Authors: Liz Fielding
On a worktable lay a folder filled with watercolours. Distant views of the house, the hills, the birds and animals that roamed the estate. The faint scent of linseed oil still clung to an easel leaning against a far wall. She opened a wooden box stacked beside it. Brushes, dried up tubes of paint. He’d moved on from sketches and watercolours to oil, but none of those were here.
She turned to the wardrobe and a lump formed in her throat as she saw his clothes. A pair of riding boots, walking shoes, battered old trainers bearing the shape of his youthful foot lined up beneath shirts, a school uniform, jackets, a suit and, in a suit bag from a Savile Row tailor, what must have been his first tux, never worn.
What kind of a life had he had here? Privileged, without a doubt, and yet he’d apparently walked away from it, leaving everything behind. His clothes, his art, his life.
She’d been seven or eight when Tom was that age and he’d seemed like a god to her then, but when she’d been sixteen, seventeen, the boys in her year had seemed so immature, so useless. She couldn’t imagine any of them coping without their mother to do their washing, put food in front of them, provide a taxi service.
She sat on the narrow bed, rubbed her hand over the old Welsh quilt that he’d slept under, then kicked off her shoes, leaned back against an impressive headboard, putting herself in his place, looking out of the window at the view he’d grown up with, trying to imagine what had been so bad that it had driven him away. And failing. It was so beautiful here, so tranquil.
She sighed. No doubt her home life would have looked enviable to an outsider and in many ways it was. But she’d been older, an adult when she’d left. He’d been a boy.
She let it go and, propping the folder against her thighs, began to read his grandmother’s history of Hadley Chase.
Darius was right—nothing important had happened, no one of great significance was mentioned—and yet his grandmother had edited the journals, adding her own commentary and illustrations on events, providing an insight into the lives of those living and working in the house, on the estate and in the village since the seventeenth century. The births, marriages, deaths. The celebrations. The tragedies, changes that affected them all. Tash had reached the late eighteenth century when her phone rang.
‘Hi...’ she said, hunting for a tissue.
Darius, pacing Mary’s living room while she packed a bag, heard the kind of sniff that only went with tears.
‘Natasha? What’s happened? Are you hurt?’
‘No...’ Another sniff. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘You’re crying.’
‘I was just reading about an outbreak of smallpox in the village in 1793. Seven children died, Darius. One of them was the three-year-old son of Joshua Hadley. He wrote about him, about the funeral. It’s heartbreaking...’
She’d found the history. It had figured heavily in his education as the heir to the estate and the death of small children had been a fact of life before antibiotics.
‘It was over two hundred years ago,’ he reminded her.
‘I know. I’m totally pathetic, but your grandmother drew a picture of his grave. It’s so small. This isn’t just a history; it’s a work of art.’
‘And full of smallpox, floods, crop failure.’
‘Full of the lives of the people who’ve lived here. Not just the bad bits, but the joys, the celebrations. Your grandmother’s illustrations are exquisite. Clearly it’s in the genes,’ she prompted.
He ignored the invitation to talk about his grandmother. ‘You’ll find Joshua’s portrait in the dining room.’
‘Actually, I’m looking at some of your early work right now,’ she said, not giving up. ‘Watercolours.’
‘Chocolate-box stuff,’ he said dismissively.
‘That’s a bit harsh. I love the drawing of your dog. What was his name?’
What was it about this woman? Every time he spoke to her, she churned up memories he’d spent years trying to wipe out. The only reason he was even here, being dragged back into the past, was because of her.
He should have just signed the whole lot over to the Revenue and let it go. It wasn’t too late... Except there were things he had to do. People he had to protect.
‘Darius?’
‘Flynn,’ he said. ‘His name was Flynn.’
‘He looks real enough to stroke.’
Even now, all these years later, he could feel the springy curls beneath his fingers. Smell the warm dog scent. Leaving him behind had been the hardest thing, but he’d been old—too old to leave the certainty of a warm hearth and a good dinner.
