Rosalind decided she needed to do something to cheer Jenny up and take her mind off her worries. ‘Want to come and look at my inheritance from Aunt Sophie?’
‘But I thought it was at the other end of the country?’
‘It’s a small country, love. Southport is six or seven hours away by car – you can do part of the driving if you like. After all, you’ll want to see a bit of England while you’re here, surely?’
Jenny’s face brightened. ‘I’d love to see it.’
‘I’ll give Prue a ring, then let Harry know we’re going away for a few days. We’ll get back for the fête, though.’ She was picking up the phone even as she spoke. ‘Prue, just to let you know – my daughter Jenny and I are coming up to Southport for a few days. We’ll be there sometime tomorrow afternoon. My elder daughter, yes. It’s a long story. Tell you when I see you.’
And a minute later, ‘Harry – Jenny and I are heading north for a few days. You couldn’t come round and choose an embroidery now, could you? It need only take a few minutes. Yes, I’m definitely feeling better, but we’re both a bit down in the dumps, so I thought a trip would cheer us up.’
As she put down the phone, Rosalind saw her daughter’s amazed expression and grinned. ‘I’m learning to act more decisively – well, trying to.’
Jenny hugged her. ‘About time, too, Mum. You go for it!’ But would her mother remain decisive once her father arrived? Jenny doubted it. She knew from her own experience how hard it was to stand up to him.
At the other side of the village, Harry put down the phone and nodded in satisfaction. That’d get Rosalind out of poor Jonathon’s hair for a while. He was moping around like a sick puppy worrying about her. Poor old thing. Still, the boys would be coming to Burraford soon and that’d take his mind off Rosalind.
She grabbed her raincoat and drove over to Sexton Close, humming tunelessly under her breath. She didn’t really like this part of the village. Full of newcomers. And the houses were the sort which tried to look bigger than they were. Places for yuppies, she always thought. Still, the occupants would come to her fête and spend their money with carefully calculated generosity. They always did. Liked to show themselves as part of the village. Ha! You had to be born here to be really part of it. Though some did fit in after a while. Rosalind was that sort – well, she would be if she were free to stay – which she wasn’t. Damned pity, that.
When Rosalind spread out the two embroideries, Harry beamed in delight. ‘They’re absolutely gorgeous,’ she said at last, touching one of the figures gently. ‘How can you bear to part with them?’
Rosalind shrugged. ‘I have plenty more. They only sit in the attic at home. And besides, it’s in a good cause. But you’ll need to have whichever one you choose framed. I’ll pay for that, of course, part of my contribution. Sarah at the craft shop will get it framed for you. I hope it can be done before the fête.’ She gestured towards the paintings on the wall. ‘Something like that for a frame – you can take it with you, if you like, to show her.’
Harry nodded, but her attention was still on the embroideries, which had surprised her with their beauty. She had wondered if the two on the walls were the best of the crop, but these others seemed just as good to her untrained eye, and showed how skilful her new friend was. Her friend George Didburin was going to be very interested in them indeed, she was sure. She picked one up to examine the details more closely, fingering the figures and backgrounds. ‘I don’t know how you have the patience to do this, but they’re fine efforts, damned fine.’
In the end she chose a picture in sepia tones of some slum children of Edwardian times, who had a little dog leaping about beside them. Bare feet, ragged clothes, with that hollow look that long-term poverty gives sometimes, and yet still full of mischief. ‘How did you get the dog to look so alive and frisky?’ she marvelled.
‘Not easily. That’s the third dog figure I made. The other two were rather wooden-looking. But this one seemed OK.’ Rosalind sneaked a surreptitious glance at her watch. ‘Is this the piece you want, then?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Take it.’ She had expected to feel upset at losing it, but she didn’t. Jenny’s troubles were serious, worth getting upset about. These embroideries were simply a hobby, well a bit more than that, but she was the only one who truly cared about them. It’d be nice to know one had found a good home with someone who loved it enough to bid money for it. If anyone did bid. She saw Harry looking at her in concern and dragged her attention firmly back to the present.
‘Yes, we will be back in time for the fête. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
Harry nodded. ‘It is pretty popular.’ In fact, her fête was getting a solid reputation, because she focused on quality, not silly bouncy castles and such rubbish. Old-fashioned country games like skittles, which she’d played in her youth. The tourists loved them. And the local kids loved to run them, which convinced the outsider kids that they weren’t – what was that word young Jim Tuffin had used the other day? She’d forgotten it again. She was out of touch with this modern slang.
