'Sorry,' said Verity calmly. 'Don't mind me, I was just going—thanks for the tea, Gussie.' She ignored the man and smiled at the other girl, who gathered herself together with an effort and did her best to preserve the social niceties.
'Oh Verity, do let me introduce an old friend of mine—Ben Dysart.' She gestured helplessly. 'Ben, this is Verity Marsh. We were in school together.'
'How do you do,' said Verity without expression.
Ben Dysart inclined his head very slightly. 'Miss Marsh,' he said flatly, and stood his ground, very rigid and erect. Even so he failed to tower over Verity, who stood five feet eight in her bare feet and was addicted to high heels. After one brief, disinterested look she ignored him and addressed herself to Gussie.
'I'll set the wheels in motion first thing on Monday. We'll advertise the cottage extensively and send you the paperwork as soon as we have the photographs.'
From the corner of her eye she saw Ben Dysart's eyebrows move a trifle.
'Is Tern Cottage up for sale, Gussie?' he asked quickly.
'Yes, darling—you never gave me a chance to tell you earlier.' Gussie smiled with calculated intimacy at her poker-faced visitor. 'Peter and I want a more modern place nearer town, with more privacy. Don't you think that's a much better idea than living in the sticks like this?'
Ex-Captain Benedict Dysart's air of hot importunity seemed to have evaporated.
'Personally I'm rather attached to "the sticks" as you put it; each one to his own taste, of course,' he said stiffly, and looked at Verity properly for the first time. 'And you, I assume, are going to sell it for her, Miss Marsh?'
'Hopefully, yes.' Verity moved thankfully towards the door. 'Goodbye, then, Gussie. Goodbye, Mr Dysart.' She smiled politely and made her escape, obliged to exert considerable self-control not to bolt down the drive as Ben Dysart had earlier. Not that she expected the happy pair to be watching her, they were more likely to be locked in each other's arms again, if the earlier impassioned embrace had been anything to go by- .
Verity drove the eight meandering miles back to Stratford wondering philosophically what it was Gussie had that made men get so primitive. No one had ever smouldered over Verity Marsh in her entire twenty-six years. She sighed, then laughed at herself, not really sorry when she came to consider it. She had a strong suspicion that all that unbridled passion might be a shade embarrassing if channelled in her own direction, as her own response was more likely to be amusement than any answering fire. She had no false modesty about her own attractions. Tall, with a figure more aptly described as athletic rather than voluptuous, she nevertheless curved in and out very nicely in the required places. Her hazel eyes shone through a thick fringe of lashes the same rich brown as her hair, which hung, glossy and slightly curling to her shoulders, and her skin was good, olive-tinted; the type that tanned easily and evenly at the first glimpse of summer sun. Her main drawback, according to one of her numerous men-friends, was her self-sufficiency. He had advised a little helpless femininity now and then, but Verity found this quite beyond her; if something needed doing she did it, and that was that. Heigh-ho, she thought goodhumouredly, the Gussies of this world get doting husbands plus masterful lovers, while I must be content with a circle of pleasant friends of both sexes, who were admittedly showing disturbing signs of pairing up in one way or another of late. Picturing herself as the only one left in single harness she decided the solution was a cat, maybe two, and concentrated on threading her way through a crowded Stratford-upon-Avon, crossing the river bridge in the direction of the home she had been born in and never moved from apart from her years in college.
Verity parked the car in the garage at the side of the solid, pre-war house and went round to the back lawn, where two figures in bikinis lay prone on garden chairs, their faces turned to the sun. They sat up at the sound of her footsteps, one slender and ethereal looking, with long fair hair and blue eyes; Miss Henrietta Carr, aspiring actress, the other girl sturdily built, with reddish curly hair and kind, intelligent brown eyes that looked at Verity in enquiry as the latter cast herself down on the grass, careless of grass-stains on her white dress.
'Hard day, Vee?' Jenny Blair was sympathetic and got up to pour a glass of lemon squash from a thermos on the wrought-iron table.
Verity drank gratefully. 'Thanks, Jenny. I haven't been to the office; just a special visit to a friend's house to measure up and so on.'
