Accordingly, she murmured an unwilling acquiescence, and agreed that she could be ready at seven-thirty.
Unless mown down in the meantime by a runaway steamroller. And if she knew where one was operating, she’d lie down in front of it.
As she stood by her father, her smile nailed on, to wave goodbye to the departing visitor, she wondered how close she was to the world record for the number of things that could go wrong within a set time.
Because her choice of Barkland Grange, astronomically expensive and practically in the next county, had rebounded on her big time.
Safely indoors, she rounded on her father. ‘Dad, how could you? You practically offered me to him on a plate.’
‘Hardly, my dear. He only invited me out of politeness, you know.
‘I gather from something he said in the garden, he feels that the pair of you have somehow got off on the wrong foot, and he wants to make amends.’ He added gently, ‘And I must admit, Tavy, that I did sense something of an atmosphere.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘I can’t think why.’ She was silent for a moment, then burst out, ‘Oh, Dad, I don’t want to have dinner with him. He’s out of our league, in some unknown stratosphere, and it worries me.’
And the worst of it is I can’t tell you the real reason why I don’t want to be with him. Why I don’t even want to think about him. Because you’d think quite rightly that I’d been stupid and reckless and be disappointed in me.
She swallowed. ‘Why did he come here today?’
‘To make himself known as the new resident of the Manor, and my parishioner,’ he returned patiently.
‘You think it’s really that simple?’ She shook her head. ‘I bet you won’t find him in the congregation very often. Also, you seem to have forgotten I’m going out with Patrick.’
‘But not this evening, it seems. And Jago, after all, is a stranger in our midst. Will it really hurt so much to keep him company? For all his fame and money, he might be lonely.’
Which is what he said about you...
‘I doubt that very much,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m sure he has a little black book the size of a telephone directory.’
‘Perhaps he hasn’t unpacked it yet,’ her father said gently
Tavy, desperate, delivered the killer blow. ‘And I’ve got nothing to wear. Not for a place like that, anyway.’
‘Oh, my dear child,’ he said. ‘If that’s the problem...’
He went into his study, emerging a few minutes later with a small roll of banknotes, which he pushed into her hand. ‘Didn’t you tell me that a new dress shop had opened in Market Tranton, in that little street behind the War Memorial.’
‘Dad.’ Tavy gazed down at the money, aghast. ‘There’s a hundred and fifty pounds here. I can’t take all this.’
‘You can and you will,’ he said firmly. ‘I know full well you get paid a pittance for all the hours you put in at that school,’ adding drily, ‘but presumably you feel it’s worth it. And I have a feeling that you’ll soon be needing a dress for special occasions.’
Such as an engagement party, Tavy thought with sudden buoyancy, as she grabbed the car keys from their hook. Now that would be worth dressing up for.
While tonight could be endured then forgotten.
* * *
As seven-thirty approached, Tavy felt the tension inside her begin to build. She sat, trying to interest herself in the local paper, finding instead she was imagining the following week’s edition by which time the news about Jago would have become public knowledge.
And she could only hope and pray that none of the stories printed about him would involve herself.
In the end, she’d bought two dresses, neither as expensive as she’d feared, and both sleeveless with scooped necks, and skirts much shorter than she was accustomed to—one covered in tiny ivory flowers on an indigo background, and the other, which she was wearing that evening, in a wonderful shade of jade green.
She’d chosen this because, among the few pieces of jewellery her mother had left, were a pair of carved jade drop earrings which she’d never worn before, but hoped would give her some much needed confidence.
And for once, her newly washed and shining hair had allowed itself to be piled up on top of her head without too much protest, even if it had taken twice the usual number of pins to secure it there.
She’d even treated herself to a new lipstick in an unusual shade between rust and brown that she found became her far more than the rather soft pinks she normally chose. And was almost tempted to wipe it off, and revert to the dull and familiar. Yet didn’t.
Any more than she’d gone into Dad’s study and said, ‘I have to tell you what happened yesterday...’
Tonight at some point, she would offer Jago Marsh a stiff, well-rehearsed apology for trespassing on his property, then ask if the entire incident could be forgotten, or at least never referred to again. And somehow make it clear that what he’d referred to as ‘gentle teasing’ was totally unacceptable. As were softly loaded remarks about water nymphs.
After that, if the way she was feeling now was any indication, she might well be sick all over the tablecloth.
She had the cash left over from her shopping expedition tucked into her bag, in case she needed to make a speedy exit by taxi at some point. Her mother, she remembered with a soft catch of the breath, had been a firm believer in what she called ‘escape money’.
And how strange she should be thinking in these terms when millions of girls all over the world would give everything they possessed to be in her shoes this evening. And so they could be, she thought, grimacing. She was wearing her only decent pair of sandals and they pinched.
When the doorbell rang, she felt her heart thud so violently that she almost cried out.
I shouldn’t have dressed for the restaurant, she thought, as she made her way into the hall. I should be wearing a T-shirt and an old skirt—maybe the denim one I’ve had since school. Something that would make him wish he’d never put me on the spot—never asked me, as well as ensuring that he won’t do it again.
Her father was ahead of her, opening the front door, smiling and saying she was quite ready. Then, to her embarrassment, telling her quite seriously that she looked beautiful, and wishing her a wonderful evening.
So she was blushing and looking down at the floor, only realising at the last moment that the man waiting for her on the doorstep was not Jago Marsh, but someone much older, grey haired and wearing a neat, dark suit.
‘Evening, Miss Denison.’ A London accent. ‘I’m Charlie, Mr Jago’s driver. Can you get down the drive in those heels, or shall I fetch the car up?’
‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘I—I’m fine.’ If a little bewildered...
Her