‘Jonathon opens up his home on fête day, too,’ she told Rosalind, ‘donating the entrance money to our charity, plus there are a few houses in the village with rather nice gardens which are also open. We run horse charabanc trips from the fête to Destan House. Take one lot of people over, dump them and fetch the previous lot back. No hanging around or wasted journeys. The trick is to offer the grokkles lots of things to do, so that they don’t have a chance to be bored.’
‘Grokkles?’ Jenny queried.
Harry grinned. ‘Tourists.’
‘I love the word. And the fête sounds good,’ Jenny said. ‘If I can help out in any way, just ask.’
Harry looked at her, decided she meant it, then looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’m sorry to take the picture and run, but I have a few million things to do. And thank you, Jenny. I’ll definitely take you up on that offer. Be prepared to work hard on the day.’
When Harry had left, Rosalind smiled at her daughter. ‘Let’s set off now and stop somewhere overnight on the way up. The Wye Valley is supposed to be lovely – we could find somewhere to stay in Shrewsbury. Brother Cadfael country.’
Jenny beamed at her. ‘Wonderful. I’d love to see Shrewsbury.’ She and her mother were both Brother Cadfael fans – and even Louise didn’t scorn those books, though she usually read novels with more modern themes than a medieval monk who was also a detective.
What was her younger sister doing now? Jenny didn’t envy her spending time with their father when he had one of his snits on.
Paul listened to the phone ringing out again. ‘Where the hell is she?’ He opened his office door and the secretary assigned to him looked up enquiringly. ‘Keep trying this number, will you?’ He rattled it off. ‘I need to speak to my wife.’
There was no reply by the time he was ready to go back to the hotel. Nor had Louise and her minder returned. He paced up and down his office, fretting. What the hell had got into his family? Why were they doing this to him?
When the minder eventually brought Louise back, the woman was obviously annoyed and his daughter was wearing her sulky look – though that tarty blonde patch had been redyed to match Louise’s dark hair, thank goodness.
‘What happened?’ he demanded, cutting through the polite phrases.
‘Your daughter wished to go elsewhere. We had a small – disagreement.’
Louise let out a long, aggrieved sigh. ‘I only wanted to go on the harbour cruise.’
‘Your father wished you to do otherwise,’ the woman said quietly, but her face had a steely look to it, which was why she’d been hired.
Paul suppressed a quick memory of Liz, laughing beside him on one of the cruises, then lying under him in bed. He was having a lot of trouble getting Liz out of his mind. She was some woman. That wimpy Bill didn’t deserve her. ‘You’re not here to go touristing,’ he told his daughter curtly.
‘But it’s such a waste if I don’t see anything!’
He turned to the minder, whose official title was personal trainer. Bloody expensive, but sharp enough to read the agenda behind the overt reasons for hiring her. ‘Did she do her exercise after you’d been to the hairdresser’s?’
‘Yes, sir. We kept active.’
He grinned. He intended to make sure Louise was so tired every night that she slept soundly and thus didn’t give him any trouble. Last night she’d nearly fallen asleep over dinner.
As if to reinforce his satisfaction, Louise yawned and sagged against the wall. The minder gave her a poke. ‘Good posture, Miss Stevenson. We’ve already discussed its importance.’
Louise’s scowl deepened, but she straightened up.
Back at the hotel Paul gave his daughter ten minutes to get ready for dinner and smiled at the look of panic on her face. He got through his own ablutions with his usual speed and tried the phone again. Nothing. And the answering service wasn’t even on, though he’d told Ros to fix one up. But that was Ros all over. Dreamy and impractical. Heaven knew what she’d have done without him.
The thought of someone else managing her money was still worrying him. The sooner he got back to her and sorted that out the better.
The lawyer he’d consulted hadn’t been too optimistic about overturning a trust when the money from it went straight to Ros. But Paul wanted to know what she was doing with all that income. When she’d told him how much it would be approximately, he’d felt sick. She was probably wasting it.
She’d always spent far too much on books and embroidery equipment. As if he didn’t know what she got up to while she was away. He’d seen those pictures of hers stacked up in the attic. How many hours had she wasted on that old-fashioned rubbish? He intended to clear them out when they got back, give them to some charity. If any charity wanted them.
