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She stared at his hand, then back to his face.
‘You have a copy of this letter?’
‘Well, of course I don’t have a copy!’ she denied in exasperation. ‘Why would I? It doesn’t work like that. I write, you respond…’
‘But, I didn’t.’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘There aren’t any buts. Why did you come?’ he asked bluntly.
Because I was desperate. But she couldn’t say that, could she? No. ‘I was in the area,’ she lied glibly. Still staring at him, examining his harsh, rather square-cut face, and those slate-grey, expressionless eyes, she said hopefully, ‘Coffee would be nice.’
‘I dare say it would, Miss…?’
‘James. Sorrel James.’ Her lips twitched slightly at the expression on his face. ‘Daft, isn’t it? But my mother was into horses at the time and I was born with brownish-orange hair.’
‘It’s still brownish-orange,’ he commented.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and I don’t know how you have the cheek to sneer at my name when yours is even more bizarre. At least people have heard of Sorrel. I mean, Garde isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill, is it? A family name?’
‘No, and I have no idea what my mother was into,’ he returned rudely, throwing her own words back at her.
She grinned. ‘Coffee?’
He stared at her for a moment. Genuine, or ingenious? he wondered. It might be interesting to find out exactly what little game she was playing. He depressed a button on the intercom. There was a faint squawk and he said quietly, his gaze still on Sorrel, ‘Coffee for two, please, Mrs Davies.’ Still watching her, he asked, ‘Why were you in the area?’
Lowering her lashes, she scratched absently at the mud on the knee of her trousers. Don’t tell lies, Sorrel. Tell the truth. ‘Actually, that was a lie,’ she confessed. ‘I drove down to see you.’ Looking up, she stared at him once more. ‘I want to do your gardens. I’m a lot stronger than I look,’ she promised in the face of his obvious scepticism. ‘And I’m very good. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘Won’t I?’ he asked flatly.
‘No.’
‘And do you normally seek people out? Knock on their doors?’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted quietly.
‘How many times? Come in,’ he called when there was a faint tap at the door.
A rather worried-looking woman in her early fifties entered, carrying a tray. It was the woman who had answered the door to her earlier. She smiled rather nervously at Garde, gave Sorrel a curious glance and put the coffee on the corner of the desk.
‘Thank you, Mrs Davies—and, in future,’ he added in a voice that was guaranteed to terrify a timid heart, ‘if anyone else calls, I’m not in. Neither do you know where I am, or what I’m doing. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Sorrel put in quickly, with a sympathetic smile for the other woman. ‘I told her I was an old friend.’
Eyes still on Mrs Davies, he said, ‘The same applies to old friends. Take their name and a contact number or address.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry.’ She gave another nervous smile and went out, closing the door softly behind her.
‘Bit harsh, weren’t you?’
He didn’t answer, merely waved his hand towards the tray, which Sorrel assumed meant she was to pour, and with a rather wry smile she got to her feet. ‘How do you take yours?’
‘Black.’
‘Figures.’
She poured his, then her own, adding a generous amount of cream and sugar, and then returned to her chair and stared at him. ‘You seem rather paranoid about your privacy,’ she commented. When he didn’t answer, merely returned her stare, she continued, ‘Because you’re—what? Famous? Wealthy? Important?’
‘No. How many times?’ he repeated.
With a comical little grimace, she confessed, ‘Well, none, actually. This is the first time.’
He looked as though he might believe it. She didn’t know why he might believe that, but…
‘How did you find me?’
‘Find you?’ she echoed. ‘You make it sound as though I was looking.’ Suddenly remembering his earlier comments, she added thoughtfully, ‘Up on the hill, you said you didn’t give interviews, as though I might be a reporter.’
He waited, and she gave a small smile. She was actually beginning to like this rather abrupt man, and she gave a soft, infectious laugh. ‘I found you at the dentist,’ she finally explained. ‘I was waiting, as one does, and leafing through a magazine, and there you were. Garde Chevenay, the new owner of Blakeborough Abbey. There was an aerial view of the grounds, and I yearned to do them,’ she said simply. ‘I did have a quick peep at the rear,’ she confessed. ‘That old paving needs some attention—but if you didn’t want or couldn’t afford to have the whole thing done at once,’ she added quickly, ‘I could do it piecemeal. Or even just the gravel. I’m very good at gravel.’
