and thought and pondered, but no answer came.
She was up at dawn and thought longingly of a cup of strong, hot tea, and to take her mind off it she went for a walk. She watched the sun paint the sky with touches of red and gold, she walked through the lanes, she looked at Frenton Hall and called Jarrett Brent all the names she could of, and then went back to the cottage and ate cornflakes with cold milk.
What time did the postman come? she wondered, sitting in her aunt’s rocking chair, positioned where she could see out of the window. Aunt Lizzie had spent hours here watching the world go by and now Saira did the same, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her thoughts seesawing in just the same manner, from Jarrett to her aunt, from her aunt back to Jarrett. Could she believe that he’d had some sort of friendship with her?
It was almost nine before she saw the familiar red post van making its way slowly down the street and she was outside on the doorstep when he neared Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘Saira Carlton?’ he asked, and when she nodded, ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here. I heard the old lady had died. A shame, I liked her.’
‘That was my aunt,’ said Saira, and hoped he was not going to stay and talk too long. She was anxious now that she had Mr Kirby’s letter to go up to the Hall and confront Jarret! Brent. He would not expect her to get irrefutable proof quite so quickly.
To her relief the postman bade her good-day and continued on his rounds and Saira, after checking to make sure it was Mr Kirby’s letter, pulled on her jacket and set off for the Hall. She kept her finger on the bellpush for several seconds and when Mrs Gibbs opened the door Saira smiled wickedly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Brent, please.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ The same dour expression was on his housekeeper’s face.
Here we go again, she thought, and tilting her chin she looked the woman in the eye. ‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting me all right.’
‘I have not been told.’
‘Nevertheless he is expecting me,’ Saira insisted. Did this woman have orders or something to let no one through? ‘Is he in?’
‘Well, yes, but——‘
‘Then kindly tell him I am here.’ Saira impressed even herself with her manner. It was actually quite alien for her to behave like this, but this man really rubbed her up the wrong way. She would get nowhere if she kowtowed; she had to be strong.
He was here now, walking towards the door, wearing a navy suit with a white silk shirt and a maroon spotted tie. ‘What are you doing here this early?’ His eyes were cool and hard and Saira resented the two steps up into the house which gave him an even bigger advantage.
She stretched herself up to her full height. ‘I told you I would be back.’
‘But not this soon; I wasn’t expecting you today.’ A frown of annoyance creased his brow.
‘Well, I’m here, and I have my proof,’ she told him haughtily. ‘May I come in?’
‘I was actually on my way out,’ he announced, a touch of arrogance in his tone now. He was clearly not used to having his plans thrown into disarray—or was it hotheaded women on his doorstep who annoyed him?
‘It won’t take long,’ said Saira, and ascended the steps before he could say another word, standing as close to him as she dared, silently demanding that he let her in, feeling the pungent smell of his aftershave assail her nostrils.
Very reluctantly he stood back for her to enter. ‘I hope not.’ There was extreme irritation in his voice.
‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ she replied, smiling boldly.
It was not to the library he led her this morning, but a sunny breakfast room at the back of the house, the remains of his meal still sitting on the table. He saw Saira cast an inquisitive eye over it. ‘Is this more to your liking? Is this lived in enough for you?’ he asked sardonically.
Saira nodded. ‘It’s better. I take it you’re not married, Mr Brent?’ The question popped out without any warning and she would have liked to retract it but it was too late. In any case she wanted to know. She was curious about this man who was claiming her property.
‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he answered, looking surprised by her sudden question.
‘And you live in this huge house by yourself?’
‘For the moment, yes, but why the questions?’ he asked with a frown. ‘I thought you were here to discuss Honeysuckle Cottage.’
‘Yes, I am,’ she returned sharply, annoyed by her own digression. His marital status was of no importance whatsoever. She delved into her bag. ‘I have here the letter from Mr Kirby, my aunt’s solicitor. Please read it.’
His fingers brushed hers as he took the single sheet of paper and Saira jerked away, unable to make up her mind whether his touch was deliberate or accidental. Whatever, it had a profound effect on her, almost as though she had been burnt. It was an astonishing feeling.
And if the touch had been deliberate, what did it mean? Had he realised that he was up against a tough woman, someone who would not easily relinquish her hold on the cottage, and thought he would appeal to the feminine side of her? Or was she letting her imagination run riot?
Saira squashed the traitorous thoughts immediately, watching Jarrett Brent as he read Mr Kirby’s letter, shocked beyond belief when he thrust it dismissively back into her hand.
‘This doesn’t mean a thing,’ he said harshly.
‘What do you mean, it doesn’t mean a thing?’ cried Saira, unable to accept that he was dismissing it out of hand. ‘Of course it means something; it means the cottage is mine!’ She was really uptight now; she had been so sure that this was indisputable proof.
‘And how can that be when I say I own it?’ Profound blue eyes held her trapped like a deer in a car’s headlights.
‘Prove it,’ she said furiously.
There was a sudden gleam in his eyes and his lips curved into their usual contemptuous smile.
Saira fumed. He was so damn sure of himself. Could he possibly be right? Maybe she ought to have spoken to Mr Kirby first, brought him with her perhaps? She was too impetuous for her own good. She had the feeling that she was getting deeper and deeper into this thing instead of being somewhere near solving it.
‘I can’t at this moment, I’m afraid.’ His eyes pierced hers with an intensity that was intended to put her down, his tone in no way apologetic.
‘I bet you can’t,’ she snapped, prepared to wager her last penny that he just didn’t want to admit that he was in the wrong. Either that or he was playing some game with her, though for the life of her she could not think why.
‘But I’ve no doubt I’ll come across the relevant documents,’ he added.
‘I’m sure you will—when it suits you.’ Saira’s tone dripped sarcasm. ‘And meantime I’m left in a state of limbo. That is not satisfactory, Mr Brent.’
His lips quirked, as though he was enjoying her high dudgeon. ‘It is the best I can offer.’
