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‘I suppose,’ Mrs Davies agreed gloomily. ‘If I’m here that long. I don’t think he even likes me. I’ve asked him and asked him to call me Davey, like Mr Craddock used to, but he won’t. Mrs Davies, he says. So—so polite!’
With a little grin, and because Sorrel knew exactly what she meant and what it was like to have no job, no money, Sorrel agreed. ‘All right, I’ll ask him.’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Davies said gratefully. ‘You must think me an absolute moron, but…I’m not usually like this,’ she confessed. ‘Or, I wasn’t. Perhaps it’s the menopause.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Sorrel murmured.
‘Yes. I keep getting hot.’ Mrs Davies sighed. ‘And he makes me so flustered. He’s so—well, angry-looking, isn’t he?’
Was he? Yes, Sorrel supposed he was.
‘And his voice is so…’
‘Derogatory?’ Sorrel offered, tongue in cheek.
‘Yes, as though he doesn’t have a very high opinion of anyone.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t,’ Sorrel murmured. It was something she could well believe.
‘He makes me feel stupid,’ Mrs Davies continued, ‘and although I’m not very clever I can cook and clean and everything. I worked for Mr Craddock without any trouble. I wish he hadn’t left.’
‘Well, look on it as a challenge,’ Sorrel said bracingly. ‘You’ll soon get used to him, I’m su—’
‘And now, with the reporters and everything,’ Mrs Davies continued, as though she hadn’t heard, ‘I just don’t know what to do.’
‘The reporters?’
‘Yes. They all seem to hate him.’
Astonished, Sorrel just stared at her. ‘Why on earth would they hate him?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mrs Davies said wearily. Getting to her feet, she carried the tray over to the sink.
Staring at the housekeeper’s bent back, Sorrel asked hesitantly, ‘Is he famous?’
‘Famous? I don’t know. All I do know is that every time I go out I fall over the reporters clustering at the gate. I’m not allowed to talk to them,’ she added crossly, as though that were yet another bone of contention between them.
About to ask for clarification, Sorrel suddenly caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink. Diverted, she stared at her image in astonishment. ‘Good grief,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know I looked that bad.’ Her face was filthy! And her hair, still tucked into the neck of her sweater, was liberally decorated with mud and grass. Untucking her hair and brushing off the worst of the debris, she scrabbled in her pocket for a tissue. Peering into the mirror, she began to clean herself up. ‘Not perfect,’ she sighed, ‘but better than it was. Oh, well.’ With a crooked smile at Mrs Davies and a little shake of her head, she walked across to the door. ‘I’d better be off.’
‘You won’t forget to ask—’ Mrs Davies began urgently.
‘No, no, don’t worry.’
‘Now?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Now?’ Sorrel queried in alarm. She didn’t think now was a very good idea.
‘Please?’
Too soft-hearted by far, Sorrel reluctantly agreed. ‘Oh, OK, but I can’t promise anything.’
Walking back to the study, she gave a brave little tap on the door, and quickly put her head inside. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she began.
He looked up from her open portfolio, which he’d obviously been perusing, and asked derisively, ‘Back again so soon, Miss James?’
‘Mmm,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘There was just one thing…’
‘I thought there might be.’
She widened her eyes at him. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree,’ she told him softly. ‘It’s about Mrs Davies. You seem to have frightened the poor woman to death. Not intentionally, I’m sure,’ she added quickly. ‘But if you could just tell her what her duties are, when she’s to Hoover, cook, etc…’
‘Thank you,’ he said without inflexion. ‘I’ll be sure to do so.’
‘Good.’ With a little grin, she added reprovingly, ‘And you might have told me I had a muddy face.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ she exclaimed. ‘Because…’
‘Go away,’ he ordered softly.
Grin widening, she put her coat more securely round her shoulders and walked out. She closed the door very softly behind her. And then she laughed. ‘Yes!’ she whispered with a little clenched fist. If he’d been looking at her work then he wasn’t totally disinterested, was he? And if she didn’t get the job, well, she was still rather glad she’d come. She’d really rather liked him. And it would be someone to dream about, wouldn’t it?
