in his office with Bronte on his mind. She was too inquisitive to quietly settle back into life at the cottage, which worried him. She wouldn’t be able to resist taking another look round Hebers Ghyll, which was dangerous. She could be down there now with a bundle of energy and good intentions. He’d made sure everything was locked up securely before he left, but he didn’t trust her—and good intentions wouldn’t stop those walls falling on her head. He had no option. He had to go back.
He called Quentin from the car to make arrangements to cover his absence at the board meeting, and then he made a few more calls. There was no point in his going to Hebers Ghyll on a day trip—or just to yell at Bronte. He might as well start moving things forward. Whether or not he decided to keep the estate it could only benefit from a refit. And he could only benefit either way.
The two girls were as good as their word and came to the hall every night after work to help Bronte sort things out. One week of back-breaking work was nearly over and there was still no sign of Heath.
Still no answer on his phone either. Perhaps he’d given her the wrong number on purpose—or perhaps Heath’s PA was even more efficient than she’d thought him, which was entirely possible. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed that Heath had just disappeared again as if that visit had never happened, but she hid her feelings from the girls, and stubbornly refused to let it get her down. She distracted herself by working as hard as she could until all she could think about at night was a soft pillow and a long, dreamless sleep.
By the end of the week the three girls had systematically cleared, cleaned, and de-spidered the Great Hall, and had returned the kitchen to its former pristine state. They had weeded the formal gardens as well as the kitchen garden with its wealth of vegetables, and cheered when Bronte, whose hands and face seemed to be permanently covered in sticky black oil for most of the time, finally managed to get the sit-on lawnmower to work. Having tamed the grass and cleared the rubbish, a small part of the Hebers Ghyll estate, if not exactly restored to its former glory, was at least clean and tidy, and as a bonus they were all suntanned and healthy thanks to a timely Indian summer. And they were definitely well fed, thanks to Bronte’s frequent raids on the vegetable patch. There was only one fly in this late-summer ointment as far as Bronte was concerned, and that was Heath. You’d think he’d want to know the place was still standing …
One hazy late afternoon when even the bees could hardly be bothered to hum, Bronte was down at the lakeside with Colleen and Maisie.
‘What are you doing?’ Colleen demanded grumpily when Bronte reached for her phone. ‘You can’t be ringing him again?’
‘Yes, him again,’ Bronte confirmed, firming her jaw. ‘Heath gave me this number, and some time or other I’m bound to get through to him.’
‘Dreamer,’ Maisie commented. ‘When he takes his phone off call divert,’ Colleen added.
‘Well, I’m not going to give up.’
‘What a surprise,’ Maisie murmured, brushing a harmless hover-fly away.
The phone droned. Bronte waited. And then sprang to attention. But it was only Heath’s PA, who put her off in the same weary tone. Colleen and Maisie were right. Heath had no intention of speaking to her ever again.
‘When are you going to get it through your head—’ Colleen began as Bronte snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the ground.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Just … don’t.’
Bronte’s friends fell silent as she flung herself down on the grass. Lying flat on her back, she gazed up through a lace of leaves to the hint of blue sky beyond. What if Heath sold the estate? What if he’d already sold it and they were all ejected? She should spare the girls that. They could be arrested. This was so unfair. They were seeing progress. They had a routine going. And a goal—Christmas in the Great Hall, recreating one of Uncle Harry’s famous Christmas parties. Bronte imagined inviting everyone in the village. How could she disappoint Colleen and Maisie now when they’d worked so hard to achieve that?
What Heath might think about them planning a Christmas party without his say-so was something she would think about another day.
‘The lake’s too cold for swimming,’ Colleen announced, distracting Bronte from her thoughts. ‘I’m going home. Are you coming, Bronte?’
Maisie was on her feet too.
‘No, you go on,’ Bronte said. ‘I’m going to have a quick swim.’
Pulling off her clothes as the girls disappeared through the trees, she stretched her naked body in the sun. Before she had chance to chicken out she scampered to the edge of the lake and plunged in. The shock of the icy water sucked all the breath out of her. She flailed around for a moment before steadying and starting to swim. Powering out to the centre of the lake with a relaxed, easy stroke, she turned on her back and floated blissfully in the silence.
Silence?
What silence?
Shooting up, she turned her head, trying to locate the source of a steady rumbling noise. It sounded like an armoured tank division coming down the drive. She swung around in the water, trying to work out how she could claim her clothes before anyone saw her—
Forget it, Bronte concluded as the rumbling grew louder. She’d never make it in time. She would just have to stay here, treading water.
Where was she? Heath frowned as he peered through the windscreen. Bronte was his first—his only thought as he drove up the drive. He’d called in at the cottage. She wasn’t there. The old lady next door said Bronte would be up at Hebers Ghyll—as if it was a regular thing. He’d been angry since that moment—concerned and furious that Bronte had ignored everything he’d told her. But still, he’d hoped to see a flash of purple leggings—a glint of sun-kissed hair. Instead, all he could see were two other girls, sauntering out of the woods at the side of the lake as if they owned the place. So where the hell was she? And what the hell was going on?
Swinging down from the cab of his utility vehicle, he waited for the other men to assemble. Having issued preliminary instructions, he strode towards the girls. He wasn’t interested in entering into conversation with them. He wanted the answer to one simple question: ‘Where’s Bronte?’ he demanded, addressing the bleached blonde with a confident air.
‘Heath Stamp,’ she murmured. ‘Is it really you?’
‘I need to see her,’ he said, ignoring the girl’s attempt to distract him.
‘I’m Colleen,’ the girl persisted. ‘Don’t you remember me? And this is Maisie—’
‘Where is she?’ he cut across her in an ominous growl.
‘A real charmer,’ Colleen murmured.
‘So what’s changed?’ Maisie agreed beneath her breath.
Both girls were staring at him warily now. So they remembered him. ‘Are you going to tell me where she is?’
‘I-in the lake,’ Maisie stammered.
‘In the lake?’ he said, swinging round.
‘Swimming,’ Colleen hurried to explain.
As he turned to
