series of closed doors, and on the other windows which overlooked the fields. Holly paused and studied the landscape.
‘Oh, you’ve kept the water meadow!’ she exclaimed with pleasure.
The field in question was steep and marshy, with a small river running through it. Holly remembered that at one time Drew had seriously considered having it drained. She had pleaded with him not to, loving the wild flowers that grew among the rushes in springtime.
‘It would have been prohibitively expensive, and besides, I can sell the rushes now. Someone’s set up in business in the village, making traditional baskets, and chair seats, that kind of thing, and he comes and cuts the rushes when they’re ready. Why did you come, Holly?’ he pressed, returning to his earlier comment.
‘I had to.’ She turned to look at him, her eyes bright and defiant. ‘He’ll come back to me, Drew. I know he will. If I could just make him see how wrong Rosamund is for him. Jan—my boss—suggested I should find a man to bring with me. You know, to make Howard jealous.’
‘But you decided not to?’ he questioned, giving her a sharp look.
‘Well, I didn’t have much option. I don’t know any men, really, other than Howard,’ she admitted honestly.
‘Mmm.’ He turned away from her and opened a door.
Sunlight flooded the pretty room through the dormer window set into the sloping roof.
‘Oh, Drew, it’s lovely!’
‘Bathroom’s next door,’ he told her laconically. ‘It isn’t exactly en suite, but you’ll have it to yourself, since I use the one off my own room which is at the other end of the house.’
How tactful and considerate he was. Impulsively, she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. He went as still as a statue, and dark red colour flooded her face as she realised what she had done.
‘I’m sorry, Drew,’ she apologised falteringly. ‘I never thought…’
Of course, being kissed by any woman was bound to remind him of Rosamund. She felt exactly the same way and she ought to have realised.
‘I’d better go and get your car before it starts to go dark.’
‘DREW, I’M SO nervous. I don’t think I want to go.’
Holly was standing in the kitchen, wearing her new dress, her hair freshly washed, her face made-up, but all her courage had deserted her, and she didn’t think she was going to be able to face Howard and Rosamund.
‘You’ve got to,’ Drew told her bluntly. ‘Too many people know you’re here.’
It was true. Only this morning the postman had given her a cheery welcome, saying that he had heard from Mrs Matthews about her car and that she was staying at the farm. Knowing him, by now all her old friends would have heard she was home.
The party was going to be very formal, and initially she had been rather stunned by the sight of Drew in his dinnersuit. For one thing she hadn’t expected him to own a dinnersuit, but, when she had naïvely said as much, he had gravely informed her that he had had to buy one in order to attend the local Young Farmers’ ‘dos’.
He was even wearing a fashionable wing-collared shirt, so crisply laundered that it could have rivalled one of Howard’s. However, as she glanced downwards Holly forgot her doubts about attending the party and exclaimed, ‘Drew, you’re wearing green socks.’
‘Am I?’ He looked completely unperturbed. ‘I’d better go up and change them. It would help if you came with me and supervised.’ He saw her face and said quietly, ‘I’m colour-blind, Holly. Don’t you remember? Or at least, partially colour-blind. I could spend the rest of the evening up there trying to find the right pair.’
Of course, now that he mentioned it, she did remember him once saying to her about his inability to differentiate between certain colours.
‘To tell the truth,’ he confided as they went upstairs, ‘that’s one of the reasons I’ve hesitated about redecorating. I’m terrified of choosing the wrong colours.’
‘Oh, but surely Rosamund would have chosen those?’
At her side Drew heaved a sigh that lifted his chest and made her wonder absently how wide it was… certainly much wider than Howard’s. Howard’s chest was inclined to be uncomfortably bony, but then Howard didn’t have the benefit of working outside, she told herself loyally.
‘Perhaps once,’ Drew agreed mournfully. ‘Although she never really liked this house.’
‘I suppose she thought it wasn’t good enough for her,’ Holly said wrathfully, remember Rosamund’s snobbery.
At her side, Drew gave her a considering look which she didn’t see. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘She must be blind,’ Holly told him roundly. ‘I think it’s lovely, but I suppose Rosamund would prefer one of those horrid little boxy things her father used to build.’
Ignoring her reference to the way in which Rosamund’s father had made his money, Drew agreed.
‘Yes, I think she would. She says old houses are dirty.’
Yes, Holly could just imagine her saying it, too.
‘That’s all she knows. Why, with a little bit of thought and care this house could be far more attractive than that awful place her father built.’
‘Do you think so?’ Drew commented doubtfully.
Resenting this aspersion on her knowledge and ability, Holly said firmly, ‘Yes. Yes, I do. In fact, I could prove it to you, Drew. You know I work for an interior designer now. Decorative paint finishes are my specialty. You know, dragging, sponging, marbling… that kind of thing. Perhaps you haven’t heard of them,’ she added kindly, ‘but they’re very much in demand.’
For some reason Drew looked as though he was having a problem controlling his facial muscles, probably because talking about the house and Rosamund brought home to him the reality of what had happened, Holly reflected compassionately.
‘Well, anyway, they are very much in demand.’ Modestly, she didn’t add that she herself was also very much in demand, as much for her inventive and imaginative trompe-l’oeil scenery as for her stencilling and dragging. ‘I’d love to have the opportunity to paint your kitchen,’ she added wistfully.
She could see it now, the cupboards dragged in sunny yellow, with perhaps a circlet of ivy and white dog-roses painted on the fronts. She could sponge the walls to match and make roller blinds that faithfully copied the landscape outside the windows.
Upstairs, this long corridor just cried out for something jolly and period… a scene from an alehouse, perhaps. There must be something she could use as a base in Chester library’s local history section. Carried away with enthusiasm, she forgot her nervousness.
‘It’s a pity you can’t