And when they moved to the States, embroidery would definitely not be on the agenda. He’d get her to join a health club, get her body into shape. Firm. Like Liz’s.
He pressed the redial button and the phone rang again, on and on. Dammit, where was she?
The day of the fête dawned cool but fine. They’d got back the previous day after a golden interlude in Southport and Rosalind was feeling in need of exercise. She peeped into her daughter’s room, but Jenny was still asleep, curled up into a tight ball like a child, with her long fair hair spread out on the pillow. She was looking so much better now, thank goodness, though she was still a bit jumpy after dark.
From the look of the early morning sun, it was going to be fine for the fête. Good. Rosalind grabbed an apple and set off, intending to pick up a newspaper. There were people bustling about the village already and an air of expectancy everywhere.
When she got back, Jenny was sitting frowning over a cup of tea.
‘Something wrong, love?’
‘Dad rang. Woke me up.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was in a foul mood. Why does he have to be so – jarring? You and I were away for four days and we didn’t have a single cross word. Anyway, he says you’re to ring him the minute you come in.’
‘Oh, does he!’
Jenny looked at her in surprise. ‘Aren’t you going to?’
‘No. Why spoil a lovely day?’ Paul never rang unless he wanted her to do something, and what she intended to do today was go to the fête.
Rosalind shrugged.
After breakfast Jenny came down in jeans and a shirt, with a sweater tied round her waist.
Goodness, she looks so like me, Rosalind thought and felt awed, remembering the tiny baby whom she’d adored on sight. She blinked as fingers snapped in front of her face and saw her daughter laughing at her.
‘Wake up, Mum! I’ve asked you twice what time you want to leave.’
‘Oh, whenever you like.’
As they walked into the village together, Jenny asked, ‘Can we go and see Jonathon’s house?’
Rosalind looked at the cars turning off the main road to park in the field and the people strolling up and down, pointing to the ‘quaint’ houses and the ‘cute’ things in the shops. ‘Not with hordes of other people there. I’ll get him to show us round another day, just you and me. It’s a lovely house and full of beautiful old objects.’
Jenny glanced sideways. ‘He’s been a good friend to you, hasn’t he?’ She felt like a voyeur at the expression on her mother’s face, the tight, controlled sadness quickly replaced by that bland look her mother used as a barrier against her father when he was in one of his fusses. But why did her mother need a barrier now? Surely she hadn’t fallen for this Jonathon? No, that was unthinkable. Not Mum.
‘Harry and Jonathon have both been good friends to me,’ Rosalind said carefully. ‘Though he was the one who found me when I fell and twisted my ankle, of course.’
‘You’d have been in trouble if he hadn’t.’
‘Oh, I dare say I’d have managed to crawl for help.’ She took a deep breath and summoned up a smile from somewhere. ‘Well, let’s get into it. At least we live close enough to come home if we’re bored.’
But they weren’t bored because Harry pounced on them as soon as they walked through the gates of the schoolyard. ‘Going to treat you like locals, I’m afraid. I need someone to help out in the tea tent. Would you mind, Rosalind? And Jenny, would you help out at the skittles? I’ve got my nephews setting them up for people, but I need an adult to collect the money. Meg Loder’s let me down again – not that it’s her fault – her youngest is always catching something.’
Still talking at the top of her voice, she led Jenny through the groups of people. ‘These are my nephews – Giles and Rufus.’
Jenny smiled at the two boys, both at that thin pre-puberty stage of bony limbs and jerky movements. They were very like their aunt and father. ‘You’ll have to explain to me what’s going on. I don’t know anything whatsoever about skittles.’
They stared at her solemnly, then nodded as if she’d passed some unseen test. ‘All right,’ one said. ‘It’s not hard, really.’
‘I’ll be off, then.’ Harry left her in charge of a small table and cash box with a float of change.
The two boys hovered next to her. ‘You’re Australian, aren’t you?’ one of them asked.
Jenny grinned. ‘Too right. G’day, mate.’
‘I say, do people really say that?’
‘Sometimes.’
And from then on, whenever there were no customers they plied her with questions about Australia, which Giles was ‘doing’ for a geography project and which the other boy seemed equally fascinated by.
Just before lunch, two young men appeared in front of Jenny.
‘Phil Ross,’ said one. ‘Here to relieve you.’
