Authors: Kate Hewitt
‘Right
this way,’ Jacob murmured, and led her into what seemed to be the only room
that remained untouched by the renovations.
William Wolfe’s
study.
Mollie
gazed around the oak-panelled room with its huge partners’ desk and deep
leather chairs and a memory flooded over with her such sudden, merciless detail
that she felt dizzy. Dizzy and sick.
She’d
been four or five years old, brought here by her father, holding his hand. The
office had smelled funny; Mollie remembered it now as stale cigarette smoke and
the pungent fumes of alcohol. Of course she hadn’t recognised those scents as a
child.
Jacob
must have seen or perhaps just sensed her involuntary recoil as she entered the
room, for he turned around with a wry, mocking smile and said, ‘I don’t
particularly like this room either.’
‘Why
do you use it, then?’ Mollie asked. Her voice sounded strange and scratchy.
Her
father had been asking for money, she remembered. He was a proud man, and even at
her young age Mollie had known he didn’t like to do it.
I haven’t been paid in six months, sir
.
William
Wolfe had been impatient, bored,
scornful
. He’d
refused at first, and when Henry Parker had doggedly continued, his head
lowered in respect, he’d thrown several notes at him and stalked from the room.
Still holding her hand, Henry had bent to pick them up. Mollie had seen the
sheen of tears in his eyes and known something was terribly wrong. She’d
completely forgotten the episode until now, when it came back with the smells
and the sights and the churning sense of fear and uncertainty.
She
looked at Jacob now; he was gazing around the room with a dispassionate air of
assessment. ‘It’s good for me,’ he said at last, and Mollie wondered what that
meant. She decided not to ask.
She
moved into the room, stepping gingerly across the thick, faded Turkish carpet,
her notebook clasped to her chest as if she were a timid schoolgirl. The memory
still reverberated through her, made her realise—a little bit—what Jacob and
his siblings had endured from their father. She’d experienced only a moment of
it; they’d had a lifetime. Annabelle had never really spoke of her father to
Mollie, never wanted to mention the terrible night that had given her the scar
she was so self-conscious about.
Mollie
was starting to realise now just how much she didn’t know.
‘Here.’
Jacob held out a folded piece of paper. ‘This is yours, I believe.’ Mollie took
it automatically, although she had no idea what it could possibly be. Nothing
of hers had ever been at the manor. ‘I had the water and electricity turned
back on at the cottage,’ Jacob continued. ‘So you should be comfortable there
for however long the landscaping takes.’
Mollie
barely heard what he’d said. She had opened the paper he’d given her, and now
gaped at it in soundless shock. It was a cheque.
For five
hundred thousand pounds.
‘What
…?’ Her mind spun. She could barely get her head around all those noughts.
‘Back
pay,’ Jacob explained briefly.
‘For your father.’
Ten
years of back pay. Her fingers clenched on the paper. ‘You don’t—’
‘Whatever you may think of me, I’m not a thief.’
Mollie
swallowed. How did Jacob know what she thought of him? At that moment, she
didn’t even know herself. And she was beginning to wonder if the assumptions
and judgements she’d unconsciously made over the years about Jacob Wolfe were
true at all. The thought filled her with an uneasy curiosity.
‘This
is more than he would have earned,’ she finally said.
‘A lot
more.’
Jacob shrugged.
‘With interest.’
‘That’s
not—’
‘It’s
standard business practice.’ He cut her off, his voice edged with impatience.
‘Trust me, I can afford it. Now shall we discuss the landscaping?’
What
had Jacob been doing, Mollie wondered, that made half a million pounds a
negligible amount of money? Stiffly she sat on the edge of the chair in front
of the desk. She slipped the cheque into her pocket; she still didn’t know if
she ever would cash it.
‘Thank
you,’ she said, awkwardly, because how did you thank someone for giving you a
fortune, especially when it seemed to matter so little to him?
Jacob
shrugged her gratitude aside.
‘So.’
He folded his
hands on the desk and levelled her with one dark look. His eyes, Mollie
thought, were endlessly black. No silver or gold glints, no warmth or light.
Just black.
‘You mentioned there was damage.
Besides the obvious?’
‘It
looks like a virus has claimed most of the bushes in the Rose Garden. There are
a lot of dead trees that need to be cleared and cut, and of course all the
stonework and masonry need to be repointed.’ Jacob nodded, clearly expecting
her to continue. ‘I don’t want to take away from the beauty of the original
design,’ Mollie said firmly. ‘The gardens’ designs are at least five hundred
years old in some places. So whatever landscaping I do, I’d like to maintain
the integrity of the original work.’
‘Of course.’
‘Like
you’re doing with the house,’ she added. ‘Aren’t you?’
There
was a tiny pause. ‘Of course,’ he said again. ‘The house is a historic
monument. The last thing I want to do is modernise it needlessly.’
‘Who
is overseeing the renovations?’
