During the next few days Rosalind spent a lot of time thinking about her situation and relationships as her clever fingers built up the figure of Paul in her embroidery. This wasn’t at all like one of her usual pictures, it was – it was more a search for understanding, she decided during a stormy afternoon, watching the rain march across the hills towards her, then splatter against the windowpanes of the bedroom she used as her workroom.
This wasn’t just a pleasurable activity, but a necessity, and it was taking far longer to do than usual because she seemed to be spending a lot of time staring into space, lost in the dark tangles of her own thoughts.
When the figure of her husband was finished, she held the square of material at arm’s length and stared at it in amazement. Such a strutting, arrogant creature! And yet – it was Paul!
Was she being cruel to him, creating a caricature? No, she decided reluctantly, she was being truthful, using her artist’s eye.
Paul’s experiment had backfired on him. Change of season, he’d called this visit to England. Change of perception, it seemed to be for her – about herself as well as him.
She set the piece aside for a while because working on it was so traumatic. She couldn’t face doing herself or her children yet, not if their figures were going to reveal as much as Paul’s had.
For the next embroidery she chose a charming thirties scene with children playing in a park, based on one of Soph’s old photographs. It was a relief to work on that after the wrenching emotion of doing Paul.
She was no longer sorry she’d come on this trip, because she’d been able to say farewell to Soph.
And the money she’d been left made her feel better about herself, more confident somehow. She’d bought a new computer and a program for designing embroidery pictures – though she was still trying to figure that out. She was on email too, but Liz must still be away and her mother didn’t do email.
She’d sent messages to her daughters, giving them her new email address, but they hadn’t replied. Had she dropped off the planet or something?
She hadn’t contacted Paul, because what she wanted to say to him needed to be done face-to-face. It fretted her that he was so far away, because she wanted, no, needed to discuss their future. They hadn’t talked enough in the past, not seriously, anyway.
Improved communication could only strengthen their relationship in the long run, surely, even if it was painful. Twenty-four years together must mean they were basically on track as a couple. Paul wasn’t like Bill Foxen, after all. He didn’t cheat on her.
Liz let Paul swing her round the dance floor and gave herself up to enjoyment. She’d danced with him before, of course she had, but it hadn’t felt like this, as if they were alone in the universe. Other faces blurred around them. She looked up and found him smiling down at her.
‘Enjoying yourself, Liz?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Me, too.’
As he pulled her closer, Paul couldn’t help wondering if Liz had meant what she said to Ros about ‘sauce for the goose’. He’d dismissed the idea at the time, but what was Liz doing on her own here in Hong Kong if she hadn’t meant it?
He shouldn’t think about such things, definitely not. Rule number one: never foul your own nest. But the feel of Liz’s small, firm breasts against his chest, the smell of her perfume, the pleasure of her company and intelligent conversation – well, they were all having an inevitable effect. He only hoped it wasn’t too noticeable.
It was. Liz smiled as she nestled against him and felt his arousal. She wished the dance would go on for ever. Even if it was only Paul, it was good to feel a man get hard because of her, especially a man as attractive as this one. She’d seen the other women in the restaurant looking at him. Well, look all you want, ladies! she thought triumphantly. Tonight, he’s mine.
That made her blink. Whatever was she thinking about? He wasn’t hers. He was Ros’s. Her best friend’s husband, for heaven’s sake! What sort of woman was she to fantasise about him, press herself against him like this? She pulled away, only too aware of her own body’s reactions. And his.
‘I think this is getting too – too—’
He didn’t let go of her hand, didn’t stop moving in time to the music. ‘I’m enjoying myself, Liz. Very much.’
She swallowed hard, then the words crept out of their own accord. ‘So am I.’
‘Then why stop?’ He pulled her closer and started dancing again. She couldn’t resist the invitation behind those words, because it was balm to her pain.
Any more than he could resist following up on her unspoken consent. A man’s sexual needs were so much more pressing than a woman’s. Ros would never have understood that.
One fine but cold day Rosalind decided not to sit around and mope. A really long walk would do her good.
The neighbours, who had invited her in for morning tea one day, had told her about the wonderful scenery you could only see properly on foot, all signposted for walkers, apparently. The lady at Number 7 had even lent her a book of walks, graded from easy to energetic.
Rosalind decided to try something of medium distance to begin with, so flipped through the book. No, a mile wasn’t enough. Three miles would be just right. That would tire her out and then she’d maybe get a good night’s sleep, for a change.
