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‘I don’t know.’
‘Heard from Chrissie?’ he asked casually.
‘No.’
‘Mind my own business?’
‘Mmm.’
With a faint smile, he strolled towards his car. ‘Perhaps someone ought to tell her she has fierce competition,’ he added slyly. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll get some ideas down on paper and let you have them in a few days. Let me know if you need a demolition expert,’ he called back. ‘Or a chaperon.’
As the car drove away, and with nothing of his thoughts showing on his face, Nash turned to see Phoenix picking her way back along the rutted path.
Reaching the front door, he was just in time to catch her as she tripped over the step. And he wanted to kiss her.
She moved hastily away from his supporting arm, avoided all eye contact.
‘Still falling over, I see,’ he murmured softly.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look awkward, or embarrassed about it, just accepting. Because she was so used to falling over things that it no longer held any importance? A fact of life, he wondered, like being left-handed?
‘You should have worn flat shoes,’ he reproved mildly.
‘I know,’ she agreed, her gaze fixed on the top of the staircase. ‘I was interviewing the Mayoress and there wasn’t time to change. I wonder why they covered it up?’
Momentarily off balance, he glanced at the wall at the top of the staircase and back to Phoenix. ‘The window?’
‘Yes.’
‘Window tax?’ he offered, not very knowledgeably.
She shook her head. Opening her notebook, fumbling for her glasses, which were hanging on a cord round her neck, she began to write. ‘I won’t touch anything else...’
‘Won’t you?’ he asked softly. ‘Pity.’
‘Don’t,’ she said, her voice agitated. ‘You’ll need to reveal the window.’
‘You reveal it.’
‘No, I...’
‘You know you yearn to. Pretend I’m a stranger. Pretend this is the first time we’ve met. I wish it was,’ he added.
‘Don’t,’ she pleaded again.
Turning, she tried to brush past him. He easily caught her, held her before him. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly.
‘No.’ Struggling free, she took two steps back, eyes still lowered.
‘Why?’
‘Because you aren’t what you seem, Nash. You never were.’
No, he wasn’t what he seemed.
‘You’re ruthless and single-minded and you wear the face of a fool.’
‘A fool?’ he queried softly.
‘All right, a face of calmness and curiosity and gentleness,’ she substituted, almost crossly. ‘And it’s a lie. It was always a lie.’
‘And that bothers you?’
‘No,’ she denied, obviously untruthfully.
‘Good, but I really do need someone to tell me what I’m doing. Professor Morton will be cross if you don’t,’ he persuaded humorously when she didn’t answer. ‘And you won’t have to see much of me.’
‘I don’t want to see anything of you.’
He gave a small smile for her petulance. ‘You’re a big girl now, Phoenix, surely capable of dealing with an old reprobate like me.’
Finally looking up, she asked quietly, ‘Are you an old reprobate?’
‘No,’ he said. And every time he moved nearer she moved away. Eyes always averted. ‘It would enhance your reputation,’ he encouraged. ‘And I don’t imagine you find bar tracery every day of the week.’
‘No.’
‘Then why not take a stab at it? If you’d had anything else on you wouldn’t have come here, would you? And jobs like this aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill, are they?’
‘No.’
Watching her for a moment, the way her hair fell over one shoulder, the soft curve of her mouth, he finally asked, ‘Can we really not meet as friends? We’re different people now. And no less aware of each other than we were ten years ago,’ he added softly.
‘Stop it,’ she reproved, her face agitated. ‘And if you expect to pick up where you left off...’
‘I don’t.’ Would like to, he thought, and wasn’t even surprised at how much he meant it. ‘I’ll pay you the going rate. I really do need your professional opinion on how to restore it.’
Conflicting emotions showing clearly on her face, professional interest against personal feelings, she glanced almost wistfully towards the hidden landing window.
‘Think of the bar tracery,’ he persuaded softly. ‘Think of my entablatures.’
She gave a faint smile, and he felt unbelievably tender. And relieved. Never in his life to date had he ever had to persuade a woman to trust him. Neither had he wanted to. Until now.
