Aga when Nathan follows me inside. I open the little metal door on the side of the stove to pile more fuel in.
“Let me do that. You go up and get in the shower before you catch pneumonia. I’ll find you something dry to wear.”
He bends to cup my elbow and brings me to my feet. I hesitate, but a gentle shove in the direction of the hallway settles matters. I trudge off to do as I’m told, my feet squelching in my shoes as I go. I manage to summon enough presence of mind to leave them at the bottom of the stairs.
Twenty minutes later I get out of the shower in the en-suite bathroom attached to my guest bedroom, blissfully warm again. I grab one of the huge, fluffy bath sheets from the heated rail and wrap myself in it. A smaller one makes a turban for my hair.
Back in the bedroom, I’m surprised to find a cup of hot tea on my bedside table. I never heard Mrs. Richardson come back. I perch on the side of my bed to take a sip.
It’s heavenly. Earl Grey, my favorite, with just a splash of milk. It completes the job of warming me up. Now all I need to do is pile my kit into the dryer for half an hour or so…
There’s a brisk knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call, expecting Mrs. Richardson’s cheery face to appear.
It’s Nathan, however, who steps into the room, now more casually attired in soft black jeans and a white T shirt. His feet are bare, his hair loose and damp. He has also showered, though he was nowhere near as wet as I was. He carries a light purple shirt draped over his arm.
“This should suit you. It’ll be a bit big, but it’s dry and long enough to be decent. I can let you have some jeans too if you like, though they’ll swamp you I expect.”
“You’re lending me your shirt!” I blurt the words out, astonished. “But, what if I mess it up?”
“Mess it up, Miss Byrne? What do you have in mind?” His lip quirks in that way I’m starting to recognize when he delivers his double entendres.
What indeed? I stare at him, sexy as sin in his state of not-quite-dressedness and my earlier glimmer of wellbeing disintegrates. He’s making fun of me—again. I have no ready, witty response to offer. Neither do I have anything else to wear. The purple shirt it is, then.
“Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ll let you have it back as soon as my own things are dry.”
“No rush. Did you have lunch yet?”
“No, I was going to get a sandwich in the village. I expect Grace will have something ready soon enough.”
“Grace isn’t here. It’s just us.”
“Oh, but…” I glance again at my cup of tea, realizing he must have brought it for me. “Er, thank you. For the tea, I mean.”
“You’re welcome. Tinned soup all right?”
“Yes. Lovely.”
He turns to leave, dropping the shirt onto a chair. “Come down when you’re ready.”
His footsteps recede along the upstairs hallway as I cross the room to pick up the shirt.
And I stop, dead, my eyes riveted on the creature scuttling along the skirting board. I stand, paralyzed for several moments, then let out an ear-splitting scream.
I hate spiders. Loathe and detest them. I swear they are the most malevolent beings on the face of this planet or any other. And this one is a monster. Huge! I leap back in mortal terror, my feet catching in the trailing towel as I scramble to get away.
My muddled, phobic brain interprets the restriction around my feet as more spiders, an army of them, all coming for me, rubbing their little hairy legs together in glee. I scream again, try to stamp them away. Visions of the vile creatures swarming over my bare feet drive me to even more frenzied dancing and screeching.
“Christ, what…?”
I am grabbed from behind, lifted from the floor. It’s Nathan, and that knowledge, that solid certainty permeates my short-circuiting brain. However weird, wonderful and terrifying this enigmatic employer of mine might be, a spider he is not. I turn, wrap my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist and I hang on as if my life depended on it.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” His arms tighten around me. “Eva, what happened?”
I squeeze my eyes tight shut to block out any prospect of seeing the thing again, and I manage to get out the one word that will explain all.
“Spider.”
Nathan doesn’t even pretend not to understand. He carries me across to the bed and sets me down in the middle of the duvet.
“Where?”
“There, on the skirting board, by the door. It’s huge…”
I gesture wildly in the direction I think it might be.
“Ah, right. I see him.”
“Oooh!” I wriggle into a tighter ball. “Get rid of it. Please.”
“Sure. Won’t be a sec.”
I watch through slitted eyes as he grabs a couple of tissues from a box on my dressing table and moves toward the door. I can’t watch as he crouches and does—whatever. I hear his footsteps as he leaves the room, then a few seconds later the sound of a toilet flushing down the hall. More footsteps, and he is back. The bed dips under his weight as he leans across and wraps his arms around me again.
“It’s gone. You can look now, if you like.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. I flushed it down the loo in the bathroom. It’s all clear.”
I peer out under his arm and around the room, looking into every corner.
“Where did it come from? It wasn’t there earlier…” In the more lucid portions of my brain I know it actually was there, somewhere. It was just t
hat I hadn’t seen it and therefore it didn’t count. Such is the logic of the phobic personality.