He’d mocked her sentimentality over a child who’d died two hundred years ago but now he was the one with tears stinging at the back of his eyes.
‘Darius, are you okay?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Yes...’
‘So, can I use all this stuff?’
‘Will a smallpox outbreak help to the sell the house, do you think?’ he asked.
‘I’ll probably miss out that bit.’
‘Good decision.’
‘So that’s yes?’
‘That’s a yes with all the usual conditions.’
‘You’ve already got me naked,’ she reminded him.
He’d meant the ones about keeping his name out of it but, just as easily as she could dredge up the sentimental wasteland buried deep in his psyche, she could turn him on, make him laugh. ‘You’re naked?’ he asked.
‘Give me thirty seconds.’
He gripped the phone a little tighter. The temptation was there, but the thought of walking back into that house was like a finger of ice driving into him. ‘Not even thirty minutes, I’m afraid. I’ve hit a complication.’
‘Where are you?’ she asked, as quick to read a shift in tone as body language.
‘I stopped at the gatehouse to visit Mary Webb, Gary’s grandmother,’ he explained. ‘He lives with her.’
‘Oh... That was kind.’
‘It was a duty call. She used to be my grandparents’ cook. I couldn’t just drive past.’ He’d thought he could. He’d spent the last seventeen years mentally driving past.
‘Kindness, duty, it doesn’t matter, Darius, as long as you do it.’
‘I’m glad you think so. She’s five-foot-nothing and frail as a bird these days but it hasn’t stopped her from reading me the riot act.’
‘Give her a cookie,’ she said, not asking why she was angry. No doubt she understood how a woman would feel who’d lost—been abandoned by—a child she’d cared for, loved since infancy. Who, as a result of what happened that day, had lost her own grandson. His grandfather had not been a man to cross... ‘People from the village are keeping an eye on her, doing her shopping, but she needs more than that so I’m taking her to see Gary, then driving her down to stay with her daughter in Brighton.’
‘That should be a fun drive.’
‘I’ll blame you every mile of the way.’
‘If it helps,’ she said.
No, but thinking about her might. ‘I’ll survive,’ he assured her. Probably. ‘But I have no idea how long I’ll be.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You take care of Mrs Webb. I can sort out some transport for myself. There’s a bus to Swindon and I can catch a train from there. Don’t give it a second thought. It’s not a problem. Piece of cake—’
Her mouth was running away with her as she tried to hide her disappointment. It should have been an ego boost but all he wanted was to reach down the phone and hold her. Helpless, he waited until she began to repeat herself, finally ground to a halt, before he said, ‘I’m taking her in Gary’s car. I’ll leave the Landie keys under a flowerpot in the porch for you.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s it?’ he asked. ‘You’re finally lost for words?’
‘No. I was just thinking that if you’re bringing Gary’s car back, I might as well stay here and wait for you.’
‘It’ll be late.’
‘We might have to stay the night,’ she agreed.
Not in a million years... ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s meet halfway at your place. We can have that picnic you promised me.’
‘Oh? And what will you bring to the party?’
‘A bottle of something chilled and a packet of three?’ he offered.
‘Three? That’s a bit ambitious, isn’t it?’
‘One for yesterday, one for this morning, one for fun?’ he suggested.
Her laugh was rich and warm. ‘Talk, talk, talk...’ she said, and ended the call.
He was grinning when he looked up and saw Mary watching him.
‘My suitcase is on the bed,’ she said primly. Then, as he passed her, she put her hand on his arm. ‘It was the motorbike, Darius. That’s why he told you about your Dad. Gary never cared about any of the other stuff you had, but that motorbike...’
‘I know...’
It was Gary, with a battered old machine that he was renovating, who’d taught him to ride on the estate roads, so when he’d come down and found a brand-new silver motorbike waiting for him on his seventeenth birthday, the first thing he’d done was fire it up and drive it down to show him.
