‘I’m going to pop to the kitchen to see what’s happening, Blackie. And if you want you can look at these rooms. I believe it’s a well-designed house. It might interest you.’
Angela smiled at him, dropped his hand, and waved at the open doors. ‘Go on, go and investigate. I won’t be long,’ she added. ‘Builders like to look at houses, I believe.’
‘Thank ye,’ he answered, and did as she said. Pushing open the nearest door, he found himself walking into a square study, almost like a small library. His face changed, instantly, filled with admiration, as his dark eyes swept over the pine-panelled walls and matching shelves, filled with books. The pale wood seemed to have a silvery gleam to it in the early evening light.
There were only a few pieces of furniture; a small antique desk under the window overlooking the garden, and a rose-coloured sofa and two small armchairs covered in the same rose fabric. All these were arranged in front of the fireplace.
Blackie tried to take in everything at once, the many books, the painting of a bowl of flowers on the wall above the fireplace, and the ornaments placed here and there among the books.
How well she had done the room, small though it was. If she had decorated it. Something told him she had. He strolled over to the shelves next to the fireplace, his eyes scanning the books. A lot of history. Biographies of kings.
With a huge smile, he took out the one called The Six Wives of Henry VIII. Well, he thought, I’ve never come across this one in the Armley Public Library. But I’ll seek it out, he thought, as he put it back on the shelf.
Turning, he went out into the long corridor which ran from the garden door to the front door of the house. He liked this corridor, and the squareness of the actual house.
He hated what he thought of as ‘bits and pieces’ – small additions, popping out at each end of a house. Blackie O’Neill’s ideal, his true favourite, was Georgian. That was the style he favoured and would build. One day he would own one himself, he was sure. And definitely in Harrogate.
Opposite the library was the drawing room and, like the room he had just left, it was light on furniture and clutter.
How he disliked the ornate style of Queen Victoria’s time, so prevalent still. Too much furniture, too many objects, and those ghastly plants in big brass pots – mostly palms squeezed in between small tables.
He walked slowly around, noting the sense of calmness. The walls were painted cream, as were the doors and the fireplace. Two small sofas were covered in cream brocade, and the rug on the floor was cream, patterned with small pink, green and blue flowers. The paleness, the austerity, the smoothness of the room created an atmosphere of tranquillity. He recognized that Angela had good taste and a flair for decorating. A style of her own that was unique.
‘Here you are!’ Angela exclaimed, coming into the drawing room. ‘So, Blackie, do you like my home?’
‘Absolutely,’ he answered, swinging around at the sound of her voice. ‘The library is a gem, and what a sense of calmness ye have created in here. I like your choices, how ye’ve been very careful not to fill up space with needless stuff.’
She nodded. ‘I hate a lot of stuff, as you call it; much prefer a sense of airiness, spaciousness. Well, I’m glad you approve. So, come along, supper is ready. Claudie is about to put the dishes on the sideboard in the dining room.’
Blackie asked, ‘Who is Claudie?’
Walking alongside him down the corridor, Angela explained, ‘She’s my helper, a devoted friend of many years. Her mother Clara was my aunt’s housekeeper in Harrogate, when I was growing up. They lived with us at the house near The Stray. When Clara died, we took Claudie on. She had no other family and nowhere to go, you see.’
‘That was kind of ye,’ Blackie ventured, a strong hint of admiration in his voice. He glanced down at her, thinking what a nice person she seemed to be, thoughtful of others.
The dining room took him by surprise as they entered. After the paleness of the pine-panelled library and the all-cream drawing room, they stepped into a dark green-and-white room. Green walls and draperies, with white paint on all the doors, wood trim and the ceiling. The chair frames were also painted white, and all the chair seats were of deep green brocade. It was handsome, he decided, and a nice change.
Angela looked up at him. Observing the surprise on his face, she burst out laughing. ‘A bit of a shock, eh, Blackie?’
He nodded, chuckling, and then turned as he heard the click of heels on the wooden floor. A young woman wearing an apron was walking in carrying a tray. He wanted to go and help her, but instinct told him he should not. So he remained put, out of his depth as a guest in this house.
Once the tray was put down on a side table, the young woman turned and nodded. ‘Good evening,’ she murmured.
‘Claudie, come and meet Mr O’Neill,’ Angela said, before he could return the young woman’s greeting.
She did as Angela had asked and hurried to join them. Angela said, ‘Blackie, this is Claudette Bouvier, who helps me in the kitchen.’
Blackie, thrusting out his hand, said, ‘I’m pleased to meet ye, Miss Bouvier.’
Claudette took his hand. ‘And I am happy to meet you, Mr O’Neill.’ With a small nod, she went back to the tray on the table and began to place the dishes on the sideboard. He noticed she was being very careful.
Angela took his arm, guided him to a chair, and then went to the opposite side of the dining table and sat down herself, smiling warmly at him. ‘I didn’t have any idea what food you like,’ she remarked, ‘so I just kept the menu simple, just as I like.’
‘I’m not a picky eater,’ Blackie answered swiftly. ‘I enjoy most things.’ As he said this, he realized he wasn’t hungry at all, for once in his life. At least not for food. He sat staring at this beautiful woman, transfixed.
Claudie walked across and paused at the table. ‘Everything is ready on the sideboard. Enjoy supper.’
‘Thank you,’ Angela said, and Blackie also gave her his thanks.
Once they were alone, Angela pushed back her chair, stood, and hurried to the sideboard. ‘Claudie has potato and leek soup for us.’ Whilst she was speaking, she put the bowls on a small tray and carried this to the table, placed one in front of Blackie and then the other at her place. ‘I think you’ll like it,’ she said, picking up a spoon.
He did, and unexpectedly his appetite revived. After several mouthfuls, he put the spoon down and looked across the table at her. ‘It’s delicious. I’ve never tasted this kind of soup before. Claudie is obviously a good cook.’
‘She is. Her father was a Frenchman, Arnaud Bouvier, and she learned a lot from him. You see, he was a French chef by trade.’
‘In Harrogate?’ Blackie asked, a dark brow lifting.
‘Yes. He came to England as a very young man with his brother Jacques. They opened a little shop, and it did well. Jacques handled the business and Arnaud was the chef. His great speciality was confectionery, and he was also a wonderful baker.’
‘Well, fancy that. How interesting their story is. I never think of foreigners living in the north. I always think of them in London.’
‘I know what you mean, but the man who has opened a café in Harrogate called Hettys is a pastry chef from Switzerland.’
‘Really?’ Blackie stared at her, amazement apparent. ‘Ye are a fountain of information, just like Sarah. But in a different way,’ he thought to add.
Angela nodded. ‘I grew up in Harrogate, as I told you.’ Rising, she took the empty bowls away and, over her shoulder, she said, ‘Blackie, come and help yourself to the main course. Claudie and I prepared cutlets with new potatoes. There are green peas too.’
Blackie strode across to the sideboard, took the plate she was offering, and gave her an appreciative look. ‘It’s quite a supper ye planned, Angela. Thank ye for inviting me.’
‘I’m happy you’re here,’ she murmured, looking up into his face, her eyes riveted on his.
‘I’m happy too, so I am,’ he murmured in a low voice, held by her eyes. His heart thudded once more.
Turning away swiftly, Angela began to serve the food to him.