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‘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.’