Henrietta grinned, stretching. 'Vee's socialite friend, Jen, the upmarket Mrs Middleton—glamorous Gussie. How was she, Verity?'
'Just the same,' said Verity neutrally. 'What time are you due at the theatre, Hett?'
'Ten minutes ago—I'd better be off.'
'What are you tonight?' asked Jenny, settling herself comfortably.
'Singing fairy in The Dream.' Henrietta waved a regretful hand and went off to change.
'When are you on duty again, Jenny?' asked Verity.
'Not until Monday.' Jenny looked disgruntled. 'But then I'm on nights for a spell—almost right up to the wedding.' She was a staff-nurse, and engaged to a trainee GP attached to one of the local medical practices.
'Bad luck—never mind. You'll soon be honeymooning in Spain and living happily ever after.'
Jenny looked at Verity's face thoughtfully. 'Do I detect a cynical note, Miss Marsh?'
Verity opened her eyes to smile at the other girl warmly. 'Not as far as you're concerned, love. Richard coming round tonight?'
Jenny nodded.
'A quiet evening chez moi is the best we can do at the moment. Saving all the spare pennies for Spain. You don't mind his spending so much time here Verity?'
'Of course not, silly. I'm going out with Neill tonight, Hett is treading the boards as usual—have fun.' Verity looked up with surprise as the budding actress came back wearing a thin cotton dress. 'My goodness, Hett, not often we see you in a dress! Something on tonight?'
'I think so.' Henrietta frowned vaguely. 'One of the musicians suggested a snack, but I can't remember whether he said tonight or tomorrow, so I thought I'd go prepared.' She floated off as the girls laughed goodnaturedly at her.
'I'll miss her when she leaves at the end of the season—you too, Jen, when you're a married lady. The joys of being a landlady!' Verity sighed and sat down on the other chair.
'You'll have no trouble letting two such comfortable bedsits, Verity,' Jenny assured her. 'And you're in the right business for it.'
'I think sometimes I'll sell the house and get a flat myself. I'd hate to hurt my mother's feelings though, after all, it was marvellous of her to make the house over to me when she married Ian, my stepfather.' Verity looked pensive. She felt oddly flat and lethargic, suddenly in no mood for moussaka and bouzouki music with Niall Gordon, who was bound to talk shop all night as he worked for one of the other estate agents in the town.
'Wouldn't you have liked to live with your mother and Ian?' asked Jenny.
'It would have meant giving up my job here and chancing finding another in Birkenhead. Added to which I think newly-weds should be on their own, whatever age they are. My mother had been a widow for a long time—Dad died when I was ten—so I expect she had some adjusting to make to the life of a schoolmaster's wife. A large encumbrance in the shape of a ready-made daughter for Ian would hardly have been a help.' Verity sat up and swung her legs to the ground. 'This way I have company in the house in the shape of you two, the extra money pays the rates and so on, and I stay in my beloved home town. Now get off your trim little behind and come and have some tea.'
The weather broke over the weekend, and a cool drizzle started as Verity was walking to work the following Monday morning, dampening her spirits somewhat by the time she reached the rather imposing offices of Lockhart & Welch. The reception area exuded a tangible atmosphere of prosperity and success, with large coloured photographs of beautiful houses arranged in collages on the panelled walls, the two attractive receptionists seated at mahogany desks facing each other across an expanse of deep-p
iled crimson carpet. Both girls looked up with a smile as Verity came through the big glass doors shaking the scarf that had covered her hair from the unexpected rain.
'Mr Randall would be pleased if you could spare him a moment before you start, Verity,' said Nicola, the dark one. 'He's already in his office.'
'On my way,' said Verity cheerfully. 'See you, girls.'
She knocked on the door marked 'J. R. Randall' and went in without waiting, sitting down in one of the easy chairs while the gentleman in question finished a telephone conversation. He was a slim man in his early forties, with a narrow, clever face and deceptively sleepy blue eyes beneath receding fair hair. He put down the receiver and smiled at Verity.
'Good morning. How did it go on Saturday at Tern Cottage?'