Cock-of-the-walk full of himself, too immature to understand how the one who’d always been the leader might feel when he saw him astride a machine so far out of his own reach. The understanding, in that split second, of the reality of their friendship; how, from that moment on, every step would take them further apart. For him there would be sixth form, university, the eventual ownership of this estate. For Gary, who’d left school at sixteen with no qualifications, there would be only a life of manual labour on little more than the minimum wage. And he’d used the only weapon he had to put himself back on top.
‘He didn’t do anything wrong. He told the truth, what he knew of it, that’s all.’
‘He was a stiff, proud man, your grandfather. He broke your grandmother’s heart, barring your father from the house while he stayed with your mother. The poor lady was never the same after. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to love you, Darius, just that she’d lost so much that she couldn’t bear the risk.’
‘Everyone lost, Mary. My grandfather most of all.’
* * *
Tash rolled off his bed and crossed to the window to look out across the park in the direction of the gates, rubbing her arms briskly to rid herself of the tingle of excitement that, just hearing the sound of his voice, riffled her skin into goose bumps.
Silly. She couldn’t see the gatehouse cottage for the trees, but she was still grinning. She’d taken their relationship a step beyond a place Darius was comfortable with, hoping it would help him open up. Maybe it had. He’d stopped to talk to Gary’s grandmother and the fact that she was angry with him suggested a strong emotional bond.
You only got angry with people you cared about. The fact that he’d mentioned it suggested that it mattered; he hadn’t just called in, done the minimum, but had seen a need and acted on it. The journey might not be a comfortable one, but she doubted it would be silent; Mary Webb knew his secrets and he would be able to talk to her.
The fact that he’d felt able to tell her that she’d been angry suggested...
Stop it. Right there. The last thing she needed right now was a load of emotional complications messing with her head. Keep it simple.
* * *
Darius pressed the bell and Natasha’s voice, distorted by static, said, ‘Who’s there?’
‘You’d better not be expecting anyone else.’
‘My cake is in great demand,’ she said.
‘Sugarlips!’
‘First floor, the door on the right,’ she said, and buzzed him up.
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she called as he opened the door, and he kicked off his shoes alongside hers and followed her voice.
Her top, something silky in a rich chocolate, slid from her shoulder, a short pink skirt in some floaty material rose up, drawing attention to her long legs, bare feet, as she reached for a couple of wine glasses and, without saying a word, he put his arms around her and buried his mouth in the delicious curve between her shoulder and neck, sucking in her flesh, nipping at the sweet spot at the base of her neck.
A shiver of pleasure went through her as his hands found her breasts and she relaxed into him. It was the thought of this moment that had sustained him through an emotionally fraught day. The thought of holding her, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin...
‘Hello, you,’ she said, laughing as she turned in his arms, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. Her hands didn’t quite make it, her smile fading as her eyes searched his face and instead she cradled his cheeks in her palms, her thumbs wiping the hollows beneath his eyes as if to brush away dark shadows that only she could see. ‘You’ve had a rough day...’
‘No talking,’ he said roughly. His ears were ringing with sixteen years of history as they’d talked about about everything, about every
one
but his mother. And now when Natasha would have answered him he cut her off with an abrupt, hungry kiss. For a heartbeat she was shocked into stillness and then she wrapped her arms around his neck, one of those long legs against his thigh and melted against him, her hot silk mouth the entrance to paradise.
He kissed her slow and deep while his hands reacquainted themselves with the feel of her skin, the already familiar shape of her curves, spreading wide around her waist, pushing up her top as his thumbs caressed the hollows of her stomach, his fingers teasing out all the little hotspots in her ribs.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, hanging on to him as she responded with little moans against his tongue and he fed on her sweet, spicy nectar that blotted out memory, blotted out everything but this moment, this need.
She uttered a soft cry as he broke off to get rid of her top, her bra and then leaned back with a sigh of contentment as he took his mouth, his tongue on a slow exploration of her body.
Definitely no talking...
EIGHT
Tash was
incapable of coherent speech as Darius, his hands cradling her backside, sucked on the sensitive spot beneath her chin, curled his tongue around the horseshoe bone at the base of her throat, trailed hot, moist kisses between her breasts.