Lovely, she told herself as she set off. But she’d never been one for solitary walks, or solitary anything, come to that. She was really missing her circle of friends, not just Liz, but the others she’d known for years, the ones she went to the theatre with, or out for cosy little feminine lunches. Her mother, too.
With the sun shining and a moderate wind blowing her along, Rosalind did feel better for a while. The countryside was truly beautiful and there was a blaze of daffodils in gardens and even along the sides of the road sometimes. There were clumps of purple aubrietia, too, forming an attractive contrast with the yellow, and often tumbling out of crevices in the grey stone walls that edged many of the gardens.
She passed picturesque cottages which would look good in an embroidery, even stopping to photograph one or two. But her fingers were so cold with her gloves off that she messed up one shot and had to do it again.
The inhabitants of those cottages probably had more sense than she did and were staying inside, keeping warm. Only idiots went for walks on freezing cold days like this.
She was an idiot. Definitely.
The walkers’ trail had been clearly marked so far, but suddenly the path split into three and there was no indication as to which way she should go. She pulled the guidebook out of her shoulder bag, but could get no help from it. Shrugging, she stuffed it back, wrapped her scarf more tightly round her neck and turned left because that looked the most used of the three tracks.
It twisted down a steep slope into a small wood. Leafless trees surrounded her and bare brown branches swept at the grey overcast sky like giant brooms, while the skeletons of last year’s leaves were still piled in hollows. When did the new leaves come out here, for heaven’s sake? It was April already, allegedly spring, and most trees were still pretty bare.
The sun went in and suddenly everything seemed to take on a sinister feel. Charcoal clouds raced one another across the sky and the landscape lost every vestige of colour. Here in the woods there were only greys and browns and muddy hues – earth and rock and decay. She glanced up anxiously, hoping the rain would hold off until she got back.
One moment she was striding along at a cracking pace, the next she trod on some gravel and felt it roll beneath her feet. She scrabbled desperately to keep her balance, found only other loose stones and cried out as she lost it completely. She felt herself falling awkwardly and called out again. But only the trees heard her.
As she hit the ground, the breath was slammed out of her and she lay half-stunned for a moment. There was no sound to be heard, apart from the howling wind and her own ragged breathing. Her ankle hurt. She moved it cautiously and couldn’t help moaning as pain clamped its teeth into her leg. Was the bone broken?
She made an attempt to get up, yelping as she tried to put some weight on that knee and bumped the ankle. And suddenly, it was all too much. She fell back on the ground, with sobs forcing themselves up her throat in painful bursts of harsh noise. She could lie here and die of exposure and no one would know, or even care.
Delayed grief for Sophie hit her in a secondary wave and she lay there weeping helplessly, her head pillowed on her arms, sobbing out her misery on the rocky ground.
On that cold spring day, Jonathon Destan also decided to go for a walk. He’d been meaning to check out the unfenced bit of land above the grove and at least string a token wire barrier across it with a PRIVATE – KEEP OUT notice before the summer influx of tourists. Several walkers had taken a wrong turn the previous year and had then treated the grounds like a public park, leaving litter and other, more disgusting, signs of their passing.
He strolled slowly across the gardens and paused to look back at the house, his gaze softening as it always did. He loved his home. It was as much a part of him as his own body and he didn’t intend to let anyone take it away from him. Well, Isabel had no reason to break the family trust – even the courts had recognised that, since everything would go to his elder son in due course – but his ex-wife had certainly taken all his spare money in lieu.
He didn’t know how he was going to manage. He’d tried to think of some way to earn money because the days of landed gentry living on their rents were well past. Only – what was he qualified to do except manage this small estate?
He sighed. He wanted to support his two sons and pay for a good education, of course he did, but he also wanted them to have Destan Manor as their inheritance. Not an old ruin no one could afford to maintain, but a beautiful home that had been lived in by the same family for several centuries. A wave of bitterness washed through him. What he had really wanted was to bring up his children here and potter along, keeping the place up to scratch – but Isabel, no doting mother, had taken his sons away from him out of sheer spite and the bloody courts had supported her.
From further up the slope he heard a noise he couldn’t place and stopped to listen. It sounded like – oh, hell, it was! – someone was sobbing! He moved forward, peering cautiously through the trees to see a figure huddled on the ground, a woman. Her whole body was shaking with the passion of her weeping.
