This Other Eden (Skimmerdale Book 1)

by Sharon Booth

  She cleared her throat. 'Well, that's charming, I must say. I sincerely hope George is a child and not an adult. Still, at least this place isn't the hovel I was expecting, so that's something.'

  Eliot's eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? 'You were expecting a hovel?'

  'What's a hovel?' asked Ophelia, clearly puzzled.

  'You know,' said Libby. 'Like Granny Allen's.'

  Ophelia, not surprisingly, screwed up her nose in disgust. 'Yuk. Why would you think we lived somewhere like Granny Allen's?'

  'I can't really say,' said Honey, airily, 'since I haven't the faintest idea who Granny Allen is, or what her home looks like. However, I will admit I wasn't expecting a farmhouse in the back of beyond to be so charming. I was expecting something a lot more primitive, so at least that's a positive.'

  'You haven't seen it all, yet,' said Eliot evenly. 'Wait 'til you see the tin bath and the outside toilet, and the gas lamps upstairs.'

  'Very amusing. I'm glad to see you have a sense of humour. Your manner earlier on led me to believe you were a typical northern farmer.'

  'And what's a typical northern farmer?' He glared at her, a challenge in his eyes.

  'Er, you know. Gruff, sullen, dog glued to your ankles ...' Her voice trailed off as her gaze found the sheepdog sitting beside him.

  Eliot spread his hands and looked around the kitchen. 'As you can see, I fit the picture of the typical northern farmer. I'm gruff, I'm sullen, I rarely go anywhere without Lug beside me, and —'

  'Lug? Your dog's called Lug? What on earth sort of a name is that?'

  'A short one. Easy to call. What's it to you?'

  'It's short for Buggerlugs,' said Ophelia, with her usual helpfulness. ''cos Dad says he's a proper one.'

  'Aye, all right, love, that'll do.'

  'Lug's Dad's best dog. We've got four others. Having dogs is in our blood,' said Ophelia solemnly. 'And we've got sheep and chickens and a cat and a pony. What animals have you got?'

  Honey looked a bit rattled. 'I don't do animals.'

  'Really? Thought you were one of the horsy set?'

  He remembered for a moment, being curled up on the sofa in front of the stove with Jemima, just weeks before Libby was born.

  'I heard from Freya today,' she'd said.

  He'd tensed, knowing it hurt her to hear from the family who wanted little to do with her since she'd lowered herself to marrying a sheep farmer. 'Everything all right?'

  'Oh, yes. Wanted to brag about her perfect life, as usual. Honey was blooded today at the hunt.'

  'And that's a good thing?'

  'A twelve-year-old child being blooded at the Boxing Day hunt? Oh, yes, that's a good thing.'

  'Sounds disgusting.'

  She'd laughed. 'Not in that world, darling, I assure you. Wait 'til summer comes. It will be nonstop phone calls to update me on Honey's latest show jumping cup, or how many rosettes she's won at the gymkhana. Hardly surprising, given that Freya spent a fortune buying her two ponies and paying for her expensive lessons.' She'd sighed. 'Our child will miss out on all that, I suppose.'

  'When he or she is old enough, we'll get them a pony — though I draw the line at that hunting malarkey.'

  'Really? You wouldn't mind?'

  'Of course not.' He could hear the delight in her voice. She'd put her arms around him and kissed him, and he'd known at that moment he'd do anything — even buy their child a hundred ponies — if it made Jemima happy.

  He blinked, dismissing the memory. 'I heard you were one o' them kids who followed the hunt and got blooded by the master? And you had a whole wall full o' rosettes from them gymkhanas, and what not.'

  She looked blank. 'Who told you that?'

  'Who do you think?' He struggled to keep the anger out of his voice. Had she forgotten who he was married to?

  'Oh, right. Yes, well, that was ponies.'

  Eliot tutted. 'And ponies aren't animals?'

  'They're transport,' she informed him.

  He looked at the girls, who were staring up at her in astonishment. They were obviously as stunned at her comment as he was. What a spoilt brat she was, really. He didn't know what he could say to that when there were children present. Fortunately, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and a few moments later, Daisy entered the kitchen, carrying George in her arms.

  'Daddy!'

  'Georgie! Come on, then. Cuddles.' He felt a surge of joy as he lifted the little boy from Daisy's arms and held him closely. 'Thanks for minding them, Daisy. I really appreciate it. And for all you've done in the house. You've made quite an impression on our guest.'