She whimpered as he ignored them and kept on going down, down, then he hit her navel and his tongue did things that had her gasping, breathless, climbing up him with her legs.
He propped her on the counter without missing a beat, then, with his hands free, he pushed up her skirt and slid his hand beneath the scrap of lace, pressing his thumb against the hot, swollen little button screaming for attention, then slowly circled it, in time with his tongue.
‘Unngh...’ she said, grabbing the collar of his polo shirt and hauling it, hand over hand, until it was over his head, then swallowed as she got the full impact of his powerful shoulders, arms moulded by the heaving of tons of clay, stone, metal, his broad chest arrowing to a narrow waist, hips, a mouth-watering bulge...
‘Want to do it here?’ he asked, his eyes burnished coal, teasing her with the tip of his finger before plunging it deep inside her.
‘Unngh uuuunngh,’ she urged, tightening around it, wanting more, wanting everything.
‘Or would you rather move this to a nice safe bed?’
Safe...
There was nothing safe about this except the leaving-nothing-to-chance protection she’d stowed in the tiny seam pocket of her skirt and she answered him by taking it out, holding it between her teeth as, never taking her eyes from his, she tugged on his belt, flipped the button...
She looked up and, taking the condom from between her lips, he lowered his mouth to within a breath of hers and said, ‘Don’t stop now.’
He closed the gap, taking the word ‘kiss’ to a whole new meaning as, fingers shaking, she lowered his zip with the utmost care, eased her hands inside his jeans and pushed them down, releasing him. Clung to his hips as he disposed of her underwear, sheathed himself.
Then he looked up, straight into her eyes. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘No talking,’ she whispered and he was inside her with a thrust that went to her toes, held it while she caught her breath, opened her eyes. ‘Don’t stop now,’ she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, taking in everything he had to give.
He gave it slowly, totally focused on her, reading her response to every thrust, every touch, taking this most basic of all acts and, instead of snatching for swift satisfaction, raising it into something new, something extraordinary, only taking his own release when he’d brought her to the point of incoherent howling meltdown.
Tash, shaking, shattered, wasn’t sure which of them was supporting the other, only that they were holding each other, her cheek pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, listening to his heart return to a slow steady thud, breathing in the arousing scent of fresh sweat. All she knew was that she was glad she’d shut the kitchen window. That it was double-glazed...
* * *
Darius was the first to recover, straightening, lifting Natasha to the floor, holding her until he was certain that she could support herself. Or maybe holding on to her so that she could support him.
That was so not how it was meant to be.
Wound up by a day that had been filled with memories he’d spent half a lifetime trying to eradicate, he’d come looking for a hot, fast, cleansing release. Basic sex. What had just happened was something else...
He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’
She lifted her head, kissed his cheek. ‘Sounds perfect.’ She spotted the bottle he’d put on the kitchen table, picked up the glasses and handed them to him. ‘Bring them through to the bathroom.’
There was no way they could both cram into her tiny shower cubicle so Tash filled the tub, added some bubbles, lit scented candles. He brought two glasses half filled with a pale chilled wine, set the bottle on the ledge and climbed in. She settled between his legs, leaning back against his chest, sipping the wine in restful silence as she relived each moment, each touch.
So much for the keep-it-simple sex. That had been as far removed from the simple gratification of a basic need as she’d ever experienced. No one had ever concentrated so completely on her in that way. Given so much...
His skin, golden in the candlelight, was too tempting and she turned her head, found the tender spot behind his knee with her tongue. He rescued her glass as, spurred on by his instant reaction, she half turned to take her mouth on an exploration of the smooth silk of his inner thigh, then turned to face him.
‘Here or in a nice safe bed?’ she asked.
‘No bed is ever going to be safe with you in it but I’ll risk it,’ he said, drawing her up his body so that he could kiss her. ‘And this time I’m going to lie back and let you do all the work.’
Not work... All pleasure.