The last thing he needed just now was to get involved in someone else’s troubles, but he couldn’t force himself to move on. She sounded so very unhappy. And she was lying in the place the family always called Araminta’s Grove, because one of his ancestors had loved that quiet spot above all others.
He’d taken refuge here himself a few times during the quarrel-filled year before he and Isabel split up, finding comfort for both grief and anger. In late spring there were bluebells under the trees and in summer it was a place of filtered green light and whispering leaves.
He studied the woman. She definitely wasn’t from the village. He knew all the permanent residents by sight. Another tourist gone astray, no doubt. But it was a strange place to let out her grief. And a strange time of year for walkers.
The sobbing went on and on. Dammit! I can’t leave the poor woman like that, he thought. He went right up to her without her even noticing him, cleared his throat and asked, ‘Can I help you?’
She didn’t hear that, either. In the end he had to bend and touch her shoulder, repeating his question.
‘Oh!’ She jerked upright in shock, then whimpered in pain and clutched at her leg. ‘I didn’t hear you coming,’ she muttered, turning away to brush futilely at her face with her sleeve. But that didn’t prevent more fat tears from overloading her eyes and tracking down her wet cheeks.
Oh, hell, how could you leave anyone in such anguish? He knelt beside her, cradling her in his arms. ‘Shh! Don’t. Whatever it is, we’ll sort something out. Shh, now.’
Gradually, the soft comforting sound of his voice penetrated her distress and she began to calm down. As she realised she was sitting weeping against the chest of a total stranger, she gulped a few times and managed to stop sobbing. But when he looked down, Jonathon saw that she was still clutching his rough jacket as if it were a lifeline. Perhaps it was.
Her hair was fair, a sort of ash-blonde, fluffy and longish. Not dyed, as his ex-wife’s had been, but quite natural in colour. This close, he could see a few silver hairs among the pale strands and he had a sudden urge to run his fingers through its softness. It smelt of shampoo, just as her skin smelt of fresh soap, not make-up.
Who was she and what was she doing on his land?
As she shivered, he became more aware of the practicalities of the situation. He could feel an increasing dampness in the air and when he looked up, he could see heavy rain clouds piling up. ‘It’s going to pour down soon. Let’s get you to shelter, hmm?’
‘I can’t walk. I think I’ve sprained my ankle.’
‘Is that why you were crying?’
Her eyes fell. ‘Partly.’ She drew in a deep breath that still quivered with suppressed sobs. ‘And – and you won’t be able to carry me. I’m too big.’
‘Let’s get you standing up anyway, then we’ll work out what to do next. The ground’s too damp and cold to sit on. Put your weight on your sound foot and try to hold the other in the air. Now, give me your hands.’ Holding her gently, he pulled her to her feet.
She tried to muffle a whimper as she bumped her ankle and that again touched something inside him. ‘There’s my brave girl,’ he whispered, holding her upright against him.
‘You’re very tall,’ she muttered.
‘Yes. Bane of my life.’
‘Mine, too.’
‘You’re not tall.’ He could give her five or six inches, he reckoned. Even his sister was taller than she was, at six feet.
‘I’m a hundred and seventy-eight centimetres.’ She saw his look of puzzlement. ‘About five foot ten. That’s a big disadvantage for a woman. My husband says if I ever put on weight I’ll look like a carthorse.’
He took an instant dislike to the husband. ‘With a face as pretty as yours, you could never look like a horse and you don’t appear to be carrying any extra weight to me.’
She blinked at him as if she didn’t believe him.
‘Now, we need to get you to the house before the heavens anoint us. If I put my arm round you, will you be able to hop?’
They tried it for a few paces, then she sagged against him. ‘I – could we rest a minute?’
‘Of course. Lean against this tree.’ He had a sudden idea. ‘Look, we’ve got an old bath chair in the stables. I could push it up here and get you back to my place in it if you don’t mind a bumpy ride. Can you hold on for a minute?’
‘Mmm.’
She watched him run down the hillside with long-legged, confident strides. What a bony man he was, taller than Paul and much thinner. He had a nice face, though. Kind. Lovely brown eyes, soft as a doe’s, and a long, sharply chiselled nose. It was the sort of face you’d trust instinctively.
