by Liz Fielding
‘Oh, drat!’ Joshua Kent’s visit had unsettled her more than she had been prepared to admit. The memory of Mary’s visit was deep buried — her mother had never spoken of it again — and the doll had been put away.
She cleared up the mess, taking excessive care to hunt for every last shard of glass, wrapping it carefully in newspaper before putting it in the bin. She found another pot for her brushes, tidied her paints, straightened her easel…stalled endlessly.
It was only when there was nothing left to stay the moment that she climbed the stairs to the little room that had been hers for as long as she could remember.
It hadn’t changed much. The wallpaper was still the same daisy-pattern that her father had put up the year before he died. It was scuffed now, bumped by furniture and marked by drawing pins from teenage posters. She should redecorate, but there were so many other expenses in an old house.
The decision to let one of her spare bedrooms had been made six months earlier in an effort to defray some of the costs. She had been putting off the evil moment, but she was going to have to face the prospect of letting the other spare bedroom. The only alternative was working extra hours, but the talk in the common room was all of cut-backs, not expansion. Still, she would leave the final decision until after her holiday.
She opened the cupboard door. There was a neat stack of favourite childhood books that she couldn’t bear to part with, a collection of shells. The costume dolls that her father had brought her back from his trips abroad filled the centre shelf.
But the doll she had come to find wasn’t there. It was at the bottom, buried under a sleeping bag and rucksack, but after a moment’s search she found it, picked it up and held it at arm’s length.
It was a very superior sort of rag doll from a big London store. The material still had that new starchy smell; the lace edges of the dress and bonnet were still crisp. Little fingers had never disturbed her pristine condition or loved her to a state of tattiness. Only, very occasionally, had she taken her from her hiding place and held her for a moment, to show the doll that she did love her, but couldn’t ever let her mother see.
Now Joshua Kent had come stirring up memories she would rather forget. Disturbing her with his arrogance, his dictatorial manner, his irritation that she hadn’t immediately agreed to his demand. But it had been far more than that. He hadn’t wanted to come at all, she thought. Despite his determination that she comply with Mary’s wishes, she was almost certain that he didn’t want her anywhere near Ashbrooke. And that fact alone might be enough to take her there.
CHAPTER TWO
DESPITE the luxury of the car, it was an uncomfortable journey. Holly had been prepared to make the best of things, try to get along, but from the moment she opened the door to Joshua Kent’s summons on the bell at precisely ten o’clock it was apparent that the antagonism was as fierce as ever.
She stood perfectly still while he ran an assessing eye over her long, narrow grey coat and the soft-brimmed black velvet hat she wore pulled down over her forehead.
‘Will I do?’ she asked finally, masking the slow burn of anger beneath the cool tones of her voice.
‘Perfectly,’ he replied, with a slight, knowing twist to his mouth, taking her bag and heading for the car. He opened the door for her then climbed in beside her and once again subjected her to the scrutiny of a pair of steely eyes. ‘You’ve obviously taken a great deal of trouble with your appearance, Wasted on me, of course, but Mary’s friends will no doubt appreciate your efforts.’
Holly could hardly believe her ears. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she exclaimed, turning to open the door, determined that whatever happened she was not going to spend the next few hours cooped up with this man. ‘You are quite insufferable.’
The click of the central-locking system forestalled her and she turned on him to protest, but one look at the severe lines of his face warned her that there would be no point and she refrained from telling him exactly what she thought of him. The journey was going to be unpleasant enough.
He smiled slightly in appreciation of her restraint. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Carpenter, I’m afraid for the moment you’ll just have to suffer.’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
‘I suggest that you address that question to your conscience,’ he replied tersely. He glanced over his shoulder and pulled away from the kerb, apparently expecting no answer and getting none.
Holly was completely mystified by his attitude to her but, since he had made it quite plain that he was not going to offer an explanation, contented herself with keeping her eyes on the passing countryside and pretended that he wasn’t there.