  'It were no bother, Eliot.' She smiled at him. 'You know I love having the bairns. Wish I could help out more often, but you know what it's like.'

  ''Course I do, and don't you be worrying about it. I don't expect you to put yersen out for me and mine.' God, no, he really didn't. She'd done more than enough. He was grateful to her, of course he was, but he knew the reason she'd done it. He just couldn't bring himself to face up to it.

  'Evidently,' Honey said, 'that task is now mine.'

  Daisy glanced at her, her disapproval apparent. 'Aren't you going to introduce me, Eliot?' she said, looking at Honey with flinty eyes.

  'I doubt it,' Honey assured her, 'seeing as he hasn't even bothered to introduce me to his own children.' She gave Daisy a sweet smile. 'Are you his sister? His older sister, perhaps?'

  Eliot rushed in at the look of horror on Daisy's face. 'Daisy Jackson, this is my wife's second cousin, Honey Carmichael,' he said coldly. 'Honey, this is Daisy, a neighbour and a good friend. She lives on a farm up yonder.'

  'Up yonder? Please, don't let's get bogged down in the details,' Honey drawled. 'And what about your children? Do they have names? I understand the one with the lack of bowel control is George. What about the girls?'

  That comment sent a spark of fury through Eliot, so much so that he seemed unable to speak.

  Daisy's voice was as hard as the expression in her eyes. 'That's Liberty,' she said, nodding at the eldest child. 'And that's Ophelia.'

  'Heavens.'

  'What do you mean, heavens?' Eliot said, immediately on the defensive.

  'I mean, what interesting names. I was expecting a farmer's children to be called Jack and Jill and Jane, or something. You're full of surprises.'

  'Evidently, you've formed the wrong image of us. I reckon it's gunna take some shifting.'

  'I expect you've formed an image of me, too,' she said.

  'Aye. And happen it were the right one.' He handed George back to Daisy and picked up his guest's bags. 'I'll take these upstairs. Honey, follow me, if you want to see where you'll be sleeping. Daisy, love, if you could make us all a brew I'd be grateful, but if you need to get off, say the word. I won't be long.'

  'I'm in no great hurry,' said Daisy immediately. 'I'll bring the washing in, in a minute. Sorry about leaving it on the line. I got distracted. I'll stick it in the dryer. Libby, take George into the living room, while I sort this out,' she said, gesturing towards the sink.

  'Don't forget to wash your hands,' Honey reminded her. 'Basic hygiene, please. I don't want to be invaded by bacteria leftover from the child's dirty clothes.'

  Daisy gaped at her, rather unattractively.

  Eliot took a deep breath then left the kitchen, followed up the stairs by Honey. At the top, he showed her into the spare room.

  It was a pretty room. Jemima had made it as appealing as she could, in the hope that, one day, a member of her family would deign to spend some time with them at Fleetsthorpe. It had never been used. Painted white, as were most of the rooms, it had thick, rose pink curtains at the window, a deep pile pink carpet, white bedding with pink cushions at the end of the bed, and a large white wooden wardrobe and matching chest of drawers.

  Honey stood silently taking it in. No doubt, she was distinctly unimpressed and profoundly lacking in gratitude. It was going to be a long eight weeks.

  Eli
ot wished with all his heart that he'd any other option than to accept help from Honey Carmichael, even though he knew deep down he'd had one — and he hadn't been able to bring himself to take it.

  Chapter Seven

  'You're not serious?' Honey's voice was incredulous. 'We've just arrived, and the first thing you want to do is call your wife?'

  Crispin paled. She hadn't thought it was possible for him to look any whiter but, somehow, he managed it. 'It's not that I want to call her, darling. It's simply that I think I ought to. After all, we don't want her getting suspicious, do we?'

  'Why on earth would she get suspicious? She's sunning herself in Portugal, for God's sake. I doubt very much that she's given you a second thought since she arrived.'

  Lavinia, it seemed to her, had a pretty good deal. Eight weeks in the Algarve, lying in the sun, drinking cocktails, and maxing out Crispin's credit cards. It seemed a much better prospect than being holed up in some Dorset house, which wasn't nearly as grand as she'd been expecting.

