Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (5 page)

He followed the housekeeper into the drawing room, where Marianne was ensconced on the sofa with her foot resting on a cushion.

“I’ll have you know I spent all morning picking only the best examples of local flora for your bouquet,” he told Marianne as he gave her the flowers.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, and breathed in their scent. “I love wildflowers.”

“And…” he withdrew a slender white box tied with red ribbon from behind his back. “Chocolates, handmade and liberally sprinkled with Malden sea salt.” He smiled and laid the box on a nearby table. “I have it on good authority – my aunt’s – that they’re the best chocolates Carywick has to offer.”

“I’m sure they are.” A smile dimpled her cheeks. “You’re too kind. Thank you so much.” She indicated the chair opposite her and handed the flowers to Mrs Fenwick, who bustled off to put them in water. “Please, sit down.”

He dragged the chair closer and sat. “And how’s my patient this afternoon? Is your foot on the mend?”

“It is. I must’ve twisted it when I fell. It still hurts a bit, but not nearly so much as it did yesterday.” She eyed him. “What about you? Did you get Jasper back to Allenham in that awful storm? Is he all right?”

“Fit as a fiddle. He got extra oats and three carrots when we got back, so he did pretty well, all in all.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And I’m very glad you happened to find me, Mr Willoughby.”

“Not half as glad as me. And please,” he added, his blue eyes meeting hers, “call me Kit.”

“Kit,” she murmured, and blushed. “But you have to call me Marianne.” She paused. “Is Kit your real name, or a nickname?”

“Nickname. I was christened Christopher but almost no one calls me that. I doubt I’d answer if anyone did, I’m so unused to it.”

A smile dimpled Marianne’s cheeks. “You don’t look like a Christopher; Kit definitely suits you better.” She hesitated. “Thank you again, so much. If you hadn’t come along when you did…” her voice trailed away. “It was really stupid of me to try and climb up that old rope.”

“I often ride along the border of the two estates. I was on my way back to Allenham when I heard you scream.” He leaned forward and took up her hand, all traces of prior amusement gone. “I’m glad I found you as well, Miss Holland. Very glad.”

His eyes met hers, and he brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it so tenderly that Marianne found herself blushing more deeply, both charmed and captivated by her gallant rescuer. Was there ever a more handsome or solicitous man in all of Hadleighshire?

No, she decided as he entertained her with amusing anecdotes and jokes and Hadleighshire gossip for the better part of the afternoon, there most certainly was not.

Perhaps, she thought as she smiled over at him, Northumberland wouldn’t prove to be nearly so bad as she’d feared, after all.

Chapter 6

On Tuesday morning, Marianne had a cup of coffee and a few bites of toast before heading upstairs to get ready for her interview at the veterinary clinic.

She stood before the cheval mirror in her bedroom and studied her reflection with a critical eye. She smoothed her hands nervously over her skirt. It was a bit prim for her tastes – she felt unlike herself in the pencil skirt and blouse and low heels – but it was the only suitable outfit she’d found in the village clothing store.

And at least she looked professional.

Even better, Marianne reminded herself as she grabbed up her handbag, Kit Willoughby had asked to see her again at the weekend. The thought of it put a spring in her step as she hurried down the stairs to the front door.

“Off for your interview, miss?” the housekeeper asked as she pushed through the baize door that led to the kitchen. She held a tray of tarnished silver in her hands.

Marianne nodded. “I’m taking the estate car. I’ll be back this afternoon. I’ll probably stop and have lunch in Endwhistle.”

“Your mum and sister will be here tomorrow,” Mrs Fenwick reminded her. “At least then you’ll have a bit of company.”

“I know, and I can’t wait. I miss them both so much.”

“Well, I’m sure they miss you just the same. But at least,” she added with a gleam in her eye, “you’ve had your share of excitement, not to mention meeting that handsome Mr Willoughby, since you got here.”

Marianne blushed. “Bye, Mrs Fenwick.”

“Goodbye, lass. And good luck to you.”

***

The veterinary clinic was located two miles outside of Endwhistle. She found it without too much difficulty. A two-storey stone farmhouse, modest but well cared for, stood on the left of the treed property and a smaller, low stone building occupied the right.

