grasped her hand in sudden agitation.
‘So you see why I want you to restore Adam’s painting. Please, Gabriel. Contact him when you get home. Apologise. Nicely.’
‘All right, all right, Dad, I will,’ she said hastily, ‘please don’t get upset. I’ll do whatever you want. Cross my heart.’
He leaned back against the pillows in relief. ‘Good girl.’
‘He may not want me to do work for him anyway,’ she pointed out.
‘Of course he will.’
Gabriel stayed longer with her father than usual, to make sure her mutiny had done him no lasting harm. She drove home through the bright summer evening afterwards, trying, without much success, to get in a suitable frame of mind to keep her promise to apologise to Adam Dysart. Even if it choked her. If anyone else had come along with an urgent request to restore a piece of artwork she would have done so without a second thought, she knew very well. Gabriel ground her teeth. But the moment he’d made himself known the legendary Adam had been on a losing wicket.
Her resentment towards him dated from her teens, when she’d had braces on her teeth and a weight problem, and he’d been the tall, skinny boy her father had invited round one school holiday. Adam Dysart had made it humiliatingly obvious that the moment he set eyes on her he couldn’t wait to escape. Seventeen years later Gabriel was no longer overweight, her teeth would have graced a toothpaste advertisement, and she felt secure in her own attractions. But it was galling to find that, along with all the other advantages showered on him, the adult Adam Dysart possessed just the kind of looks which appealed to her most in a man. Gabriel’s mouth tightened at the reminder that Adam Dysart was one of fortune’s favourites, with a stable family background, a career tailor-made for him from the day he was born, and, as if that wasn’t enough, according to her father the heir to Dysart’s possessed a God-given talent for spotting ‘sleepers’, the valuable art finds which occasionally slipped through auction houses unnoticed or miscatalogued.
Gabriel’s jealousy of Harry Brett’s affection for Adam Dysart had been at its height during the school holidays she’d spent with her father after her parents’ divorce, when he had talked too much, as far as she was concerned, about the boy he’d seen far more often than his daughter.
Removed to London by her mother at the age of thirteen, Gabriel had missed her father badly. Her main consolation had been the discovery that she’d inherited his particular gifts and the same, tunnel-visioned love of his craft, and now, with a Fine Arts degree under her belt, and several years spent in earning a name for herself as a skilled restorer, she was almost as good as Harry Brett. But one look at Adam Dysart had rocketed her back to her teens, reviving the resentment she’d thought dead and buried long ago. And, to cap it all, she was now beholden to him for putting up the money for the roof. Even if her father had repaid the loan.
When Gabriel got back to the house the phone was ringing.
‘Only me,’ said her mother. ‘You sound disappointed, darling.’
‘Relieved, not disappointed. I was expecting one of Dad’s customers.’
‘How is Harry?’
‘Improving. If he behaves he’ll be home next week.’
‘That’s good news. Are you intending to stay on to look after him?’
‘Yes. He’ll have to take it easy for a while, so I mean to be on hand to see that he does.’
‘But I thought Miss Prince still came in to clean and leave the odd meal.’
‘She does, thank goodness. But he needs me to help with the business. At least for a while.’
‘Can’t his assistants do that?’
‘They’re good lads, and they work hard, but they’re still learning. Dad needs someone like me. And I can make sure he behaves himself at the same time.’
Another pause. ‘Look, Gabriel,’ said her mother carefully, ‘if Harry needs professional care for a while, I could quite easily pay for it.’
‘You know Dad wouldn’t stand for that. Don’t worry, Mother. I can cope.’
‘But what about your job?’
‘I had some time owing to me. But in any case I’ve decided to resign, maybe go into business for myself. I’ve got plenty of contacts.’ She sighed. ‘To be honest, since Jake took Trent Restorations over from his father things have been—well, tricky.’
‘You mean he chases you round your workbench?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Men!’ said Laura Brett succinctly. ‘But how will you manage financially? I suppose you’ll be working for love for your father.’
‘Not a bit of it. Dad’s paying me the going rate.’
‘Is he now? Good for Harry. Tell him—tell him I’m glad he’s on the mend.’
Gabriel chatted with her mother for a while longer, and afterwards decided to wait for Adam Dysart’s call before thinking about food. Supper would taste better after she’d eaten the required humble pie. She sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, feeling oppressed by the silence, and wished, not for the first time, that the house her father had inherited from his aunt was less isolated. Part of a working farm in the past, the building was old, and full of beams that creaked ominously as day temperatures gave way to night. Gabriel felt very much alone in a rambling, half-empty house never intended for one single occupant.
A knock on the kitchen door brought her to her feet, startled. Used to her London flat, with an intercom to vet callers, Gabriel wasn’t at all keen to open the door. This was silly, she told herself. It wasn’t even dark yet. The knock came again.
‘Miss Brett—Gabriel,’ called a familiar voice. ‘It’s Adam Dysart.’
Knowing it was useless to pretend she was out when every light in the house was blazing Gabriel went to the door, unlocked it, and faced Adam Dysart for the second time that day. Tall, brimming with self-confidence, and looking a lot more respectable in a dazzling white T-shirt and khakis, he stared at her in stunned silence.
‘Hi,’ he said eventually. ‘I was passing this way, so I thought I’d ask after your father in person instead of ringing.’
Just passing. Even though Haywards Farm was miles from anywhere down a lane full of potholes. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, secretly glad of any company, even Adam Dysart’s. She waved him towards the round oak table. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
Adam shook his head. ‘I won’t keep you. I was just anxious to know how things are with your father.’
‘He’s a lot better. If all goes well he should be home next week.’
‘Thank God for that!’ said Adam, with such obvious sincerity Gabriel thawed slightly and, mindful of humble pie, remembered to smile.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’
His answering smile lit up his face. ‘In the circumstances a celebratory glass of beer would
