Книга - A Family of His Own

A Family of His Own
Liz Fielding


Could they be a family?Picking blackberries in a derelict garden with her little girl had the most unexpected outcome for Kay Lovell: first Kay was kissed by a tall, dark and brooding stranger, and then he hired her as his gardener! Kay did her best with the garden–and her cantankerous new boss, Dominic Ravenscar. He was obviously still dealing with the emotional scars from his past, but gradually Kay unearthed the real Dominic, the one who loved life and just wanted a family of his own….







It almost broke her heart to see him making the effort for her, and she wanted to take his hand, put her arms around him and tell him that she understood. That one day it would be all right.

“Please, don’t feel like you have to laugh,” she said. “It isn’t in the least bit compulsory.”

“Okay.” And without warning, deep lines fanned out from his eyes and the smile became the real thing.

Kay had to catch her breath and force herself to concentrate on the job at hand. Dominic Ravenscar did it for her.

“What happened to your daughter’s father?”

The abrupt change of subject threw her, and she responded to this unexpected jab at a raw nerve in much the same way as he had. Instinctively. Defensively.

“Polly never had a father.”


Dear Reader,

Several of my books have touched on the lives of the inhabitants of Upper Haughton. Willow and Mike Armstrong from The Runaway Bride settled here. The Hilliards from A Perfect Proposal live in the Old Rectory. Jake and Amy Hallam, from my RITA


-nominated book, The Bachelor’s Baby, live here, too. They’ve moved out of Amy’s cottage and bought a larger house for their growing family, but Old Cottage isn’t empty. Kay Lovell—who works at the village shop, makes prize-winning marmalade and spends all her spare time helping out the neighbors—lives there with her daughter, Polly.

Linden Lodge, however, has stood empty for six years. The garden is running wild, the blackberries are tempting—and desperately needed for the village harvest supper—and the lock on the gate is broken. But Kay’s trespass doesn’t go unnoticed….

Upper Haughton is a real village; a place from my own childhood. I’ve only changed the name. Come and visit.

Warmest wishes,

Liz




A Family of His Own


Liz Fielding




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN




PROLOGUE


‘SHE’S so beautiful, Jake.’ Amy Hallam gently touched the cheek of the newborn infant, then lifted her from the cradle and tucked her into the crook of her shoulder, breathing in the baby scent as she kissed the top of her downy head. ‘Her mother just left her on Aunt Lucy’s doorstep? The poor woman must have been distraught…’

‘Distraught maybe, but she knew Lucy would take care of her. She left a note.’ Jake handed his wife a sheet of paper and then took the baby from her so that she could read it.

Amy flinched as she touched the scrap of paper, physically sensing the emotional turmoil, the very real fear of the woman who’d written it.

‘Are you all right?’ Jake put out a hand to steady her.

‘Fine,’ she said, her mouth dry. But she sat down before she began to read.

Dear “Aunt Lucy”

You took care of me once and now I’m asking you to take care of my baby because there’s no one else I can turn to.

She was born on the 26th September. She has no name—if I don’t know her name I can’t betray her—and her birth has not been registered. She is totally anonymous. It is her only hope.

I’m begging you, trusting you, not to tell the authorities about her, not to make any appeals through the media for me to come forward. That will only draw attention to her, put her in danger.

I’m leaving what little money I have to help you until you can find some good people to take her in, give her a good life. I love her, but she isn’t safe with me.

K.

Amy blinked, focusing on the shimmering image of her own infant son as he scooted around on his bottom, irrationally wanting to grab him close, just to let him know how much she loved him. Instead she reached out wordlessly, and clasped her husband’s hand.

‘Paranoia? Domestic violence?’ he asked, trusting her instincts.

‘I don’t know, but this woman is terrified of something.’ Then, ‘You’ve only got to look at the handwriting,’ she said quickly as Jake quirked a brow at her, taken aback at her instant response. ‘Whatever the problem is, she’s beyond reason. She must know what she asks is impossible, that it breaks every childcare law in the book, but her only thought is to hide the baby.’

‘We can’t do that for long.’

‘No, of course not. But I’m not prepared to take any unnecessary risks. A week or two will make no difference.’

‘I’m not sure that the social services will see it that way.’

‘Maybe not, but if we could find her…’

‘She’s placed her infant in what she believes is a safe haven, Amy. Surely she’s going to put as much distance between them as she can?’

‘Not until she’s sure. She’ll stay close until she’s certain her baby is safe.’

‘How will that help? We have no idea what she looks like.’

She frowned. ‘Maybe we don’t need to. She’s left all her money with Lucy. She’ll be weak. Hungry. In a pretty bad way. We need to search the lanes around Lucy’s cottage, Jake. There’s no time to lose.’




CHAPTER ONE


“If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries…”

William Shakespeare

IT WAS hot for the end of September. A cloudless, still day with only the blackberries to warn that summer was almost over.

Huge glistening fruit that was infuriatingly out of reach.

Kay rubbed the sweat from her forehead, fanned herself with her tattered straw gardening hat and walked slowly back along the hedge, seeking out any that she’d missed, trying to ignore the long brambles lolling over the high wall that skirted the far side of the lane. Brambles weighed down by berries, but which still just evaded the reach of her walking stick.

‘Come on, Polly, this will have to do,’ she said, after scanning the hedge one last time.

‘Have you got enough?’ her daughter asked, looking doubtfully at the pitiful quantity they’d gathered.

‘There aren’t any more. I’m afraid the harvest-supper pies will have to be more apple than blackberry this year.’

Polly’s little face wrinkled up in a frown. ‘But there are loads up there,’ she said, pointing at the top of the wall.

‘I know, poppet, but I can’t reach them.’

‘You could get them down from the other side. Why don’t you go through the gate? No one lives there. Someone’s put up a For Sale sign,’ she added, as if that settled the matter.

How simple life was when you were six years old! But Polly was right about one thing. Linden Lodge had been empty for as long as she’d lived in Upper Haughton.

From her bedroom window she had tantalising glimpses of the wilderness hidden behind the high walls. The roof of an ornamental summer house collapsing beneath the unrestrained vigour of a Clematis montana. Roses running wild. Blossom on trees where, year after year, the ripened fruit had been left to fall and rot in the grass. It was like a secret garden from a fairy tale, locked away, hidden, sleeping. Just waiting for the right person to venture inside, bring it back to life.

It would take more than a kiss, she thought.

When she didn’t answer, Polly, with all the persistence of a six-year-old on a mission, said, ‘They’re for the harvest supper.’

‘What?’

Polly gave a huge sigh. ‘The blackberries, of course. Everyone in the village is supposed to give something.’

‘Oh, yes.’ That was the plan. Everyone contributed to the harvest supper that brought the whole village together in a celebration of the year; a tradition linking them back to the agricultural past of the village.