But it was difficult. All the time she was edgily aware of the brooding presence beside her and she found herself pondering on the coldness of his manner towards her. No one, in all her twenty-three years, had ever spoken to her as he had. She wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, demand an answer. Despite her buttoned-down fury she almost smiled at the thought of making any kind of impression on the hard, square shoulders filling the well-padded seat of the Rolls.
And anyway, he was right about her appearance. She had dressed for a funeral, perhaps wanting to impress him with her sincerity. Some hopes! His own appearance was far more casual than her own: dark trousers, an open-necked shirt and a russet cashmere sweater that lent a little of its warmth to his eyes. No doubt he was a great deal more comfortable than she was in her close-fitting coat. She was tempted to remove her hat, but a certain stubborn pride made her cling to it.
As if sensing her inspection he glanced at her, staring down his long, straight nose, and their eyes met. A slight frown creased his forehead as if she had momentarily jolted that imperious assurance, then he turned back to the road, his hard profile telling her nothing. And that suited her down to the ground. She had no desire to know anything about the man and would be catching the train home.
She still didn’t quite understand the impulse that was taking her to Ashbrooke. She had lain awake half the night, determined that she wouldn’t go anywhere with Joshua Kent — then found herself wondering if he would simply pick her up and carry her off. She wouldn’t have put it past him.
She had approached her head of department confident that the imminent end of term would make taking time off impossible. But Harvey had been primed and couldn’t have been more sympathetic.
‘Mr Kent telephoned this afternoon. He said you were under the impression that it would be impossible for you to take time off to go to your cousin’s funeral.’ He’d tutted. ‘I thought you knew me better than that, Holly. Of course you must go, and don’t worry about rushing back for the last couple of days of term. I’m sure there will be all sorts of things you need to do. We’ll see you at the beginning of the summer. Give my regards to Florence.’ He grinned. ‘Though I don’t suppose she’ll remember me.’
Holly had laughed automatically at his joke, but underneath she had boiled. How dared Joshua Kent presume to interfere in her life? And why couldn’t Harvey have been awkward for once?
No chance. He was the kindest man in the college.
David’s attitude had been rather more mercenary. ‘You’d better go, Holly,’ he’d said as he prepared to leave for work. ‘The old dear might have left you a few thousand.’
‘There’s no reason why she should,’ Holly had snapped, ‘and she wasn’t old.’
As a lodger, David Grantham was fine, she’d thought crossly, sorting through her wardrobe for something suitable to wear. As a human being? She had occasional moments of doubt about him on that score.
When she had decided to share the house, in an effort to cut down the running costs, a friend had advised her to take in a man. Someone who could mend fuses, clear the guttering and put up shelves when occasion demanded.
She hadn’t taken the advice seriously — she was perfectly capable of doing all those things herself — but David had answered her ad, taking advantage of his job on the local newspaper to get in before s
he was inundated with other applicants.
They had discovered they had met once before when he had written a feature about her for the local paper, he was easy to get along with and in the main it had worked well enough.
She sighed and stared out of the car window. They had already left the motorway far behind and Holly tried to concentrate on the countryside. She had never been to Devon before and she was surprised how advanced everything was. The hedgerow was already beginning to quicken with life, with occasional dark patches of violets amid the gaudy celandines. Then she caught sight of a rabbit bounding panic-stricken along the road, and cried out a warning.
‘I’ve seen it,’ Joshua said sharply, slowing until the creature dived into the safety of the hedge.
‘I’ve never seen a wild rabbit before,’ she said, feeling a little foolish.
‘You’ll see plenty about here. They’re pests.’
‘In that case,’ she retorted, ‘I’m surprised that you didn’t simply run it over.’
‘Perhaps, Miss Carpenter, I’m not blessed with your ruthless streak,’ he said smoothly.
‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Mr Kent.’ He threw her a venomous glance and then slipped a CD into the car’s stereo system. Mozart flooded the sound vacuum, indicating in no uncertain terms that conversation was at an end.
Half an hour later she caught her first glimpse of the sea as the hills dipped away and an involuntary exclamation of pleasure escaped her lips.
‘Do you like the sea?’ The totally unexpected sound of his voice made her jump.
‘Yes,’ she admitted, oddly reluctant even to grant him this small insight into her thoughts.
A slight tightening of his lips might almost have been a smile. ‘How fortunate.’
‘Fortunate?’ It seemed an odd choice of words. ‘I don’t see how. This isn’t exactly a treat for me.’
‘Isn’t it?’
She turned quickly, hardly believing her ears. ‘What did you say?’
‘It’s all right, Miss Carpenter. There’s no need to pretend with me. I know who you are. Why you’re here. You can keep the act for those who’ll appreciate it.’
‘Do you, Mr Kent?’ Her voice mocked him. ‘I know why I’m here when I’d rather be almost anywhere else in the whole world.’ Because, despite her horror of funerals, and despite everything Joshua Kent might think, in the end she had known that she would never forgive herself if she didn’t pay her last respects to Mary Graham. ‘But I’d bet a hundred pounds that you haven’t a clue.’
‘If you had a hundred pounds to bet,’ he said, ‘I would take you up on that.’
Before she could think of a suitable response he had slowed to turn through a pair of ornate gates, driving her half a mile or so before pulling up in front of a fine three-storey country house, now converted into an hotel. ‘I’ve booked you in at Ashbrooke Hall,’ he said, glancing up at the facade. ‘I think you’ll find it comfortable.’
Holly was horrified. The cost of a night in such a place would take her a month to earn. At least.
‘I can’t stay here,’ she protested. But he was already out of the car and her bag was being borne away by a porter. He opened her door and Holly climbed out. ‘Please!’ She put a hand on his arm, determined to make him see.
He glanced down at the long, narrow fingers pale against his sweater and relented slightly. ‘No one expects you to pay, Miss Carpenter. It is an expense on the Mary’s estate.’
She stiffened and pulled her hand away. ‘I don’t want to be an expense to anyone. Just take me somewhere ordinary and I’ll be happy to pay my own hotel way…’
Her voice trailed off as she saw the view that stretched away beneath them. An old harbour, sheltered against the wind by a long breakwater, a mixture of ocean-going yachts and more workmanlike craft riding on the high tide. Spreading up the hill towards them were all kinds of dwellings. White-painted cottages near the quay, the huddle of the town itself and then the more substantial properties perched higher to enjoy the full impact of the rugged coastline that rose around the gentle sandy sweep of the bay.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
He had no eyes for the view. ‘Mary wanted your stay, however brief, to be as pleasant as possible despite the circumstances.’
The hours of self-restraint, while confined with this unbearable man, had taken their toll and she snapped. ‘What a pity she didn’t think of that before she sent you to fetch me!’
‘You little—’ He broke off. ‘I ought to tan your backside.’
‘Here?’ she demanded. ‘In front of all these people?’
His face darkened momentarily. ‘It’ll keep,’ he said, taking her firmly by the arm. ‘We’ll go inside if you’ve stopped making a show of protesting.’ She bit down hard and for a moment resisted, her low heels digging into the gravel, but his eyes dared her to make a scene in front of a party of guests gathered in the entrance and watching their arrival with interest.
He swiftly dealt with the formalities of registration, giving her a moment to catch her breath and recover from the scene in the drive.
‘I’ll take you up.’
‘There’s no need,’ she said, quickly, ‘I can manage.’
A trace of a smile crossed his features as he saw her nervous reaction. ‘I said it’ll keep, Miss Carpenter. I don’t lie.’
‘Just beat on helpless women?’
‘Helpless? Hardly that. Not while you’ve a tongue in your head.’ He didn’t wait for her response, but turned and led the way to the room that had been allocated to her on the first floor.
