Who Needs Mr Willoughby?

Chapter 8

Walking downhill on gravel in a pair of kitten heels was not, Marianne soon found, an easy thing to do.

Nevertheless, her fury at farmer what’s-his-name propelled her onward. What an arsehole. What a rude, money-grubbing, inconsiderate arsehole.

“‘Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say,’” she mimicked him under her breath. “Well, you’ve certainly helped me to face reality, you – you sheep-loving jackass!”

She was nearly at the bottom of the hill when she heard it – the rumble of an approaching vehicle.

Marianne walked faster. She hoped it was him. She hoped it wasn’t him. She never wanted to see that smirky, jaded face of his, ever again –

The truck drew alongside of her. “Get in,” he said gruffly.

She kept walking. “I won’t, thank you all the same. I can’t afford it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those – those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes.”

“They’re not ‘faffy little shoes’. They’re brand new; I just bought them. And I’m surprised you even know who Audrey Hepburn is,” she retorted, and kept walking.

“Who doesn’t? I’d have to live under a rock not to know who she is.”

“I thought you did live under a rock, actually,” she shot back. “With all the rest of the gremlins and trolls.”

“Trolls live under bridges.”

“Whatever. Just go away.”

“Fine,” he said grimly. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do this the hard way.”

So saying, he cut the wheel sharply to the right, and she jumped back as the truck’s cab blocked her way. He reached out to fling the door open.

“Now, stop acting like a dafty wench and get in,” he ordered.

Marianne stared daggers at him. But her feet really, really hurt. And her brand new shoes were covered in mud. And she felt perilously close to tears.

“Fine.” She spared him one more glare, then climbed back into the cab of the truck next to Emily and slammed the door. “Let’s go.”

“Mind, it’ll still cost you twenty-five pounds,” he said as he shifted into gear and turned back onto the road. “It’s a fair price, the cost of petrol bein’ what it is.”

She didn’t have the energy left to argue. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll pay you when we get there. I don’t have that much money on me.”

“Suits me. But I’ll come in to make sure you keep your word, if you don’t mind. No running into the house and slamming the door in my face.”

“I do mind. And it’s all you deserve.”

He didn’t favour her with a reply, only scowled and shifted gears once again, and headed south, towards Hadleighshire.

***

The truck slowed to a stop in front of Lady Violet’s country estate forty minutes later.

“Holy shit,” the driver muttered as he took in the impressive stone face of Barton Park. “Should’ve asked you for a hundred pounds, at least.”

“You’ll get twenty-five, as agreed,” Marianne snapped, “and not a penny more.”

She slammed out of the truck and marched up the front steps to the door and rang the bell.

“Can’t let yourself in?” he asked as he unfolded his long legs and got out to follow her up the steps. “Did you forget your key?”

“I don’t live here, I’m only staying for a bit.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, and nodded sagely. “Summering in the country at your best mate’s stately pile, are you? Must be exhausting being rich, I reckon, what with all of that travelling and jet-setting and whatnot. Wears a girl out.”

Marianne didn’t bother to correct him. Let him think what he wanted, she thought grimly as the door swung open and Mrs Fenwick regarded them both in surprise.

“Miss Holland, there you are. I was that worried after your last mishap, I was ready to call her ladyship and tell her you’d not come home yet, so I was.” She peered around Marianne at the truck. “Who’s this? And where’s the car?”

“The car…broke down.” Marianne regarded the farmer with a flinty look and dared him to say a word to the housekeeper about the car’s theft. “Watch my friend here while I go upstairs and fetch him the outrageous sum of twenty-five pounds for bringing me home.”

If she thought he’d be shamed into telling her to forget about the money, she was disabused of the notion when he gave her a cheeky smile and touched a finger to his forehead. “Much obliged.”

She pressed her lips together and stalked upstairs to her room.

Five minutes later, it was done. Marianne handed over the money and showed him to the door.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said, stiffly.

“It was my very great pleasure.” He folded the notes and tucked them into his jeans pocket.

Marianne turned to their guest. “Well, it’s been most interesting, Mr –?” She stopped as she realised she didn’t know his name.

“Just call me Farmer Brown,” he said, and cocked his brow. “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I’ve dogs and sheep to feed and a lamb to see to. A good day to you both.”

With a nod of his head, he returned to the truck and got inside, and drove away down the drive, back to Endwhistle.

“However did you meet that fellow?” Mrs Fenwick wondered.