  When they'd arrived, Crispin had unlocked the front door and thrown it open with a flourish, obviously very proud of the place. His sister, who was over a decade older than him and married to a wealthy businessman, had bought it as a holiday home when he was a teenager, and he'd spent many happy summers there, apparently. 'Isn't it lovely?' he kept saying. 'You must see the view from our room. The window looks out on the cove. It's wonderful to wake up in the morning, open the curtains, and look out over the sea.'

  Honey, who'd assumed the house would have at least six bedrooms and a swimming pool, wasn't impressed. 'What do you mean, our room? Who chose it?'

  'Well, it's my room. I mean, I always stay in that one when I stay here.'

  'So, you've slept in that bed with Lavinia?'

  He looked panic stricken. 'Well, yes. Obviously.'

  'Then, I think we'd better find another room,' said Honey firmly. 'There's no way I'm sleeping in the bed you've shared with your wife.'

  'But, Honey!'

  'No buts about it, Crispin,' she said. 'I'm sure there are other rooms.'

  'Only two, but one of them's little more than a box room.'

  She looked appalled. 'What sort of a holiday home is this? Three bedrooms! Well, there's nothing for it. We'll have to take your sister's room.'

  'Don't be ridiculous!'

  'I beg your pardon? It must surely be the best room in the house, so we'll take it. Can you direct me?'

  He opened his mouth in protest.

  'Oh, don't stand there gawping at me like that. It's most unattractive.'

  'We can't take that room. It's Sybil's and Rupert's room.'

  'They'll never know.' She pouted. 'Can't you understand how I'm feeling? This has all been on your terms. I had to work everything around your holiday dates, keep out of the way, not tell anyone about us, be discreet. Now, I'm to be holed up here for weeks without another soul to talk to, all to protect your reputation and career, and you expect me to sleep in the bed where you've been having sex with your wife. It's too much.'

  'Who says I've been having sex with my wife?' Crispin said, looking guilty. 'You're making huge assumptions there.'

  Honey stroked his face. 'It's all right. I know you and Lavinia must have a very active love life.'

  'Well, no, I mean —'

  'How could she keep her hands off you? I can't keep my hands off you. She'd have to be superhuman to resist.'

  Crispin looked deeply smug. 'Well, I suppose —'

  'So, you take my point? Don't you realise how hard for me all this is? Having to share you with her! It breaks my heart. Can't I at least have this one precious summer, when I've got you all to myself, with no memories of Lavinia to intrude upon us?' She kissed him gently.

  He took hold of her hands. 'I suppose you're right. I am being selfish. I'll show you to Sybil's room, and while you unpack, I'll ring Lavinia. Get it all out of the way.'

  'I can't believe she makes you ring her every day. Anyone would think she didn't trust you.'

  'I know. It is a bit much,' he agreed.

  'I loathe clingy women,' said Honey. 'Come on, let's find our room.'

  In the event, Honey wasn't too impressed with the master bedroom, either. It wasn't much bigger than the room Crispin had earmarked for them, and it didn't have a sea view. Its only saving grace, as far as she could see, was that it had an en suite, but given that there were only the two of them, it hardly mattered. She gazed out of the window at the boring front garden and wished she'd kept her big mouth shut. She wasn't going to tell Crispin that, of course. Let him think it mattered to her that he'd slept with his wife in this house. No doubt he was flattered by the thought, and that would work in her favour. In fact, she'd simply wanted the grandest room in the house. Though, this one hardly seemed worth the effort.

  She finished unpacking and wondered, as she put the last of her clothes in the old-fashioned pine wardrobe, how Eden was getting on. She really hoped she wouldn't let her emotions get the better of her. Eden was far too sentimental, and the thought of a widowed father, trying valiantly to cope with three young children, had really tugged at her heartstrings. Eden liked to romanticise things. She saw the whole episode as a tragic love story. Honey thought differently. If Eliot Harland had really loved Jemima, he would surely have told her to find someone more suitable, and not have condemned her to a life of hell in a Skimmerdale farmhouse. What sort of love was that, for heaven's sake? You could stick it.

  She headed onto the landing. Hearing Crispin's voice, she sneaked quietly downstairs, desperate to eavesdrop on his conversation with his wife.

  'No, of course I won't forget. The second Saturday in August. I'll be there. No, of course I won't miss it. What do you take me for? Anyway, how can I forget, when you're going to be ringing me every day to remind me? I do wish you'd have a little faith in me, darling. It's dreadfully belittling.'