Staring at the closed door, Garde gave a brief grunt of laughter. This procession of ‘wannabes’ was getting more bizarre by the minute. He didn’t think he had ever met anyone so—well—ingenious, he supposed. He’d have liked her to be genuine, but he very much doubted she was. How on earth had they managed to recruit a gardener? If she was indeed a gardener. He should never have let her in the house, of course. Wasn’t even sure why he had. And tomorrow she would be back. The so-very-different Miss James. And after Miss James there would be someone else wanting to do his garden, or clean his car, sweep the chimneys…Their inventiveness was endless. But, he suddenly thought, if he employed Miss James, the hassle might stop for a while, mightn’t it?
With a small, rather cynical smile, he thoughtfully moved his gaze back to the portfolio. His garden did need doing; maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. And if she was no good, then she wouldn’t get paid.
Turning back to the front page where her card was sellotaped, he decisively pulled the telephone towards him and punched out the number of a private detective.
Poking her head into the kitchen, Sorrel assured the housekeeper that she thought Mr Chevenay would be far more reasonable in future, and went to retrieve her shoes.
Crunching round to the front, she stared at the lowering sky. June was supposed to be flaming, not this perpetual drizzle. It was also the time of year when people were supposed to feel more cheerful. But not in this house. And not in the local press either, according to Mrs Davies. So why would a young man be hated? Well, not young young, she mentally corrected. She would guess that Garde Chevenay was in his mid-to late thirties. And extraordinarily attractive, despite his rather brusque manner. Or maybe even because of it. But hated?
Climbing into her old truck, and praying it would start the first time, she twisted the ignition key. Garde Chevenay. Definitely a name to conjure with. It seemed a long time since she’d had a light flirtation with an attractive man, and the thought of it definitely made her feel brighter. Not that she expected him to reciprocate, but it could be fun to tease him. If he would allow her to do his gardens, which she very much doubted.
Bit of a wild goose chase, really, which was a pity, because the front certainly needed attention. The grass, which had once, presumably, been a lawn, was waist-high and full of weeds. The trees, old and bent, were in dire need of pruning, or even removing. The drive needed attention, the stream that ran along the foot of the property needed clearing out, and the brief glimpse she’d had of the back, well…In your dreams, Sorrel, she sighed to herself. Even if he were interested, she had no references to prove her trustworthiness, and Garde Chevenay definitely looked like a man who would want references. Just like the others before him. The worrying thing was, she’d never needed references until after Nick. She’d always got her work by word of mouth; but now, suddenly, everyone wanted a reference from her last employer.
With a smile equally as cynical as Garde’s, she sighed. That was really likely, wasn’t it? A reference from Nick. And it had to be him behind it all. She’d had several enquiries from her advertisements, had given quotes, and everything had seemed fine—until the excuses started coming in. ‘Not quite what we want. Sorry.’ ‘Too expensive.’ ‘Too this, too that, and, of course, without a reference from your last employer…’ ‘One has to be so careful nowadays…’ And if she didn’t find a job soon…
Feeling despondent again, she drove to a small hotel where she would book in for the night. She went up to her room. She would ring her sister to see if she’d managed to get hold of that article Sorrel had started reading in the dentist’s, and even if she hadn’t she might have been able to find out something else about him, something that might give her a lever in persuading him that he needed her. Jen liked a challenge. They both did. Oh, do stop it, she scolded herself. Things would get better. They had to.
Making herself comfortable on the bed, she picked up the phone and punched out her sister’s number. It was answered on the second ring.
‘Jen?’
‘Sorrel! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’
‘Have you?’ Sorrel asked in alarm. ‘Why? Has something happened?’
‘What? No! Are you at home?’
‘No, Wiltshire.’
‘Wiltshire?’ Jen exclaimed. ‘What on earth…? No,’ she said disgustedly, ‘don’t tell me. That’s why you wanted me to find the article, isn’t it? You went to see him! I don’t believe you, Sorrel! You can’t just go knocking on people’s doors!’
‘Of course I can,’ Sorrel argued softly. Easily conjuring up an image of Garde’s face, she smiled to herself. ‘You can meet the most delightful people.’
There was a little silence, and then Jen reproved meaningfully, ‘I don’t like the way you said that. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Sorrel,’ Jen warned, ‘you know I’ll get it out of you in the end so you might as well tell me now. What happened?’