“Honestly, Mrs F,” Marianne said as she made her way back upstairs, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

***

After taking dinner in her room – there was little point in dining alone at that huge table – Marianne stood before the wardrobe and wondered what to wear for her interview tomorrow. Her clothes were filthy and her shoes – thanks to Brian and Danny and Farmer Brown – were now covered in mud.

More to the point – how would she even get to Endwhistle without a car?

“Miss Holland?” Mrs Fenwick knocked and thrust her head round the door. “You’ve a call from Lady Violet on line one.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

Marianne went to the desk by the window and picked up the telephone receiver. What on earth could Lady V want? she wondered as she punched the blinking button. “Hello?”

“Hello, Marianne. How are you managing so far?”

Well, aside from the car breaking down and getting stolen by two not-so-Good-Samaritans, walking for miles in the rain and mud, and getting picked up by an extortionate uplands farmer, Marianne wanted to tell her, life is grand.

“I’m fine, thanks, Lady Violet,” she said instead. She couldn’t quite bring herself to tell her about the car just yet. “How’s Edinburgh?”

“Very well, thank you. I’m having a lovely visit with Lady Campbell. Although,” she added in a low, troubled voice, “that’s the reason I rang you. She’s feeling poorly and they’re putting her in hospital for some tests.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sure she’s glad you’re there.”

“She is. In fact, I’ve changed my plans. I’ll be staying on here for at least another week. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she assured the woman. “Mrs Fenwick and Bertie are taking good care of me. I should start my new job at the clinic in a week or two, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Wasn’t your interview today?”

Marianne bit her lip. “It was. But the doctor got called away on an emergency and so I have to go back tomorrow.” Which was true. “Stay in Edinburgh as long as you need to, and don’t give me another thought.”

“Very well,” Lady Violet said, a trace doubtfully. “If you’re sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’m positive. Mum and Elinor will be here tomorrow, after all, so I’ll have all the company I need. And give my best wishes to Lady Campbell.”

After exchanging a few more polite pleasantries, Marianne rang off.

“Mrs Fenwick,” she called out as she ran down the stairs, “I’ve another teeny-tiny favour to ask…”

Chapter 9

After Marianne confessed that Lady Violet’s car had been stolen and the incident reported to the police, Mrs Fenwick allowed that there was nothing more to be done and gave Marianne the use of their Peugeot.

“Only so you can go off to your interview, mind,” she added firmly. “No faffing about all over town. Petrol’s expensive.”

“So I’ve heard,” Marianne retorted.

“Only sixteen kilometres, she says! Petrol’s expensive, in case you didn’t know.”

Good thing she’d never see that money-grubbing cheapskate of a farmer again. Although, she admitted, he wasn’t so bad to look at. He was almost attractive. And his little Blackface lamb, Emily, was beyond adorable.

Too bad he was completely personality-challenged.

On Wednesday morning, with a full tank of gas and the phone number to Barton Park programmed in her mobile, Marianne headed back to Endwhistle and drove to the veterinary clinic.

“Hello, Miss Holland,” Lynn greeted her as she made her way across the crowded waiting room. If she noticed that Marianne wore the same outfit she’d worn the day before – freshly laundered, of course – or that her shoes still bore traces of mud, she made no comment. “Dr Brandon’s with Poppy – a border collie with an eye infection – but I’ll let him know you’re here. Please have a seat.”

With a nod of thanks, Marianne sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs. She hadn’t waited above fifteen minutes when the receptionist announced the vet was free for a few minutes between appointments and could see her.

She stood and made her way through the door the girl directed her through. “SURGERY”, it stated. “NO ADMITTANCE”.

With another breath for courage, she pushed it open and went inside the clinic proper. She saw more tiled flooring, and a surgery equipped with several treatment tables, x-ray machines, and a lot of other intimidating-looking equipment she didn’t recognise.

“Back here,” a gruff male voice called out from somewhere behind her.

She turned to see an office at the far end of the surgery, with a brass nameplate on the door – Dr M Brandon, RCVS. On unsteady legs, she made her way across the floor and came to a stop just inside the door.

When she saw him, sitting behind a desk heaped with folders and papers and forms, Marianne froze.

“Oh, no,” she said, and blinked. “It can’t be.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

She took some small satisfaction in the fact that his shock was as great as her own. Farmer Brown, for once, was at a loss for words.

“I’m here to interview for the job.”

He stared at her. “What job?”

“The veterinary assistant position,” she said. Was he thick as well as rude? “I sent my résumé in last month.”