The other bobbed his head. ‘Ned Didburin. Mrs Larcombe sent me to guide you to food. She’s got refreshments set out for the helpers in that old green tent at the rear.’
‘Oh, good! I’m starving.’
He began to stroll along beside her. ‘Is that an Aussie accent?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Thought I recognised the twang.’ He looked at her sideways. Pretty. And gentle-looking, as if she had no malice in her. He liked the look of her. ‘Um – you wouldn’t like to come for tea with me later when the auction’s over?’
Jenny stiffened. ‘No, thank you.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Something I said or do I just not appeal?’
She looked at him warily. He had a kind, open sort of face. She didn’t want to upset him. ‘Just – something someone else did. I – haven’t quite recovered.’ To her horror, her voice trembled.
He looked aghast. ‘I say – sorry to have roused the sleeping tiger.’
‘N-not your fault. You couldn’t be expected to know.’ She hurried off before he could say anything else, but she was trembling still and couldn’t face a crowd of people, so wandered down the main ‘street’ of activities. But there were people everywhere, people she didn’t know, who made her feel nervous as they pushed against her, so she turned back and made her way reluctantly towards the green tent.
Ned Didburin watched her go, upset by the fear he’d seen on her face.
Later, it seemed as if fate was smiling down on him for once, for he ran into her again, this time looking even more distressed as two young guys – from London by the sound of their accents – had her cornered between two displays and were trying out their wit on her.
‘Sorry lads, the lady’s with me!’ he called out, striding forward and hoping they wouldn’t cause trouble. He wasn’t the macho sort and never had been. For a moment it was touch and go, then one of them shrugged and moved off.
The other hovered, frowning in puzzlement at Jenny’s distress. ‘Only ’avin’ a bit of fun, you know, gel. Didn’t mean to upset you.’
She turned her back on them, not wanting anyone to see the tears of relief that had started flowing the minute Ned came to her rescue.
‘They really didn’t mean any harm,’ he said softly from behind her.
She looked down at the handkerchief he had pushed into her hand and shook it out, swallowing hard as she mopped her wet face. But the tears continued to trickle down her face. ‘S-sorry.’
‘It must have been bad, whatever it was that upset you,’ he said gently. She was still gulping and trying so desperately not to sob that his heart went out to her. ‘Look, no one can see you with me standing here, so if it helps to cry it out, go ahead and water away.’
She was caught between a sob and a hiccup of laughter. ‘You must think I’m a fool.’
‘No. I don’t, actually. The ones I think are fools are the people who keep their emotions under wraps and get all het up inside. Terrible for the old health. I was brought up that way, but I’ve found my way out of it now.’ Thanks to an ex-girlfriend, to whom he would be eternally grateful.
She found the sound of his crisp English voice vaguely comforting. The tears had stopped now, so she mopped her eyes and blew her nose, then looked down at the handkerchief in dismay. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You must tell me where you live and I’ll wash it before I give it back to you.’
‘All right.’ He fumbled in his pocket and produced a business card, delighted to have an excuse to see her again.
Edward Didburin, Didburin Fine Arts, Dorchester
She held out one hand. ‘I’m Jenny Stevenson.’
‘My friends call me Ned.’ He clasped her hand, trying to think of an innocuous question. ‘And what are you doing in Dorset, Miss Jenny Stevenson from down under?’
She gave him a half-smile. ‘I’m taking a bit of time off to – recover. I’m a management trainee, graduated last year.’
‘And do you enjoy managing things?’
‘Not really.’ She shrugged. ‘It was Dad’s idea of a good career for me.’
‘You’re staying round here, then?’
‘Mmm. Dad’s rented a house in the village. Mum’s been here a while, but I only arrived a week ago. It’s a lovely part of the world, Dorset. I’m really looking forward to exploring. Mum and I’ve just spent a few days in Southport – at a relative’s house.’
He wanted to stay and talk to her. She was so soft and fair and feminine-looking. Apart from that golden tone to her skin, she wasn’t at all what he’d imagined an Australian girl would be like. But a quick glance at his watch made him exclaim, ‘Oh, hell! Got to go to the auction. I’m here on duty for my father, I’m afraid. Got to bid on one or two pieces. Unless – you wouldn’t care to come with me, would you? It’s jolly interesting.’