‘Nothing happened!’ Her eyes lit up with sudden laughter. ‘I just found him—interesting,’ she murmured softly.
Her sister gave a snort of disgust. ‘Well, don’t get too interested,’ she cautioned brusquely.
‘Why not?’ Sorrel grinned. ‘I haven’t had a decent flirtation in ages!’
‘Because he’s dying!’
CHAPTER TWO
HER mind suddenly blank, her whole body empty, Sorrel whispered in shock, ‘Dying? But he can’t be. He looks so healthy.’
‘Well, that’s what it says in the article I found. The one you didn’t have time to finish reading at the dentist’s. Hang on a minute and I’ll read it to you.’ There was a momentary silence at the other end, followed by the rustling of pages and then Jen’s voice again. ‘Er, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yes, here we are. At the end of the article it says—although I have to admit it’s a rather odd statement,’ she commented with brief puzzlement. ‘It mentions some of his business dealings and that he’s recently sold off his finance company to the Americans, and, bearing in mind,’ she added, ‘that the article is over six months old, it then says that perhaps it’s not surprising he’s so successful as he’s riven by cancer.’
‘Cancer?’ Sorrel echoed, and the alarm and pity she felt seemed out of all proportion to the fact that she barely knew him. ‘Are you sure that’s what it says?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘But it doesn’t make sense!’
‘Well, no, but that’s what it says.’ There was another small silence, and then Jen stated in what sounded like exasperation, ‘You liked him.’
‘Yes, I did, but please, please, don’t tell me that I have screwed judgement, that I—’
‘But you do.’
‘Not always,’ she defended.
‘Yes, Sorrel, always!’ Jen insisted.
‘But Garde’s not in the least like Nick,’ Sorrel protested. ‘You begin to make me feel as though I should suspect everyone!’
‘Not everyone.’ Jen sighed. ‘It’s just that—well, I worry about you, Sorrel. Go on, then, tell me about him!’
‘You don’t need to say it like that! He really isn’t in the least like Nick.’
‘Then what is he like?’
‘Oh, large, abrupt, derisive. Quite rude, in fact.’
‘And you liked him?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘He was—different. And I can’t believe he’s ill! He looks so disgustingly well!’
‘Perhaps he’s in remission,’ Jen murmured. ‘Is he going to let you do his gardens?’
‘I don’t know. I’m to see him again in the morning.’
‘But why go all the way to Wiltshire?’ Jen demanded worriedly.
‘Because I didn’t think Nick would have any influence down here!’ Sorrel stated crossly. ‘And the girl I was covering for at the garden centre is coming back on Monday,’ she added gloomily.
‘Oh, hell, I’d hoped she wasn’t coming back.’
‘So did I.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Does the job look hopeful? Although, if he’s dying,’ Jen murmured worriedly, ‘it’s probably best not to get involved. I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.’
‘I’m not intending to get involved! All I said was that I found him interesting!’ Anyway, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there probably wasn’t going to be an opportunity to get involved. Sorrel quickly changed the subject. She didn’t want to discuss Garde further, she found. Not even with her sister. ‘How’s my nephew?’
‘In disgrace!’ Jen laughed, but Sorrel could still hear the underlying worry in her sister’s voice. ‘He pulled the wallpaper off the wall behind his cot and when I told him off, the little wretch just looked at me with his big blue eyes and said softly, “Oh, dear.”’
Sorrel laughed. ‘I seem to remember someone else doing that. Must run in the family.’
‘The difference being I got a smack!’
‘Mmm, I remember.’
‘When are you coming home?’
‘Oh, tomorrow, I expect. Give my love to the naughty one, and to your delightful husband. I should be back about five—and I’m all right. Really,’ she insisted. ‘Take care of yourself. Bye.’
Slowly replacing the receiver, she continued to stare at it for a few minutes. She didn’t want him to be ill. She couldn’t believe he was. But was that why he’d said he didn’t give interviews? Possibly. Once the article had come out…Anyway, she wasn’t likely to see him again after tomorrow.
Sorrel tried to stop thinking about it, about him. She swung her legs to the floor and went to have a shower and wash her hair before going down for something to eat. But her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. All that evening and long into the night she continued to think about him, and the next morning, driving out to the house, she continued to think about it.