Her reluctance to try the gate was ridiculous, she knew. If she didn’t pick it the fruit would just shrivel up. Which would be a wicked waste.

‘You could put a note through the door to say thank you,’ Polly said.

Kay found herself smiling. ‘A thank-you note? Who to?’

‘Whoever buys the house. And I’ll draw a picture of the pies so that when they move in they’ll be happy that their blackberries didn’t go to waste,’ she said, tugging impatiently at her hand and leading her towards the gate. It wasn’t actually a gate, as such, but a gardener’s door set into the wall, the faded green paint cracking and peeling in the afternoon sun, neglected as the garden.

‘It’ll be locked,’ she said. Of course it would be locked.

Reason might suggest that she was doing the right thing but as she gripped the handle—her heart beating rather faster than normal—turned it and gave it a push, it still felt like trespassing. There was some initial resistance but then, just as she was about to back off with feelings that were a confused mixture of relief and disappointment, it shifted suddenly and flew back until it was stopped by the weeds.

A blackbird, pinking crossly at the disturbance, flew up out of the long grass, startling her, and she froze, half expecting to hear an angry voice demanding to know what the devil she thought she was doing.

It was just her conscience having its say.

Apart from the sound of her heartbeat hammering away in her ears, only the murmurous hum of bees busily working the vivid clumps of old-fashioned late-summer perennials, stockpiling their larders against the long winter, disturbed the silence.

Blue and purple Michaelmas daisies, Rudbeckia, Sedum. The tough species, survivors that could fight their corner against the rank weeds that had invaded the borders.

It cried out to her gardener’s heart to see someone’s hard work abandoned to the ravages of nature, and nothing could now have stopped her from putting her shoulder to the gate, forcing it back against the weeds and grass that had grown against it, to take a closer look.



Dominic Ravenscar turned his back on the drawing room, the ghostly shapes of furniture hidden beneath dust covers, and stared out at the neglected garden.

It was the moment he’d most dreaded, one he’d been running from for six years, this first sight of Sara’s garden. But no matter how hard he’d run, the demons had kept pace with him until he’d finally understood that there was no place far enough to escape the pain, no shadows deep enough to hide from his memories.

The last time he’d looked through the French windows it had been late spring. The fruit trees had been in blossom, the buds were thickening in the lilac, clumps of yellow tulips were spilling their petals over the grass and Sara had been blooming too with the glow of the new life they’d created. It had still been their secret, a private joy to be hugged to themselves for a while before they shared the news once the first uncertain weeks were safely past.

A double tragedy he had kept to himself, too. After her death it had been too late to share the joy and there had been pain enough to go around without making the aching loss even harder to bear for family and friends.

This vaster emptiness was his alone.

A lax stem from the rose she’d planted to grow “around the door” tapped against the French windows, startling him, forcing him to focus on the present. It wasn’t the only thing that had run wild.

Without Sara to tend it, care for it, nature had been quick to move in and take over. Shrubs were pressing towards the house, lank and overgrown, squeezing out the perennials that were fighting a losing battle for light and air. Weeds had colonised the cracks in the stone paving and grass had grown over the stepping-stone path that curved down beyond the summer house in the direction of the kitchen garden—even that was being crushed under the weight of some climber—while beyond it he glimpsed invasive brambles scrambling unchecked over the fruit trees she’d trained against the wall.

He rested his forehead against the warm glass, closed his eyes to shut out the wreck of his garden, the wreck of his life, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. He’d bought the house because she’d fallen in love with this garden, enclosed as it was within high walls of old, rose-coloured brick. It would be a safe place, she’d said, for their children to play.

She’d become passionate about making an old-fashioned English garden, crammed with native plants that would attract butterflies and birds. In his mind’s eye he could see her now, ignoring the rain as she set about her roses with the secateurs, catch glimpses of her with her straw hat jammed on her head to protect her fair skin from the sun as she tied the young branches of the peach tree back against the far wall to enhance the kitchen garden.

Walking amongst the fruit trees of the small orchard she’d planted.

There was no escape from the pain in darkness and he opened his eyes. And still he saw her, pulling down the brambles as if admonishing his neglect…

‘Sara…’

His mouth moved but no sound emerged, only the thudding of his heart swelling and pounding in his throat. Then he was wrenching at the door, desperate to get to her. It refused to budge and it took a moment for him to realise that it was locked, that the keys were on the kitchen table where he’d thrown them. Out of reach. Because he dared not move, dared not turn away for a second. If he took his eyes off her she’d disappear…

Instead he hammered desperately at the glass with his bunched fists, wanting her to turn around and look at him.

If she looked, if she saw him too, everything would be all right…

‘Sara!’

‘Dom, are you OK?’

Momentarily distracted, he blinked, half turned…and when he looked back she’d gone.

‘Dom?’

At first it had happened all the time. Everywhere he’d looked he’d thought he saw her. A glimpse of long, sun-streaked blonde hair in a crowd, a ripple of laughter in a restaurant, a flash of her favourite colour had been enough to stop his heart. It had been a long time since the experience had been so vivid, so real…

Since it had left him feeling quite so bleak. Quite so alone.

‘I’m fine, Greg,’ he said abruptly, turning away from the window and realising that he was the object of very real concern. It was an expression he’d come to know well in the months after Sara’s death. One of the reasons he’d gone away, choosing to keep on the move, live and work amongst strangers who didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t know what had happened. People who didn’t have to hunt for words because they didn’t know what to say. People who, after their initial friendly overtures were rejected, backed off and kept their distance. ‘I’m fine.’

‘There’s no need to put yourself through this, you know,’ Greg said, putting down the box of groceries he’d fetched from the car. ‘You could leave everything to me. Just tell me what you want to keep and I’ll get it packed up, put in store for you until you…well, until you need it.’ Then, more brightly, ‘It won’t take long to sell the house. You could sell a garden shed in Upper Haughton. It was an astute investment…’

‘I didn’t buy it as an investment. I bought it because—’

‘I know,’ he cut in quickly. ‘I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. He knew Greg was just talking to fill the silence.

‘Look, why don’t you just come and stay with us until it’s sorted?’

‘No.’ Then, perceiving that he had been abrupt, knowing that Greg deserved better, he said, ‘Thank you, but there are things I need to go through. I should have done it a long time ago.’ He turned back to the window, hoping against hope that she’d be there again, but the garden was empty.