“’Endwhistle Small Animal Veterinary Clinic,’” Marianne said out loud as she parked the estate car in the gravel car park and got out. The words were etched in gold script across a wide bay window. A riot of purple-and-white-striped flowers decorated the window boxes.

Her gaze swept from the bright green door to the nearby pet runs and a fenced exercise enclosure, and a flutter of nervousness ran through her. She liked this place already. She wanted – badly – to work here.

Of course, Marianne reminded herself as she approached the door, she didn’t have much experience.

Who am I kidding?
she thought.
I have none
. But how hard could it be to schedule appointments and bandage up a few injured dogs and cats?

Feeling somewhat reassured, she took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

A tiled floor and the faint scent of disinfectant greeted her as she entered the waiting room. Plastic chairs lined the walls; most were occupied with anxious pet owners and their ailing animals.

Marianne had a quick glance around as she made her way to the reception desk. Despite the bare floor and the institutional green of the walls, the room had a cheery, welcoming feel thanks to the paintings on the walls and bright touches like a vase of roses on the counter and a basket heaped with pet toys in one corner.

“Hello, miss,” a smiling young woman behind the counter said. “May I help you?”

“Yes. I wondered if I might speak to Dr Brandon? My name is Marianne Holland and I’m here to interview for a job at the clinic,” she added.

“Oh. Well, I’m that sorry, but he’s gone out on an emergency call. One of the farmers’ dogs ingested something, and he’s afraid it might be rat poison.”

“Oh, no,” Marianne exclaimed. “How horrible. I do hope the poor dog will be all right.”

“Well, if anyone can help Maddie, Dr Brandon can.” She smiled. “I’ll let him know you stopped by. I can reschedule you for tomorrow morning, if you like?”

“Yes. That’d be perfect. Thank you.”

Marianne waited as the receptionist wrote out an appointment card. A cocker spaniel, a cockatiel, and a crated Siamese cat sat beside their owners, all of them subdued as they waited to be seen.

“Here you are.” The girl – Lynn, according to her nametag – handed her a card with tomorrow’s date and her appointment time written down. “Same time, nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be here,” Marianne promised, and turned to go.

“Good. Oh, and Miss Holland?”

She stopped halfway across the floor and turned back. “Yes?”

“Don’t you worry about Maddie,” she assured Marianne. “Dr Brandon’s the best there is. She’ll be fine.”

***

Just a few kilometres outside of Endwhistle, with a cough and a shudder and a cloud of steam, the check engine light came on and the estate car coughed and sputtered to a stop.

Marianne turned the key in the ignition; she checked the gas gauge (nearly full); she got out and lifted the bonnet to allow the billow of steam to escape; then she peered down at the engine in hopes that looking at it would help her figure out what was wrong.

It didn’t. The car was officially and irrevocably dead.

What to do now?

“I’ll call someone to come and get me, of course,” she said out loud. Surely one of the local petrol stations would have a mechanic and a towing truck on hand.

Marianne reached in her pocket for her mobile. And although she called every petrol station in the area – all two of them – no one answered.

“Right, I’ll call Mrs Fenwick,” she decided, and tried to tamp down her panic. “She can send Bertie or Jack to fetch me.” She took her phone out and stared at it, her fingers poised over the screen.

Marianne groaned. She didn’t know the bloody number. She’d never bothered to programme it into her phone.

“Oh, that’s just great, that is.” She slumped against the side of the car. “I don’t know a soul, the petrol stations won’t answer, there’s another arsing storm on the way –” she glared up at the lowering skies “and I haven’t even got an AA card.”

Just then, over the distant rumble of thunder, she heard the sound – the wonderful, welcome sound – of a car approaching. Marianne whirled around to see a yellow Hyundai Accent motoring towards her.

Immediately she ran into the road and began to jump and wave her arms back and forth like a demented boy-band fan.

As the car got closer it slowed and stopped, and two men got out. “What seems to be the trouble, miss?” the driver, a youngish bloke in jeans and trainers asked.

“Do you know anything about cars?” Marianne asked hopefully. “Mine’s just died.”

“A bit,” he said, and frowned. “Is the engine petrol or diesel?”

“Erm…petrol.”

