by Janey Lewis
God, she thought, and it’s only Tuesday. She looked round at the pile of dirty crockery and empty tins littering the work surfaces. He wiped a chair and told her to sit while he poured some drinks. Liberty remained standing and surprised him by saying, ‘I’d really like to see the forge.’ Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he reverted to his old twinkling self.
‘It may be a little chilly – the fire’s out – but I would love for you to see it.’ Helping her back into her coat, and carrying her glass of wine, he led her outside.
They had to walk through his courtyard garden filled with pots of dead plants, a small rickety table with an overflowing ashtray as its only decor, all well lit by an unflattering security light. Built into one wall of the courtyard was a set of solid and imposing metal gates that Fred set about unlocking, and upon opening revealed the barn that contained the forge, fronted by an immaculate brick-paved terrace. There were several beautiful old oak barrels filled with winter pansies and rosemary. They stood guard proudly at either side of the barn doors, and beside each was a neat pile of discarded horseshoes and an exquisite sign swinging off an iron bar, of a blacksmith shoeing a shire horse.
‘I guess that is the sort of thing you will be wanting,’ said Fred, his Irish accent warming her chilly bones as he noticed her gaze at the sign, ‘but without the horse or the blacksmith – unless you want to include me as a fixture . . .’ Liberty let this slide, but she blushed into her pashmina.
The interior of the barn was immaculate. All the tools hung neatly from a forged pole, all ash from the fire was tidily swept and examples of his work – hanging baskets, plant supports and fire irons – stood along the walls and hung from the giant beams.
Her appreciation of the pride he took in his work must have been obvious from her expression, for he said, in a serious voice, ‘This is where I spend most of my time. I’m not house-proud, but I am very, very forge-proud.’ Taking a long drink from his can of beer he told her he loved what he did and hoped she would be pleased with any work she commissioned from him.
They were now, despite the residual heat from the fire, freezing, and he suggested they went back indoors.
‘Not exactly what you are used to,’ he said, looking gloomily around.
‘No, but much impressed by your forge,’ replied Liberty sincerely, ‘and it doesn’t matter in the slightest, so now let’s look at your etchings!’
This broke the ice, and they both burst out laughing. The drawings were surprisingly excellent. Much more detailed than Liberty had imagined; in fact, she had had her doubts that he had done any at all, and had thought this was simply a ruse to lure her into his cottage. Fred pulled up a chair, perhaps unnecessarily close, and went through them. Some were just a name in block print hanging from a pole.
‘I’ve called it The Old Butcher’s, as I didn’t know if you were going to change to Liberteas? But I have to agree with your friend, it doesn’t exactly sound good for a café.’
‘No, but it’ll do until I decide, and you seem to have come up with lovely ideas.’
The drawings had a narrow black border. There was one with the outline of a loaf of bread and wine glasses. Another had a sheaf of corn. The final one, which Liberty knew at once was the one she wanted, was a simple knife and fork crossed over a spoon in the centre of a broad black border, with the name hung independently beneath them so it would swing separately.
‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed delightedly. ‘Simple, but with style. And having seen your hanging baskets, can you make four for me, with brackets for the wall hangings? And if the brackets could have the cutlery outline, could I include them somehow in the logo?’
‘Logo, hey? That sounds chichi! Yes, of course I can.’
‘And if you don’t mind, I will use it on the menus and my website.’
‘What the divil!’ he said, reverting to an Irish brogue in his enthusiasm, ‘and do I get the copyright or what?’
She ignored this, and explained, ‘I’m planning to open by Easter. No point earlier in the year. Can you get the things done by then?’
‘Well, I am busy, what with it being the hunting season and all, but for you, no problem. You will have to let me know the proper name, obviously, as that is the bit that will take the most time, but I can get on with the rest in any free time I have.’
He rose to fill her glass, but, unsure whether she could stomach the ghastly sweet white, Liberty said she was fine and should be going. Fred looked round from opening another can of beer and asked, ‘What can I do to persuade you to stay?’ As he leaned back against the worktop, his beautiful rugged hands spread against the wooden surface, and he smiled at her. Liberty thought: not much! ‘Maybe I could rustle us up some supper and find out more about you. Not often I get a beautiful woman on her own in my kitchen.’