‘Right.’ There was a pause, then, following his glance out of the window, ‘Do you need some help to sort through…things? It doesn’t have to be anyone you know. I could ask the agency who supplies us with staff if they have someone. It might be easier with someone who isn’t emotionally, well, you know…’

He knew, but he didn’t want help. He didn’t want anyone. He just wanted Greg to stop looking at him as if he was losing it and instead go away and leave him alone. But the man wasn’t just his lawyer, he was the friend who’d stood at his side as he promised to be faithful to Sara until death parted them. Meaningless words. They were young. In love. They were going to live forever…

‘Thank you, Greg,’ he said, taking pity on him, knowing that he just wanted to help but didn’t know how, impotent in the face of such unimaginable grief. ‘Can I let you know?’

‘Of course.’ Then, ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right here?’ he said, looking around. ‘If you’d given me a bit of warning, I could have got someone in to give the place a thorough going over. Your once-a-month people haven’t been doing more than the minimum by the looks of things.’

‘That’s all I paid them to do.’ The minimum. He’d told them not to disturb anything. ‘I’ve got water and power. A cellphone. It’s all I need.’

‘What about some transport?’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Right,’ he said after a long pause, during which he’d clearly debated whether it would be safe to leave him. ‘I’ll be off, then.’ Receiving no encouragement to stay, he continued, ‘If you’re sure? That box of groceries is pretty basic.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve managed to keep body and soul together for six years. I’m not about to starve myself to death.’

Greg looked as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it. He didn’t need to say anything. Dom had seen the shocked look he hadn’t been quite swift enough to hide when he’d picked him up at the airport.

He turned back to look once more at the garden and his heart lifted a beat. She was there again, her hat shading her face as she looked around as if seeking something she’d lost. Tall, slender in a pair of baggy denim jeans, a faded turquoise T-shirt. It had always been her favourite colour.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Greg said from the door. ‘We’ll talk about some help.’

‘No rush,’ he said absently, willing her to look up—look at him. Then he was distracted by another movement as a little girl leapt up out of the grass, holding up a loop of flowers. A daisy chain of some kind. Sara put it on the child’s head so that she looked like a little princess.

He was sure she was laughing. If only he could see her face.

‘No rush…’ he said again as the door clicked shut. Hands pressed against the glass, he watched as, having bent to kiss the child, she reached into her back pocket, took out a pair of secateurs and reached down to cut through the thick stem of the brambles. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

Then he saw that she wasn’t wearing gloves.

He’d bought her a pair, but she always tore them off, impatient with her clumsiness in the thick, thorn-proof protection.

As he watched, a bramble whipped back and caught her hand.

‘No…’

She eased it carefully from her skin, then put her thumb to her mouth, sucked it, and, like a recurring nightmare, history began to repeat itself…

‘Sara…’

But her name choked in his throat and he slid down the glass as the image shimmered, then shattered as he slammed his lids shut.



‘Heavens, Kay, you’ve done well.’ Amy Hallam placed a bowl with a few blackberries in it on the kitchen table. ‘I thought I’d help out, but there really isn’t much fruit in our paddock. The goat nibbles any bramble shoots the minute they appear.’

‘Goats eat anything the minute it appears above ground.’ Kay rinsed the fruit and added it to the pan simmering on the stove. ‘But thanks for the thought. I’m afraid I had to do something rather bad to ensure that the blackberry and apple pies weren’t just apple this year.’

‘Bad? You? How unexpected.’ She grinned. ‘How promising.’

‘Stop it. I’m serious. I raided the garden at Linden Lodge. Egged on, I have to tell you, by your god-daughter.’

‘What’s bad about that? It would have been a crime to let them go to waste. Polly’s a bright child and I’ve done my godmotherly duty in teaching her to use her initiative.’

‘The resident blackbird didn’t take your relaxed view—’

‘Let him eat worms.’

‘—and I broke the latch on the gate when I pushed it open.’

‘Scrumping and vandalism in one fell swoop,’ Amy said with a grin. ‘You’re a one-woman crime wave, Kay Lovell. The neighbourhood-watch coordinator will have to be informed. Oh, wait. You are the neighbourhood-watch coordinator—’

‘Oh, stop it,’ Kay said, unable to suppress her answering grin. Then, picking up the kettle, ‘Coffee?’

‘Please. Do you want me to send someone over to fix the gate?’

‘No, I can handle it. The bit that the bolt slides into had rusted away, that’s all. I’m sure I’ve got one in the shed.’

‘What’s it like in there?’

‘The shed? Do you want to do a landlady’s inspection now? I really should have some notice so that I can tidy up a bit…’

‘Linden Lodge.’

Yes, well, she knew that was what Amy meant. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it though.

‘It’s so mysterious behind those high walls,’ Amy prompted.

‘No, just overgrown,’ Kay said. ‘Polly sat down to make a Michaelmas-daisy chain while I cut back the brambles and she completely disappeared. Just for a minute I thought…’ She let it go. She didn’t want to remember how she’d felt in those few horrible seconds when Polly had failed to respond to her call. When all she could see was the open gate and a million hideous possibilities had rushed into her head…

‘You cut back the brambles?’ Amy asked, distracting her.

‘What? Oh, well, yes. They were strangling an espaliered peach. Poor thing.’ She concentrated on spooning coffee into the cafetière. ‘Don’t snigger, Amy.’

‘Me? Snigger? Perish the thought.’

‘Well, don’t smile, then. I know it was pathetic of me. I just can’t bear to see anything suffering.’ She stopped, turned away to take down a couple of mugs. She knew she didn’t have to explain. Amy never needed explanations. She just seemed to know. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’ll drop a note through the letterbox tomorrow when I go and fix the gate. Just to explain.’

‘About cutting back the brambles to save the peach tree?’

‘About nicking the blackberries. For a good cause.’

‘There’s no one at home to care and ghosts don’t need explanations, Kay.’

Startled, she turned to look at her visitor. ‘Ghosts?’

‘You didn’t feel it? The garden always feels haunted to me whenever I walk past.’

‘No. It wasn’t creepy, just…sad.’

‘Maybe that’s what I meant.’

Kay didn’t think so. She hadn’t felt any ghosts there, but Amy was well known locally for her slightly fey qualities, her ability to feel more than most people could see.

‘A For Sale board went up on Friday. Did you know?’ she said, determined to change the subject. She hadn’t felt anything beyond sadness, yet even now her skin was goosing. And she had to go back there to fix the gate.

‘I heard it was on the market. Such a pity.’

‘Did you know the people who lived there?’

‘The Ravenscars? Not well. We’d met at village events, of course—the fête, a fundraiser for the hall, that sort of thing—but I was busy with the children. I had Mark that year and I was still establishing the business. They were younger, hadn’t been married more than a year or two and were still more interested in each other than anyone else. They came to the harvest supper, though. I remember Sara Ravenscar was thrilled at the way the whole village comes together for that. She’d have approved of you having the blackberries.’ Then, ‘Her death was such a tragedy.’