“Right. I’m Brian,” he said by way of introduction, and smiled. “I tinker a bit with cars. Let’s have a look at the dashboard works.” He slid in behind the wheel and turned the key until the gauges and dashboard info came to life. “Ah, there’s your problem. The temperature gauge is pegged high.”

“That’s not good, is it?” Marianne ventured.

He didn’t answer, but called out to the other man in the Hyundai. “Danny, fetch me that water jug from the boot.”

“Aye.”

Brian walked around to the engine and peered under the bonnet. “Just as I thought, your coolant’s low. You’ve probably got a crack in the water pump. I can fill it with water, and it should get you wherever you’re going, but you’ll need a new pump soon as you can manage it.” He took the jug from Danny and poured water into the coolant tank.

“A new water pump,” she echoed. “Right.”

He lowered the bonnet. “Now let’s see if she’ll start back up. If she does, you can be on your way.”

“Thank you,” Marianne breathed, “thank you
so
much. I’ve an interview in Endwhistle tomorrow – in fact, I just came from there – and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back home.”

Danny, she noticed, had returned to the Accent, opened the driver’s side door, and got in behind the wheel. She frowned. Strange. Hadn’t Brian been the one driving?

“Let’s start ‘’er up,” Brian said. “I’ll just have a look at your temperature gauge and make sure the engine’s cooled properly afore you take off again.”

“That’s so kind,” Marianne exclaimed. “Thanks.”

With a nod, he slid once again behind the wheel as she stood on the side of the road and waited.

As Brian reached down to start the engine, Danny did the same, loudly revving the Accent’s engine; then he shifted into gear, peeled away from the layby, and sped off with a spray of gravel.

Marianne stared after him. She scarcely had time to wonder where he was off to in such a hurry when Brian turned the estate car’s ignition and started the engine.

“It’s started,” she called out, excited. “Thank you!”

But her joy was short-lived.

Without warning, the driver’s door slammed, nearly catching the hem of her skirt as it shut; and the car lurched forward with a spray of gravel and a squeal of tyres. Marianne, her mouth rounded in shock, stood at the edge of the road and gawped stupidly at the estate car’s rapidly retreating rear end.

She let out a shriek of delayed outrage and ran forward, shouting, “Wait – come back here! That’s my
car
, you sneaky bastard!”

Although she gave chase, it was no use. The lumbering old estate car picked up speed, and with a cheery wave of his arm out of the window, Brian floored it, and he and Lady Violet’s car were soon lost to view.

Chapter 7

Marianne couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it. Brian and Danny had stolen Lady Violet’s bloody car right out from under her.

The cheeky bastards!

“Have to…to call…the police,” she huffed, winded after running down the road in fruitless pursuit.

She grabbed her mobile and notified the local police, who took down the information and said they’d file a report straight away.

“Can you send a car to pick me up?” she asked.

“It’ll be a while, miss. The only squad car’s gone off to Carywick to check on a reported robbery.”

“It’s probably mine,” Marianne snapped, and rang off. “Idiots.”

Another growl of thunder rumbled overhead.

She’d barely finished the call when rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Within seconds – déjà vu all over again – she was wet through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head.

At least the slime-sucking, lying bastards who’d stolen Lady Violet’s car hadn’t got her handbag…or her mobile.

But how, she thought with a sinking feeling, was she to get back to Barton Park
now
?

Marianne was about to turn around – to do what, exactly, she had no idea – when a pickup truck, battered and faded, approached and slowed down. Three dogs – border collies, one black, one reddish-brown, and one white and tan – occupied the truck’s bed.

She froze and eyed the vehicle warily as the driver let his window down. He had rumpled brown hair and wore a quizzical expression on his face.

“Having a bad day, are you?” he inquired in a broad Northumberland accent.

“I’ve had better,” Marianne retorted, and kept walking.

The truck kept pace and drew alongside her once again. “It’s not the right sort of weather for a walk today.”

“Do tell,” Marianne snapped.

“What’s happened? Did your car break down? And if it did,” he added, frowning as he surveyed the road behind and ahead of him, “where is it?”

“Yes, my car broke down. A lovely man named Brian stopped to fix it,” she informed him grimly, still walking, “and after he started it up, he stole it right out from under me.”