So obvious was his meaning, and so cheesy, anyone else would have made it seem sleazy, but as Fred was so self-assured and good-looking, he just made spending more time in his company a pleasurable delight.
‘Only if you open the red, as it might be more palatable,’ she countered. ‘Do you cook?’
Fred looked hurt. ‘Is the wine that bad? I hadn’t been expecting to entertain, and didn’t have time to shop, sorry. And to be blunt, I should take you to eat at the pub – dogs have been known to turn their noses up at my food, but I’m excellent company, and I’m sure Dilys won’t gossip too much.’
At this, Liberty blanched and said, ‘Why don’t you let me knock you up an omelette? You must have some eggs, and maybe some cheese?’
‘Have a look in the fridge. I just need to wash.’
As she rummaged around and started to do some washing up to clear a space, Liberty wondered what on earth he was doing. Housework, perhaps? She found some ham and some eggs and some salt and pepper, a few rather squashy tomatoes, ancient garlic, a couple of onions and a chilli. Well, gosh, culinary excellence aside, I can do something with these, she thought, and rustled up some huevos rancheros. She divided it on to two plates, and then realised Fred had still not returned. She called his name, and then went into the sitting room, from which a narrow set of stairs led to the first floor. After calling once more, she thought she could hear his voice upstairs. Curiosity got the better of her, and she mounted the first step.
‘I thanked you for the shirt already,’ she heard, ‘but I wasn’t going to sit around looking like your toy boy while you shopped, I just got bored. If you want to see me next week let me know, my precious, but I have needs too, and watching you spend your husband’s money isn’t one of them.’
As she backed down to the sitting room, Liberty thought, Yuck. So that was it. Let down by his weekly, was he? So he had decided she could fill in for his regular. What had she been thinking? She put all the supper on to one plate. As she was drying the other one he came back into the kitchen, smiling broadly and apologising for taking so long freshening up. Liberty smiled just as widely and said she had made his supper, but she was sorry, she had to leave.
‘Thanks again for the designs; I will be in touch with the name.’
So saying, she grabbed her bag and stamped off before he could smile sexily at her again and persuade her to stay.
‘What a bloody idiot I am,’ she muttered to herself, frosty air spurting out of her mouth. ‘I must look like a fool.’ She let herself into the warm comfort of The Nuttery and was greeted by an excited, snuffling Custard. She picked up the little dog and cuddled her close. ‘You need to go on a diet and I need to get a life,’ she said aloud.
‘What on earth was I thinking?’ complained Liberty as she plonked herself on the sofa next to Deirdre. ‘Why did you let me go?’ Enjoying the comfort of a Diptyque-scented sitting room, a clean glass of decent wine and a dog on her lap, Liberty wondered if she was a little spoilt.
‘Oh, darling,’ replied her mother. ‘We thought you needed fun and maybe a bit of slap and tickle. He’s such a tart, I know, but a kind one nonetheless. I don’t think any of the local girls are unawa
re of his charms. Just look at how many houses use his signs! They are practically his calling cards!’
‘And your mother is trying to pep up your love life,’ added J-T.
‘You don’t look right,’ said Liberty, noticing for the first time that J-T was holding a handkerchief and twisting it round his fingers. What was going on? ‘Anything the matter between you and Bob?’ She was instantly concerned.
‘He is such a workaholic, and now says he can’t possibly get away before Christmas, and doesn’t want to come to some silly hunt ball anyway. I miss him so very much, and he was going to bring the boys down here too,’ wept J-T.
Custard took this to mean she wasn’t up to replacing the two French bulldogs and leapt off Liberty and up on to his lap to remind him how gorgeous she was.
‘Yes, yes, I know how lovely you are, darling,’ J-T told her as he cuddled the wagging ball of fluffy pug, ‘but I do so miss my family.’
