although Zach’s ear was still attached to his phone, even he had slowed his relentlessly brisk stride to savour the beauty of the garden.
Still holding her breath, she waited till he reached the glade. And was pleased to see that he had stopped, briefly looking around. But her pleasure was short-lived. When she quietly came to stand beside him, she realised that the man was a heathen after all.
‘Sell,’ he was curtly instructing some hapless minion, his hand massaging the back of his neck abstractedly. ‘And let’s have your investment strategy for the Far East by the end of the day…’
Barbarian! Infuriated by his insensitivity, she firmly shut him out. They were on different planets. This could be the last time she enjoyed the poignantly familiar sight that met her eyes, and she wanted to savour it to the full.
Bluebells had colonised the grassy glade, creating a sea of sapphire waves as the breeze stirred the nodding bells. The blossom-laden branches of ancient apple and pear trees bowed down almost to the shifting patches of blue, but where the path ran, ornamental Japanese cherry trees formed a vista to the house.
Framed dramatically, and with the shedding cherry blossom fluttering to the ground like confetti before it, the lovely Georgian manor house basked in the sun, its honey stone walls glowing as if they’d been dipped in liquid gold.
Entranced, she looked up at Zach for his reaction, hoping that he’d been stirred by the glory of it all. But with his frown resolutely in place he was intently tapping in a new number on his wretched mobile.
‘Tim? About those Hedge Funds,’ he growled, giving his mud-spattered shoes a basilisk stare.
She despaired, doubting that the funds were a charitable donation to the preservation of England’s beautiful country hedges.
He’d seen nothing. Not the rich dark throats of the dazzling white azaleas brushing his jacket, or the ladies fingers, violets, forget-me-nots and scarlet pimpernel which were shyly peeping from the undergrowth beside the path.
Deaf to everything but the grinding machine of business, he’d heard nothing of the jubilant birds filling the island with sweet song. And he was too busy sniffing out a deal to register the mingled fragrances that drifted on the slight breeze, or the musty, warm aroma that arose from the leaf litter in the surrounding woodland.
Edith’s heaven was totally lost on him. Catherine watched sadly as he strode on, discussing High Fidelity Bonds instead of being alive to the wonders of the natural world around him. She felt a wave of sadness jerk at her chest. He would never love this place as she did.
It was small consolation that he hadn’t ploughed straight through the bluebells, but had skirted the edge. He wasn’t a total heathen then. But she could see that he would have no empathy for Edith’s carefully rampant style of gardening.
Zach and his wife were obviously people with different values and priorities. Sophisticates, who lived the fast life of the City.
Catherine knew instinctively that they would definitely not approve of the way she earned her living. Nor would they be sympathetic towards a woman who chose to live on a boat like a water gypsy.
Her face fell. She might as well accept now that she’d probably be hurled out on her ear. She’d be obliged to wander the rivers and canals of England until she found a vacant mooring that she could afford. And then she’d have to start building up her clientele all over again.
She bit her lip, trying to stop herself from crying with frustrated anger. And she wondered crossly why this man had taken on Tresanton Manor when it was so patently wrong for him.
With her ears assailed by a barrage of fast-paced business deals which broke the gentle, monastic peace of the magical garden, she trudged silently towards the house she loved, aching to think that not only would she be leaving the island and all her friends, but that a Philistine and his wife would be ignorant of its joys.
She had to try to persuade him that there were benefits in having someone around to keep an eye on things. But in her heart she knew that she didn’t stand a chance.
Oh, Edith! she sighed. If you only knew who was about to desecrate your lovely island!
CHAPTER FOUR
‘ALL these keys!’ Grumbling, Zach was turning the huge bunch in his hand, trying to find the one that opened the main door.
‘It’s like this one,’ Catherine said with commendable patience.
Tiredly she lifted the rope line at her waist and selected Edith’s key from the others for comparison.
Zach stiffened. ‘You have a key?’ he barked in staccato consternation, as if she’d committed a crime. Or was about to.
‘I often came to see the previous owner,’ she explained, her spirits at an all-time low. ‘She gave me one to let myself in.’
Zach’s eyes narrowed and fixed on her like heat-seeking missiles.
‘Have you been in the house since she died?’ he shot out suspiciously.
Bristling, she regarded him with the level and reproving gaze of a Victorian schoolmistress confiscating jelly beans from a naughty child.
‘You mean have I nipped in to steal anything?’ she flung back haughtily. ‘Brass fittings? A marble fireplace or two? A staircase, maybe?’
‘It happens.’ He didn’t seem embarrassed by her bluntness. ‘Though I suppose you’re not likely to admit to theft.’
His audacity was breathtaking. Catherine inhaled deeply. It was that or hit him and she didn’t believe in violence.
‘I haven’t stolen anything. In fact, I haven’t set foot in the house since I found Edith in her bed,’ she informed him, the faint tremor in her voice betraying how painful that discovery had been.
‘You found her?’ He seemed to be on the verge of saying something—his sympathies, perhaps—but, thought Catherine darkly, he managed to stop himself in time from doing anything so remotely human. Instead, he grunted. ‘Hmm. I’ll have to take your word for it, then,’ he muttered, but his eyes lingered on her tremulous mouth thoughtfully.
‘Or you could ask around,’ she said, tightening her lips in a rare display of anger, ‘and then you’d learn that I don’t have a dishonest bone in my body!’
To her discomfort, he examined her with clinical detail, as if to check how honest her bones might be. His intense scrutiny brought a flush to her face and she lowered her startled nut-brown eyes to avoid his road-driller stare.
‘Don’t think I won’t do that,’ he snapped.
Her mutinous gaze flashed up to his again. ‘Can’t you read faces? Don’t you realise the kind of person I am?’
He seemed to flinch and withdraw into himself. The hard and impenetrable coldness he was projecting made her shiver, as if she’d stepped into cold storage.
‘I make it a habit never to trust anyone until I have overwhelming proof of their integrity.’
‘You must find it hard to make friends,’ she observed drily.