‘But do, please, try to remember,’ he added, with a smile in his rather nice grey eyes, ‘that I do need plaster on my walls. That I do need bedrooms, and bathrooms, and that historical artefacts must come second to needs. And do, for goodness’ sake, take that camera from around your neck before you strangle yourself.’
Face still unsure, she unhooked the camera and put it into his waiting hand.
‘Tell me why you were interviewing the Mayoress,’ he invited. ‘She has an old house that needs investigating?’
She shook her head. ‘She was opening the children’s ward at the hospital.’
Confused, amused, and really rather enjoying himself, he persisted, ‘Then why were you interviewing her?’
‘Because that’s my other hat.’
‘Your other hat?’ he echoed.
‘Yes.’
‘What other hat?’
‘Reporting. I don’t earn very much as a house historian,’ she murmured as she began to rub her hand over the old wood of the banister. ‘Not very many people want to pay to be told they have Jacobean beams, or something. There aren’t very many nobles inheriting castles without a documented history, and so I supplement my income by working for the local paper. Are you going to have the lawns relaid?’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ he reproved. ‘But, yes, I shall probably get them relaid.’ Turning to glance briefly through the open front door at the scrubby grass that by no stretch of the imagination could be called lawn, he gave a rueful smile before turning back to Phoenix—who was halfway up the staircase.
A clear warning not to ask her personal questions? She was as nervous as a cat. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked as he followed her.
‘Just checking something.’ Taking the right fork, she halted on the top landing and stared first one way, then the other. ‘It’s an anomaly, isn’t it? And I would guess, on the evidence so far found...’
‘Evidence?’ he asked drily.
‘Clues, then. Do you know anything about its history?’
He shook his head.
She looked thoughtful. ‘It has a whole mishmash of styles, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’ he asked ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Have you done much reporting?’
‘No, just some pieces about the countryside,’ she said absently. ‘Did you notice how the landing’s been divided?’
‘Divided?’
‘Yes. Look at the coving. It stops.’ Walking across to the end wall, she rapped her knuckles on it. ‘I wonder if there’s panelling underneath?’
‘No,’ he denied firmly. There was going to be enough disruption in the house without Phoenix Langrish ripping down walls to look for panelling.
‘The landing would originally have run along to the end wall, as it does in the other direction.’ As though eager to be away from him, as though on no account must she stand still, she opened a bedroom door and walked inside to stare up at the coving on that side. ‘See how it starts again? You could put this bedroom wall back where it was originally, get the coving restored.’
‘The bedroom would be smaller.’
‘Yes, but worth it, I would have thou—’ Breaking off, she suddenly strode across to the far wall and ripped a piece of loose paper free.
‘Phoenix!’ he exclaimed in mild exasperation.
Turning to look at him she said urgently, ‘I need to look in the loft space.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think the house was built round an older structure.’
‘Older?’ A small frown in his eyes, he asked, ‘How old?’
‘Medieval.’
‘Medieval? Are you sure?’
‘Not a hundred per cent, but look...’
Joining her, he stared at the small piece of wood that just showed through where she’d torn the paper. ‘It’s only an old beam,’ he murmured as she began picking away paper and plaster to reveal more of the wood.
‘Yes, old,’ she emphasised. ‘And the majority of medieval houses were built of wood. Most have perished, of course. We can have the wood dated, but I’m confident that we’ll find further evidence of it being medieval. Maybe an original Manor house,’ she added excitedly. ‘Probably fortified...’
‘Whoa,’ he cautioned. ‘Let’s not get carried away here...’
‘But it is! I’m sure it is! Later occupants have built round it, and over the years it’s been reinvented, if you like. Built on, added to—no wonder you didn’t want to sell it.’
Yes, no wonder, he thought bemusedly.
‘The loft?’ she prompted.
‘I don’t know if it’s safe...’
‘But we have to look! You must want to know!’
Enthused by her urgency, he finally nodded. ‘But just a look,’ he cautioned. ‘The entrance is through there. I’ll go and get a torch. And don’t go up without me!’