How lucky that he’d found her! She felt her face grow hot as she remembered how he’d found her, lying sobbing on the ground like a stupid child. Feeling absolutely washed out, she leant her head against the tree trunk. The injured ankle was throbbing, her good leg was aching from supporting her whole weight and she was so cold she couldn’t even think straight.
A few minutes later her rescuer reappeared at the bottom of the slope pushing an ancient bath chair made of basketwork which had frayed in places on a frame that was well-rusted. It squeaked in continual protest as he pushed it up the hill, but it didn’t fall to pieces.
‘Voilà, madame!’ He flourished a bow. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
She couldn’t help smiling at his triumphant expression. With his help, she hopped across to her unlikely chariot and collapsed into it, groaning.
His voice was gentle. ‘Ankle hurting?’
‘Mmm.’
The going was rough and the jolting hurt, but soon the path levelled out, becoming marginally smoother. Now they were bumping along on crazy paving, which led between unkempt lawns to a house half-hidden by trees. Her rescuer was panting, but laughing exultantly, too, as if this was all a merry adventure, and she found her spirits lifting.
Only when they got closer did Rosalind realise how old the house was, or how large. ‘What a lovely building! Do you really live here?’
‘Oh, yes. We Destans have been at Burraford since the Middle Ages – though the main part of the present house dates only from the early seventeenth century.’
‘You have the same name as the village?’
‘It’s called after us, actually. My ancestors took over here after the Norman Conquest.’ He chuckled and added, ‘Somewhat forcibly, I’m afraid. The previous owner had been killed at Hastings. Burrh means a fortified place – near a ford. The river’s on the other side of this house. The original keep was much closer to the water.’
‘How wonderful to know your family’s history so far back!’
‘In some ways it is, but there are down sides to it all. These ancient piles cost the earth to keep up, even small places like mine.’ And they attracted social climbing women, who then tried to gut them of their valuables – and Isabel would have succeeded, too, if he hadn’t come home early by sheer chance, and caught her and her lover stuffing bags full of the smaller pieces of silver into her car.
He pushed the memory of that dreadful encounter away hurriedly. He hadn’t realised he had it in him to grow so furiously angry, let alone to punch someone on the chin. ‘Houses like these are draughty in winter and stuffy in summer, but—’
She finished for him, ‘You love it.’
Her smile was soft and gentle. He felt warmed by it. He’d like to make her smile more often and wipe that sadness from her face. ‘Yes. I do. And so far we Destans have managed to keep our home for ourselves, not hand it over to the National Trust.’ Though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure. He realised she was shivering. ‘But I shouldn’t stand here talking. You need to get warm. Would you like to come inside? Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
‘I’d kill for a hot drink.’
‘Then you’ve arrived at the right place. I rather pride myself on my skill as a tea maker.’ He trundled the bath chair to the foot of the front steps and an old dog appeared, tail wagging furiously and nudging his hand for attention. ‘Sit, Dusty! Stay!’
He turned to grin at Rosalind. ‘This old fellow is a cuddle hound – never has been interested in hunting or guarding things, just likes to coax cuddles out of people. Wait there a mo. I’ve even got a pair of crutches somewhere from when I broke my leg. They’ll be easier than hopping.’
She sat staring up at the house as the first drops of rain landed gently on her cheeks. It was built of what she now knew to be grey Purbeck stone, with the steep stone roof that seemed typical of this part of the world. Three stories high only, with a gabled wing jutting forward at one side and four windows along each floor of the main block. There was an extra tall window in the middle above the entrance, probably to light the stairwell. The gardens needed attention and the front door needed painting, but that didn’t destroy the charm and it looked like a home, not a showplace.
He came striding out to join her, brandishing the crutches and beaming. ‘Here we are. Just in time.’ Easing her out of the chair, he helped her make her slow, painful way up the steps. As he was closing the front door, the rain stopped teasing them and came down with an express-train roar.
‘Thank goodness you found me,’ Rosalind said shakily. She paused, finding the crutches unexpectedly hard to manage.
He noticed and laid a gentle hand on her arm. ‘No need to hurry now we’re under cover. I’ll adjust them once we’ve got you sitting down.’
The room he helped her into was so perfectly proportioned that for all her discomfort she couldn’t help exclaiming, ‘Oh, how beautiful this is! Just look at that plasterwork!’ The furniture was old and well-used, big easy pieces you could sink into, and everywhere there were objects to catch your eye: an unusual ornament, a painting, an elegant piece of furniture.