* * *
Tash woke to the early-morning sun, her body all delicious aches, and the night came flooding back. How she had made him the centre of their lovemaking, focusing on him so intently that she could read his response to every touch, giving herself in a way that she had never imagined and discovering a whole new level of pleasure in doing so.
She turned to reach for him but she was alone but for a sheet a paper on the pillow beside her. He’d drawn her as she’d slept—her breasts exposed, the curve of her buttock visible above the sheet tangled around her thighs, her hand extended towards him as if calling him back to bed.
Anyone looking at it would know that she had spent the night making love to the artist. If it had been anyone else, she’d have said that it was beautiful, but looking at herself, so vulnerable, so exposed, was disturbing. And why had he left it? Did he leave a picture for all his lovers? Something for the scrapbook? Something to scandalise the grandchildren?
Coffee. She needed coffee. Peeling herself off the bed, she tucked the drawing away in a drawer, pulled on a wrap and went through to the kitchen.
There was a note propped up against the kettle.
Sorry to kiss and run, but the horse is booked in at the foundry next week. Keep the Land Rover and the house keys for as long as you need them. D.
Next week? The horse had looked a long way from finished when she’d seen it and yet he’d taken a precious day to drive her to Hadley Chase. Of course this was a Darius Hadley sculpture. What she thought was finished and what he considered finished...
She reached for her phone to text him...what? Thanks for the keys? For his time? For everything? There had been a lot of ‘everything’ to thank him for.
Keep it simple, she reminded herself, keying in the words:
Thanks for yesterday. N.
That covered it. Then she realised that she’d used N instead of T, which made it a lot more complicated. He was not a keeper and she was Tash, not Natasha. This was no more than a bit of a fling while she sorted herself out, she reminded herself.
So why did it feel like so much more?
Because she was all over the place. Because her life had been turned upside down. Because he was so much more...
She hit send before her brain fried tying itself in knots avoiding the truth.
* * *
Tash spent the next few days building up a media presence for Hadley Chase. She scanned some of the watercolours and used one that Darius had painted of the house as the header for the Facebook page, the ready-made web page she’d invested in and the Twitter account. It was very similar to the photograph she’d taken. No wonder he’d said she had a good eye.
Once it was all in place, she scheduled one-hundred-and-forty-character ‘bites’ from the history on the Twitter feed, adding his grandmother’s exquisite illustrations, and then she did the same thing with the rest of his paintings. She linked it to the Facebook page and to the webpage where she’d laid out the house details.
She recorded a voice-over for the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ video that she’d made inside the house and posted that on YouTube, linking each room to something from the history.
By the following week, she was gathering quite a following, getting lots of shares and re-Tweets, but most of the people who commented were less interested in the house than the artist and the history.
Who had painted the watercolours? Where could they buy them? Were prints available? Was the house open to the public? Where could they buy the book?
So far, no one had connected the paintings with Darius Hadley—hardly surprising considering the sculptures that had made his name. She considered sending a link to the Facebook page to Freddie Glover. She knew he’d get it, and no doubt wet himself in his rush to get his hands on the pictures. But Darius had dismissed the pictures as chocolate-box stuff and, besides, she’d given him her word.
There was no word from Darius—well, he was busy—but whenever the doorbell rang she rushed to see who it was.
‘Tash?’
‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, buzzing her up, quashing her disappointment as she reached for the kettle. ‘This is a surprise. I thought you’d be busy cooking and packing for the holiday.’
‘Cooking,’ she said, taking a casserole dish from a basket and popping it into the fridge. ‘I ran out of room in the freezer.’
As you do...
‘And you came all the way to London to give it to me?’ she teased.
‘Not just that. I thought, since you aren’t working, we could spend the day together. We could go shopping...maybe have afternoon tea at Claibournes? Dad offered to treat us.’
Oh, right. This wasn’t just food, it was the entire take-your-mind-off-it scenario.
‘Actually, Mum, I’m a bit busy.’
‘You’re working? Has Miles Morgan—?’