‘I heard she died from tetanus poisoning. Is that true?’

‘Well there were complications, but can you believe it in this day and age! Apparently her parents didn’t believe in any kind of vaccination and, like most enthusiastic gardeners, she couldn’t keep a pair of gloves on.’ Then, ‘After she died Dominic went overseas. I heard he was working on some kind of aid programme.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t sell the house, or let it. Rather than let it stand empty. Whoever buys it will need to put in a lot of work and not just in the garden. The paintwork is in a very poor state.’

‘Maybe he couldn’t bear to let it go so soon. Then I suppose coming back seemed even worse so he shut it out. Now he’s like a needle stuck in an old gramophone record, unable to move on.’

Kay gave a little shiver, as if a goose had walked over her grave. ‘Well, he’s put it on the market now. That’s movement of a sort.’

‘Maybe. I hope so.’

‘Yes, well, I’ll take the wheelbarrow and clear up the stuff I chopped down when I fix the gate. Maybe I should approach the agents and see if they want the garden properly tidied up. I’ve rather let my own business slide while Polly has been off school for the summer.’

Amy looked as if she was about to say something, but when she hesitated and Kay raised her brows she just said, ‘Bearing in mind what happened to Sara Ravenscar, make sure you wear gloves. Have you put something on those scratches?’

‘Tea-tree oil.’ She glanced at her hand where the sharp thorns had caught her when one of the brambles had whipped back suddenly. ‘The minute I got home. And my shots are up-to-date.’

‘Good.’ Then, as a pyjama-clad Polly hurtled into the room, Amy turned to scoop her up into her arms. ‘Hey, sweetheart! Just the girl I wanted to see. Can your mummy spare you tomorrow?’

Polly, who knew when a treat was being offered, still hesitated. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘All day. We’re taking the boys to the sea and Mark really, really wants you to come too.’

Her eyes went round. ‘Oh, wicked!’ Then, ‘But I’ve promised to help Mummy make the pies…’

‘I think I can manage,’ Kay assured her, trying hard to ignore the stab of annoyance that Amy had left her with no real choice. ‘If Amy can,’ she added. ‘Are you quite sure you can cope?’

‘Absolutely. Four children works better than three. Jake can do adventurous things with George and James and I get to have fun rootling around the rock pools with the little ones.’

And the unspoken message that she needed to let Polly go sometimes, that being quite so protective was not good for either of them, came across loud and clear.

‘Well, in that case, how can I resist? I hope you all have a lovely day.’

‘Did you see how many blackberries we picked, Amy?’ Polly demanded, snapping the tension that stretched between them. ‘And I made a purple daisy chain, too.’

‘Purple? You’re kidding me!’

‘No, honestly! Come and see…’ She wriggled free and, grabbing Amy’s hand, tugged her towards the stairs.

‘I’ll be right back.’

‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Kay responded, flipping the off switch on the kettle. ‘Just don’t let her sandbag you into telling her another story. You’ve got children of your own to put to bed.’

‘Yes, but they’re all boys. They don’t do fairies. Or daisy chains. Besides, Jake’s on bathroom-and-story duty tonight and I have no intention of returning until he’s mopped up the mess.’



Dom forced himself to heat up a can of soup, eat some bread. Tasting nothing, but going through the motions of living as he had done every day for the last six years. Yet for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was aware of his heart beating.

Afterwards he walked through the house, touching the things that lay undisturbed on Sara’s dressing table, coated with the thin layer of dust that had settled since the cleaners’ last visit. Opening the cupboards where her clothes still hung, lifting the soft material of a dress he remembered her wearing, rubbing it against his cheek.

Her scent lingered and he breathed it in.

How stupid he’d been. She was here. All the time he’d been running, Sara had been here, waiting for him.

Downstairs he unlocked the French windows and opened them wide. He didn’t venture beyond the paved area where they’d sat together on sunny evenings with a glass of wine, half-afraid he’d disturb her presence as she lingered in the garden. Half hoping that she’d walk out of the gathering dusk to join him.

But the garden remained still and silent. Even this late in the summer the heat clung to the walls, filling the air with the scent of late roses, and for a while he sat there, every cell focused on the wilderness that had once been a garden, hoping for one more glimpse of her before it grew too dark to see.

Then the sound of childish laughter floated towards him and instead of cutting him to the quick as it usually did, a poignant reminder of everything he’d lost, he found himself leaning towards it, straining to hear more. Holding his breath. Not moving while the sky darkened to the deepest blue and the first stars began to appear.

He didn’t move until it was quite dark and nothing was visible within the deep shadows of the walled garden.




CHAPTER TWO


“There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

KAY DIDN’T waste any time. The minute she’d waved Polly goodbye, she loaded up her wheelbarrow with the tools she’d need and headed for Linden Lodge. She’d behaved embarrassingly out of character yesterday and she wanted this over and done with.

She did her bit for the community, helped in the village school, worked hard to support herself and Polly, and she kept her head down. She never stepped out of line, never did anything to attract attention to herself, cause talk. There’d been enough of that to last a lifetime when Amy had first taken them under her wing, then let them move into the cottage.

She couldn’t think what had possessed her.

She stopped, parked the barrow.

She was lying to herself. She knew exactly what had possessed her.

The mystery of a garden locked away from view. That was what had possessed her. A chance to see more than the tantalising glimpses of it she could see from her upstairs windows. She’d wanted to see more. She’d always wanted to see more.

Polly wouldn’t have talked her into trespassing unless she’d been a willing accomplice.

As she pushed back the gate, the mingled scents of crushed grass, germander, valerian gone to seed everywhere, welcomed her. The blackbird, perched in an old apple tree, paused momentarily in his song and then continued. And she felt…accepted.

What utter nonsense.

She set about the grass and weeds behind the gate, making short work of them with her shears, so that she could open it wide enough to manoeuvre her big wheelbarrow inside.

Then, since securing the gate was more important than tidying up some mess no one was likely to see in the very near future—and she was the neighbourhood-watch coordinator—the first thing she did was to replace the bolt. She oiled the hinges, too. It was the neighbourly thing to do and little enough thanks for all the blackberries.

As if anyone would notice. The buyers—and there would be buyers; no one was going to be put off by tired paintwork, a neglected garden…it was rare for a house in Upper Haughton to come on to the market—wouldn’t give a hoot. They’d probably rip it out and replace it with a fancy new one. Which was a shame. The old one, despite the cracked and peeling paint—where paint still remained—had character.

They would probably grub out the high-maintenance cottage garden, too, and replace it with something modern that wouldn’t involve a constant battle with slugs, blackspot on the roses, the rust that attacked the old-fashioned hollyhocks if they weren’t constantly watched. They’d certainly tear down the crumbling summer house.