Walking out quickly, he ran lightly down the stairs, his mind buzzing with Phoenix’s enthusiasm. Medieval? Did she really know what she was talking about? Or was enthusiasm and hope carrying her away?
Finding the torch in the kitchen, he’d turned to go back upstairs when there was an almighty crash followed by a yell of alarm.
CHAPTER TWO
‘PHOENIX?’ he called urgently. Racing up the stairs, he hurried into the first room, and stared in astonishment at the shattered window, the shards that lay on the bare boards, and at Phoenix, who was carefully removing pieces of glass from her jacket.
She gave him a small, rather shaken smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It rather took me by surprise.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed inadequately. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes, not cut or anything—just gave me a fright.’
Still shocked, he glanced quickly through the broken pane, then carefully began edging the pieces of glass to one side with his foot. There was nothing to indicate what might have broken the window, and no one to be seen outside.
‘Perhaps it was a bird,’ she murmured. ‘Crashed into the window and...’
‘Yes,’ he agreed thoughtfully. ‘Or children. It’s half-term, I believe, and an apparently empty house...’ Remembering his own schooldays, and the mischief he and his friends had got up to, it seemed a logical explanation, but he’d seen no children outside. ‘I’ll go and look.’ He turned away, and she called him back.
‘Torch?’
‘What? Oh.’ Handing it over, he ordered absently, ‘Don’t go up there without me.’
Returning down the rear staircase, he opened the back door and looked out. Nothing. No sign of anyone. Walking round to stand beneath the shattered window, he found no sign of a stunned bird, no sign of anything. He could hear the rooks in the trees at the far end of the field, a tractor somewhere, but nothing else. And if children had been throwing stones there would have been evidence of it on the landing.
Standing over at the old barn, where he’d parked his car, he walked slowly across to peer inside. Nothing.
Puzzled, eyes on the distant copse, he returned to the house. It might have been a bird—and then again it might not. But, whatever the cause, he would need to get a glazier out.
Grey eyes thoughtful, he walked back upstairs—and couldn’t find Phoenix. Certainly she wasn’t where he’d left her, although it didn’t take a genius to figure out where she’d gone. Walking through to the front bedroom, he saw that the door that led to the loft was standing open. A pair of high-heeled shoes lay abandoned halfway up the narrow staircase.
Exasperated, he climbed up to find her balancing on a beam and staring up into the rafters.
‘I told you to wait for me,’ he stated mildly.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured absently as she continued to play the torch over the old beams above her.
‘Find anything?’
‘Yes. My God, Nash, they’re nearly all intact!’
‘The beams?’
‘Yes. See how it’s gabled at each end, with a fairly steep pitch? How the ridge purlin...’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, sorry, the long beam—see how it extends horizontally along the ridge from one end to the other?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed cautiously.
Turning, she smiled at him. ‘It’s one of the earliest and most simple designs. A tie beam roof, definitely medieval. It’s beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘And so unexpected. To actually have survived... You could open up the landing ceiling...’
‘No, no, no,’ he reproved.
‘But Nash! Think how it would look!’
‘I am thinking. Of the mess, the draughts...’
‘You have no soul.’
‘I have a practical soul,’ he argued. ‘Do you need to take photographs?’ Negotiating the beam behind her, he handed over the camera. ‘Careful!’ he warned urgently as she stepped back. ‘You’ll go through the ceiling!’ Taking her notebook and the torch, so that she could have her hands free, he waited whilst she took several flash photographs of the roof.
‘Come on, this floor doesn’t look any too safe to me. We can argue about it when we’re out of here.’ Carefully backing up, steadying her as she did the same, he turned her in the doorway, and stilled. Forced close together in the narrow space, camera, notebook and torch between them, he stared down into her wide eyes.
‘A moment waiting to happen,’ he murmured, his voice soft, husky.
‘No,’ she whispered. She made a jerky movement, as though to flee, and he quickly prevented her.
‘Yes.’ Bending his head, he found her mouth with his, felt the tremor that ran through her. The tremor that ran through himself.
And he didn’t want to stop.