He frowned and reached behind him, searched a table under the window, unearthed a folder, and riffled through it. He leaned back in his chair and scanned it. “Ah, here we are. No. The only interview letter we sent out went to an applicant named Mark Holland in Devonshire.”

“But I have a letter.” Marianne reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter she’d received and held it out. “Asking me to come in and interview for the job.”

He took it and glanced down. “Marianne Holland, of South Devon. Ah. There’s obviously been a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“You weren’t meant to get this offer. Mark Holland was.” He handed the letter back. “The files for Mark and Marianne must’ve got mixed up.”

“Did they, really? Or is the fact that I’m a female the issue?” she challenged him. “Did you offer Mr Holland an interview because he’s a man? Are you one of those sexist gits?”

His eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not ‘one of those sexist gits’, I offered Mr Holland an interview because he had excellent qualifications. But looking at this –” he picked up her résumé and scanned it. “Your qualifications are nonexistent. You’re not remotely suited for the job.”

“Why?” she bristled. “Because I’m a woman?”

“No.” He eyed her kitten heels, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse and leaned forward. “Because I suspect the only animal you’ve ever dealt with is one of those faffy little dogs you carry round in your purse like a furry accessory.”

She bristled at the astonishing injustice – not to mention sexism – of his assumption. “It’s not a purse,” she snapped, “it’s a handbag.”

And before she could form a further, more suitably scathing reply, he tossed her résumé aside.

“Have you ever worked in a professional capacity with animals before, Miss Holland?”

“Not…not as such, no.”

“Have you calved a cow, or foaled a mare?”

“No.”

“What do you know of animal husbandry?”

She blinked. She suspected he wasn’t referring to female chickens looking for rooster husbands. “A little,” she hedged.

“Good God,” he muttered, and ploughed a hand through his hair. “Do you know what colostrum is? Do things like the sight of blood or open wounds or placenta make you queasy?”

She blanched. “It all sounds a bit horrid, to be honest.”

“Then how do you expect me to hire you on to help me in the surgery?” he demanded. “You haven’t any qualifications at all, have you?”

Marianne bit her lip. “I got a bit of work experience at the local veterinary clinic in Litchfield last summer,” she admitted. “And I’m a hard worker,” she added, and tilted her chin back, “and a quick learner. And –” she hesitated. “And I really need this job.”

“How long did you work in the clinic?”

“Two and a half months.”

“And what, exactly,” he inquired, his eyes like flint, “did you do there?”

She thought of lying, or fudging the truth; but she’d already told him she had no real experience. “I kept Dr Edmund’s diary,” she confessed, “and answered the phone and dealt with customers, and I filed insurance forms.”

“You worked the reception desk.” It was a statement of fact.

“Yes.” She drew herself up. “It’s true I haven’t much experience tending to animals. But I can learn. I’ll do whatever needs doing. And I promise, I won’t complain.”

Scepticism showed plainly on his face. “I’m sorry, Miss Holland, but I need someone who knows his – or her – way around a surgery. I need someone who can stitch up a wound, or help birth a lamb that’s misdirected. I need someone who can comfort the owner when their dog, or horse, or cat has to be put down. I need someone with commitment and stamina and empathy, someone who cares about animals and doesn’t mind the long hours or the middle of the night calls to deliver a breech calf or put a suffering animal out of pain. And that’s obviously not you.”

“I may not have done any of those things,” Marianne said evenly as she plonked her handbag down on the desk, “but I do love animals. I’ve had rabbits and cats and dogs all of my life, and I took care of them all. I fed and cleaned and exercised them, and I made sure they had their shots. My sister Elinor had a horse until recently, when we couldn’t afford to keep him any longer; I’ve mucked out his stall and groomed him dozens of times. But if you won’t hire me, or give me a proper chance –” she turned away, unwilling to let him see how much – how very much – she suddenly wanted this job “then I won’t waste any more of your time.”

She turned to go, wondering as she did what she’d do now. Without this job, she’d never get the work experience she needed to get into a veterinary course. Worse still, she wouldn’t be able to do her part and help her mother with the household expenses.

“Miss Holland,” Dr Brandon called out after her. “Wait.”

Marianne turned back, her heart quickening. Hope flooded through her. Had he changed his mind? Was he so impressed with her impassioned, heartfelt speech that he meant to give her a fair chance?

“You forgot your purse,” he said, and held it out to her, dangling from the end of his finger.

