By the time I say goodbye to my sisters and the last of the visitors, the sky is a quilt of pale blues and greys. Blake sits on a foundation in the shade of a chimney. He’s waiting for me.
When I get close, he holds out his hand and I sit next to him. Then I put his hand in my lap. I trace around his thumbnail. ‘Beatrice said I can visit the jacaranda tree whenever I like.’
Turning his hand, he threads our fingers tightly. The hint of a half-smile. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Your shoulder hurts, doesn’t it? I have paracetemol, but you should eat something with it.’
He lifts our hands, kisses a knuckle, considers his words. ‘When we came here last time, you approved of the house’s position.’
‘It would have been at the top of the hill, waiting to welcome you home.’ I look past the jacaranda to the ribbon of trees that mark the river. ‘Are the Oldfields going to rebuild?’
‘I bought the property,’ Blake says. ‘I’ll rebuild.’
I shift further back on the stones that make up the foundations. I look over my shoulder, consider the stepped walls of the garden, the rambling roses and blackberry bushes. The pines, the gums and the oak.
‘When did you buy it?’
‘After you saw it the first time.’
My heart pounds. My skin warms. ‘It … would have been expensive.’
‘I’m selling my terrace in London.’
‘What if you … want to go back?’
‘I want to live here.’
‘You loved the Highlands. You could live there.’
‘It’s cold and bleak. We can visit.’
‘Blake!’
‘I want to live here.’
‘But—’
‘I want to live here with you.’
I have a lot of words in my head, but only one comes out: ‘Oh.’
Swinging a leg over the wall, he sits sideways. Claiming my hands, he presses his cheek against mine. ‘Oh?’
Forcing words never works. Don’t aim too high. Say something safe.
I pull back and free my hands, placing them on his chest to feel the slow, steady beats of his heart. ‘Was Beatrice disappointed she didn’t get the property?’
Another half-smile. ‘She thought my need was greater.’
‘What about her Highland cattle?’
He traces the neck of my shirt. ‘I can keep a herd of my own.’
‘You don’t … want to be a doctor?’
‘I could finish my training here, but I don’t want to do that.’ He kisses my nose. ‘I want to be a vet.’
‘Because of your grandfather.’
‘And you.’
My eyes sting. I swallow. ‘Will you … work at the zoo?’
‘I won’t specialise in the way that I did. I’ll need other work too.’
‘With farm animals?’
‘I could never be the vet that you are.’
I cover his mouth with the tips of my fingers. ‘Dr Latimer told me you … saved Martin Roxburgh’s mare and foal.’
He kisses my palm. ‘I’ll request a reference.’
‘You used the skills your grandfather taught you, didn’t you? With his hands and a rope, he … was better than any vet you’d ever known.’
‘You, Primrose Cartwright …’ He whistles. ‘Know all of my secrets.’
‘I didn’t know about this farm. Or what would happen today.’
He rests his forehead on mine. ‘Do you know how I feel about you?’
I count to three. Shake my head.
‘I feel everything,’ he says.
‘Everything?’
‘Everything.’
I lean forward and kiss his cheek. Sit back and consider our hands. ‘S … same.’
He kisses my mouth, hard and slow and sweet and deep. My words are scrambled, my heart is bursting. A good kind of pain.
When he pulls back, his lips are damp. His eyes are bright. ‘I have another month at the Coach House, then I’ll move here.’
‘Where … will you live?’
Standing and pulling me with him, he moves behind me, one arm around my middle. He points through the trees to a small timber building with a bright red door.
‘What is it?’
‘A cabin.’
‘It’s like a house in the Hundred Acre Wood.’
When he nibbles the lobe of my ear, darts of lust shoot straight to my heart. ‘I fitted it out when you were in Obley.’
How many words do I need for this? Only five: Can I live there too? But only three come out. ‘I like it.’
‘A bedroom, a sitting room, a kitchen. It’s basic.’
‘Did you fix the fences for my animals?’
‘There’s a goat-proof paddock for Harry and Darcy. Eeyore has his own space. I’ll build stables and yards for the horses.’
‘You liked it when your nanny read Winnie-the-Pooh, didn’t you?’
When he doesn’t answer, I turn. Sorrow in his eyes.
A cloud bursts open. Raindrops splash on the stones.
‘Blake?’ I push back his hair. I look into his eyes, the blue and the grey. I share the weight of his grief. ‘I have that book. We can read it together.’
He takes my hands. ‘Yes.’
As we kiss, the rain tumbles slowly and our skin becomes slippery and warm. The pressure builds, the needing and wanting, till we’re flushed and fidgety and impatient. Blurry golden light sparkles through the clouds.
I wipe his eyes, raindrops like glitter. ‘You can … still travel,’ I tell him. ‘I can come with you.’
With an unsteady hand, he touches my cheek. ‘I don’t want my old life.’
‘How do you know that?’
A long hesitation. ‘You know how I grew up.’
‘You had nannies when you lived with your parents, and then you went to boarding school. Sometimes you stayed with your grandmother. In the holidays, you went to your grandfather.’
‘After my grandfather’s land was sold, I didn’t care where I lived.’
‘But now you do,’ I whisper. ‘You … want a home.’
‘And I want you.’