Ava thought about seeing Henry in the woods and knew that the beard and long hair hadn’t been a disguise, at least not in the sense that Flo thought it was. As for knowing he had donated the frames, Ava was unsure if her mind felt any clearer from knowing that fact. She drank down the last of her coffee. ‘Do they make a triple shot coffee in the café at all? I think I might need something stronger.’
‘Yes. But wait, what if Henry donated the picture on purpose? Maybe he wanted you to find it,’ Mary continued, seemingly unwilling to let the subject go.
‘No, that makes no sense. I looked at the frames and I missed it. If he wanted me to find it, he’d have left it more prominently or . . . or just shown me.’
‘OK, so you need to find out what Henry knows.’
Ava nodded, unsure that Henry would be any wiser on the subject than she was. If he knew about the connection between their parents, he had never mentioned it. She had already been through her mum’s things and found nothing, and that meant the only person left to ask was Lady Bramlington herself.And that won’t be happening any time soon.
‘Or you could go public, ask around. Flo obviously hasn’t seen the picture, or she would have said something. You could show her, or maybe Pauline—’
Ava felt a cold shiver down her spine, her eyes flicking to the picture of her mum on the noticeboard. ‘No. I’d like to keep this between us, for now, if you don’t mind. Whatever the reason, my mum kept her connection to the Bramlingtons from me. Until I know why I’d rather not go public.’
‘An excuse to go undercover with Henry!’ Mary winked.
Chapter Nineteen
Henry strode out onto the driveway and checked his watch. He had three hours before his meeting with Dermot Dixon. With tension pulsing through his body, running seemed the preferable option to going back over the proposal he had spent long hours preparing. As the letters alerting tenants to the future rent increases had already gone out — Mrs Jenkins was nothing if not proficient — Henry knew he had to get phase two of his plans underway. Securing a deal with Dixon meant he’d be able to reassure the people of Dapplebury that the increases would be balanced against plans for future jobs, affordable housing and, ultimately, continued revenue for the shops and other establishments.
Seeing Granger approaching, a glint in his deep, brown eyes, Henry smiled. Whenever he felt at his most alone in his battle to save Dapplebury House, the estate and village, Granger was there to offer silent support and companionship.
‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’
The Labrador welcomed the pat on his flank, his tail wagging.
Henry bent and checked the laces on his trainers, pulling them in a little tighter, before standing; the chill morning air was refreshing.
Trying to clear his mind, he set off, the gravel crunching under his feet until he turned and headed into the woods. Granger followed closely behind. Since his arrival back home —home; the word was beginning to feel right—Henry had hacked down some of the overgrown brambles, and started to make his mark on the land once more, with trails forming where he ran. As well as a means to keep fit and release his frustrations, the exercise served as an escape from the confines of Dapplebury House, and the watchful eyes of his mother, and Mrs Jenkins.
Welcoming the seclusion, he wondered how he had been able to exist in Los Angeles, one of the busiest cities in the United States.Of course, he’d never planned to live in Los Angeles. Having obtained a Geography degree from the University of Cambridge he’d spent a year travelling — a trip inspired by his refusal to connect with the reality of his situation and the expectations of his parents. He never imagined his journey would lead him to volunteering in Sri Lanka where he discovered a passion for meditation, self-healing, hypnotherapy and wellness. Or that a connection made during that time would see him turning his passion into a career as he accepted a job opportunity offered in Los Angeles. It all seemed so far removed from life in the village of Dapplebury, in the south of England, and in his youth and determination to forge his own path, he had welcomed that.
Trees flicking past him as he ran, Henry could hear his own ragged breathing as well as that of Granger, who despite his age, kept up with the pace. Thinking about his looming meeting, Henry’s mind whirred with the telephone calls, emails and conversations he had entered into with Dermot Dixon.
The man, who Henry recently discovered had the stout build and tenacious personality of a terrier, had done his homework. When he contacted Henry in Los Angeles, he’d been full of talk of taking the responsibility from his hands, and of turning Dapplebury House into luxury apartments. The deal he was offering was attractive; his approach and timing impeccable. Barely a day passed since he’d been back, that Henry hadn’t been grateful for refusing to enter into any official agreements until after his father’s death. Well, now he had passed on and Henry was ready to make a deal. It just wasn’t the deal that Dermot Dixon was expecting.
‘Wish me luck, Granger! We need this to work,’ Henry panted. He was all too aware that if his negotiations didn’t goto plan, he risked reneging on his promise to his father, losing Dapplebury House and the estate. And then there was Ava.No matter what the outcome of his meeting, he risked losing her. She loved the grounds of Dapplebury House every bit as much as he did, but without being able to tell her how desperate the situation was, would she be able to forgive what he was about to do? Henry picked up his pace and fisted his hands, his nails digging into his palms as he ran.
He had to have faith that she would understand. He couldn’t contemplate how different life in Dapplebury would be without her as a friend.Friend?Who was he kidding? He wanted them to be so much more than that. Since their recent trip to the vet with Myrtle, he frequently recalled the way Ava chewed her lower lip when she was worried or unsure, the crease of her nose when she was curious; her smile that reached her eyes when she was happy. And her desire-filled eyes that connected deep within him when she had thanked him as they said their goodbyes. It all filled him with a hope he didn’t dare to entertain until he sorted the estate and dealt with the ramifications of the deal he was about to make.
Shaking his head did nothing to push the image of Ava from his mind.Stay focused!Zipping up his jacket as the breeze gusted through the trees causing their boughs to creak and their leaves to shudder in whispers, Henry ran on. Despite his best efforts, he recalled his all too brief moment with Ava at Critters’ Cottage, before Mary arrived and before Myrtle became their priority. He remembered the intoxicating scent of Ava’s hair as it had fallen around her shoulders, the touch of her soft, smooth skin; and how he had wanted more, so much more. The memory caused a longing he couldn’t remember ever having for any other woman, and an ache in his chest he was sure wasn’t the result of his run.
Coming through a clearing in the trees, he reached the lake and paused to regain his composure, his hands on the taut muscles of his thighs. Just moments behind, Granger followed, slumping down on the grass, his dripping tongue hanging to the side of his mouth, his rapid panting causing his whole body to quake. Henry crouched to pat him, before looking up across the murky depths of the water. Recalling Ava’s words when they had stood there together —This isn’t irreversible. It’s just neglect —Henry knew she was right. But everything came with a price, and he didn’t yet have the money to pay.
Henry growled in frustration, throwing a stone into the water and watching the ever-increasing circles spreading on the surface in its wake. Having worked tirelessly to come up with an alternative to put to Dixon, all Henry could do now was hope; hope the deal would come to fruition and hope Ava would understand, and forgive him.
Chapter Twenty
‘It’s not the finest food, that’s all I’m saying. Only the French say French cuisine is the finest. Ask anyone, and they will tell you, the honest flavours of Italian will win out every time. Traditional recipes handed down over generations. We respect our ingredients. We let them speak for themselves.’
As Gino had been speaking for a good ten minutes on the merits of Italian over French food, Ava wondered if he was actually going to let anything or anyone speak for themselves.
‘You see, a meal to us is—’
‘Gino!’ Ava held up her hand. While she appreciated his passion, she feared how long he might go on if left to continue his rant.
‘Yes?’ Gino looked confused by the interruption.
‘The point is, you can’t host a French-themed night with you denigrating the star of the show — the French cuisine. Otherwise, you should have called your venture around the world in one perfect cuisine and seven not so good ones!’ Ava waved to the waitress and asked for the bill, before taking out her purse.