Maybe they’d put in a swimming pool.

She tossed the oil can into the barrow and looked around. It was still early, quiet as only a village that didn’t lead to anywhere else, tucked away from the main road, could be on a Sunday morning.

Tattered dew-laced spider webs sparkled in the low, slanting sunlight, slender crimson berries of the Berberis thunbergii glistened like droplets of blood against purple leaves that were fading to autumn crimson, and in the little orchard ripe apples were poised in that moment of perfection before they fell to the grass to be plundered by birds and hedgehogs and wasps before the insects and micro-organisms got to work and they rotted away to nothing. The food chain in action.

She walked the overgrown paths, sighing over the horticultural treasures that were struggling to survive against the more robust species. The temptation was to linger, set them free. But what would be the point? Without continuous care nature would rampage into the vacuum she created with renewed vigour. She’d do more harm than good.

She hadn’t needed Amy Hallam’s raised eyebrows to know that wasting her time cutting back the brambles had been plain stupid. In the spring they’d be back, stronger than ever, and in the meantime she was having to pay for her ridiculous gesture with time and effort that would have been better spent on her own garden.

She certainly didn’t have time to waste daydreaming about how this one would look if it was rescued from neglect, she reminded herself, and pulled on thick leather gloves before she set to work chopping up the brambles so that they’d fit into her barrow.

And did her very best to ignore the delicate branches of a witch hazel that was being strangled by bindweed.



Dom started awake and for a moment he had no idea where he was. Knew only that he was cold and stiff from a night spent in an armchair. That at least was a familiar experience.

He rubbed his hands over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair, eased his limbs as he willed himself to face another day. Then, as he sat forward, he saw the garden, sparkling as the sunlight caught the dew.

For a moment it looked like a magical place.

And then, as he caught a glimpse of Sara at work near the summer house, he knew it was. No longer feeling the ache in his limbs, or in his heart, he stood up and walked down the shallow steps into the garden, oblivious to the wet grass soaking his feet.

All that he cared about was that his beloved Sara was here, working in her garden, kneeling in front of a small shrub, gently releasing it from the stranglehold of some weed. And he was going to help her.



Engrossed in her task, taking care not to snap the slender branches of the shrub as she unravelled the bindweed, Kay had scarcely any warning that she wasn’t alone.

Only the rustle of grass that she assumed was a bird, or one of the squirrels which, having already come to give her the once-over and decided she was harmless, had continued their own busy harvest of the hazel copse on the far side of the wall.

Nothing more.

Scarcely a moment to register the presence beside her, a heartbeat for fear to seize her before he was on his knees beside her.

‘Sara…’

His voice shivered through her, held her.

Sara?

The word was spoken soft and low, as if to a nervous colt that might shy away, bolt at the least excuse.

Maybe she had started because, more urgently, he said, ‘Don’t go…’

Soft, low, it was a heartbreaking appeal and she needed no introduction to know that this gaunt, hollow-eyed man was Dominic Ravenscar. Needed none of Amy’s famed insight to make the leap from his low plea to an understanding that, with her back to the sun, her face shadowed by the broad brim of her hat, he thought she was his poor dead wife come back to him.

Needed no feminine intuition to know that whatever she did was going to be wrong. Was going to hurt him. Even as she struggled to find the words, he said, ‘I won’t leave you again. Ever.’

She remained frozen in the act of slicing through the bindweed, unable to think, unable to move.

There were no words.

While she knelt there, trying to decide what to do, he reached out and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, began to unravel the bindweed she’d cut through. As his hand brushed against hers a jolt, like the discharge of static electricity, shot through her and she dropped the pocket knife.

As if afraid that she would disappear, he caught her hand, held it for a moment. His fingers were long and wrapped around her own hand with ease. His hand and wrist were deeply tanned, strong, attenuated like those of a fasting saint in some medieval painting.

He traced the scratch on the back of her hand where the bramble had caught her with his thumb.

‘You aren’t wearing gloves,’ he said. ‘How many times have I told you that you should wear gloves?’

‘No… Yes…’ She mouthed the words, but her voice, thick with the choking rush of emotional overload, didn’t make it past her throat.

Maybe he heard her anyway, or maybe he just read her lips. Maybe he thought she was making him a promise instead of desperately searching for the words to tell him, make him see that she was someone else, because he reached out with his other hand, cupping her face in his long palm. And while she remained locked between the need to run and the certainty that she must stay and convince him of the reality of the situation, he leaned forward and kissed her.

It had been a lifetime since she’d been kissed and never with this sweetness, this gentleness. As if she was something precious but fragile that might shatter to dust if he was careless.

Her body, starved of tenderness, starved of the touch of a man, responded like a primrose to the sun after a long, hard winter, and, overriding her brain, she returned the kiss with every scrap of longing, all the need engendered by years of emptiness.

The kiss deepened as his confidence grew that she would not vanish at his touch.

Her hat fell to the grass as his fingers slid through her hair and he cradled her head as it fell back beneath the sweet invasion of his mouth.

The stubble on his unshaven jaw rasped against her face. His hand curved about her waist, drawing her into a closer embrace, crushing her against him as if he would make them one. In the tree above them, the blackbird pinked an urgent warning. And she felt his hot tears against her cheek. Or maybe they were her own.

The kiss had a dream-like quality, the perfection of fantasy, and it seemed that a lifetime had passed before his hold on her eased and he straightened. While her breathing returned to something approaching normality.

An age while he looked down into her face, confronted reality, and his expression of perfect joy turned first to confusion, then to pain as he realised his mistake.

Forever, while the light died in his eyes and they became dark, bottomless, unreadable.

She felt an answering hollowness in her own breast. To have shared such perfect intimacy, to have been gazed at with such devotion and then to have it snatched away…

Oh, good grief. What was she thinking?

‘Mr Ravenscar?’ She heard the shake in her own voice, but what did her petty feelings matter compared to what he must be going through? ‘Dominic, are you all right?’ She was too concerned about him to worry about her own feelings and it really was far too late to bother about the formalities of introduction.

‘Who are you?’ The urgency of her query had apparently got through to him, and when she didn’t immediately answer, ‘Who the hell are you?’ he angrily repeated, rising to his feet, stepping back and putting a yard of distance between them. It felt like a mile. A cold, unbreachable distance. ‘What are you doing here?’

Well, what did she expect? “Thanks for the kiss, ma’am. It was a real pleasure…”

‘I’m Kay Lovell.’

She forced herself to her feet, forced herself to act normally, as if nothing awkward or embarrassing had happened. The kiss had been neither. It was the aftermath that was difficult. Reality, as she’d long ago discovered, was always a lot harder to deal with than fantasy.