He kissed her urgently, thoroughly, felt the same pleasure and pain he had felt ten years previously. A compulsion, a need, and as she shuddered, tried to push him away, he lost his balance.
Grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, he was thrown further off balance when she ducked under his arm and ran down the narrow stairway. Tripping on her abandoned shoes, she was forced to jump the last few steps.
By the time he joined her she was standing at the window, both arms hugged round her middle.
Quietly watching her, he knew that if he said the wrong thing now he would lose her.
Walking across, he put the torch and notebook down on the window seat. Standing behind her, he put gentle hands on her shoulders, and she flinched.
‘Don’t do this to me,’ she begged.
‘You can’t ignore it.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘But why?’
‘Because it isn’t what I want,’ she insisted, sounding incredibly strained. ‘And you can’t expect me to...’
‘I don’t. I don’t,’ he repeated. ‘It took me by surprise too, the feelings.’
‘But it’s absurd! It’s been ten years, Nash!’
‘I know.’
Slowly turning her, he stared down into her beautiful anguished face. ‘The moment you stepped from the car I knew. And so did you.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Lie to me if you must, but don’t lie to yourself,’ he reproved gently.
‘But I don’t know you! I don’t know that I ever did.’
‘Then we’ll take time to get to know each other.’ Summoning every ounce of self-control, he encouraged, ‘Tell me about the roof. Is it really medieval?’
‘Yes, it...’ Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped away from him. ‘I’ve never seen one in such good condition. You must get those slates replaced. If we have any rain...’
‘Yes.’ Watching her, almost aching at her predicament, which surprised him, he added gently, ‘Sit down and tell me what I have. Come on. You’re the expert.’
She didn’t move for a while, just continued to look troubled, and then she sat down and picked up her notebook. Opening it to a fresh page, she put on her glasses.
‘And make it simple,’ he ordered as he perched beside her.
She stiffened slightly, but when he made no move to touch her she allowed her shoulders to relax fractionally. Speaking quietly, she began to sketch, her movements jerky at first, but gradually smoothing out.
A wisp of hair was lying across her cheek, and he wanted to move it, tuck it behind her ear. A perfect ear, one he had once touched with his tongue. Maturity had firmed her features—maturity and knowledge. At eighteen her thoughts, opinions had been formed by others; now she had her own clever mind to formulate new ideas, to direct her life with intelligence and confidence, and he was finding it hard to come to terms with this ten-year jump. Then she had bombarded him with questions—How do you do this? How that? What’s this for? That? Now she probably didn’t need to. She had always been bright. Now she was brighter. He knew she’d got a first at Oxford, because he’d checked.
‘And, of course, assuming it was once a Hall, a massive beam would have been thrown across the roof space, from wall plate to wall plate, to counteract the outward thrust on the walls.’ Unaware of his inattention, pencil flying, she continued tensely, ‘A central king post—or two queen posts, as you seem to have—and side struts were often supported on the tie beam to strengthen the structure. Further purlins—beams,’ she hastily corrected, ‘were set at intervals down the pitch like so, from apex to wall.’
Quickly adding more detail, her strokes sure and deft, to show him how it would have looked atop a medieval Hall, she continued, ‘Rafters were inserted across at right angles, supported on the wall plate—the horizontal beam at wall level—at the bottom, and attached to the ridge purlin at the top. The wall plate itself was secured by stone corbels.
‘Of course, by the fifteenth century there was less need for fortification and the structure would have been altered. Bedrooms and reception rooms would have been put in, the central hearth would probably have given way to wall fireplaces with roof chimneys, and, if the family was wealthy, stone would have been used round the outer walls. We might even find re-used medieval masonry. There would have been a huge courtyard—have you found any evidence of a courtyard?’ she broke off to ask. Without looking at him.
Wrenching his attention back, he shook his head. ‘But then, I haven’t investigated that much.’
‘Well, there would have been outbuildings, roof lines at various levels broken by tall chimney stacks...’
‘Of which I still seem to have some.’
‘Yes, so what we need to do now is check the archives, census returns, ordnance survey maps, find out who owned it, who altered it—because by the seventeenth century it would have changed out of all recognition.’
