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HETTIE STRUGGLED TO get out of bed on Saturday morning. When she did get up, Alexander had already gone, called out to a sickly cow, his note informed her.
She walked to Lockie’s paddock and stayed in the field for longer than usual. As always, the yearlings gathered around her, jostling for attention until they grew bored of the game. Hettie sat, and then lay on the grassy earth. She plucked a green blade and pulled it through her fingers.
A bee droned past, and the sun broke cloud, which forced her to close her eyes, so she heard, rather than saw, the footfall of hooves moving towards her. The hesitance of tread told her it was Lockie, and she lay still. Squinting out of one eye, she could see he had stopped just feet away. His eyes were on her, his head low.
‘Hey you,’ Hettie whispered.
For a slow thirty seconds their eyes connected. She made a promise to him in her head, that if he would only trust her she would make bloody sure no one ever hurt him again.
Abruptly, her mind was hijacked by an image of Alexander. Hadn’t she made him a promise too? And hadn’t he suffered enough, being betrayed and let down by his family, without her adding to it? She was building on false trust, and the sudden truth of that scared her. She sat up.
Was it too late to tell him? What good would that serve? It would make her feel better, but he would feel a whole lot worse.
A mistreated horse, a knackered yard and a damaged man. For a breathless, panicky moment, the responsibility of it all was too much.
Lockie snorted and backed away.
From Lockie’s field, Hettie went on to Hardacre. It was impossible to keep away with all those jobs waiting. And her mind was settled by the physical work. Distracted by the radio and the monotony of slapping paint onto doors, Hettie almost forgot she was meant to be meeting Imogen for lunch. She put down the brush, and glanced at her paint-stained jeans. ‘Damn!’ She hammered the lid of the paint pot firmly back into place.
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THE TEA ROOM WAS COOL and the shade welcome. Slanted sunlight softened by the dimpled windows, a civilised purr of conversation. Hettie pulled her sweatshirt low to cover the paint smudge on her jeans. She found a table and looked around the room as she waited for Imogen. The place was populated with ladies who lunched on a Saturday, salon-fresh hair and lipstick in place. She was embarrassed now. What sort of a friend was she? So wrapped up in Hardacre and Lockie she’d nearly forgotten a mate-date. And now she’d come looking like this.
She smoothed her hair. The sweatshirt she’d found in the Landy was clean but creased and flip-flops had replaced her mucker boots, but she knew she looked a mess. Hunched over the menu, Hettie noticed the creosote stain on her fingers. She really must buy a pumice stone and get her hair cut.
She felt even worse when Imogen walked in, a vision of chic in white linen and artfully stonewashed denim. Hettie readjusted her face to hide her shock at the transformation in her once-timid friend. They hugged, and Hettie apologised for coming dressed as a tramp. Imogen waved her words away with a manicured hand.
Their tea came in a pot, and the sandwiches arrived with their crusts removed. Hettie got the giggles when Imogen told of her morning appointment spent with a client who wanted every room in her house to be jungle themed. ‘Giraffes in the lounge, monkeys in the kid’s room and a lion in the bedroom!’
‘Well, I guess we all want a lion in the bedroom.’
‘Not me. But on that subject, I hear you’re living with Alexander.’
‘Not officially. I stayed over, and I sort of haven’t left.’
They reminisced about their days working together at Draymere, and time ran by so fast, they didn’t actually get around to talking about keeping accounts, the main excuse for their lunch. Imogen took her iPad from her blue leather satchel when they’d asked for their bill. ‘It’s easy, once you get the hang of it. Set up a spreadsheet. Look, like this. Just make sure you keep it up to date!’
