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GET changed! Into what’?
Rosie swallowed hard on a huge surge of panic. Most of her gear was back in the room Jean had rented out to her above the mini-market. And, to be brutally honest, they weren’t the sort of clothes women who lunched with Sebastian Garcia would be seen dead in!
She and Mum had been dressed by charity shops. You could pick up some real bargains. That they didn’t always fit as well as they might, and the colours and fabrics were not what they would have chosen if money had been no object, was neither here nor there when being warm and decently covered on a shoe-string was the name of the game.
But what did it matter? she asked herself glumly as she pulled a pair of well-washed, worn old jeans out of a drawer. He wouldn’t expect her to look like a fashion plate and he wouldn’t be taking her to anywhere posh.
Come to think of it, he shouldn’t be taking her anywhere at all.
He could easily have told her what his so-called plans for her were right there and then. And if she had any sense she would have firmly but politely vetoed them, whatever they were.
She could look out for herself without him telling her what to do and when to do it. She should have stood her ground, not weakly given in when he’d said please and made her go spineless and melty.
Pulling on a clean but faded turquoise sweatshirt, she wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Her first date with the kind of man who would normally be seen with a stunning, seriously loaded and beautifully dressed sophisticate on his arm, and she was dressed as if she were about to go out and dig the garden!
But it wasn’t a real date, she impressed upon herself heavily.
He was just worried about the possibility of pregnancy and was probably afraid that she’d publicly name him as the father, and he’d hate that, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t want his fancy friends to know that he’d been sharing the cleaning lady’s bed.
Feeling low and no-account, Rosie brushed her hair until it shone like silk, painted her mouth a vivid scarlet to make herself feel better and decided that if he was going to insist she stick around like a spare part until they knew one way or another, she could always fib. She didn’t like the idea of lying to anyone, but surely, in this situation, it could be forgiven.
Her period wasn’t due for another two weeks, but he wasn’t to know that. So, in a couple of days, say, she could tell him he was off the hook, to his huge relief, and take herself off.
She couldn’t bear the thought of having him constantly watching her, his regret for what had been so beautiful growing deeper by the day, the tension between them spiralling, spoiling her memories of what they had shared. She would rather get over her love for him in her own way, in her own time.
She exchanged her old plimsolls for a fairly respectable pair of brown lace-ups and was as ready as she’d ever be, and presented a fairly composed facade as he ushered her into the passenger seat of his opulent silver Mercedes. She tried to ignore the fact that he was dressed in a classic black cashmere sweater over superbly cut stone-coloured pants and looked seriously well-heeled and impossibly spectacular.
Composure was the name of the game, she lectured herself.
They were bound to argue over what he had termed his plans for her—as if she had the mental ability of a gnat! So she had to stay calm and very controlled if she were to have any chance of impressing her rights over her own body on him.
But the cool veneer of composure cracked and blistered when, after a few wordless minutes, he brought the car to a halt on a narrow lane outside a small cottage.
‘You wanted to see the head gardener’s cottage,’ Sebastian announced quietly, turning in his seat, one arm stretching over the back of hers, his silvery eyes so intent she gave an involuntary shudder. Any particular reason? It’s an ordinary estate cottage and not on any tourist map that I know of.’
Her throat thickening with tears, Rosie pressed her soft lips together and turned her head away quickly, not wanting him to see how affected she was.
From the way he had parked she couldn’t get a good look at Briar Cottage without looking round that handsome head, the expanse of black-clad shoulders.
Fumbling fingers released her seat belt and found the door catch. Rosie slid out of the car, willing her legs to keep her upright as she gazed at her mother’s birthplace, an ache in the region of her heart.
A steeply pitched thatched roof topped a sturdy timber frame.
There were bright curtains at the small windows, a plume of smoke from the chimney and searing yellow daffodils and paler, subtler primroses growing amongst the cabbages.
A swing hung from an ancient pear tree. Had it been there when her mother was a child? Had she swung amidst the flowers and vegetables dreaming of her future? Dreams that had turned into what had to have been a nightmare of drudgery, of alienation from her parents.
‘If you’d like to see inside I’m sure Mrs Potts wouldn’t object.’
Rosie tensed. She hadn’t heard him exit the car; she’d been listening to her memories. Her mother telling her that Gran had passed away a scant year after the death of her grandfather, and later, her lovely face white with strain, explaining that following the sale of the furniture and effects—everything arranged by the estate manager and a solicitor—the proceeds, according to her Will, were to go to charity.
‘No.’ She vetoed his suggestion, her voice thin and lifeless. The ache in her heart had spread all over her body as the enormity of what Marcus Troone had done to her mother punched home with a vengeance.
‘You were asking Sharon if she recalled the previous head gardener. And I told you I did, remember?’ Sebastian prodded gently, making the connection. ‘I remember Joe Lambert from childhood holidays spent with Marcus and my aunt. You were related?’
Rosie shivered. There was little warmth in the early March sunshine and the light breeze was cutting. And there was no point in lying about this. ‘They were my grandparents.’ Her mouth felt numb. She could barely get the words out. I was—was just interested to see where they’d lived.’
‘You never visited them.’ That seemed pretty obvious. But odd.