He guided her towards a sofa. ‘There. If you sit with your leg up for a while, it should help the swelling. I’ll go and make some tea, shall I? I haven’t any live-in staff, just a woman who comes in three times a week to clean.’
‘Tea would be lovely.’
‘Earl Grey all right? No, it’s a bit early in the day for that – how about English breakfast?’
‘Perfect.’ Not the time to tell him you were a coffee addict and all types of tea tasted more or less alike to you. Rosalind wedged herself into the corner of the high-backed sofa and gave herself up to enjoyment of the room.
Nothing really matched, but everything seemed to cohabit happily. Each piece of furniture her eyes lingered on was a treasure begging further inspection. Old polished wood – dusty in parts – exquisite inlay work, carving, ornate brass handles. She didn’t know where to look next. She could spend a whole day in here and still not have studied everything!
Footsteps on the polished boards of the hall, accompanied by the pattering of the dog’s paws, heralded her host’s return. He set down a wooden tray carefully and picked up a lumpy tea towel. ‘I put some ice in this. Thought it might help your ankle.’
‘How kind.’ She watched him adjust the compress with deft fingers.
‘I brought some biscuits, too. Chocolate. I hate plain ones. They look so anaemic.’ Deftly he poured her some tea. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Just a little milk. No sugar.’ She balanced the cup in her hand while he fetched a small table.
He turned back to the tray and picked up a plate. ‘Biscuit?’
‘No, thanks. I have to watch my weight.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Thin is fashionable and my husband likes me to – keep up to date.’
She saw him make a moue at that statement – was it because she’d refused the biscuits or because she’d admitted that she watched her weight to please Paul. She realised suddenly that she wouldn’t have cared if she’d put on a bit of weight. She spent a lot of time watching others eat delicious food she’d cooked and longed to eat.
The biscuits were still tempting her, set out on an old linen doily with hand-worked edges. He’d gone to some trouble. What harm would one do? ‘Well, perhaps just one biscuit. Sweet things are supposed to be good for shock, aren’t they?’
His face brightened and he passed the plate, then took one for himself and bit off half of it with great relish, saying indistinctly, ‘So, tell me what you were doing in our grove.’
‘Trying to find the public footpath so I could get back to Burraford.’
‘You’re living there?’
‘Yes. Temporarily, anyway. We’re from Australia.’
‘I guessed that from your accent. Who’s “we”? You and your husband?’
‘Yes. When he’s at home. Which isn’t often. He works for a multinational company and travels a lot.’
‘You must be living in the old Harris house in Sexton Close, then.’
‘I don’t know about any Harrises, but I do live in Sexton Close. Number 10. How did you know?’
His grin made him look about twelve years old. ‘I know everything that goes on in the village. My sister sees to that. She lives just behind the church.’ He saw that his visitor wasn’t listening and followed her gaze. ‘That’s Araminta’s picture.’
‘If it weren’t for my ankle, I’d have my nose pressed against the glass.’
‘It is rather jolly.’ He unwound his long legs and went to lift the framed embroidery off the wall, setting it down on her lap. ‘Here. Take your time.’ He took another biscuit and leant back in his armchair, smiling as he realised she’d forgotten him completely.
‘This is a very fine example of raised stumpwork,’ she said at last. ‘About 1670, I’d guess, though there isn’t a date on it. The last corner, after her name, is unfinished. What a pity! Did she die? Do you know who this Araminta was?’
‘One of our most loved ancestors. She lived all through the Civil War, kept the Roundheads from destroying the place, then died suddenly at the age of fifty-two from a fever. My sister found this in an old chest in the attic, together with Araminta’s diary and account books. We had the embroidery framed because we both love it.’
‘No wonder. It’s a particularly clever use of materials and look how realistic the figures are. And the animals. You could almost stroke that little dog. I’ve seen photos of pieces like this in books, but this is the first time I’ve seen one face-to-face.’
‘You sound very knowledgeable.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, I do a bit of embroidery myself.’
‘This sort?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘You’ve done actual stumpwork pictures?’
She couldn’t help smiling at his eager tone. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve got an attic full of them at home in Australia. And I’ve brought one or two with me – just to make the rented place a bit more homelike.’
‘No room left on the walls at home, eh?’
She blushed and fiddled with the edge of the frame. ‘Well, not exactly. Such things are not to everyone’s taste.’
