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Seb looked at her critically. She still looked drawn and tired. ‘You could do with a day off. Between wedding planning and work you never seem to stop.’
‘Says the man who put in sixteen hours on the estate yesterday and still wanted to do research when he came home.’
‘Technically I am on a research year, not an estate management year.’ The ever-present fear crowded in. Could he do both? What if he had to give up his professorship? Swap academia for farming? He pushed it aside. That was a worry for another day.
‘Besides, I’m not turning greener than that drink of yours every morning and growing another human being. Why don’t you book yourself into a spa or have a day shopping?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Are those the only relaxing pursuits you can think of? I can’t do most spa treatments and the last thing I want to do is shop, not after motherzilla of the bride’s efforts.’
Sherry had been keeping Daisy hard at it. Seb had barely seen her all week. She was either holed up in the Great Hall creating wedding favours, shopping for last-minute essential details or back in her studio, working.
Things would be much easier if she had a studio here. Would she want that? Moving her hats across was one thing, moving her professional persona another. Seb adored his library but there were times when he missed his college rooms with an almost physical pain. The peace, the lack of responsibility beyond his work, his students,
‘My lecture’s in Oxford. I doubt that would be relaxing or interesting. But maybe you could walk around some of the colleges, have lunch there.’ His eyes flickered over to the book by her bed. ‘Or you could come to the lecture.’
The blurring of professional and private had to happen at some point.
‘What’s the lecture on?’
‘The history of England as reflected in a house like Hawksley.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It’s the subject of my next book, luckily. It’s hard enough finding time to work as it is, at least I’m on site. It’s a paid popular lecture so not too highbrow. You might enjoy it.’
He could have kicked himself as soon as he uttered the words. Her face was emotionless but her eyes clouded. ‘Not too highbrow? So even dullards like me have a chance of understanding it?’
‘Daisy, there’s nothing dull about you. Will you come? I’ll take you out for dinner afterwards.’
There it was, more blurring. But he had promised respect and friendship. That was all this was.
‘Well, if there’s food.’ But her eyes were still clouded, her face gave nothing away. ‘What time do you want to leave? I’ll meet you downstairs.’
* * *
‘What an incredible place. I’ve never looked around the colleges before.’ Daisy focused the lens onto the green rectangle of lawn, the golden columns framing it like a picture.
‘Maybe it’s because I knew I had no chance of actually coming here.’ She clicked and then again, capturing the sun slanting through the columns, lighting up the soft stone in an unearthly glow.
‘But you wouldn’t have wanted to come here. You went to one of the best art colleges in the country. I doubt that they would have even let me through the door.’ Daisy bit back a giggle. She had seen Seb’s attempts to draw just once, when he was trying to show Sherry how the marquee connected to the hall. It was good to know there were some areas where she had him beat.
‘You could pretend you were creating some kind of post-modern deconstruction of the creative process.’ She followed the quadrangle round with her viewfinder. ‘This place is ridiculously photogenic. I bet it would make a superb backdrop for wedding photos.’
‘It’s always about weddings with you, isn’t it?’ Seb slid a curious glance her way and she tried to keep her face blank. His scrutiny unnerved her. He always made her feel so exposed, as if he could see beyond the lipstick and the hats, beyond the carefully chosen outfits. She hoped not. She wasn’t entirely sure that there was any substance underneath her style.
‘It’s my job.’ She kept her voice light. ‘You must walk in here and see the history in each and every stone. It’s no different.’
He was still studying her intently and she tried not to squirm, swinging the camera around to focus on him. ‘Smile!’
But his expression didn’t change. It was as if he was trying to see through her, into the heart of her. She took a photo, and then another, playing with the focus and the light.
‘Why photography? I would have thought you would have had enough of being on the other side of the lens?’
It was the million-dollar question. She lowered the camera and leant against one of the stone columns. Despite the sunlight dancing on it the stone was cold, the chill travelling through her dress. ‘Truth is I didn’t mind the attention as a kid,’ she admitted, fiddling with her camera strap so she didn’t have to look up and see judgement or pity in his eyes. ‘We felt special. Mum and Dad were so adored, and there was no scandal, so all the publicity tended to be positive—glamorous red carpets at premieres or at-home photo shoots for charities. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I realised the press could bite as easily as it flattered.’
