The hardness of his body against hers. The touch—the taste of his mouth.
He favoured her with a brief, sardonic smile. À tout à l’heure!’ he told her quietly, and then he was gone.
Did you take an order from the people in the far corner, Miss Helen?’ asked Daisy, entering the kitchen with a stacked tray of dirty dishes. ‘Because they’re playing up at having to wait.’
Helen, lost in thought at the sink, started guiltily. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she muttered. ‘I forgot all about them. I’ll serve them next,’ she added hurriedly, collecting one of the larger teapots from the shelf.
‘Your mind’s not on it today, and no wonder. You should have gone for a nice lie-down in your room,’ Daisy said severely. ‘I’d have got George to do the waiting on.’
‘I’m fine,’ Helen said untruthfully. ‘And I really prefer to be busy,’ she added placatingly.
Daisy sniffed. ‘There’s busy and busy,’ she said. ‘You’ve just put cream in the sugar basin.’
Swearing under her breath, Helen relaid the tray and carried it out into the sunshine.
Once again she’d been astonished at the number of visitors, but they hadn’t been as easy to handle as last week’s selection.
‘You don’t see much for your money,’ one man had complained.
‘We’re hoping to extend the tour to other rooms in the house quite soon,’ Helen had explained, but he’d glared at her.
‘Well, that’s no good to me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve already paid.’
And a large family party had demanded why there were no games machines for kiddies, or even a playground, and why they couldn’t play football in an adjoining field.
‘Because my tenant wouldn’t like it,’ Helen had said, in a tone that brooked no further argument.
It had been an afternoon of moans and niggles, she thought wearily, and from the look of strained tolerance she’d glimpsed on Marion Lowell’s face at one point, she wasn’t the only sufferer.
Altogether, this was the day from hell, she thought. And she still couldn’t decide what to do about Marc Delaroche and his dinner invitation.
Instinct told her to refuse. Reason suggested that if Monteagle’s welfare was involved she should at least give him a hearing. But not over dinner, she thought. That was too much like a date rather than a business meeting.
‘And about time.’ Helen was greeted truculently by a red-haired woman as she reached the corner table and set down the heavy tray. She and her glum-looking husband peered suspiciously at the plates of scones and cakes. ‘Is this all we get? Aren’t there are any sandwiches? Ham would do. We’ve got a growing lad here.’
Growing outwards as well as upwards, Helen noticed with disfavour, as the child in question dug a podgy finger into the bowl of cream.
She said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, it’s a standard tea. But everything is home-made.’
The little boy glared at her. ‘Aren’t there any crisps? And where’s my drink?’
‘He doesn’t like tea,’ his mother explained in a tone that invited congratulation. ‘He wants orange squash.’
Helen repressed a sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Back in the kitchen, she halved oranges from the fruit bowl, squeezed out their juice, and put it in a glass with a pinch of sugar and some ice cubes.
Improvisation, she told herself with mild triumph as she took the drink outside.
‘What’s that?’ The boy stabbed an accusing finger at it. ‘I want a real drink. That’s got bits in it.’
‘They’re bits of orange—’ Helen began.
‘Yuck.’ The child’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘I’m not drinking that.’ And he picked up the glass and threw the contents at Helen, spattering her with the sticky juice.
She gasped and fell back, wiping her face with her hand, then felt hands grip her shoulders, putting her to one side.
‘Go and get clean,’ Marc directed quietly. ‘I will deal with this.’
She hadn’t even been aware of his approach. She wanted to tell him she could manage, but she wasn’t sure it was true.
She turned away, walking quickly back to the house, stripping off her ruined apron as she went, her colour rising as she became aware of sympathetic smiles and murmurs from other customers.
She looked back over her shoulder and saw Marc talking to the husband. Noticed the other man rise uncomfortably to his feet, his face sullen, gesturing to his family to follow.
When she reached the kitchen she found Lottie waiting, her face grave and troubled. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Helen bit her lip. ‘I see you’ve heard the news.’ She ran cold water into a bowl and put her stained apron to soak.
Lottie nodded unhappily. ‘It’s all round the village. I still can’t quite believe it.’
‘It’s perfectly true.’ Helen lifted her chin. ‘Nigel is being splendidly conventional and marrying his boss’s daughter. I haven’t worked out yet whether he ever meant to tell me to my face, or if he hoped I’d simply—fade away and save him the trouble.’
‘Bastard,’ said Lottie, with some force. ‘But it certainly explains the special buffet episode.’ She snorted. ‘Well, I’ve rung his poisonous mother and told her to find another caterer.’
Helen smiled wanly. ‘It’s a lovely thought,’ she said. ‘But it’s also the kind of gesture you can’t afford any more than I could.’ She glanced round her. ‘Where’s Daisy?’
‘She said she had something to do upstairs and that she’d ask Mrs Lowell to collect the tea money. She probably thought we’d want to talk in private.’
‘I don’t think I have much privacy left,’ Helen said ruefully. ‘Not if the whole village knows.’ She paused. ‘I also found out this morning that I’d been turned down for that grant.’
‘Oh, no,’ Lottie groaned. ‘That’s really evil timing.’ She gave Helen a compassionate look. ‘Well—they say bad luck comes in threes, so let’s hope your final misfortune is a minor one.’
Helen bit her lip as she refilled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid. It’s happened—and it’s another disaster.’
Lottie whistled. ‘Tell me something—is there some gruesome family curse hanging over the Fraynes that you’ve never thought to mention?’
‘If only.’ Helen grinned faintly. ‘Good business, a family curse. I’d have given it a whole page in the guidebook.’
Lottie started to laugh, and then, as if some switch