‘But it doesn’t look seventeenth-century now. My aunt’s solicitor described it as late eighteenth-century.’
‘Yes, Georgian, because of course it changed again. The façade is definitely Georgian. So is the east wing.’ Still busily sketching, she filled in the courtyard, added a few geese, and presented it to him. ‘That’s how it would have looked, I would guess, when it was first built. A fortified manor house with moat.’ Jumping to her feet, she moved to stand a few paces away.
As though he hadn’t noticed, he continued to stare at her sketch, then slowly smiled. ‘I’ve seen one like that in, oh, I don’t know—Herefordshire, I think.’
‘Mmm, the Manor House at Lower Brockhampton, I expect.’
‘And so it would be an awful pity to pull it down, wouldn’t it?’ he asked softly.
‘Oh, yes, you mustn’t do that.’
He looked up, and she looked hastily away. Removing her glasses, she began to chew on one of the stems.
‘How long have you needed them?’
She gave an odd little jerk. ‘What?’
‘Your glasses. How long have you needed them?’
‘Oh, not long. I only use them for close work. I’ll go and do some research, I think, and then—’
‘Really not interested?’ he interrupted softly.
‘Sorry?’ she queried nervously.
‘Already spoken for?’
She swallowed. ‘Don’t.’
‘What are you so frightened of, Phoenix?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said helplessly.
Leaning back, the sketchbook on his knee, he asked quietly, ‘How much did I hurt you?’
‘Unfair question,’ she murmured evasively.
‘Why?’
‘Because...oh...’ She sighed. ‘Because I was eighteen, and at eighteen everything hurts.’
‘I was trying not to hurt you,’ he explained as he continued to watch her. ‘I almost contacted you several times.’
‘But common sense prevailed?’ she asked, in a bitter little tone that puzzled him.
‘Yes. I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. And it would have been serious, wouldn’t it?’
‘Would it? I really can’t remember,’ she retorted evasively as she went to collect her shoes.
She was lying. She hadn’t forgotten it any more than he had. ‘Then tell me how I go about restoring the Manor. It can’t go back to what it was, can it?’
Pushing her feet into the high heels, she shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. You could open it up to how it looked before the Regency period, or before the Victorians had a go at it. Restore some of those lovely cornices, expose some beams—but, no, you won’t be able to get it back to how it was.’
‘Pity.’
‘Yes. And I’m not sure about the rules and regulations for altering a structure. You’d need a structural engineer—experts, anyway.’
‘Stop babbling. I wonder what happened to the moat?’
‘Filled in years ago, I expect.’ Warily approaching him, she gathered up her bits and pieces and stepped back. ‘There isn’t much more I can do today, so I’ll go and see what documentary evidence I can find.’
Getting to his feet, he stared at her for some moments in silence, and then he asked gently, ‘Going to run for ever?’
She didn’t answer, just turned and walked out.
Escorting her to her car, he fitted her wing mirror back on for her. ‘It’s only a temporary repair,’ he warned.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll call in to the garage.’
‘And you’ll come back tomorrow?’
Breathing shallow, tension in every line of her, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ she emphasised agitatedly. ‘Don’t push me. Please don’t do that.’
‘All right.’
She gave a perfunctory smile that seemed aimed at the hedge, and climbed into her car.
Quietly closing the car door, he watched her reverse erratically out into the lane and drive away.
A cold shower? he wondered in grim amusement. Except he didn’t have a shower. There was running water in the antiquated bathroom, but the bath looked as though it had been used for dipping sheep. And he wanted her. Couldn’t believe how much he wanted her. Better start practising self-restraint; my friend.
Face showing nothing of his feelings, he returned inside. And if she didn’t come back tomorrow he would go and find her.
He could understand her wariness—but her fear? What was it about him that frightened her so? A new experience for him, he thought wryly, to be unsure of something. Extremely patient when he needed to be, with women he had never needed to be. And that spoiled it. He didn’t really know why women found him so attractive, unless it was his money, he thought cynically. Chrissie had said it was his watchful silences that females found intriguing. But then, Chrissie had said a lot of things.
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