‘Oh, sweetie,’ responded Liberty, going to him and giving him as tight a hug as she could with Custard competing for the space. ‘We are all sorted here for the time being. Go back to London tomorrow and catch up with Bob. Get him to take you out on the town. I’m sure he misses you hugely.’
‘No,’ wailed J-T, ‘that’s exactly the problem. I just suggested that to him, and he told me he didn’t need the distraction and I would just get in the way. We used to do everything together, and now all he does is work, and he doesn’t need me. I’m going to bed. I’ll feel better after some beauty sleep!’
And off he swept, carrying Custard upstairs with him for warmth and much needed attention.
‘Humph,’ said Deirdre quietly. ‘I just feel that Bob’s success is overshadowing J-T for the first time; tricky situation. He has always been the star and the centre of attention, so it’s going to be difficult for him, but he should be pleased that Bob is making such a name for himself.’
Liberty had thought the same thing, and felt terrible for her old friend.
‘It’s as though Bob’s had a baby and has no time for J-T,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank goodness Bob is a little more grounded than – as much as I love him – the spoiled brat upstairs. Maybe I should call him, get a feel of things at his end.’
‘No, no, leave well alone. If life has taught me anything, it’s to stay out of other people’s relationships!’ Ignoring Liberty’s ‘I can’t believe you just said that’ look, she said, ‘Let me make us some supper, and you can tell me about your close shave with the village enfant terrible.’
26
The evening of Jonathan’s hunt ball finally arrived. The village people were in great spirits. Most of them were either involved in the hunt or were tenants of Denhelm Estate, and the gossip was of nothing else. Those who couldn’t afford new ballgowns often borrowed one another’s from the previous year so they could wear something different.
Everyone was feeling Christmassy too. The lights had already been lit on the trees surrounding the green, and a vast Norwegian fir, donated by Jonathan, of course, from his plantation, had been hoisted in the centre. Traditionally it was decorated by children from the local school, and this year Deirdre had helped them make large gingerbread men and had iced them in red and green. Wide red ribbons were laced around the tree, and electric candles lit up the branches. Pretty white lights twinkled from the old cottages, Father Christmases climbed on the roofs, reindeer stood on the front lawns and nativity scenes blazed from the windows of the sky-blue painted estate houses.
‘I don’t see how they can afford the electricity!’ exclaimed Deirdre. ‘It must cost a fortune to light them up. Jonathan will erect a wind turbine for them if they are not careful.’
The Nuttery had been stunningly decorated by Deirdre and J-T. Gold satin bows graced every picture frame. Branches of holly and yew engulfed the mantelpieces. An all red, green and gold tree stood in the hall, although it was rather bare on the bottom branches as the dogs had eaten the baubles and baked goodies.
‘I always forget to leave the lower bits empty,’ said Deirdre, laughing as Dijon coughed up a red bow and a partly digested ginger biscuit.
The Nuttery party had been invited to Denhelm Park for cocktails before the ball so they could meet the family from the Middle East and catch up with their friends. Custard seemed to approve of Liberty’s ballgown hanging in her bedroom, and managed, by means of frantic scrabbling, to dislodge some of the beads from the shimmering gold satin hem, which was now shredded. ‘Aaaagh’ went up the scream when Liberty emerged from her bathroom, and then in keeping with her lovely nature, she giggled and picked up the adoring dog.
‘Are you feeling left out?’ she asked, as Custard licked at the carefully applied make-up on her face. ‘Why don’t you come too? Jonathan’s hounds are kept outside, and you could be their hot water bottle.’
Liberty had planned to wear thick stockings under her floor-length dress, with boots. She realised she would have to do something to prevent beads shimmying over the floor, because doubtless someone would skid on them and sue the estate for negligence. ‘What a world we live in,’ she muttered. She went downstairs in her underwear, relaxed in her mother’s over-heated house. She found the sewing box, complete with the button tin she had played with as a baby. Having collected the needle, thread and scissors, she was bending over to close the sewing basket when she heard ‘bloody hell’ behind her, and a thump. She ran to the French doors, and there, on the frosty terrace, lay a handsome man wearing hunting pink. She immediately recognised the crumpled face as that of Edmund, Jonathan’s elder son. She opened the doors to a blast of freezing air, which reminded her she was wearing nothing more than a gold La Perla slip that barely covered her bottom.