He must have been watching for her, or maybe it was coincidence, but he answered the door himself before she even had a chance to tug at the old bell-pull. Then she realised that it wasn’t either of those things as the little dog they’d rescued the day before trotted out.
‘He got home all right, then,’ she murmured inanely.
‘One can only assume so.’ At her look of astonishment, he added brusquely, ‘He isn’t mine.’
‘Oh.’
‘He visits.’
‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Have you, er, had a chance to look at the photographs?’
‘Yes. You’d better come in.’ Holding the door wide, he waited for her to step inside and then closed the door behind her and led the way to the study. He was having second thoughts about this. Overnight, he’d almost convinced himself that she’d looked calculating. But she didn’t. She looked almost as eager as the damned dog. She also looked surprised, as though she’d expected him to hand the portfolio back at the door.
Moving to sit behind the desk, he looked down at the album that lay in front of him. There was still time to change his mind. He glanced at her, trying, perhaps, to analyse a face that defied analysis, then returned his attention to the album.
‘Did you find anything you liked?’ she asked eagerly. Moving to stand beside him, she flipped over the cover. ‘They all show before and after…’
He stared at her.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, her face rueful.
‘Sit,’ he ordered.
Obediently turning away, she walked to sit in the chair she’d used previously. Her eyes on his strong face as he flipped the cover closed and began tapping a fingernail on it, she tried to see signs of illness, and couldn’t. He didn’t look thin, or pale, and certainly his hair wasn’t falling out—but then perhaps he hadn’t had chemotherapy. Or maybe it had grown again. Maybe he was now better. Jen had said that the article was over six months old. Certainly he looked really rather—well, rugged, she supposed. He was freshly shaven, and wearing an expensive-looking light grey, short-sleeved shirt with his long legs encased in clean jeans. There was an aura of strength, determination about him. No way did he look like a man who was dying.
The phone rang, and she gave a little start. Garde ignored it; when she couldn’t bear the intrusive ring any longer, she demanded, ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t you have an answering machine? Surely all this equipment isn’t just for show?’
He ignored her. The phone, thankfully, finally stopped ringing.
‘Did you see the letters of—well, praise, I suppose you could say, in the rear pocket?’ she asked him. Best to mention them and perhaps, hopefully, he wouldn’t notice that the last one was more than a year old.
He didn’t answer, but then he didn’t seem to answer anything he didn’t want to, including his phone. It seemed a funny way to run a business. If he had a business. She should have paid more attention to what Jen had been saying.
Holding his eyes for long, long moments, unsure of what message, if any, he was sending, she rushed into speech. ‘I rang my sister last night, to tell her about you. I’d asked her to try and get hold of the magazine I didn’t have time to finish reading in the dentist’s. It said you had cancer,’ she blurted.
Amazingly, he laughed. Derisively, admittedly, but still a laugh. ‘And that accounts for your worried air this morning?’ he mocked.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I was awake half the night thinking about it. I’m so sorry.’
‘No need to be,’ he said with an indifference that startled her. ‘It was a misprint.’
‘Misprint?’
‘Yes. It should have said I was driven by Cancer, the birth sign, not riven by it. The reporter was obviously into horoscopes. The printer or typesetter wasn’t.’
‘Oh,’ she commented inadequately, and then she smiled in relief. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘So am I,’ he agreed drily.
‘I didn’t think it made sense! It said you were successful.’
‘Did it?’ he asked with even more indifference.
‘Yes.’ Hiding a smile, watching his large, capable hands as he moved the album and began squaring papers on his desk, she felt comforted. Turning her attention to his profile, she decided that she liked very much what she saw. A strong, well-sculpted face. A man who made decisions and stuck to them. Perhaps. A man not given to small talk. A man who didn’t cheat? Someone who was perhaps slightly intimidating to anyone other than Sorrel—who was rarely intimidated by anyone.
‘Who took the photographs?’ he suddenly asked.
‘I did.’
He nodded.
‘You don’t believe I’m a landscape gardener, do you?’ she asked quietly. She’d often had this rather dubious response before.
‘I believe you know about gardens,’ he qualified.