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GRACE CALLED AT THE Gatehouse on Sunday evening, the only time Hettie and Alexander had found themselves alone together that weekend. ‘I’ve a massive favour to ask. You can say no, but please don’t! Mother was meant to be minding the children this weekend because James and I have a wedding in Scotland. Posh bash, dear old friend of mine.’ She paused to draw breath. ‘Anyway, Father’s had an accident. He fell off a ladder, and he’s broken his arm, poor Daddy. Mummy won’t leave him on his own, and he can’t come because someone has to be there for the animals.’ Grace bent to fuss Doris, who was sitting on her foot. ‘I’m rambling, sorry. The long and the short of it is, I’ve lost my babysitter. I know it’s a big ask with my unruly mob, but Celia’s in France, and I don’t know who else to ask.’
Hettie made her voice light, delaying her answer while she processed Grace’s request with more than a little nervousness. ‘How long would you need us for?’
Artie and Fred were alright. Noisy and energetic, but she could cope with that. Georgia bowled from joy to fury in thirty-second cycles. And as for Sophie, well, Hettie had never changed a nappy in her life, and she doubted Alexander had either.
‘We were planning to travel up on the Friday and come home on Sunday. We were going to leave early, but we could delay...’
‘No need, of course we can do it.’ Alexander put his arm across Hettie’s shoulders. ‘We’ll enjoy spending time with the kids. I’m looking forward to it already. And Hettie isn’t working, so she can get there early on Friday, and I’ll join her later.’
Hettie looked at him sideways, but she didn’t say anything.
‘And Hettie, you’re okay with that? I know babies aren’t your thing...’
‘Of course I am! Like Alexander said, it will be fun.’ As Grace closed her eyes in exaggerated relief, she wondered if maybe this was God’s punishment on her, for being a useless friend since she’d taken Hardacre on. She’d been planning to start on the fences next weekend. But it wasn’t as if Grace asked for favours often.
‘Wonderful, thank you! You two can use it as practice!’
Hettie forced a wide smile. ‘Yeah, don’t push your luck, Grace, or I might change my mind.’
Alexander pulled her closer.
Grace glanced around the room. ‘On the other hand, it’s so bloody peaceful in here... looking after my sawn-off savages might put you off forever. Is that wine? Can I loiter awhile and tell James that you took some persuading? With any luck bath and bedtime will be over before I get back.’
Alexander laughed and picked up the just-opened bottle of wine. ‘Poor James.’
Poor me, Hettie thought, who has now been lumbered with bath and bedtime next Friday.
Grace took the glass of wine. ‘Have either of you noticed Pig just pooped behind the sofa?’
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BY WEDNESDAY THE FOLLOWING week, Alexander was beginning to feel a bit put out about Hettie’s continual absences. He knew he had no right to be. He hadn’t exactly been around much himself, but that didn’t stop the flare of irritation when he got home late to find the door still locked and the house deserted. He’d become used to having her waiting. It was selfish of him, and he knew it, but surely she should want to spend time with him. Preferably awake. It wasn’t as if she had anyone clocking her in and out. If she had, she could have sued for unreasonable hours. His churlish thoughts made him cross with himself. His petulance felt childish, and he’d already made things worse by being short with her, telling her all she thought about was Lockie and that bloody yard, so she’d stopped mentioning them now.
He continued to beat himself up for his lack of faith, but it was real doubt that churned in the pit of his stomach. He tried to remind himself his failure to trust was the fault of his past, not of Hettie. The damage done by his mother leaving, and his misjudged loyalty to a drunken father who’d disowned him.
It wasn’t easy to believe in love after that. It wasn’t easy to accept that she wanted to be with him. Even at his most complacent, his subconscious warned that the good times couldn’t last, the hammer blow would fall. It was simply a matter of when.
Last night, he’d had to wake her off the sofa again. By the time he’d followed her upstairs she was fast asleep, stripped down to her knickers. His careless undressing and hopeful spooning hadn’t stirred her, and he’d lost sleep to his frustration and insecurity.
He broached the subject that morning, standing close behind her at the kitchen worktop as she made a flask of coffee. ‘I missed you last night.’
‘Missed me? I was here.’
‘Here, but unconscious.’ He looped his arms around her chest and pressed his mouth against her hair.