‘Edmund, what a lovely surprise. What exactly are you doing?’ she queried.
‘Pa sent me to get you all. He reminded me how late your mother can be, and he was insistent you all come up to the park before the ball people turned up.’
Only Edmund could give a lengthy explanation to a freezing woman without standing up!
‘Most kind of you,’ she chattered, ‘but what are you doing lying on the terrace?’
‘Oh, tripped,’ he spluttered, making it sound like a silly question, but he got to his feet in a surprisingly athletic way and said, ‘I’d better come in before you catch your death.’
Treating me like a baby, as always, thought Liberty, and offered him a whisky before scooting upstairs to repair her gown and get dressed. She yelled to the others that Edmund was in the sitting room waiting for them, and slid into her gold ballgown, hoping nobody would notice the shredded fabric on the hem, or the beads and sequins scattering around the carpet. Perhaps they will all come off before we get there. The colour of the fabric set off her loose brown hair, and showed off her narrow shoulders with fine, barely-there straps. Quickly pulling on her Jimmy Choo knee-length boots, which made her well over six feet tall, and grabbing her fur wrap, she carefully made her way downstairs, not wanting to fall and let Edmund know how clumsy she could be. As she entered the sitting room she realised why he had tripped. The sewing basket was kept on the lower shelf of the bookcase facing the French doors. Oh my God, he must have come up to the doors, looked through before knocking and got a full view of my bottom and goodness knows what else!
The blush spread up from her toes, over her body, and to her face; whereupon she did the only thing possible and burst out laughing.
Edmund, who thought he had fully recovered from viewing the most beautiful pair of legs, topped by a well-trimmed muff and peach-like bottom, was just getting used to the breathtaking vision before him when it laughed. Why do women turn out to be so confusing? he thought. Bloody Pa, why send me? Gray and Savvie are the ones who adore her so, silly girl.
Liberty only saw the now older but still scary Edmund.
‘It’s so lovely to see you again after all this time,’ she said politely, straightening her expression. ‘I’m so sorry you had to see me in my undressed state. I am rather embarrassed a
bout it, which is why I can’t stop laughing. But it’s all Custard’s fault, really.’
‘Oh, what has the dog got to do with anything?’ he barked, and, still unsure whether he could stand safely, he gazed intently into his whisky glass.
Edmund de Weatherby was what most people would describe as a stuffed shirt. Beneath the shirt lay a beautiful body and face, but it was hidden by the weight of the world that seemed to sit heavily on his shoulders. He was twelve when his mother died giving birth to Savannah, his loveable and wonderfully unruly sister. He had spent the previous eleven years being the eldest child, adored for five years as the son and heir, born less than a year after his parents’ marriage. For six of those he was also the older brother to the delicate but handsome Grahame, who was born on an Easter Sunday (not the Easter Bunny and chocolate that Edmund had hoped would pop from his mummy’s tummy). The arrival of his brother meant he was suddenly dropped from the pedestal of one and only; now it was always ‘Oh, do be careful with the baby’, and having to help the grown-ups instead of getting his own way. But he adored his brother, and when his mother died he took to making cups of tea laced with brandy for his father, and he looked after the family as best he could, together with Mrs Goodman. His father fell into a black hole when his wife died, so Edmund tried to fill it, while not understanding it at all. When Jonathan awoke one day a year after his wife had died and realised he had three healthy children, an estate that needed to be run and a duty to his dead wife to take care of it all, he did his best to live a full life again. But that year took its toll on Edmund, and turned him into the serious teenager whom Liberty had poked fun at on her visits to the park.
Dark, like his mother, he had chestnut eyes with flecks of yellow and a slightly too large nose which prevented him from looking too impossibly handsome. When he did smile it lit up the room, partly because it was so unexpected and partly because he looked so vulnerable then. He also more resembled, at those times, his siblings, who had become professional smilers.