be driving later.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘And as my old nanny used to say “I can’t, cat won’t, you must”.’
‘You had a nanny?’ She tried to imagine it and failed.
He nodded. ‘I did indeed. She was a terror too. My sister and I went in fear of our lives.’
The sister was news too. The computer biography had omitted that kind of detail.
She said haltingly, ‘Do you see much of your family?’
‘You mean—are they still speaking to me?’ He sounded amused. ‘Well, yes, but currently from a distance. Becky’s married to a sheep farmer in Australia and my parents have gone out to stay with her to await the arrival of their first grandchild.’
He paused. ‘Now will you tell me something?’
He was going to ask about Patrick, she thought with dismay. Ask about her emotional state and she had no idea what to say.
She said stiffly, ‘If I can.’
‘Do you remember how this room was furnished?’
It was the last thing she’d expected and she nearly choked on the mouthful of wine she’d taken for Dutch courage.
Recovering, she said slowly, ‘Well, a huge table, of course, with extra leaves so that it could seat twenty or thirty if necessary. And a very long sideboard on the wall behind you. I think it was all Victorian mahogany.’
Jago nodded thoughtfully. ‘It sounds fairly daunting. And the drawing room?’
‘Oh, that had enormous Chesterfields and high-backed armchairs in brown leather, very dark and slippery.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I remember sitting on them as a child and being afraid I’d slide off.’ She paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
He said quietly, ‘Because I came here originally looking for a bolt-hole. But I now have other reasons to live here. And my ideas about décor are changing too.’
She remembered some of the catalogues. ‘No Swedish minimalism?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘But no nineteenth century gloom either.’ He paused. ‘Talking of gloom, it’s starting to feel chilly.’ He slipped off his jacket and passed it to her. ‘Put this on.’ Adding, as her lips parted in protest, ‘I can’t risk my project manager catching cold.’
She nodded jerkily, draping his jacket round her shoulders, letting the meal continue in silence. When she’d finished, she put her fork down with a sigh. ‘That was totally delicious.’
‘Now try these.’ Deftly, he ladled some brandied peaches into a dish.
‘You’re not having any?’
He shrugged. ‘I suspect the alcohol content. And, as I said, I have to drive.’
‘To Barkland Grange?’
‘No, I’m spending tonight in London. After that—elsewhere.’
Returning, she thought, to a life she could only guess at, and which, for so many reasons, it hurt her to contemplate. The sweet richness of the peaches suddenly tasted sour.
She got to her feet saying briskly, ‘Then you’ll want to get on the road.’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘After I’ve taken you home.’
‘Oh, no.’ She heard the alarm in her voice, saw his brows lift, and temporised. ‘I mean—the walk will do me good. And I have things to do here before I leave.’
‘Such as?’
She said feebly, ‘I left a window open upstairs.’
‘Then go and close it while I pack up.’ He saw her hesitate and added quite gently, ‘Boss’s orders, Octavia.’
In the master bedroom, she went to the window and stood for a moment, trying to control the renewed tumult of her pulses.
Because something had changed between them down in that candlelit room. Something she could neither explain nor dismiss, but which terrified her. Because for a moment she had found herself wanting to say the unbelievable—the unutterable ‘Don’t leave me.’ Or, even worse, ‘Take me with you.’
When perhaps what she really meant was ‘Take me...’
What’s happening to me? she wondered, drawing a quivering breath. I must be going crazy.
She closed the window, securing the catch and stood for a moment staring at her reflection, his grey jacket rendering her ghostlike in the glass. She moved her shoulders under the fabric slowly, almost yearningly, as if trying to catch some trace of him, a fragment of memory to treasure, before reaching down for a sleeve and lifting it to her face.
For ten heartbeats, she held it to her cheek, before brushing it softly across her lips.
Then she slipped off the jacket, and draping it decorously over her arm, she went downstairs, where Jago would be waiting to drive her back to the Vicarage and safety.
It was a silent journey and Tavy was thankful for it. Because she knew she did not trust herself to speak.
I’m tired, she insisted silently. That’s why I feel so confused and stupid. Tomorrow I’ll be back on track. Become myself again instead of this creature I do not—dare not—recognise.
Jago drove up to the Vicarage’s front door and looked up at the dark house.
‘Your father doesn’t seem to be back yet. Shall I come in with you? Make sure everything’s all right?’
‘There’s really no need,’ she said quickly, fumbling for the handle on the passenger door. ‘What could possibly happen in Hazelton Magna?’
‘You tell me,’ he drawled. ‘It was you about to call the emergency services earlier.’
She said defensively, ‘Ladysmere’s a big house. Someone might think there was stuff worth stealing.’ She paused, adding stiltedly, ‘Goodnight—and thank you very much for the meal.’
Pure schoolgirl, she thought, vexed and was not surprised to hear faint amusement in his voice as he replied, ‘It was my pleasure.’
And my pain, she thought, her nails digging into the palms of her clenched hands as she stood alone in the darkened house, listening to the Jeep driving away. But didn’t people say pleasure and pain were two sides of the same coin?
And realised suddenly how much she would have given never to know that.
* * *
The first thing she saw when she arrived at the house next morning was the erstwhile picnic rug draped over the back of her chair. Biting her lip, she folded it carefully and put it at the back of a shelf, out of her line of vision. Start, she thought, as you mean to go on.
She went to the kitchen, filled the kettle and put it to boil, then put water in the small glass vase she’d brought from the Vicarage,