  Honey edged closer to the living room. What was he on about? What was happening on the second Saturday in August? They were supposed to be having an uninterrupted break, for God's sake. Surely, Lavinia wasn't coming back?

  'No, it's just the same here. Nothing ever changes, does it? Oh, pottering around. I'm looking forward to some rest and relaxation. How about you? Really? Well, remember to put your sun cream on. I hope you're using a high factor. You don't want to burn. Yes, all right. Have a lovely day. I'll speak to you tomorrow. Love you. Miss you. Bye.'

  'Love you? Miss you?' Honey put her hands on her hips and glared at him, as he replaced the receiver. 'What was that all about?'

  'Just words, my darling. Have to keep her sweet. You know I only love you.'

  'And what's happening on the second Saturday in August?'

  'I have to get back to my constituency for a surgery.'

  'A what?'

  'Surgery. You know, I meet any of my constituents who need help with things.'

  'What sort of things?'

  'Oh, gosh, all sorts of things. Litter, traffic problems, schooling. I once had a chap turn up to complain that his benefits had been wrongly stopped. It was extraordinary.'

  'What was extraordinary about that? Lots of people get their benefits stopped.'

  'No, I mean that one of my constituents was on benefits. I think he's the only one I've ever met. It's not the norm in Windleby-on-the-Weir, you know.'

  'No wonder you've got one of the safest seats in the country, then,' muttered Honey, who was only aware of that fact because her father had banged on about it so often.

  'You ought to be jolly glad I have,' said Crispin. 'If I had a marginal seat, I'd probably have to hold surgeries every week to drum up support. Can you imagine how tedious that would be? Having to tootle back up to the place every seven days?'

  'But you're on holiday!'

  'Darling, an MP is never really on holiday. At least, he can't be seen to be on holiday. Really, if any journos find out someone's had more than a fortnight away, they seem to take a gleeful delight in labelling us spongers and print
ing sneaky photographs of us in their ghastly rags. It's bad enough that Lavinia's taken herself off to Portugal for eight weeks.'

  'I don't see what she's got to do with anything,' said Honey, sulkily.

  'Well, to be fair, I do pay her thirty-five grand a year to be my office manager,' he admitted. 'The tax payers can get pretty miffed about things like that. One can't be too careful.'

  'So, you're going home in three weeks and leaving me alone?'

  'Oh, darling, I'll be back before you know it. Just need to show my face, make some sympathetic noises, promise to look into things, then I'll head back. It will hardly impact on our holiday, I promise.'

  'Hmm. Well, now you've phoned Lavinia and shown me around this tiny excuse for a house, what do we do next?'

  Crispin's eyes glinted with delight as he put his arms around her and pressed himself tightly against her. 'Ah, now. I'm awfully glad you asked me that question.'

  Chapter Eight

  Eden knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the minute she got home she would throttle Honey. It wasn't going at all as she'd imagined. It had seemed simple when it was all theoretical. Just be horrible to a grumpy, middle-aged farmer who had, after all, agreed to keep Honey a prisoner, and use her as an unpaid babysitter. At least, that was Honey's take on it, and despite of her compassion for his predicament, Eden had tried hard to see it from that point of view. And, given that scenario, how difficult could it be? There was no way she could have predicted that he'd be gorgeous; she could never have known he'd have raven curls that were crying out to have her fingers run through them, or brown eyes as dark and shining as tempered chocolate. He was far tastier than any chocolate, which wasn't something she'd thought she'd say about any man. He did things to her that poor Joshua couldn't have imagined, even in his wildest dreams. One look at that face and body, and she had been overcome with a strange desire to sweep clean the kitchen table, drag him onto it, and do her level best to heal the north-south divide. It was all most unexpected.

  Having no desire to hurry downstairs to face a bunch of people who already despised her, she set about unpacking the cases, taking her time to unfold and hang up the clothes Honey had packed for her. She knew she should have insisted on doing her own packing. This stuff was useless. Half the clothes Honey had selected were hopelessly impractical for life on a farm, and the rest of it was probably far too tight for her. Eden was fairly slim, but Honey was a stick insect. She rarely ate anything substantial, preferring instead to pick at fruit, the odd prawn and bits of salad, all washed down with copious amounts of expensive mineral water. Eden, who shared Cain's love of steak and ale pie, and treacle pudding and custard, couldn't see it was worth it, considering there was only around a stone between them. She'd far rather squeeze into a bigger size and eat.