Suddenly remembering his earlier comments, she added thoughtfully, ‘Up on the hill, you said you didn’t give interviews, as though I might be a reporter.’
He waited, and she gave a small smile. She was actually beginning to like this rather abrupt man, and she gave a soft, infectious laugh. ‘I found you at the dentist,’ she finally explained. ‘I was waiting, as one does, and leafing through a magazine, and there you were. Garde Chevenay, the new owner of Blakeborough Abbey. There was an aerial view of the grounds, and I yearned to do them,’ she said simply. ‘I did have a quick peep at the rear,’ she confessed. ‘That old paving needs some attention—but if you didn’t want or couldn’t afford to have the whole thing done at once,’ she added quickly, ‘I could do it piecemeal. Or even just the gravel. I’m very good at gravel.’
‘You do surprise me,’ he said sardonically. ‘The dentist is local?’
‘What? Oh, no,’ she admitted with a small grin. ‘London. I don’t have much work on at present.’
‘And one must grasp at opportunities as they arise?’
‘Yes, so you see…’
‘You have proof of your identity?’ he interrupted.
Puzzled, she shook her head. ‘Not with me, no. Why?’
‘Because I want to know who you are.’
‘But you know who I am. I just told you.’
‘Did you?’
Slightly bewildered, she nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t bring identification?’ he asked with drawled sarcasm. ‘Not very professional.’
‘No—I mean—yes.’ Taking a deep breath, she stated positively, ‘I brought my portfolio.’ Leaping to her feet, she said eagerly, ‘I’ll go and get it. It’s in my truck. Then you’ll be able to see what I can do…’ Before he could comment, she hurried out, walked gingerly across the gravel in her socks and collected it. Hurrying back, she laid it on the desk before him. ‘My card’s inside the front cover.’
He nodded and opened the photograph album. Pulling a piece of paper towards him, he jotted down her name and address and then closed it.
Watching him, she felt her eagerness begin to dissipate. ‘Aren’t you going to look at the photographs?’
‘No,’ he said dismissively.
‘Then why did you want it?’
‘So that I can check you out.’ Picking up the album, he tried to hand it to her.
She put her hands behind her back. ‘I’ll leave it with you. I can pick it up tomorrow. You never know, you might find some of the ideas useful…’
‘No,’ he said softly.
‘Yes. And if you really don’t—’
‘I don’t.’
‘You could post it back to me.’
‘It might get lost,’ he said blandly.
‘I’ll take that chance. Please? I really am very good.’
‘And cheap?’ he asked interestedly.
‘Well, no, but…’
Eyes holding hers, he dismissed her softly. ‘Goodbye, Miss James.’
With a little grimace, she quickly finished her coffee and picked up her coat. ‘At least look at them,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m open to suggestions…’ Realising what she had said, she gave a grunt of laughter. ‘Not those sort of suggestions, I just meant—’
‘I know what you meant.’
Pulling a face at him, she slung her muddy coat round her shoulders. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Not if I see you first, hung in the air between them, and she gave a rueful smile. After opening the door, she returned for the tray. ‘I’ll take it back to the kitchen, shall I?’
‘It won’t do you any good.’
‘That wasn’t why I…Sorry, I tend to get a bit—’
‘Carried away?’ He was staring at her with an expression of such interested attentiveness that she laughed.
‘All right, I’m going.’ Don’t push your luck, Sorrel, she warned herself. Hastily escaping, she awkwardly closed the door behind her. She knew she did tend to get a bit carried away in other people’s houses, but then that was probably because she usually worked in other people’s houses. And he hadn’t forced her to take back the portfolio, so there was still hope, wasn’t there? Ever the optimist, smile still in place, she headed down the hall.
Assuming that kitchens were normally at the rear of a property, she pushed open the door beneath the staircase, and came to an abrupt halt. The room looked like something from the Middle Ages, and the contrast with the hall was—well, astonishing.
Mrs Davies was sitting at the long scrubbed table in the centre of the room. She looked as though she’d been crying. Putting down the tray, Sorrel asked gently, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing!’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t say! Mr Craddock, the last owner, was so—easy.’ Staring at Sorrel, she burst out, ‘I need this job. Clive’s out of work at present—my husband,’ she explained, ‘and although Mr Chevenay said I could stay on, I don’t know what he expects of me.’
‘Because he doesn’t say,’ Sorrel agreed sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, not really. Could you ask him?’ she pleaded. ‘What my duties are?’
‘Me?’ Sorrel exclaimed in astonishment. ‘But I don’t know him! I’m not really a friend…’
‘Please? If I Hoover, he asks me to stop; if I cook him meals, he doesn’t eat them. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to answer his phone! And now he wants me to redesign his kitchen! I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but redesign it how?’
‘Get some magazines,’ Sorrel advised. ‘That’s what people normally do, isn’t it? Show him some pictures. And surely it will be better for you to work somewhere, well, modern?’
‘I suppose,’ Mrs Davies agreed gloomily. ‘If I’m here that long. I don’t think he even likes me. I’ve asked him and asked him to call me Davey, like Mr Craddock used to, but he won’t. Mrs Davies, he says. So—so polite!’
With a little grin, and because Sorrel knew exactly what she meant and what it was like to have no job, no money, Sorrel agreed. ‘All right, I’ll ask him.’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Davies said gratefully. ‘You must think me an absolute moron, but…I’m not usually like this,’ she confessed. ‘Or, I wasn’t. Perhaps it’s the menopause.’