She forced herself to brace her knees so that her shaking legs wouldn’t collapse beneath her. Maybe kissing was like drinking, she thought. If you didn’t do it for a while the effects were amplified…

On the point of offering her hand, she managed to stop herself. It was a little late to be shaking hands. Instead she tried to concentrate on an explanation of what she was doing in his garden. ‘I’m just…’ No. It was no good. Any attempt to explain what she was doing, explain anything, was, for the moment, totally beyond her. And he didn’t want to know what she was doing. He just wanted to know why she wasn’t his wife. There was no explanation that would satisfy him. No answer that would help. ‘I’m just a neighbour,’ she said.

He took another step back as if, with every moment that passed, the enormity of his mistake increased. Then he looked beyond her to the peach trees, the newly cut brambles.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Yesterday?’

He’d been here then? He’d seen her? She saw all hope die in his eyes and knew he had. Knew what he’d thought. ‘Yes, I was here,’ she said, guilt washing over her at the damage she’d done. At the forlorn hopes she’d unwittingly raised and then dashed.

‘And the child? The little girl?’

She frowned. If he’d seen Polly then surely he must have realised that she couldn’t be Sara?

‘Who is she?’ he persisted.

‘My daughter. Polly. We were picking blackberries to make pies for the harvest supper. She’s gone out with friends today. To the sea. The Hallams? I think you know them. Their youngest boy is just a few months older and they’re best…’ She stopped. She was talking far too much. ‘I’m so sorry—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he snapped, cutting off her apology.

‘If I’d known you were home I’d have—’

‘You’d have knocked and asked permission?’ he enquired, with cutting sarcasm. ‘Why did you come back? To make sure you hadn’t missed any? Or was there something else you’d taken a fancy to?’

He glanced at the shrub, then at her, raised one brow about half a millimetre—more than enough to imply everything that he was thinking—and she felt the blood rush to her face.

‘No! I was just…’ She let it go. If he really thought she’d come to steal a shrub that size armed with nothing more than a pocket knife and a screwdriver, there wasn’t a thing she could say that would convince him otherwise. ‘The lock on the gate was rusted through. I came back to fit a new one. It should hold now. And I—’

‘Will it keep you out?’ His voice was no longer soft, but hard and cold as ice, perfectly matching the chilling lack of emotion, lack of anything, in his eyes.

‘It will if you bolt it behind me,’ she managed, with measured politeness, despite the fact that her heart was still pounding like a jackhammer. ‘In fact you’d be doing me a favour. I thought I’d have to bolt it from the inside and then climb over and it’s rather a long drop.’ She made a stab at a smile. He didn’t respond. Well, fine. She was in the wrong here, she reminded herself. He had every right to be angry. She gestured vaguely towards the wheelbarrow filled with the thorny trimmings that were destined for her bonfire. ‘I’d better go. I’ve done everything I came for.’

He glanced across at her barrow as if to reassure himself that she wasn’t making off with a haul of valuable plants. Frowned when he saw the contents.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Fix the gate?’

‘Cut back the brambles. Why did you do that?’

‘They were growing over the peach tree. It was suffering…’ Then, because he didn’t say anything, it occurred to her that she’d never have a better chance to put her case for some work. The very worst he could do was throw her out and he was pretty much doing that anyway. ‘I’m a gardener. I was going to contact the house agents tomorrow to see if they were interested in giving me some work. To tidy up in here. Now it’s on the market.’

‘Don’t bother,’ he said abruptly. ‘I like it just the way it is.’

Suffocating. Like him, from the heart outwards.

‘You’re probably right,’ she said, bending down to pick up her hat. ‘Better let the new owners clear it out. Start again.’

‘Maybe they’ll employ you.’

‘I doubt that. It’ll take months to put this straight. I expect they’ll get in a contractor. Someone who can provide instant results with an earthmover. They’ll just dump all this in a skip and bring in fully grown plants like they do in those television makeover programmes.’

If she’d hoped to drive the chill from his eyes with hot anger, wake him from the coma of grief, she realised immediately that she was reaching a long way beyond her grasp. He was far beyond such pathetic pseudo-psychological tricks.

All she got was a blank expression.

Of course, he’d been working abroad for a long time. He’d probably never seen one of those programmes where a garden was transformed from backyard tip to easy-care Mediterranean landscape—with water feature—in a weekend. For a man who’d been working on aid programmes, the very idea of such a frivolous waste of resources would probably be anathema.

‘Well, I’ll go, then. If you need anything, I live at Old Cottage,’ she said. ‘Just down the lane.’

‘What could I possibly need?’ Between them hung the unspoken corollary “…from you?”

Nothing was clearly the answer. He was wrong. She could offer human contact. Be there for him, as Amy had been there when she had been lost in depths of despair, guilt. Day after day. Week after week. Gently persistent. Unwavering in the face of rejection. Refusing to be pushed away.

‘One day someone will need you, Kay,’ she’d said when she’d bemoaned her inability to repay such patient, unasked-for, unrewarded care. ‘Just pass on the love and don’t count the cost. That’s all any of us can do.’

She had a sudden, terrible premonition that this was her moment. And she wasn’t ready. Hadn’t a clue what to do.

‘I could offer you a cup of tea,’ she prompted. Oh, good grief. How English. How predictable. ‘Breakfast?’ she persisted. ‘The eggs are organic. I keep a few hens…’

He didn’t reply. Not by one twitch of his facial muscles did he indicate that he’d heard.

For heaven’s sake, politeness cost nothing.

‘How about a towel to dry your feet?’ she tried, but a little waspishly, rapidly losing any desire to pass on anything, let alone care.

He glanced down and frowned as if only then aware that he was wading through damp grass in his bare feet. That his trousers were soaked through to the knees. Then he turned, without a word, and walked back towards the house.

Kay watched him walk away from her. Stiff-backed, rigid with anger and pride and misery. Probably hating himself for having mistaken another woman for his beloved Sara. Hating himself for having kissed another woman.

Yes, well. She knew her limitations. She wasn’t wise enough, clever enough for this. Amy should be here. She’d know what to do. Exactly the right words to say.

The one thing she wouldn’t do was walk away and leave him like this.

But Amy wasn’t here. She was on her way to the coast with Jake and a car-load of children, so it was down to her and, while common sense suggested that it would be wiser to do as he’d asked and leave, simple humanity demanded a braver, a more compassionate response.

‘Oh…chickweed!’ she muttered. And followed him.

She paused on the threshold of the drawing room. Despite the delicate floral wallpaper, the pale blue silk curtains, the atmosphere was oppressive, musty. Like the garden, it felt abandoned. Out there she itched to tear out the weeds, let in the light so the plants could grow, reach their full potential. Inside, she yearned to rush through the rooms, opening the windows to let in the sun, let in the air so that the house could take a deep breath.