I look up at him. His arms are still around me, and it feels sort of all right. He’s cured my touching hang-up, it would seem. Maybe he’ll be able to weave some similar magic for my arachnophobia.
“Thank you. I don’t know— I mean…” I’m embarrassed—again. I made such a fuss. But still, those creepy beasts are just vile.
“You’re welcome. Spider-slaying is one of my specialties. Any time.”
“I’m glad you were here.” The tremor is still in my voice. I’m aware of it so it’s reasonably certain he is too. I doubt if much gets past Nathan Darke.
“Yeah?” His breath is warm on my neck as I snuggle in to his chest. I suppose it would be safe to let go of him now that the monster is slain, but I’m in no particular hurry. Neither is he, it seems. “Me too.”
“Why are you here? I thought you’d be gone all week. Until Friday.” I look up at him, remembering just in time to tuck the crumpled towel up around my chest. Modesty was the last thing on my mind as I faced the devil-spawn spider, but now the crisis is passed I feel vulnerable, and near enough naked in his arms.
Oddly, I’m wondering if that might not be such a bad thing…
He smiles at me, his beautiful dark eyes the colour of finely aged mahogany. “I just felt like coming home. I have a meeting tomorrow so I need to drive back over to Leeds in the morning.”
“Oh, right. But you’re here this afternoon because it’s the school holidays, and Rosie’s at home?”
“I do like to spend time with my daughter, that’s true.”
“But…?” There’s more, something else he’s not saying.
“But—I’d forgotten she was at the dentist today. So, are you all calm and collected again now?”
“I think so, yes.” I sit up, careful to prevent my towel from succumbing to the laws of physics.
Nathan’s eyes narrow as he regards my naked shoulders. He reaches for me, cups my chin in his palm. “Maybe I came back to see you. To make sure you’re still here. And to fight your demons for you.”
“No one can do that,” I whisper. If only.
“I can deal with spiders. It’s a start.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Did you? Come back to see if I was still here?”
He lowers his head, his gaze holding mine. He pauses, his face a mere breath away from my mouth, then brushes his lips over mine. It’s not a kiss, not quite, but almost. I forget to breathe.
“Still fancy that soup?”
“What?”
“Soup? We have tomato, I think. Maybe some minestrone.”
Oh, right. Lunch. I nod. “Is there more any of that bread? The stuff we had with the hotpot?”
“I expect so. Kitchen. Ten minutes. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
His face splits in a beaming smile. “Ah, Miss Byrne, I just know that you and I are going to get on.”
Chapter Four
The following morning I’m astonished when a delivery courier arrives at the front door, asking for Miss Byrne. He thrusts a brown cardboard box into my hands before leaping back into his bright red van.
Puzzled, I carry the box through to the kitchen to find scissors. Three fascinated pairs of eyes watch me attacking the thick parcel tape. And I’m even more amazed, when I get it open, to find a beautiful Rohan hiking jacket nestled inside, fully waterproof, breathable, top of the range. Under the jacket is a pair of ladies’ hiking boots, also Rohan, also superb quality. Both are in a fetching combination of purple and lavender. I absolutely love them.
There’s a note.
It would be such a pity to lose our violin teacher to exposure. Enjoy. ND
“Oh, how kind. But they must have cost a fortune. I’ll have to pay him for these.” I blurt the words out without thinking.
Mrs. Richardson shakes her head. “No need, love. They’re a present. Mr. Darke asked me to check in your room to find the right shoe size. Just say thanks when you see him.”
I gaze at her, at Rosie. A present? For me? And such a thoughtful gift. So perfect. No one has ever given me anything so beautiful before. I hug the jacket to me as I rush upstairs to admire myself in my wardrobe mirror.
* * * *
The couple of days since Mr. Darke left have flown by. Rosie and I have settled into an easy routine of walking the moors with Barney in the mornings, and violin practice in the afternoons, also with Barney in attendance. Mrs. Richardson has made it her mission to ‘fatten me up’ so I am eating like a horse—healthy and wholesome stuff for once, instead of my more customary junk food. And I absolutely love it.
My mother has hardly been off the phone, desperately concerned at my sudden flight for pastures new and threatening to come and check that I’m okay. Quite what she expects to find, or what she would do about it anyway, is beyond me. I’ve pleaded with her not to follow me, just to trust me and let me be. So far she has. I am thinking very seriously about getting a new mobile—no budgie trilling ringtone and a new number—but that would be just too mean. She cares, and that’s sort of nice, really.
