One Bride Required!

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‘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.