With a little frown on her face, remembering his almost paranoia about secrecy the day before, she continued, ‘You don’t think I did the gardens in the photographs?’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. Yesterday,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘and even now, you seem to be implying that I might be something else. Is that it?’ Had Nick got to him? Had he somehow found out she was coming down here? No, he couldn’t have done. So why was Garde Chevenay being so suspicious? ‘I don’t understand why you seem to suspect me of ulterior motives.’
‘Your behaviour?’ he prompted.
‘But I’m always like this. Or do you mean because I turned up so unexpectedly? But that was because—’
‘I didn’t answer your letter—yes, you said.’
‘And I’m sure you’re quite capable of snubbing any pretensions I might have, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘It isn’t. Do you?’ he asked drily. ‘Have pretensions?’
‘No,’ she denied slowly and really rather worriedly. She had never thought she looked like a person on the make, and yet, this last year…
‘And now?’ he asked.
‘Now?’ she echoed in confusion.
‘Yes. What will you do now, Miss James?’
So he didn’t want her, she thought despondently. Why invite her in, then? Why prolong the agony? ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want me to do your gardens, I go away, back where I came from.’
‘To do what?’
Wavering between honesty and pride, she stated almost defiantly, ‘Whatever I can. I’ve been helping out in a garden centre for the past few months.’ There was no need to tell him she was no longer required, and, remembering why she’d been forced to eke out her existence in such a manner, and in no mood now to prolong a conversation about her work, or lack of it, she got to her feet. ‘Well,’ she added abruptly, ‘I’d better be going. I have a long drive ahead of me. It was nice to have met you, Mr Chevenay.’ Reaching out, she picked up her portfolio.
‘You no longer wish to do my gardens?’ he asked blandly.
‘Well, of course I want to do them! But you aren’t going to let me, are you? So there’s really no—’
‘Aren’t I?’
She just stared at him.
‘You aren’t the only one who grasps opportunities, Miss James.’ Without waiting for her to comment, he got to his feet.
‘You’re going to let me do them?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
‘Then why all the verbal games?’ she demanded. He must have known how much this meant to her. ‘If you knew when I came—’
‘I didn’t. I spoke to Mrs Davies,’ he added briefly as he led her out and back through the front door.
‘And that cemented your opinion, did it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘And she asked you to call her Davey.’
‘What shall I call you?’
‘Miss James,’ she said promptly.
He gave a small grunt of laughter. It sounded reluctant.
Irritated, she demanded, ‘Why do you want me to landscape your gardens? You didn’t yesterday.’
‘Perhaps I feel the need to keep an eye on you.’
She snorted.
‘Or perhaps I thought you needed the work.’
‘You don’t strike me as philanthropic,’ she retorted dismissively.
‘You don’t want to do them?’
Of course she wanted to do them! But he would want references, wouldn’t he? Any minute now he was going to ask for one. A man like Garde wouldn’t take on just anyone. She had hoped—naively, she knew—that she could convince him of her capabilities so that he wouldn’t ask. As she had hoped several times over the last few wretched months. And it had to be Nick behind it all, didn’t it? But how could she prove it?
Sorrel was still staring at Garde, her gaze blank, when she suddenly realised that he was waiting for an answer.
‘Yes, I want to do them,’ she confirmed quietly, and then thought she’d better say something else to explain the long silence. ‘I was just wondering why you hadn’t used a local firm. There must be some.’
‘There are. I even got a list of reputable landscapers. Countrywide,’ he added softly. ‘Your name wasn’t on it.’
Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? It had been taken off months ago. At Nick’s instigation.
‘You have references?’
No point in beating about the bush. ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I’ve never needed them,’ she stated defiantly. Until recently.
He nodded. ‘So what’s the procedure?’
‘Procedure?’ she echoed. Astonished that references had been dismissed so lightly, she opened her mouth to query it, then hastily closed it again. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sorrel.
‘Yes,’ he agreed with a slight edge of impatience. ‘You make sketches? Dig holes? What?’
‘Oh, sketches. You can then approve, or disapprove, let me have your own suggestions. Some people know exactly what they want. Others don’t.’
‘Then you may do some sketches for my approval.’
‘Thank you. When would you like me to begin?’
‘As soon as possible.’
Staring out over the front garden, she wondered why she didn’t feel delighted. She should have done. Instead, she felt—wary. ‘I’ll need to know your likes and dislikes, whether you want trees, water features…’