to be relevant. To be useful.’
There was that word again. ‘And so she hired you. To do what, exactly?’
‘To fundraise for and organise events that make the castle available to local women in need.’ The words came out in a rush, and Liam blinked as he processed them over again, to make sure he’d heard her right.
‘Like a refuge?’ Because that was basically the last thing he’d expect from Great-Aunt Rose. After all, she hadn’t even offered him a refuge when he’d needed one and he, whether she liked it or not, was her own flesh and blood.
Maybe Rose had changed over the years, but he doubted it. So what was he missing here? He guessed if anyone knew, it would be Alice. Which meant he needed to keep asking questions.
‘Sort of,’ she said, waggling her head from side to side. ‘A lot of the girls and women we help, they don’t feel they can spend a lot of time at home. So they come here instead.’
‘They’re abused?’ Liam met her gaze head-on, looking for the truth behind her words. ‘Then why don’t you help them get out? Not just set them up with some knitting needles to make cardigans in some draughty castle?’ He knew abuse; he’d seen it first-hand at some of the foster homes he’d been sent to. Suffered it too—both there and at home, with his mother’s boyfriends.
But, more than that, he’d seen what it had done to her. It had broken his mother’s spirit, if not her body. Somehow, he knew that it was the emotional and physical abuse that she’d suffered, the rejections and the hate, that had convinced her it wasn’t worth fighting for life any longer. Medicine might not be able to prove it yet, but he knew in his bones that if she’d not felt so worthless she could have beaten the cancer that finally took her life when he was ten.
He could see it now—the fear behind the eyes of the women who’d met him at the door. He’d assumed it was just the uncertainty that came with his arrival, but he should have known better. Should have recognised what he saw. Had he been away from that world, safe in the land of money and prestige, for so long that he’d forgotten what fear looked like?
‘We don’t... Okay, yes, sometimes we hold classes and today’s was knitting. But they don’t knit their own cardigans.’ She frowned. ‘At least, not as far as I know. And that’s not the point, anyway. You asked why we don’t get them out of abusive situations. We do, if they’re ready to go. We give them the support they need to make that decision, and put them in touch with the charities that can do it properly. But for some of them...’ Alice sighed. ‘The women and girls who come here, they all have their own stories, their own lives, their own individual situations. Some aren’t abused; they just need something else in their lives. Some are still torn about what to do for the best—for their kids, for themselves. And it’s easy for us to say, “You need to get out, now.” But sometimes it takes them a while to see that.’
‘So you just set up craft classes to distract them from all the things that are wrong in their lives?’ Fat lot of good that would do anyone.
Alice glared at him. ‘So we provide educational opportunities—computer classes, job interview training, talks from the local college about what courses are available, that sort of thing. We help rewrite CVs, we run food banks for those local families struggling to make ends meet, or clothes swaps and donations to provide school uniforms or interview clothes, we help decipher benefits claims forms, we hold meditation groups, exercise classes, cooking classes, breastfeeding workshops for new mums, help with childcare...everything we can think of that will make everyday life easier or provide new opportunities for the women and families of this village. And if they need to get out of a situation, we help them do that too. And we do it all on donations, persuading people to volunteer their time, and by making do with what we have. So no, it’s not just knitting.’
Her eyes were blazing now, her cheeks red and her pale hair had frizzed a little in the steam from the tea—or her anger. And Liam realised, with a sudden, sinking certainty, that Alice Walters wasn’t a gold-digger. She was something much worse—for him, at least.
Alice Walters was a do-gooder. A determined, stubborn, dedicated doer of good. And while he might admire that kind of zeal in someone else, right now he was mentally cursing it. Not because he didn’t want to help all those women—he did. That was the problem.
Because his vision for Thornwood Castle, his big middle finger to the society and family that had rejected him, sure as hell didn’t include groups of troubled women and kids tramping around his personal space, while Alice harangued him to give more, help more, do more. He could see it now—a supplier meeting interrupted by a crying woman, or a visionary design lost to some child’s scribbles.
They couldn’t stay, that much was obvious. But he couldn’t just throw them out either. It wasn’t that she’d got to him or anything, with her speeches about safe places and refuge and need. But if Thornwood had become essential to the local community, he needed to convince the local community—and, more importantly, Alice—that their needs would be better served elsewhere, so he could get on with his own plans.
That, he suspected, might take time. Well, time he had—Thornwood had stood for this long waiting for him; it would last a little longer while he sorted all this out. The castle would be his, and only his, eventually. Liam Jenkins was renowned in business for always getting what he wanted—no matter how long it took.
But for now the only thing to do was to gauge exactly what he was up against. And whether he could buy his way out of it.
Reaching for a biscuit for the road, he said, ‘You’re right. I had no idea of the scope of your work here. Why don’t you show me round the place while you tell me more about the work you do and the fundraising you’ve got going on?’
At least the surprise on her face was a small consolation for the work he had ahead of him.
THE MAN WAS impossible to read. Alice had always heard that Australians were open and honest, friendly but blunt. Clearly Liam had more of his father’s side in him than his upbringing would suggest, because he was giving nothing away. Every relaxed shrug or bland stare hid his thoughts all too effectively.
He’d nodded politely as she’d shown him around the bedrooms, barely even acknowledging the king’s room, where past monarchs had slept. She supposed that the history of the crown might not mean that much to him, but she’d expected at least a flicker of appreciation at the giant four-poster bed, or even just the place Thornwood held in the heart of the nation. Still, nothing.
‘And do the women ever stay over here?’ he asked as she shut another bedroom door.
‘Sometimes,’ Alice admitted. ‘Not often, because even with this many bedrooms if we started setting up some sort of bed and breakfast we’d be swamped in days. We simply don’t have the resources—and, to be honest, a lot of the bedrooms aren’t really in a suitable condition for guests.’
‘No beds?’
‘No heating. Or insulation. Or glass in the windows, in some cases.’ She shivered. ‘Thornwood in winter is not a warm place.’
‘Hence the cardigans.’ What was his obsession with knitwear? Alice wondered, as Liam strode off down the hallway. He had a good stride, she couldn’t help but notice. Strong, muscled legs under his trousers, a long step and a purposeful gait. He looked like a man who was there to get a job
