Saving Willowbrook (8 page)

‘I prefer to be certain you're all right. I don't want you suing me for injuries received on my property. Sit on this stool, please.'

He spread his hands wide in a gesture of surrender and sat down.

She dampened a piece of cotton wool in water and antiseptic, pressing it gently on his injured cheek. ‘It's more a graze than a cut. I don't think it'll leave a scar.'

When she'd finished, she wrapped some ice in a tea towel. ‘Here. If you hold this against your face, it should stop any swelling.'

‘Thanks!'

As she put the things away, she began to worry. What if she'd been alone? Brett was a big man. Could she really have fought him off on her own? Would he come back again, as he'd threatened?

‘Are you all right, Ella?'

‘Just wondering what got into him, whether he'll . . .'

‘. . . do it again?'

She nodded.

‘You could have a quiet word with his father.'

‘I suppose so. But Mr Harding doesn't take kindly to criticism of his family.' She didn't want to think about Brett again tonight. To her relief, the timer on the cooker went ping. Moving towards it, she said briskly, ‘There! Dinner's almost ready. If you'd like to come through to the dining room, Mr O'Neal?' She led the way, indicating a place near the window.

He eyed the table set for one with disapproval. ‘Have you eaten already?'

‘Well, no, but I don't usually eat with guests.'

‘There's only one guest tonight. You mean you're going to sit alone in the kitchen while I sit by myself out here? That's ridiculous. Join me for dinner, Ella? Please. And use my first name, as I asked.'

‘Well, I—' she took a deep, slow breath ‘—Oh, all right. I'll – um, just go and see Amy to bed, then I'll get the food and set another place.'

But when he'd gone to sit down, she fled first to the sink, where she could splash her hot face with cool water and tell herself she could handle this.

For a few moments Rose gave in to the temptation to lean against Oliver. But then suddenly she remembered the way he'd left her without a word. Pulling away, she stiffened her spine. ‘Sorry. Just a momentary weakness.' She turned to check the metal box again.

‘You're still too independent, Rose.' He watched what she was doing, lip curling scornfully. ‘And you always were more concerned about your painting project than about anything else.'

She couldn't find the energy to argue.

Then people began clambering over the van and someone called, ‘You all right, Rose?'

‘I'm fine.' But she stayed where she was, too wobbly still to risk clambering out across the rubble. She watched as they used the jaws of life to cut open the van door, rubbing her forehead, which was hurting.

Oliver pried her hand away and said in his doctor's voice, ‘Let me see.'

Still feeling weak and boneless, she let him.

‘Just a small gash. No need for stitches, but we'll make sure it's clean as soon as we can get you out of here.'

By then Brett was stirring. He looked round the van, bleary-eyed. ‘What happened?'

‘Stay where you are, sir. Don't move.'

But being Brett, he ignored that and tried to get out of his vehicle. He had to wait until they'd pulled away the pieces of his door, then found himself facing a policeman.

‘Would you blow into this, please, sir?'

He reared back. ‘No way! I'm injured. I need to go to hospital.'

‘Are you refusing to take a breathalyser test?'

Brett tried to push past him, but the policeman caught his arm in a firm grip.

‘If you don't blow into this, we'll have to take a blood sample. I can smell beer on your breath.'

For a moment all hung in the balance then, with a growl of anger, Brett did as he was asked.

‘You didn't do that properly, sir. We'll have to do it again. Now, continue to blow until I tell you to stop and make sure your breath goes into the tube properly.'

When that was over, the police officer shook his head over the results and Brett insisted on seeing them.

‘It's wrong!' he yelled, snatched the kit out of his hand and hurled it across the road.

It took them a couple of minutes to subdue him and put him into the police car.

‘He'll go to the station, take a blood test, willingly or not, and be charged with driving under the influence,' Rose said with relish.

‘He doesn't seem to have improved with keeping.'

‘No, he hasn't.'

One of the policemen came over to Oliver. ‘You were driving the second car, sir, I believe?' Then he smiled. ‘Oliver Paige. I thought you'd left Chawton for good.'

‘No, just for a few years. Nice to see you again, Chad.'

‘I have to ask you to take a breathalyser test, I'm afraid.'

‘Sure. Happy to oblige.'

Rose watched as Oliver complied and was cleared of drinking. He had the faintest of American accents now, after his years in the States. She'd not heard that he was coming back, and she usually picked up all the gossip at the pub. What was he doing here? She hoped he'd not be staying long in Chawton.

She waited for him to leave but he didn't. He watched as they towed away the van and fastened a tarpaulin over the gaping hole in her wall, then turned to her. ‘This is one of my father's cottages, isn't it?'

‘You know it is.'

‘You won't be able to stay here while it's being repaired.' He stared round. ‘Was this your studio?'

She nodded. ‘And I'd rather stay, so I'll manage. I can take my painting things into the living room while this room is being repaired.'

‘Surely there's somewhere else you can go? Isn't your cousin still out at Willowbrook? She'll have room for you.'

‘I'd rather stay here, where I can walk to my evening work at the pub.'

She decided to change the subject. ‘Home for a visit?'

‘No, home for a while. Dad's partner's resigned and the practice is too big for one person.'

‘You, a GP?'

He smiled. ‘Why not? A and E training is perfect for the job, and anyway, I need a change.'

His face took on that shuttered look she'd always hated. Oliver could conceal his feelings better than anyone she'd ever met. She should know. His wooden expression had been much in evidence during the time they were splitting up.

‘If you're sure you can manage tonight, I'll come back tomorrow.'

She watched him walk away, got angry with herself for doing that and slammed the front door shut – which was a waste of time with a gaping hole in the corner of her house.

She looked round the studio, of which she'd been so proud, and tears welled in her eyes. This was a backward step.