She restrained herself. She’d already done enough damage.

There was no sign of Dominic Ravenscar other than an armchair from which the dust sheet had been pulled and left on the floor where it had fallen, suggesting that he’d slept there in front of the open French window. Hoping for another glimpse of his ‘Sara’.

That, and wet footprints in the dust leaving a trail across the wide oak floorboards. Guilt more than any mission to do good drove her to follow them across the drawing room and into the hall to where they became dusty marks against the stair carpet.

From the floor above came the sound of running water as he took a shower. She found she’d been holding her breath, anticipating disaster, but that at least had the ring of normality about it. She found the kitchen, washed the green plant stains from her hands under the running tap, then filled the kettle and switched it on.

There was a small box of groceries standing on the table containing tea bags, a small loaf, from which a couple of slices had already been taken, and a carton of long-life milk. She put some bread into the toaster and then hunted through the cupboards until she found a plate and a mug.

Everything was covered in a film of dust and, while she ran hot water into the bowl, she looked for some washing-up liquid. There was a bottle, half empty, in a cupboard beneath the draining board. The manufacturer had changed the packaging several years ago and she had the unsettling feeling that Sara Ravenscar had been the last person to touch it.

Pushing aside the thought as ridiculously melodramatic, she swooshed some into the water and began to rinse the dishes.



What had he done? What on earth had he been thinking? Imagining that Sara was waiting for him in the garden. Talking to her. That woman must have thought he was mad when he’d kissed her.

Maybe he was.

Except it was clear that she’d known who he was, had known exactly what he’d been thinking. Was that why she’d let him embrace her? Hadn’t yelled blue murder when he’d kissed her?

Not only had she not struggled, screamed, slapped him, but she’d kissed him back, and for a moment, just a moment, he’d believed that he’d woken up from an endless nightmare. With the soft warmth of a woman’s mouth against his, hot life had raced through his veins and he’d felt like a man again.

‘Fool!’ He smashed his fist against the tiled wall. ‘Idiot!’ Would he never learn?

There was no hope, only despair that he’d mistaken a stranger for the woman he’d loved. Still loved. Beyond the superficial similarity of colouring, height, they were nothing alike. He’d allowed his mind to trick him. This woman, Kay Lovell,—‘Kay Lovell’—he said the name out loud to reinforce the message—was, if anything a little taller, nowhere near as thin. Her eyes were grey rather than blue. Her hair hadn’t had the heavy swing, the bright polish…

And she’d let him kiss her out of pity.

He grabbed for the soap, used it to wash his hair, rid himself of the fresh-air smell of her. Brushed his teeth to rid himself of the taste of her mouth on his.

There was no simple remedy for the pounding in his veins. The shocking response of his body to a total stranger.

That was a betrayal he was going to have to live with.

And he grabbed a towel, wrapped it about his waist. Then, since he’d only brought up his overnight bag, he went downstairs to fetch the rest of his luggage.



Kay made tea in the mug, then began buttering the toast. When she looked up, Dominic Ravenscar was standing in the doorway, watching her, his expression blank, unreadable. As if he’d had years of practising keeping his thoughts, his feelings, to himself.

He’d showered. His dark hair was damp and tousled where he hadn’t bothered to comb it—well, he hadn’t been expecting company—and he was naked but for a towel wrapped about his waist. There was little of him she couldn’t see and it was plain that this was a man who’d lost every bit of softness from his body as well as his heart.

‘You’re still here.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your eyesight,’ she agreed. As the words left her lips she groaned inwardly. Even twenty-twenty vision could be fooled by the heart.

‘Did Greg send you?’ he demanded.

‘Greg?’ She sucked the butter from her thumb, a distraction from the spare, sinewy shoulders, ribs that she’d be able to count with her fingers if she walked them down his chest. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

‘Did he ask you to keep an eye on me?’

‘No one sent me.’

‘You’re just an all-round busybody and do-gooder, is that it?’

What did she expect? Gratitude?

Had she been grateful when Amy had found her, taken her home, found ways to get her to eat—even if it was only chocolate; ways to get Polly into her arms and her to start living again?

No.

She’d just wanted to be left alone. She’d just wanted to die. She thought perhaps they had more in common than he’d ever know. He just wanted her to go, forget he’d ever set eyes on her, forget that he’d kissed her. No doubt he thought that being rude was not only the quickest way to get rid of her, but the most likely way to ensure that she’d stay out of his hair.

She’d tried that approach, too. In fact his response brought her own hateful ingratitude shamefully to mind. She’d been rude, too. Vilely rude. It hadn’t worked. Amy had seen through the anger to the pain and stuck with it.

She dunked the tea bag, added milk to the mug and offered it to him. ‘You haven’t got any sugar, so I assume you don’t take it. You haven’t got any marmalade for the toast, either.’

‘I haven’t got much of anything except you,’ he said, ignoring the mug. ‘You, I have altogether too much of.’

‘That’s how it is with us do-gooders,’ she said, putting the tea down on the table where he could reach it. ‘I’ll bring you a pot of mine. It’s very good. It won best-in-show at the summer fête.’

‘Congratulations, but don’t put yourself out. I don’t like marmalade.’

‘Strawberry jam?’ she offered. It was as if her mouth had a mind of its own. ‘I used organic, home-grown strawberries. It won best in its class.’ She snapped her mouth shut.

‘What do you want?’ he persisted.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘Good, because that’s what you’ve got.’ And he picked up the tea and tipped it down the sink.

She swallowed, stunned at how much that had hurt. But then it was meant to. She knew all the moves.

‘You prefer coffee?’ She didn’t make the mistake of offering to make him some, but said, ‘I’ll remember that for next time. In the meantime, if you need anything you know where to find me.’ And without waiting for him to respond, to tell her to get lost, stay away, she walked back out into the garden.

Back to the witch hazel she’d been rescuing when he’d kissed her.

Her head told her to keep going, but she refused to leave a job half done and she knelt down to finish her rescue mission. Only when she attempted to unravel the tightly coiled stem of the bindweed did she discover that her hands were shaking so much that she was forced to tuck them beneath her arms to hold them still.



Dom picked up the toast and, tight-lipped, he tossed it in the bin. Then he picked up his bags and carried them upstairs to the bedroom he’d shared for one sweet, perfect year with Sara.

Last night the only scent he’d been aware of was the lingering ghost of her perfume clinging to her clothes.

He dropped his suitcase and strained to find it again, to cling to that last lingering essence of the woman he loved.

But it evaded him. Today, the only smell was that of a house locked up and unlived-in for too long. And he opened a window.




CHAPTER THREE


“Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.”

Gerard Manley Hopkins

DOM LINGERED at the window to breathe in the fresh, green scent of the garden, of newly turned earth, and looked beyond the walls to where the picture-perfect village was laid out before him.