He looked at her, eyes narrowed. Who had criticised her work and made her so apologetic about it? The damned husband again, probably. ‘We have a colour photo of this one, for insurance purposes. Would you like me to have a copy of it made for you?’ He watched her face light up. She was lovely when she smiled.
‘Oh, would you really? I’d love that. And – and if I could come back with the photo and make notes on the stitches she used. She was a very skilled needlewoman, your Araminta.’
‘Of course you can. I’ll show you round the rest of the place too, if you like, when your ankle’s better. But for the moment, I think we ought to get you to a doctor. That ankle doesn’t seem to have gone down at all.’ He took the picture from her and brought back the crutches. ‘Just let me adjust these.’
She looked down at her leg, the light fading from her face. ‘It is rather swollen, isn’t it?’ It was throbbing. So was her head. How far could she have crawled if he hadn’t found her? The thought made her shiver. There was no one to miss her or come looking for her. She could have been stuck overnight and died of exposure out there in the woods.
He helped her up and measured the crutches against her. ‘That’s better. Now, I think you should see old Doc Barnes. Is there someone you want to call to pick you up?’
Her voice was toneless. ‘No, there isn’t anyone. My daughters are in Australia and my husband will be in Hong Kong for another few weeks.’ And she had no idea where Tim was, any more than he knew she was in England.
‘Then I’ll drive you myself, wait till you’ve seen Doc and take you home afterwards.’
‘I couldn’t put you to all that trouble. If you’ll just call a taxi, I’ll get out of your way. Though I’d appreciate it if I could borrow the crutches.’
‘It’s no trouble. Honestly. I’ll pop in to see Harry while I’m in the village.’
‘Harry?’
‘My sister. Short for Harriet, which she hates. She’s a widow – not the merry sort, still grieving. Lung cancer, it was. Went on rather a long time and Phil was a decent chap, didn’t deserve to die like that.’ He took a deep breath and shook off those memories. ‘You stay there and I’ll bring the car round the front.’
The doctor examined the ankle, then strapped it up tightly, speaking in curt phrases as if he didn’t have time for whole sentences. ‘Nothing broken. Bad sprain. Keep off your feet for a few days and you’ll be all right.’
Rosalind stared at him in dismay. ‘But I can’t!’
‘Can’t what?’ He’d already opened the door and gestured to Jonathon, who was sitting outside, to come and help her out.
‘Can’t stay off my feet. There’s only me. What am I going to do?’
Jonathon tried not to say it, but the words were out before he could stop them. ‘Harry and I will look after you.’
She turned to him, ‘But I can’t ask you to – we’d never even met until today—’
He shrugged. ‘We’re blocking the doorway. Come on. We’ll discuss it on the way to Harry’s.’
People were staring at them, so she tucked the crutches under her arms and swung painfully and slowly after him. The receptionist wanted her to sign some papers and by the time she got to the car, she felt as if her armpits were on fire.
When he climbed in beside her, she said faintly, ‘I think I’d rather go straight home, if you don’t mind.’
He looked sideways at her as he started the car. Hell, she was as pale as a ghost. ‘All right. I’ll phone Harry and ask her to come over to your house for a council of war, if that’s all right with you. She’ll find a way to help you.’
‘You’re being so kind, and to a complete stranger.’ Rosalind leant her head back against the car seat with a sigh.
Jonathon drove as smoothly as he could, very conscious that she was in pain. There was something about her that touched him. She was so soft and vulnerable, with that swollen trembling mouth and those gentle blue eyes. And anyway, if you couldn’t help someone in trouble, you weren’t worth much as a human being. Why was she here alone in England when her home was in Australia? And why was that damned husband of hers living in Hong Kong if they’d come to spend the summer here? It didn’t make sense.
What was he doing getting involved? That made even less sense. Jonathon smiled ruefully as he parked in front of her house and went to open the gates. Well, if nothing else she’d taken his mind from his own worries and made him feel pleasantly philanthropic. And actually, he liked her. He really did. Such a transparently honest face. There didn’t seem to be many people like that around nowadays.
Harry would like her, too, he decided hastily, not letting himself linger on his own reaction to her, though it was the first time since his highly acrimonious divorce that he’d been attracted to a woman in any way at all. Which was probably a good sign. Well, it would have been if the woman in question hadn’t been married.
He got her settled on the couch and then said, ‘Won’t be a jiffy. I’ll just phone Harry.’ He took out a mobile phone and vanished into the hall.