Rosie is quite a talented little violin player, and a joy to work with. She is eager, enthusiastic, keen to learn and loves to practice. She is determined to learn to play ‘Boléro’ so she can perform it for her father like I did—well, maybe not quite like I did—so I have broken the piece down into manageable chunks for her to work on a bit at a time.
Despite her practical abilities and natural aptitude, she has never been taught to read music, so I am working on that with her too. On Thursday evening we borrowed Mr. Darke’s iPad to download some musical scores of popular pieces, stuff that Rosie knows. ‘Jar of Hearts’ is a particular favorite, of hers and mine, and she is starting to be able to follow it, seeing how the notes on the sheet work to instruct the player on how to produce the melody that the composer intended. We have also had a go at composing some little practice exercises ourselves, bringing in the techniques Rosie already knows and adding one or two new skills to build up her repertoire.
By Friday suppertime we are feeling rather pleased with ourselves as we sit around the kitchen table, helping ourselves to Mrs. Richardson’s chunky turkey and stuffing sandwiches.
The crackle of tires on gravel followed by the slam of a car door has all our heads turning to the kitchen door. It opens, and he is back.
“Daddy!”
With a shriek and a deep woof respectively, child and dog launch themselves at Mr. Darke the instant he comes through the door, and he catches Rosie, swinging her up for a kiss as Barney jumps around his legs. Mrs. Richardson bustles around to find him a cup for his coffee—he never drinks tea, as far as I can see—and starts to conjure up a few extra sandwiches. I just stare at him, realizing suddenly how much I’ve missed him whilst he wasn’t here. As he puts a beaming Rosie back on her feet, he glances at me. “Still here, Miss Byrne? And still frowning, I see.”
Sitting beside me at the table as Mrs. Richardson plonks a generous plate of turkey sandwiches in front of him, he looks splendid, as usual—handsome as sin, and super-sophisticated in a sharp, charcoal gray business suit. It’s been handmade by the look of it, and I bet he had no change out of five hundred pounds a meter for that cloth. My own black T-shirt and jeans, even more faded than usual owing to them being slung in the washing machine every day, look even sloppier in contrast to his immaculate appearance. I see that his hair is loose now and just brushing the collar of his jacket. I feel the urge to reach out, touch him, but restrain myself.
Gathering my wits and making a conscious effort to appear rather more collected than I feel, I try to answer normally. “Yes, still here. We’ve been working hard, and Rosie has something to show you. When you’re ready, obviously…” The poor guy has just got in and not even taken his jacket off yet, and already we’re crowding him.
Rosie is not one for waiting, though. Hopping from one foot to the other in excitement, she’s at him stra
ight away. “I can play that tune, Daddy, the one Miss Byrne played when she first came. Well, the start of it anyway. I’m doing the rest next week. And I can read the notes on the page. We used your iPad to look them up on the Internet.” He glances up at me at the mention of making free with his property but says nothing…yet. “Can I play it for you? Now? Please, Daddy, please?”
Shrugging off his jacket—which Mrs. Richardson immediately grabs, presumably before it slips onto the floor to become a doggy bed—he smiles at her, his chocolate eyes alight with warmth. God, he really adores that kid. That’s so nice… “Wouldn’t miss it, princess, go get your violin. And could you fetch Miss Byrne’s as well? You wouldn’t mind entertaining us again, would you?” He turns to me, one eyebrow raised.
“Of course not, I’d be delighted.” Anything for you.
Rosie and I scrape out a passable, but in fairness not remarkable, rendition of ‘Boléro’. She is delighted with herself and the proud father declares himself suitably impressed. I perch my glasses on my nose to read the music. Should I be thinking about contact lenses? I wonder. Strange, I never have before.
We continue to show off with a short practice piece I wrote with Rosie one morning when it was too wet to go out, designed specifically to try out some new techniques and develop her skills.
“What shall we call our tune?” Rosie wonders.
“How about ‘Sweet Rosie’?” I suggest, shoving my glasses back into their case before starting to extract my violin from its flouncy chiffon skirt, while she clambers up onto her father’s knee.
“’Sweet Rosie’—sounds good. Did you really compose this, Eva?” he asks, peering around Rosie at the untidy, scribbled musical score she has tried valiantly to smooth out after digging it from her back pocket.
I don’t want to take all the credit—it was a joint effort, more or less. “Well, we both did. It’s not easy finding just the right sort of music to practice and learn. We needed something that had new stuff Rosie hasn’t done yet so that she can add new techniques, but also to build on and practice what she does know. So now I’ve got the hang of where she is with her violin playing, I can help her to write new pieces that are just right for her now.” Oh, no. Do I sound like a crusty old academic—as usual? “It’s important to be able to read the music, to understand the structure of a melody as well as to play by ear.” I shut up at last, realizing I sound like my old music lecturer and I must be getting boring.