She looked at him doubtfully. He was only a little taller than she was, with thinning brown hair which would probably leave him bald by the time he was forty. He had kind blue eyes, not gleaming black ones, and for some reason she felt safe with him. ‘That would be nice. I want to go to the auction anyway because Mum’s got an embroidered picture in it. I want to be there to give her support. She’s worried no one will buy it.’
‘Not the slum children thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s a gorgeous piece. It’s the main thing I’ve been sent to bid on, actually.’ Another glance at his watch. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go and see what happens to it.’
When he caught hold of her hand so they didn’t get separated, she didn’t draw away, but let him race her off to the auction tent, where they both arrived breathless and laughing, collapsing into two empty seats at the end of a row just as the bidding began.
Rosalind sat down at the back of the auction tent and tried to look as if she were studying the catalogue. Not that she was here to bid for anything. But she had to see what sort of person bought her picture and what price it fetched.
Harry mounted the dais, ready to get things rolling. She gave a nod of satisfaction at the turnout, then smiled at the plump, bald man who had come to sit beside her, saying something that made him smile, too. After Harry had introduced him, he tapped a hammer to quieten people down and the auction started.
It was an hour before Rosalind’s embroidery came up for sale, and she was delighted to hear the woman behind her whisper, ‘Wish I could afford that one. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Bound to go for tons of money.’
‘Mmm. Must be an heirloom piece. Don’t know how anyone can bear to part with it.’
‘Doesn’t say so in the catalogue. Says it’s a modern piece in the Jacobean style of raised stumpwork.’
‘Let’s start the bidding at a hundred pounds,’ the auctioneer called.
Rosalind gasped aloud. Start at a hundred! Did he expect it to go higher, then?
But no one bid, so the amount went down to seventy pounds, then fifty. She could feel her face going red. Perhaps Paul was right. Perhaps people didn’t like that sort of old-fashioned stuff nowadays.
Then someone raised a hand and the auctioneer pointed a finger towards him. ‘Thirty pounds I’m bid. I’ll take it in tens from now on.’
Only a few seconds later, he pointed again, ‘Forty, lady in the blue coat.’
From then on the bidding climbed steadily and Rosalind sat there in a state of shock.
‘A hundred pounds.’
‘Hundred and seventy … three hundred … five …’
‘Six hundred and fifty. Any advance on six hundred and fifty?’ The auctioneer looked round, gavel raised. ‘No more bids? Right then, going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman in the fawn jacket. Now the next item is …’
Rosalind got up and stumbled out of the tent, avoiding people, slipping between the big auction tent and the smaller grey tent next to it, desperate for a moment to herself. Six hundred and fifty pounds! And several people had wanted to buy her picture! Joy filled her and pride, too. If someone had paid all that for her embroidery, it wasn’t worthless. Or amateur.
‘You all right?’
She looked up with a smile. ‘Jonathon. Yes, I’m fine. Just a big overwhelmed. Did you see how much my picture fetched?’
‘I did indeed. Congratulations.’
Without knowing quite how she got there, she found herself in his arms, hugging him, letting him hug her. When he bent his head, she kissed him back because it seemed the natural thing to do.
Jenny, who had followed her mother outside to congratulate her, stopped in shock at the sight of the entwined figures then tiptoed away. That was no kiss of friendship, that was the kiss of a man and woman who really fancied one another – or loved one another. Her mother’s expression had been radiant as she turned to greet Jonathon and he’d been beaming down at her.
Oh, heavens, she hoped Dad never found out. He’d go off his face.
She walked to and fro at the other side of the tent, waiting for Ned to finish paying for the picture and thinking about what she’d seen. She didn’t blame her mother for being tempted by a nice man like Jonathon Destan – her father had treated her like an idiot for years. Only … she did hope this wouldn’t break up her parents’ marriage.
Another thought occurred to her, a much happier one. Her father would be furious when he found out how much the embroidery had fetched and how many people had bid for it. If her mother didn’t tell him, she would. Maybe from now on, he’d stop criticising her mother’s hobby and realise how good her work was.
The other thing, the attraction to Jonathon Destan, was just a passing fancy, surely? Perhaps her mother had needed that to stiffen her spine. Good for the old morale to know someone fancied you.
Which brought Jenny’s thoughts back to Ned. She really liked him. He wasn’t good-looking, but he was kind and fun. Not at all like Michael – or her father. She not only felt safe with him but he made her chuckle with his wry remarks.
Turning, she saw him coming towards her and smiled. When he held out his hand, she put hers into it without hesitation.