‘I’m busy trying to fit a week of work into four days because you’ve thrown me under a bus, babysitting your brother’s brood.’
He hugged her tighter. ‘You’re such a drama queen. It might do you some good to slow down for a weekend. And it’ll do us good to spend time together.’
She twisted out of his arms and screwed the lid onto her flask. ‘Alexander, have you met those kids?’
Irritation sparked in his chest again. He moved away from her and began putting on his trainers. He jagged the laces tighter than they needed to be. ‘For God’s sake, how hard can it be?’ He stood up, summoning his dogs with a sharp whistle through his teeth. ‘For fuck’s sake call Bill’s handyman and give yourself a day off. You’re knackered, and you look it.’
He started to jog as soon as he stepped over the threshold, out of the house. Digger and Dora trotted out behind him.
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HETTIE DROPPED DIRTY mugs onto the shelf of the dishwasher and clattered handfuls of cutlery into the basket. I look knackered? Well, thank you for that. Bastard. Alright for him, with his potloads of money. He would have waved his credit card and called the builders in. Throw money at it, take control... another bloody good reason not to have taken him up on his offer of a loan.
But she stopped in front of the mirror on her way out of the house. She hadn’t stayed awake long enough to shower last night and had dressed in yesterday’s clothes when she’d crawled out of bed this morning. It was hardly worth putting clean ones on where she was going. Her hair looked like the coat of an unkempt sheepdog, and her hands were scarred with paint. Her foot was throbbing, and she was losing a toenail. Purple shadows lurked under her eyes. And, despite all her efforts, repairs to the stables and any visible improvements were painfully slow. She’d hardly made a dent.
Her injuries were the outcome of perching on makeshift ladders and dragging heavy pallets. She’d dropped a pallet on her foot yesterday, while wearing only sandals, which she knew was stupid, but the day had been hot and sticky. Mad dogs and English women, although, as she recalled, the dogs’d had the sense to stay in the shade. The bruise was ugly, dappled blue.
She’d been trying to use rusty, nail-splintered wood already there to mend her fences, because she didn’t have enough money for new rails. She’d blown three grand of her savings on Lockie, and had just three hundred pounds left. It could be months before she was ready to take in paying customers.
But she couldn’t regret her decision to spend the money on Lockie. Baby steps, but at least she was making some progress with him. He’d stopped running away when she went into the field, and yesterday, for the very first time, he had nudged her elbow as she sat on the grass, fussing one of the yearlings.
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ALEXANDER RAN HARD along the footpath to work. Behind him the green fields rolled away from the track, and Draymere Hall rested in the valley. He pounded the path with grim single-mindedness, driving away his frustration at himself, at Hettie, at the prospect of another day shut in that windowless clinic.
Shouldn’t she be looking forward to spending a weekend with him? As opposed to what – cleaning and mending and driving herself to exhaustion? And if she didn’t prefer his company to that, then what the fuck did that tell him? But he’d told her about the horse. It was him who had led her to Hardacre. So why was he carping now just because her attention was elsewhere?
He cursed his thoughts and sped up. His trainers jarred on the sun-baked earth. It wasn’t anything to do with needing her attention, but it had begun to feel like she was deliberately making herself distant from him.
He was out of breath when he pushed the door to the practice open. His T-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat, and the muscles in his legs were screaming for oxygen.
Ruby, the pretty veterinary nurse, was at the reception desk. She looked flustered and combed her fingers through her choppy blonde hair when she smiled at him. ‘Gosh, record time today? Can I get you a coffee?’
Alexander glanced at his watch and waited a few moments for his breathing to slow.
Ruby was still looking at him, and she blushed when he looked up.
She quickly bent to fuss Dora, but Alexander wasn’t above enjoying the small buzz of pleasure he got from her look of appreciation. He grinned at her. ‘Twelve minutes. Yes, coffee would be good.’
He was still smiling as he strolled to the staff showers. Nice-looking girl.