‘You do surprise me,’ he said sardonically. ‘The dentist is local?’
‘What? Oh, no,’ she admitted with a small grin. ‘London. I don’t have much work on at present.’
‘And one must grasp at opportunities as they arise?’
‘Yes, so you see…’
‘You have proof of your identity?’ he interrupted.
Puzzled, she shook her head. ‘Not with me, no. Why?’
‘Because I want to know who you are.’
‘But you know who I am. I just told you.’
‘Did you?’
Slightly bewildered, she nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t bring identification?’ he asked with drawled sarcasm. ‘Not very professional.’
‘No—I mean—yes.’ Taking a deep breath, she stated positively, ‘I brought my portfolio.’ Leaping to her feet, she said eagerly, ‘I’ll go and get it. It’s in my truck. Then you’ll be able to see what I can do…’ Before he could comment, she hurried out, walked gingerly across the gravel in her socks and collected it. Hurrying back, she laid it on the desk before him. ‘My card’s inside the front cover.’
He nodded and opened the photograph album. Pulling a piece of paper towards him, he jotted down her name and address and then closed it.
Watching him, she felt her eagerness begin to dissipate. ‘Aren’t you going to look at the photographs?’
‘No,’ he said dismissively.
‘Then why did you want it?’
‘So that I can check you out.’ Picking up the album, he tried to hand it to her.
She put her hands behind her back. ‘I’ll leave it with you. I can pick it up tomorrow. You never know, you might find some of the ideas useful…’
‘No,’ he said softly.
‘Yes. And if you really don’t—’
‘I don’t.’
‘You could post it back to me.’
‘It might get lost,’ he said blandly.
‘I’ll take that chance. Please? I really am very good.’
‘And cheap?’ he asked interestedly.
‘Well, no, but…’
Eyes holding hers, he dismissed her softly. ‘Goodbye, Miss James.’
With a little grimace, she quickly finished her coffee and picked up her coat. ‘At least look at them,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m open to suggestions…’ Realising what she had said, she gave a grunt of laughter. ‘Not those sort of suggestions, I just meant—’
‘I know what you meant.’
Pulling a face at him, she slung her muddy coat round her shoulders. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Not if I see you first, hung in the air between them, and she gave a rueful smile. After opening the door, she returned for the tray. ‘I’ll take it back to the kitchen, shall I?’
‘It won’t do you any good.’
‘That wasn’t why I…Sorry, I tend to get a bit—’
‘Carried away?’ He was staring at her with an expression of such interested attentiveness that she laughed.
‘All right, I’m going.’ Don’t push your luck, Sorrel, she warned herself. Hastily escaping, she awkwardly closed the door behind her. She knew she did tend to get a bit carried away in other people’s houses, but then that was probably because she usually worked in other people’s houses. And he hadn’t forced her to take back the portfolio, so there was still hope, wasn’t there? Ever the optimist, smile still in place, she headed down the hall.
Assuming that kitchens were normally at the rear of a property, she pushed open the door beneath the staircase, and came to an abrupt halt. The room looked like something from the Middle Ages, and the contrast with the hall was—well, astonishing.
Mrs Davies was sitting at the long scrubbed table in the centre of the room. She looked as though she’d been crying. Putting down the tray, Sorrel asked gently, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing!’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t say! Mr Craddock, the last owner, was so—easy.’ Staring at Sorrel, she burst out, ‘I need this job. Clive’s out of work at present—my husband,’ she explained, ‘and although Mr Chevenay said I could stay on, I don’t know what he expects of me.’
‘Because he doesn’t say,’ Sorrel agreed sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, not really. Could you ask him?’ she pleaded. ‘What my duties are?’
‘Me?’ Sorrel exclaimed in astonishment. ‘But I don’t know him! I’m not really a friend…’
‘Please? If I Hoover, he asks me to stop; if I cook him meals, he doesn’t eat them. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to answer his phone! And now he wants me to redesign his kitchen! I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but redesign it how?’
‘Get some magazines,’ Sorrel advised. ‘That’s what people normally do, isn’t it? Show him some pictures. And surely it will be better for you to work somewhere, well, modern?’
‘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.’