‘I
am.’
‘I
mean,
what company. Did you hire an architect?’
Another tiny pause.
‘J Design.’
Mollie
sat back, impressed. ‘They’re quite good, aren’t they?’
Jacob
gave her the faintest of smiles. ‘So I’ve heard.’
She
glanced around the room; even with the windows thrown open to the fresh summer
day, she thought she could still catch the stale whiff of cigarette smoke, the
reek of old alcohol. Or was that just her imagination? She felt claustrophobic,
as if the house and its memories were pressing in on her, squeezing the very
breath and life out of her. She could only imagine how Jacob felt. He had so
many more memories here than she did. ‘When are you hoping to put the manor on
the market?’
Jacob’s
face tightened, his mouth thinning to a hard line.
‘As soon
as possible.’
‘You
won’t miss it?’ Mollie asked impulsively. She didn’t know what made her ask the
question; perhaps it was the force of her own memories, or maybe the way Jacob
looked so hard, so unfeeling. Yet he’d cared enough to give her her father’s
back pay and then some. Or was that just out of guilt or perhaps pity? Did the
man feel anything at all? Looking at his impassive face, she could hardly
credit him with any deep emotion. ‘It was your home,’ she said quietly.
‘Whatever happened
here.
’
‘And
it’s time for it to be someone else’s home,’ Jacob replied coolly. Mollie could
tell she’d pushed too far, asked too much. He rose from the desk, clearly
expecting her to rise as well. ‘Feel free to order whatever you need to begin
the landscaping work. You can send the bills to me.’
The
thought was incredible. The greatest commission she’d probably ever receive,
with carte blanche to do as she liked. It was like a dream.
A
fantasy.
Yet she still felt uneasy, uncertain … and no more so than when
she looked into Jacob’s dark eyes. It was like looking into a deep pit, Mollie
thought.
An endless well of … sorrow.
The word popped
into her mind, as unexpected as a bubble—the bubbles she’d felt earlier.
Perhaps sorrow was an emotion he felt.
‘Thank
you,’ she finally said. ‘You’re putting an awful lot of trust in me.’
Jacob’s
face twisted for no more than a second, and something like pain flashed in his
eyes. Then his expression ironed out, as blank and implacable as ever. ‘Then
earn it,’ he replied brusquely.
‘Starting now.’
He
walked out of the study, leaving Mollie no choice but to follow.
MOLLIE
threw herself into the work. She wanted to, and it was easier than dealing with
the other demands of her life … packing up her father’s things, or thinking
about her own future, or wondering about Jacob Wolfe.
She
spent an inordinate amount of time doing the latter. She wanted to ask him
where he’d been, what he’d done, why he’d come back. She never got the chance.
In the week she’d been back at Wolfe Manor, she’d hardly seen Jacob since she’d
walked out of his study.
Emails
from Annabelle didn’t clarify the situation too much. Now that the electricity
was working in the cottage, she’d finally managed to check her email. There
were at least a dozen from Annabelle, detailing Jacob’s arrival at the manor,
warning Mollie that he didn’t know she was at the cottage. Wryly Mollie wished
she’d thought to check her email while in Italy. Access had been limited, and
frankly she’d been happy to escape the world and all of its demands for a
little while.
It
felt good to work hard with her hands all day, to get sweaty and dirty and covered
in mud. She came back to the cottage every night to shower and fall into bed,
too tired even to dream.
And
yet still, in her spare and unguarded moments, her thoughts returned to Jacob
again and again. She wanted to ask him questions. She wanted to know what he’d
been doing all these years, and what he was doing now. She wanted to see him
again. Just to get some clarity, Mollie told herself. And some closure.
Explanations that would justify why he’d left everyone in such a lurch.
Nothing more.
Except
even as she told herself that was all, she knew it wasn’t. She thought of the
darkness of his eyes, the crisp scent of his aftershave, and knew she wanted to
see him again, full stop.
A
week after Jacob gave her the commission Mollie was still removing all the
weeds and dead wood in preparation to actually begin the landscaping and give
the garden new life. She’d hired a tree surgeon from the neighbouring village
to come to the manor and cut some of the larger trees down, yet when he didn’t
arrive and the hours ticked on, annoyance gave way to alarm.
She rung
the man’s mobile, only to have him explain without
too much apology, ‘Sorry, but I called the manor to check on some details, and
was told to cancel.’
‘What
…?’ Mollie exclaimed in an outraged squeak. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I
dunno … someone there who picks up the phone, at any rate. Sorry.’
And
Mollie knew who that would be. There were only two of them here after all. And
she wasn’t supposed to feel
vulnerable
.
Well, she didn’t. She felt bloody cross. She’d wasted a whole day waiting for
someone who had no intention of coming, and Jacob had not even had the courtesy
to inform her he’d cancelled her arrangements. She was operating on a tight
schedule already, and she certainly didn’t need his interference.