'Very well.' Verity took her notes from her briefcase. 'As far as I could see not a thing wrong with the place at all, considering its age. Peter Middleton's father had a damp-course installed, wiring renewed, dry rot treated and extra insulation added, the fittings in the kitchen and bathrooms are positively sumptuous, and of course the garden is beautiful. One snag, though, no garage— only the layby at the foot of Priorsford Hill.'
'Anywhere to build one?' John Randall reached out a hand for her notes and studied her clear handwriting.
'Without research into it I'm not sure, but Gussie— Mrs Middleton—says there's some preservation order preventing it.' Verity shrugged. 'She's not exactly hyper-efficient with facts and figures, and Peter Middleton was away, unfortunately. He left me a list of the salient points, but he doesn't mention the garage. Do you think it will detract much from the value of the house?'
'Not necessarily. I see you've put a fairly steep price on it, so the vendors could afford to come down a bit, if necessary.' He looked up with a smile. 'I'm glad you could spare the time to make the trip out there on Saturday. I'm aware it was your weekend off.'
She looked back at him ruefully.
'Despite all your careful euphemisms, Mr Randall, sir, i.e. "could you spare a moment", or "if you can manage it", you know only too well that you whistle and I come running.'
He chuckled. 'Very right and proper too.' The smile faded as he regarded her thoughtfully. 'I'm not being euphemistic when I say I would like a favour of you, Verity. You are perfectly at liberty to refuse if you wish.'
Verity stirred uneasily in her chair. 'What do you want me to do?'
'I have a friend who needs to bone up on estate management. He's coming to spend a few weeks with us, more or less sitting in with various people to find out how we do things. I'd rather like him to start with you—go out to the various vendors, accompany you on actual surveys whenever possible, get the feel of things generally. John Humphries is on holiday, so you're the next best thing in his absence.'
'Don't overwhelm me with too much flattery,' said Verity wryly. 'I might ask for a rise.'
'You know perfectly well you're a very bright young surveyor, regardless of age and sex. John Humphries isn't nearly as pretty, but he's been with the firm ten years longer.' The sleepy blue eyes were openly laughing at her and Verity grinned back, her hackles subsiding.
'O.K. Wheel in your chum whenever you like. In the meantime I'll get on with earning my salary.'
'Thanks, Verity. I'll deliver him into your hands mid-morning sometime.'
Verity's far less sumptuous cubicle was in the modern extension built on to the back of the much older front premises. She took one look at her desk and made an attack on the work waiting for her. In her absorption the time passed unnoticed until the door opened just before eleven and she looked up with a welcoming smile, thinking coffee had arrived. The smile faded. Her face felt stiff with surprise as John Randall ushered Ben Dysart into the room.
CHAPTER TWO
'Ben Dysart, Verity,' said her boss amiably. 'Ben this is Verity Marsh, who has kindly volunteered to give you the benefit of her not inconsiderable expertise. I'll leave you in her capable hands.' He withdrew, closing the door behind him.
'It's very good of you to volunteer as mentor, Miss Marsh.' Ben Dysart's face was inscrutable as he bowed slightly.
'I feel I should point out that the word "volunteer" was Mr Randall's, not mine,' Verity informed him. 'However, I shall do my best to give you any help I can, of course. Do sit down.'
He sat, looking so swarthy and alien in the cramped little room that Verity wondered crossly if some gypsy blood had nourished the Dysart family tree at some stage. This man was the very antithesis of her idea of British aristocracy.
'I realise this must be somewhat embarrassing for you,' he said, his voice hard and clipped. 'I assume you were ignorant of my identity before John wished me on you.'
Verity smiled coolly. 'Yes. But it makes no difference, Mr Dysart. Even if I had any personal feelings in the matter—which I don't—they would hardly interfere with my job. If Mr Randall wants me to give you help I shall do my best to oblige. I do what I'm told.'
'Always?'
Even white teeth showed unexpectedly in a smile that threw her slightly off-balance. She ignored his question and motioned him to bring his chair nearer so that she could make a start on explaining her contribution to the function of Lockhart & Welch, Chartered Surveyors. Her office, never spacious, now seemed minuscule. Not a girl given much to phobias, Verity was gripped by unfamiliar pangs of claustrophobia as her companion sat in enforced proximity, his thigh almost touching her own and his face uncomfortably near as he leaned over her desk. Steadily Verity went on with her explanations, but was never more glad to see the door open and a coffee tray appear, borne in by the other receptionist, Sally, her face bright with interest as she gave an admiring glance at Verity's companion.