Nothing had changed.

Not the carefully mown section of the village green where cricket was played every weekend in the summer before the teams retired to the pub to continue their rivalries on the dart board. Not the rougher grassland of the common, where willows dipped over the stream-fed pond that teemed with tadpoles in the spring, moorhens nested and a donkey was, even now, cropping grass on the end of a long tether.

It could even be the same donkey.

It was exactly the right place to bring up a family, Sara had said, utterly charmed from the moment they’d set eyes on the place. It was so safe.

But nothing was that perfect and every Eden had its serpent. Hidden, insidious dangers. He looked down into the wreck of the garden. It had taken everything from him. To look at its beauty had been an agony and he’d run from it. But Sara had loved it and to see it like this, neglected, overgrown, was somehow worse.

A movement on the green caught his attention and he looked away, grateful for the distraction. At least he was until he realised that it was Kay Lovell heading for the village-shop-cum-post-office-cum-everything, to fetch a pint of milk, or the Sunday newspaper.

The warmth of her smile reached his window as she stopped to speak to someone, exchange the time of day. No prizes for guessing the subject of their conversation. The news that the house was on the market would be the hot subject of gossip this morning. By tomorrow, he had no doubt, everyone in the village would know that he was back, courtesy of his blackberry-raiding neighbour. Back home and losing his mind.

He watched her continue on her errand, long-limbed and lithe, striding across the green, and wondered again how he could ever have mistaken her for Sara. They were not in the least bit alike.

It had been just a trick of the imagination, tiredness perhaps, that had fooled him. Or maybe just that she was there, in Sara’s place, doing the things that she would have been doing…

He wrenched his gaze away from her and looked back at the garden. From above, he could clearly see the peach tree freed from its bramble prison, the fresh, clear patch of earth around the shrub where she’d been weeding, and, furious with himself—with her—he clattered down the stairs, raced down the garden, sliding the bolt into place on the gate before turning and leaning with his back to it, eyes closed, while he regained his breath. He didn’t want her, or any more sightseers, invading the privacy of the garden. It wasn’t fit to be seen. And with a roar of anguish he grabbed the agent’s For Sale sign and wrenched the post out of the ground.



Kay dropped her newspaper on the dresser. With a rare morning to herself, she’d planned a lazy hour with her feet up with the colour supplement and the gardening pages, but now she was home she was all of a twitch and there was no way she could sit still.

Never mind. She’d work off her nervous energy doing something practical. She had pastry to make, harvest pies to fill and freeze, and there was no time like the present.

Forget Dominic Ravenscar, she told herself as she washed her hands and got out the scales. Forget the way he’d kissed her. It wasn’t her he’d been kissing, she reminded herself as she shovelled flour from the bin onto the scales with hands that weren’t altogether steady.

He’d thought she was his wife. A ghost, for pity’s sake.

And she’d been tempted to play amateur psychologist? She should be grateful that he’d made it absolutely clear that he never wanted to set eyes on her again.

She took a deep, steadying breath, then dumped another scoop into the scales.

What the devil did she think she could do in ten minutes with a cup of tea and a slice of toast, anyway? She wasn’t Amy Hallam with her gift for seeing through to the heart of the matter. For making you see it too.

She stared blankly at the pile of flour and tried to recall what she was doing.

Pastry.

She was making pastry.

Right.

‘He couldn’t have made it plainer that he didn’t want me anywhere near him or his garden,’ she said. Asleep on top of the boiler, Mog wasn’t taking any notice, but talking to the cat had to be better than talking to herself. Marginally.

‘He didn’t actually tell me what I could do with my “tea and sympathy”,’ she continued, despite the lack of feline encouragement. ‘Not in so many words. But then why would he bother, when his actions spoke for him? Loud and clear.’

The cat opened one eye, sighed and closed it again.

‘OK, so you had to be there.’

And what exactly was she complaining about, anyway? So he’d poured away the tea she’d made him. That was rude by anyone’s standards, but, to be fair, he hadn’t asked her to make it. Hadn’t asked for her concern, either. She’d foisted herself on him and he’d made no bones about unfoisting her in double-quick time.

She should be relieved. She’d got momentarily carried away with noble aspirations that were not in the least bit appreciated. She was the one who was out of line. Luckily, he had made it easy to walk away with a clear conscience.

‘I should be relieved,’ she said. She was relieved.

‘It isn’t as if I don’t have anything better to do.’ She fetched the butter and lard from the fridge and began to chop it up into small pieces with rather more vigour than was actually called for. ‘I’m a single mother with a child to raise. A cat to support. I don’t need any more complications in my life.’

Chop, chop, chop.

Not that Polly was anything other than a joy. But still. Parenthood, even with a complete set of parents, required absolute concentration. Alone it was…

Chop, chop. The snap of the heavy blade against the board happily cut short this train of thought.

One kiss and suddenly she felt lonely? When did she have time to get lonely?

‘I’m a single mother with a child to raise and a business that’s going nowhere,’ she informed the cat briskly.

Chop.

The cat yawned.

‘And let’s not forget the part-time job in the village shop. That’s more than enough work for one woman. I don’t need Dominic Ravenscar and his problems complicating my life any further.’

Chop, chop, chop, chop.

‘As for his garden—’

But Mog, realising that she wasn’t going to get any more peace, stood up, stretched, then jumped down and walked out of the kitchen, her tail aquiver with disgust.

‘Oh, great. The least you could do is lend a sympathetic ear in return for all the meaty chunks you stuff down. No more top-of-the-milk treats for you, you ungrateful creature.’

All she got in reply was a disdainful flick of the tail as Mog headed towards a patch of catnip growing near the path.

‘And I’ll dig that up, too,’ she warned.

The cat, recognising an empty threat when she heard it, nuzzled the plant, a blissful expression on her face.

‘I’ll dig it up and plant something useful. Onions. Garlic, even,’ she threatened. ‘Then you’ll be sorry.’

Which was another thing. Any time and energy she had to spare were needed for her own garden. You couldn’t make prize-winning strawberry jam unless you put in the time at the strawberry beds.

And even if she wanted the chance to clear up the Linden Lodge garden—OK, she did want it, rather desperately—she didn’t have time to take on the role of Dominic Ravenscar’s personal agony aunt. Always supposing he wanted her to. Which he plainly didn’t.

That was time-consuming. Amy had spent hours just being there for her. Days. Weeks. Even now all she had to do was pick up the telephone…

Not that she had to. Polly’s godmother usually found an excuse to drop in most days. Sometimes, it felt as if she was being checked up on… She backed away from that ungrateful thought even as it surfaced, dealing with the remainder of the shortening in double-quick time.





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