‘No. I’m handling a private sale for a client,’ she said quickly, ignoring the fact that the definition of a client was someone who paid for your services. After all, a first casting Darius Hadley bronze would be worth a bob or two. Assuming he was still interested. ‘So, what are you shopping for? You’ve left it a bit late for holiday stuff.’ And her mother never left anything until the last minute. Obviously, she’d decided on a little face-to-face persuasion to join them.
‘The holiday is off.’
‘Off?’
Her mother sighed, laid out a couple of cups and saucers, heated the teapot. ‘We had a call last night. Apparently the water tank overflowed, a ceiling came down and the cottage is uninhabitable for the foreseeable future. The kids are devastated.’
‘Oh...I’m sorry.’
She cracked a wry smile. ‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I know how much you enjoy it.’ It might not be her idea of a good time, but Cornwall was a spring half-term tradition that went way back, rain or shine, and as a child she’d loved it. When she had children of her own she would love it again. ‘Can’t you find somewhere else?’
‘For nine adults and seven children at half-term? And it’s the bank holiday.’
‘Eight adults,’ Tash reminded her, getting down the cake tin. ‘Lemon drizzle?’ she offered, putting it on a plate. ‘What will you do?’
‘Organise some day trips, I suppose. We’ll manage.’ She took a piece of cake, rolled her eyes in appreciation. ‘You could open a cake shop,’ she said. ‘Or maybe an Internet home delivery service? Lots of demand for good home-made cake.’
‘I could, but I won’t.’
‘Just a thought. Tell me about this private sale.’
‘Actually, it’s Hadley Chase.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Isn’t that the house—?’
‘Yes. I’ve promised the owner that I’ll find him a buyer.’
‘And he agreed?’
‘Why wouldn’t he? I have a terrific track record.’
‘With an agency behind you,’ she said. ‘Glossy brochures, ads in the
Country Chronicle
...’ She stopped, realising that wasn’t the most tactful thing to say. ‘Advertising costs the earth.’
‘Not necessarily.’
She showed her mother the Facebook page and got an unimpressed
humph
. ‘People who buy stately homes aren’t going to see this,’ she said.
‘It’s all about getting a buzz going. Getting noticed by the media.’ Getting them to follow you was the hardest part. They apparently took the view that they were there to be followed.
Her mother took another look. ‘Well, you do seem to have a lot of comments.’
‘Most of them asking who painted the picture of the house.’ The one thing she couldn’t tell anyone. ‘Or if the history has been published and where can they buy it.’ Maybe she should be following publishers. Art dealers.
‘It is a lovely picture. Who did paint it?’
Yes, well, there was the rub.
‘I found it in the house. It wasn’t signed.’
‘Well, someone who lived there was very talented.’ She took another forkful of cake, then said, ‘What you need is a plan.’
‘This is the plan,’ she admitted. ‘Well, one of them. I’ve made a sort of
Sleeping Beauty
story. Pictures of the stairs covered in leaves, furniture shrouded in dust sheets, cobwebby attics, glimpses of the view through dusty windows, matching the room with sound bites from the history, and put it on YouTube.’ She played it through.
‘It’s very...atmospheric.’
‘Thanks. That’s exactly what I was going for,’ she said.
Her mother sighed. ‘This is all very arty and interesting but what would you have done if Miles Morgan hadn’t...’ She made a vague gesture, clearly not wanting to say the words. ‘To recover the situation?’
‘Well, I would have suggested...’ She stopped. Keep it simple... Okay, she couldn’t afford to hire a firm of contract cleaners but maybe, just maybe... ‘Mum, can I offer you a proposition?’
‘You can offer me another piece of that cake,’ she said, pouring out the tea, adding a splash of milk. ‘What kind of proposition?’
‘Well, you can see for yourself that Hadley Chase is a beautiful country house set in amazing grounds. It has a chalk stream with trout fishing for Dad and the boys, rods included,’ she added. She’d seen them hung on racks in one of the storerooms. ‘There are views to die for, and Hadley is a classic English village with thatched cottages, a centuries-old pub and a village green. I know it’s not Cornwall,’ she said quickly, ‘but it will be free.’