So was the return of Oliver Paige. It'd taken her years to get him out of her system – and he still crept into her dreams occasionally, damn him! Why did he have to come back to Chawton?

She couldn't imagine him as a GP. He definitely didn't have a bedside manner, or much tolerance of fools. Maybe his return was only temporary until his father found another partner. Maybe he was marking time between jobs.

She sighed as she started to clear up the mess. Worst of all, Oliver was just as good-looking as ever, damn his baby blue eyes and honey-coloured hair.

After the meal, Ella and Cameron lingered at the table, sipping her best cooking port in a companionable silence as they watched the moon's reflection in the lake. The conservatory was shadowed, apart from their small oasis of brightness, and when he went to switch the remaining light off, she made no protest.

‘I often sit here in the dark in the evenings,' she admitted, her voice quiet, her body still and relaxed.

‘The view is just as beautiful by moonlight as by day. Did you grow up here?'

‘Yes. We Turners have lived here for centuries.'

She smiled at some memory and Cameron marvelled at how softly tender that smile was. There was something so very attractive about the quiet warmth of her, though she had been magnificent in her anger. She was too thin, though, and her clothes hung rather loosely on her. She looked as if she'd be the better for a good rest. ‘Are your parents still alive?'

‘Dad died a while ago. Mum's remarried. What about yours?'

‘They're in Toronto. But only until next year. Then they'll move to London. Dad's nearing the end of his working life, but he'll probably continue to manage the occasional project for the company after he retires. I don't think he knows how to do anything else but work, actually.'

‘Where did you grow up? I can't quite place your accent.'

‘That's because there's a bit of everything in it. When I was a kid, my parents hauled me all over the world, wherever Dad happened to be based. I've spent most of the last decade based in the UK, but doing projects in other countries.'

‘Do you enjoy moving around?'

‘I used to.'

‘But not now?'

‘No, not any more.' He cocked one eyebrow at her and grinned. ‘You haven't asked me if I'm married?'

She'd been dying to. ‘And are you?'

‘No. Never have been, either. But I've cohabited a couple of times, one of them for two years. My lifestyle didn't help. Nothing acrimonious about the break-ups, there just wasn't enough to keep us together.'

‘What exactly do you do at the bank?'

Should he confess? No, not yet. Not everything, anyway. ‘I'm not actually employed by the bank. I just work on projects here and there.'

Something to do with her property? She didn't want to think about that now, didn't want to spoil the evening. ‘And when the current projects are finished?'

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I certainly don't. I'm at one of those crisis points in life.' He smiled, but it faded quickly. ‘I'd call it a mid-life crisis, except I'm only thirty-five.'

Silence fell between them. She wondered whether to get up and clear the table, but felt exhausted, so sat on, nursing her wine glass, sipping occasionally and watching the moonlight play on the gently moving water of the lake. The conservatory was one of her favourite places to sit.

‘I can see why you love your home,' he said after another few moments of comfortable silence. ‘Have you ever thought of expanding this place into a larger operation?'

She jerked upright at that, feeling suddenly tense. What had made him ask that? ‘I've got as much on my plate as I can manage at the moment.'

‘If this is a one-woman operation, I'd say you're managing more than most people could, and the place is a credit to you.'

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of this compliment. ‘Anyway, I don't have the capital to develop anything else or I'd not have had to apply for a loan to pay out my ex. Once that's done, I shall need to consolidate for a year or two. You're a business consultant. You should understand that.'

‘But would you expand, if you could?'

‘Yes, I would. I'd like to keep the history of the farm alive, have staff wearing old-fashioned clothing and perhaps keep some period costumes to loan to guests. People love dressing up if you give them a good enough excuse. I'd conserve the land, offer small animals and birds an asylum, and give the townies and foreign tourists the chance to appreciate the natural beauty of Wiltshire. There's a local nature society that would help me set up nature walks and observation points.'

She'd dreamed of it so many times, lain in bed picturing it, studied old history books. She realized she was betraying her most cherished dreams, dreams she hadn't told anyone else about, and cut the conversation short, surprised at herself. ‘Well, you get the picture. I definitely wouldn't want to offer guests a noisy resort full of expensive restaurants, shops and bars that could be found anywhere in the world. A large company made me an offer a few years ago, but I turned it down. And now another company is interested. I'm not selling, though, not unless I'm forced to. It's my family home. I want to go on living here and hand it to my daughter one day, just as my father handed it to me.'

‘I know what you mean about resort hotels. I've stayed in enough of them to last me the rest of my life. And when there were conventions going on, I kept mostly to my room. I'm not a party animal, I'm afraid.'

How lonely his life sounded! She kept the conversation firmly on him, feeling she'd already betrayed too much about herself. ‘You must have seen quite a bit of the world, though? Which countries did you like best?'

He spoke for a while about some of his favourite places – Vancouver, Sydney – then the talk drifted to a standstill again. It had been a long time since she'd enjoyed a man's company so much, a long time since anyone had listened to her as Cameron had, as if he was really interested in what she was saying.

Eventually she forced herself to break up the evening, nervous of how much she'd told him. ‘If I don't go to bed, I'll never be up in time to get Amy off to school tomorrow.'

He stood up with that lazy confidence that was so much a part of him. ‘I shouldn't have kept you up so late, but I enjoyed your company.'

‘I enjoyed yours, too,' she said before she could work out if it was wise to admit that. The trouble was, she really liked him. He hadn't tried to score off her or prove anything as they chatted, just . . . well, acted like an old friend.

Only he wasn't an old friend. Or even a new one. He'd be gone in a day or two, would probably forget her before he even reached his next stopping place. She had to remember that. Her customers were birds of passage. She was, she hoped, here to stay.