“Handbag.” She snatched it away. “Thanks,” she bit off, and marched back out of the surgery.

“You might try the Endwhistle Café,” he called after her. “I hear they’re hiring waitresses.”

She whirled around and glared at him. “Is that right? And do you ever eat there, Dr Brandon? At the Endwhistle Café?”

“On occasion.”

“Good. Then I might just take your advice. I’ll get a job as a waitress. It’ll give me the perfect excuse to dump a pot of hot coffee right in your smug, sexist lap!”

She stormed out, aware as she did of his laughter ringing out behind her.

Chapter 10

Too furious and upset to go back to Barton Park, Marianne sat in the car for a moment to have a cry and tried to pull herself together. She searched in the glove compartment until she found a crumpled tissue and blew her nose.

She hated Matthew Brandon. Hated him. He obviously thought she was some kind of spoiled rich girl who’d never worked a day in her life and had no need of a job. He was the rudest, most unreasonable man she’d ever had the misfortune to know. Heartless, too. Not to mention self-centred, ill mannered, and avaricious –

There was a tap on her window. With a gasp of fright, Marianne looked up to see the veterinarian standing there. He leaned down until his face was on a level with hers.

She swiped at the black streaks of mascara under her eyes and rolled her window down. “What is it?” she snapped.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, “but I just had a thought.”

“Is that right? What thought was that? Did you figure out a way to charge me for wasting your time? Or breathing the air? Or is there a parking fee I wasn’t aware of?”

“No. Although charging for parking’s not a bad idea.” He ran a hand through his already rumpled dark hair. “My receptionist’s leaving in two weeks, going off to Hull. Her sister’s just had a baby and Lynn’s staying with her for the rest of the summer.”

Marianne was silent. She wouldn’t give in to even the tiniest, teeniest flicker of hope, she wouldn’t. Not this time.

He paused. “I’ve got a girl in mind to take her place.”

“I just bet you do,” she snapped, picturing a busty blonde in a short skirt with a blouse open to her navel.

“She hasn’t much experience,” he went on, “but I reckon she can answer phones and schedule appointments easily enough.”

“No doubt.” Why was he telling her this? She didn’t want to hear it.

“I expect she might take issue with working reception instead of assisting in the surgery, though.”

“Well if you ask me, she sounds like a pillock,” Marianne sniffed, and blew her nose. “How can she expect to help in the surgery if she hasn’t the proper experience?”

“Exactly my thoughts.” He regarded her without expression. “I’m glad we’re finally on the same page, Miss Holland.”

Confusion, surprise, and hope warred on her face as she stared at him. His eyes, she noted distractedly, were an odd sort of silvery-grey. “We…we are? But – you don’t mean –?”

“I mean,” he said, his eyes steady on hers, “you can have Lynn’s job for the summer. If you want it,” he added. “And if you don’t object to answering phones, mopping up dog urine, and filling out an endless lot of forms. Otherwise –” he straightened “I’ll give the job to someone else. I’ve a long waiting list of qualified applicants.”

“I’m sure you do.” Marianne scrambled out of the car and stood facing him. “I’d be very happy to have the job,” she said, her eyes shining. “Extremely happy. Ecstatic. Thank you, Dr Brandon. So much.”

He took her hand in a firm grip. “Welcome aboard, Miss Holland. You can start next week and we’ll see how it goes. Lynn can show you the ropes before she leaves.”

“Is Maddie all right?” she asked suddenly. “Lynn told me all about her yesterday, that you suspected rat poisoning. Poor dog… Did she make it through?”

“She did. It was touch and go for a bit, but she pulled through the surgery with flying colours. She’s on a course of vitamin K to ensure her blood clots properly. Her family’s overjoyed.” He eyed Marianne. “I’m sure they’d appreciate your concern.”

“I love animals. I really do. You won’t regret hiring me, Dr Brandon, I promise,” she called out after him as he turned to go.

He glanced back at her. “Too late. I already do,” he retorted, and returned to the clinic.

***

When Marianne returned to Barton Park, a removal van stood near the front steps and a taxi was just leaving.

With a racing heart she parked the Peugeot and all but flew out of the car, rushing up the steps and through the opened front door.

“Mum!” she cried out. “Elinor!”

She flung herself, laughing and crying all at once, into their arms. There was a flurry of hugging, exclaiming, and more than a few hastily wiped-away tears before Mrs Holland drew back to inspect her youngest daughter. “You’re looking very well, I must say. Northumberland agrees with you.”