The luxurious furnishings were dominated by a richly hung four-poster bed and, despite the brightness of the spring day, a fire burned in a stone hearth but it was the view that enthralled Holly and she walked quickly across to the window. The gardens were full of spring flowers far in advance of those at home, and the glimpse of the sea beyond made her fingers itch for her sketchpad.
‘Oh, this is so beautiful.’ She couldn’t wait to throw off the formal clothes that she had worn just to show him and get outside… She pulled off her hat and shook her hair loose. There was a squirrel in the garden raiding a bird table and it had just managed to detach half a coconut and was escaping with it in its mouth.
‘Just look at that.’ She laughed and turned, wanting to share the moment, but he was staring at her, his face rigid with disbelief. ‘What is it?’ She impulsively put her hand to her forehead, wondering if the smear of paint had somehow reappeared there.
‘I…’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ His voice was clipped. ‘I have things to do. Can you look after yourself for the rest of the day?’
‘I look after myself every day, Mr Kent,’ she said without rancour, more interested in the sudden glimpse of a human being behind the cold mask. ‘I’m sure I can fill in a few hours without someone to hold my hand.’
He nodded and walked quickly to the door. ‘I’ll join you here for dinner.’ He half turned to her. ‘Eight o’clock.’ He didn’t wait for her answer; apparently it was unthinkable that she might refuse his company. Instead he strode away on long legs that carried him out of the door before she had time to collect her wits and tell him that she didn’t need anyone to make certain she used the correct knife. But the day was too pretty to waste on such pettiness.
She would worry about Joshua Kent at eight o’clock, she promised herself, not a moment before. She quickly unpacked and changed into a pair of navy trousers and a warm turquoise sweater. Then, taking the leather folder that contained her sketchpad and pastels, she made her way down into the garden, settling herself on a bench that might have been placed there especially for her purpose and set to work.
It wasn’t quite so simple to dismiss Joshua Kent from her mind, however. His cynical expression continually inserted itself between her and the block of paper, destroying her attempts at concentration. The effort of capturing the important lines of a distant scene would normally be sufficient to hold her, drive everyt
hing else from her head. Today the only lines she could see clearly were the arrogant tilt of his head, the straight line of his nose and the hard, disapproving mouth.
Her hand moved in swift, angry strokes over the paper and in seconds a caricature of Joshua Kent sneered back at her, the exaggerated curve of his lower lip a sensual counterpoint to her savage portrayal of the man.
Holly stared in horror at what she had done. At college her caricatures were always in demand for special occasions and newsletters, and she had drawn them of students and lecturers alike with humour and affection. But this was deeply personal and the intensity of it almost scared her.
What on earth was it about him that brought out the very worst in her? It was as if from the moment she had opened the door to his imperious ring some basic instinct had sent up a warning signal that he was trouble and she must be on her guard.
Tentatively, almost reluctantly, her finger traced the lines she had drawn. It was a cruel portrait. And not quite true. It missed something she had glimpsed, very briefly, in that moment she had turned from the window.
Something he was taking great pains to hide from her.
Holly shivered convulsively. She didn’t know why she had come to Ashbrooke. Why he had insisted that she come. But it had to be more than a childhood memory of a pretty face blanked with pain that she knew had been caused by her.
*
He was prompt, but she hadn’t expected anything else. She hadn’t packed anything very grand — she didn’t have anything grand to pack — but she had twisted her hair up into a smooth chignon and her dark blue dress had a classic simplicity that would take it to most places without raising an eyebrow. However, it was clearly not up to the dining-room at Ashbrooke Hall.
‘You’d better bring a coat. We’ll go to a restaurant in the town, rather than eat here. It’ll be quieter.’
‘If you’d prefer not to be seen with me, Mr Kent, just say so. I would be perfectly happy with something on a tray in my room.’