‘When are we going to eat?’ Cory demanded plaintively now, and, glancing at her watch, Isobel saw that it was after eight. She had been so intent on unpacking and putting their things away, so as not to waste what little space there was, she had forgotten all about making a meal.
‘Oh—whenever,’ she replied, glancing half contentedly about her. ‘Clare said she’d leave some food in the fridge. I suggest we go down and see what there is.’
‘I know what there is,’ declared Cory, not moving. ‘There’s some eggs, and cheese, and a pot of something that looks like yoghurt. Honestly, you’d think we were vegetarians! Why couldn’t she have bought some beefburgers or some steak?’
Isobel’s contented air vanished. ‘You should consider yourself lucky that she’s left us anything at all,’ she retorted crisply. ‘And beefburgers aren’t good for you. They’re full of fat!’
‘So is butter, but she’s left us some of that,’ countered Cory, not to be outdone. ‘And there’s only brown bread. I ask you, brown bread!’
Isobel refused to let her daughter’s attitude spoil their first evening at the cottage. ‘Brown bread won’t hurt you for once,’ she remarked, gesturing for Cory to move out of the doorway. ‘I’ll make omelettes. Cheese omelettes. And we can have the yoghurt for dessert.’
Cory trundled down the steep narrow stairs ahead of her, grumbling about the inconveniences of living in a village. ‘I bet there isn’t even a McDonald’s within thirty miles,’ she muttered, considering that a great distance. But privately Isobel suspected the nearest fast-food establishment was a lot further than that.
‘How old was this Miss McLeay anyway?’ Cory asked some time later, sprawled at the scarred pinewood kitchen table, watching her mother prepare their meal. ‘I bet she was ninety if she was a day. All this old furniture! It looks like it came out of the ark.’
‘Well, I think it’s rather charming,’ declared Isobel, looking appreciatively through the archway that divided the kitchen from the living-room and viewing the lamplit chintz-covered sofa and chairs with some affection. There were too many occasional tables, of course, and even Miss McLeay could not have wanted all these knickknacks. But the general impression was homely, and Isobel thought it would look really cosy when the fire was lit. For the present, they were making do with an electric heater. There was an Aga in the kitchen, which she thought might heat the rather antiquated radiators she had seen, but that would have to wait until tomorrow and daylight, when she might feel more equipped to experiment.
‘It’s not very big, is it?’ Cory persisted, as her mother riffled through the drawers, looking for a cheese-grater. ‘Grandma said it would probably be an old crofter’s cottage. Do you think that’s what it was? Before the old lady lived here?’
‘Crofter’s cottages didn’t have central heating,’ retorted Isobel flatly, resisting the urge to take her mother-in-law’s name in vain. ‘Have a look in that cupboard, will you? Clare said the place was fully equipped. There must be a grater somewhere. If not, I’ll just have to crumble the cheese myself.’
Cory got reluctantly to her feet and did as she was asked. But apart from a couple of cans of soup, which Isobel suspected must be well past their sell-by date, it was empty.
However, she was not to be disappointed. An examination of the gas cooker solicited the fact that there was a drawer at the bottom practically filled with baking tins and utensils of all kinds. Among the clutter was a hand-held grater, and Isobel carried it to the sink to wash as Cory resumed her seat at the table.
‘This Clare …’ she remarked, after a few minutes, and Isobel glanced up from the cheese.
‘Mrs Lindsay, to you,’ she corrected swiftly, and then winced as her knuckles connected with the grater.
‘All right.’ Cory pulled a face. ‘Mrs Lindsay, then. Is she married to Rafe’s brother?’
‘She’s married to Mr Lindsay’s brother, yes.’ Isobel brushed the last of the cheese from her fingers, and turned back to the pan. ‘I expect you’ll meet her tomorrow. She said she’d pop by to see how we’re settling in.’
Cory shrugged, evidently not impressed by this prospect. ‘I wonder if—if he’s married?’ she mused, reverting to her previous topic. ‘You know: Rafe. Oh, all right.’ She gave an exaggerated sigh at her mother’s expression. ‘Mr Lindsay, then. He’s really cool, isn’t he? Did you notice how long his eyelashes were?’
‘I noticed you had a little too much to say for yourself,’ responded Isobel, choosing not to get into a discussion about Rafe Lindsay’s attributes, and Cory pulled a face.
‘Well, at least I said something, instead of sitting there like a dummy,’ she retorted cheekily. ‘You didn’t even cut a smile when he apologised about the dog.’
‘I hardly know the man, Cory.’ Isobel found herself on the defensive once again. ‘Just because he was kind enough to offer us a lift doesn’t mean I have to like him. I thought he was rather arrogant, actually. I don’t think your father would have liked him.’
‘Oh, well——’ Cory’s response to that was revealing ‘—Dad wouldn’t like any man who looked twice at you. He’s—he was—terribly old-fashioned.’ She rubbed an impatient hand across her eyes. ‘I was always telling him so.’
‘Yes.’
Isobel surveyed her daughter with an unexpected rush of emotion. Even though it was nearly a year since Edward’s accident, they could both be caught by an unwary comment, and the remonstrance she had been about to offer died unspoken in her suddenly tight throat. But today had been a rather traumatic day, in more ways than one, and she could only hope that in these new surroundings they might both find it easier to adapt.
‘You’re not going to cry, are you?’ Cory’s terse question hid a wealth of uncertainty, and with a determined effort Isobel shook her head.
‘No.’ She paused, before continuing deliberately, ‘But I don’t think you should talk about your father like that. He wasn’t old-fashioned. Not really. He was just—not interested in current fads and fancies.’
‘That’s for sure.’ Cory gathered confidence from her mother’s calm response. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have to act like you’re already middle-aged. I mean, you’re not young. But you’re not old either.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘And you must have noticed how attractive Rafe was.’
‘Cory, how many more times do I have to tell you—I’m not interested in any other man, attractive or otherwise? Now, did you decide if you wanted cheese in your omelette or not?’
The impromptu meal was far better than even Isobel could have anticipated. The milk Clare had left for them was rich and creamy, and without the means to make filter coffee they had to make do with instant. But instant coffee made with fresh milk, and not the half-skimmed variety Isobel had usually bought at home, was almost an indulgence, and they were sitting enjoying their second cup when someone knocked at the door.
Not surprisingly, Isobel was loath to answer it. Beyond the faded floral curtains, the night was as black as pitch, and, although common sense told her they were far from the reach of thieves and muggers, old habits died