'Thank you very much.' Verity smiled at the girl, who withdrew slowly, her eyes lingering on Ben Dysart.
'I didn't think people actually had trays of coffee brought to them any more,' he remarked as he took the cup Verity offered.
'I don't, certainly, I normally just get handed a cup. This is VIP treatment because you're here.' She perched on the corner of her desk to drink her coffee, glad to put space between herself and this man who sat so disconcertingly still. It would have been easier if there had been any tranquillity in the stillness, but Verity was put in mind of a tiger about to leap on its quarry. 'Mr Randall dislikes machines, so we get the real thing,' she said for something to say. 'Can I offer you another cup?'
'No thanks.' Ben put his cup back on the tray, then looked her in the eye inexorably. 'I think there's something I should clear up, Miss Marsh, before we go any further. Last Saturday—'
'Please!' Verity slid off the desk, putting her own cup back with a click. 'I'd rather we forgot about last Saturday. It was embarrassing and unfortunate, but absolutely nothing to do with me, Mr Dysart—entirely your own affair, and Gussie's.'
Verity's eyes narrowed as they noted the amusement lurking at the corners of Ben Dysart's wide, rather sensuous mouth. 'Very true, Miss Marsh,' he said silkily, 'but not at all what I was going to say. You should avoid putting words in other people's mouths.'
Verity flushed and sat down in her chair with ill-grace, feeling both foolish and resentful. 'I'm sorry,' she said with difficulty.
He inclined his head graciously. 'Last Saturday,' he began again, 'was the first time I had any idea the Middletons intended selling Tern Cottage.'
Verity frowned in surprise. 'Do you know someone who might be interested in purchasing?'
'Yes. Me.' His face was so expressionless Verity thought for a moment she'd misheard.
'I'm sorry? Did you say you?'
'I did.' He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, his eyes on her frankly surprised face.
'But I thought—' Verity checked herself and started again. 'As you inherit a title and an estate I wouldn't have thought you needed somewhere to live. Or is the cottage intended for an employee?'
'Yes, me.' He smiled as Verity looked blank. 'Temple Priors only becomes mine on my father's death, which, God w
illing, will be many years hence. In the meantime, much as I love my parents, naturally I'd very much prefer a place of my own.'
'I see.' Verity thought she saw only too well.
'Presumably you know that my brother died in a fire while my parents were on holiday.' Ben's tone was colourless. 'He was the true expert on the estate, but now I more or less have to dive in at the deep end and take a crash-course in land management, and how to run an estate. The idea is to take over from my father as soon as I can—not entirely, of course, but his health is worrying my mother a bit. From my point of view it's quite a re-adjustment, as most of my adult life has been spent in the Marines in various parts of the globe.'
'Yes. It can't be easy, Mr Dysart, or should it be Captain, or Major?' Verity looked at him in enquiry.
'Neither. I answer to "Ben" quite satisfactorily.'
She went on doodling on her blotter, trying to choose her next words with care. 'As far as Tern Cottage is concerned, what exactly did you have in mind?'
'Nothing underhand, I assure you,' he retorted acidly.
Verity's chin came up, her eyes hostile. 'I made no such suggestion, Mr Dysart.'
'It wasn't necessary. Your eyes made it for you.'
They glared at each other for a moment, then Ben checked himself visibly.
'I apologise,' he said stiffly. 'I merely wanted to say that when Tern Cottage comes officially on the market I shall offer whatever price Peter Middleton is asking for it.'
There was silence in the room for a few moments. 'Does Mrs Middleton know you want the cottage?' asked Verity at last, not looking at him.
'No,' he said shortly. 'In fact my father will make the offer. Our land runs down to the river at the back of the cottage; the purchase will round out the estate and that's all Gussie'—he emphasised the name—'will need to know. She will accept it more easily that way.'
Desirable Property Page 2