her teeth ache.
Also Hetty’s author, so what the hell was he doing being wined and dined by Louis, let alone discussing future projects?
Not that she wanted to go within a mile of him, she thought, recoiling from the memory of her one and only encounter with the rotund, twinkling author of Love at the Forge and Inn of Contentment. And, even worse, what had followed...
Everything she had done her best to erase from her consciousness was now suddenly confronting her again in every detail, rendering her momentarily numb.
And while she was still faltering, Louis’s powers of persuasion convinced the others round the table and she was faced with telling an author she believed in that there was no contract in the offing after all. Adding to her bitter disappointment twin blows to her negotiating skills and her pride.
And possibly moving Louis a definite step towards his ultimate goal of uniting men’s and women’s commercial fiction under his leadership.
All this, she thought wearily, and, in a few hours, her first encounter with the extended Harrington family, for which she probably needed all the confidence she could get.
She looked at her weekend case waiting in the corner, holding jeans and boots, together with the expensive tissue-wrapped dress and the hand-crafted silver photograph frame she’d chosen as her hostess’s birthday present.
For a moment she considered assuming the role of victim of a forty-eight-hour mystery virus, then dismissed it.
Having let her author down, she would not do the same to Gerard, mainly because she sensed he was anxious about the weekend too.
I must make sure it all goes well for his sake, she thought. And for the possibility of a future together—if and when liking grows into love.
A cautious beginning to a happy ending. The way it ought to be.
That was what she needed. Not a passionate tumultuous descent to guilt and the risk of disaster. That, like all other bad memories, must be locked—sealed away to await well-deserved oblivion.
Which would come, in spite of the recent unwanted reminder, she assured herself. It had to...
* * *
It was an uneventful journey, Gerard handling his supremely comfortable Mercedes with finesse while he chatted about the abbey and its turbulent history.
‘It’s said that the family who acquired it in Tudor times bribed the King’s officials to turn the monks out and the abbot cursed them,’ he said ruefully.
‘Whether that’s true or not, they certainly fell on hard times in later years, largely due to the drink and gambling problems of a succession of eldest sons, so my great-great-grandfather Augustus Harrington got it quite cheaply.
‘Also being eminently respectable and hard-working, the restoration of Whitestone was his idea of recreation.’
‘Is much of the original building left?’ Alanna asked.
‘Very little, apart from the cloisters. The Tudor lot simply pulled the whole thing down and started again.’
‘Vandals.’ She smiled at him. ‘I suppose upkeep is an ongoing process.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very much so. Maybe that’s the real meaning of the abbot’s curse. He said it would be a millstone round the owners’ necks for evermore.’
‘I don’t think I believe in curses,’ said Alanna. ‘Anyway, even a millstone must be worth it—when it’s such a piece of history.’
‘I certainly believe that.’ He spoke with a touch of bleakness. ‘But that isn’t a universal view. However you must judge for yourself.’ He accelerated a little. ‘We’re nearly there.’
And he was right. As they crested the next hill, Alanna saw the solid mass of pale stone which was the abbey cradled in the valley below, its tall chimneys rearing towards the sky and the mullioned windows glinting in the early evening sunlight.
From either side of the main structure, two narrow wings jutted out, enclosing a large forecourt where a number of cars were already parked.
Like arms opening in welcome? Alanna wondered. Well, she would soon find out.
Gerard slotted the Merc between a Jaguar and an Audi, just to the right of the shallow stone steps leading up to the front entrance. As she waited for him to retrieve their luggage from the boot, Alanna saw that the heavily timbered door was opening, and that a grey-haired woman in a smart red dress had appeared, shading her eyes as she watched their approach.
‘So there you are,’ she said with something of a snap. She turned to the tall man who had followed her out. ‘Richard, go and tell Mother that Gerard has arrived at last.’
‘And good evening to you too, Aunt Caroline.’ Gerard’s smile was courteous. ‘Don’t worry, Uncle Rich. I can announce us.’
‘But you were expected over an hour ago.’ His aunt pursed her lips as she led the way into an impressive wainscoted hall. ‘I’ve no idea how this will affect the timing of dinner.’
‘I imagine it will be served exactly when Grandam ordered, just as usual,’ Gerard returned, unruffled. ‘Now, let me introduce Alanna Beckett to you. Darling—my aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Healey.’
Slightly thrown by the unexpected endearment, Alanna shook hands and murmured politely.
‘Everyone is waiting in the drawing room,’ said Mrs Healey. ‘Leave your case there, Miss—er—Beckett. The housekeeper will take it up to your room.’ She turned to Gerard. ‘We’ve had to make a last change to the arrangements, so your guest is now in the east wing, just along from Joanne.’ She gave Alanna a dubious look. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to share a bathroom.’
‘I’m used to it.’ Alanna tried a pleasant smile. ‘I share a flat in London.’
Mrs Healey absorbed the information without comment and returned to Gerard. ‘Now do come along. You know how your grandmother hates to be kept waiting.’
It occurred to Alanna as she followed in Mrs Healey’s wake that she wasn’t really ready for this. That she would have preferred to accompany her case upstairs and freshen up before entering the presence of the Harrington matriarch.
Or—preferably—return to London, on foot if necessary.
Gerard bent towards her. ‘Don’t worry about Aunt Caroline,’ he whispered. ‘Since my mother went off to live in Suffolk, she’s been taking her role as daughter of the house rather too seriously.’
She forced a smile. ‘She made me wonder if I should curtsy.’
He took her hand. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise you.’
She found herself in a long, low-ceilinged room with a vast stone fireplace at one end, big enough, she supposed, to roast an ox, if anyone had an urge to do so.
The furnishings, mainly large squashy sofas and deep armchairs, all upholstered in faded chintz, made no claim to be
