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His face relaxed, as if he had found the answer to whatever was troubling him. He grinned casually.
'Nothing wrong. Do I look grim? You look like a little girl ready for bed.'
She had had her belated bath, put on pyjamas and dressing-gown afterwards, her gleaming chestnut hair damp and curling back from her pink face, tied with an o
ld pink ribbon.
'Do you want something to eat?' she asked, putting away her work. 'Was it Mr Duckett's cow again?'
He laughed. 'Not this time. Mrs Duckett's pet spaniel—he'd got his paw trapped in a grating.'
'Oh, poor thing. What did you do?' Emma's quick sympathies were aroused.
'What they should have done before calling me…soaped his paw. It slid out easily then.'
She laughed. 'Of course!' Then she shot him a guarded look. 'But you've been gone hours…' Then she bit her lip, wishing she could recall the remark. She did not want him to think she counted the minutes while he was away. He must never guess how she felt about him.
'I went into Dorchester to see Edward,' he said easily. 'We had to go over the accounts. It's a long and tedious job.'
'How is Chloe? I really liked her,' said Emma, with enthusiasm. 'She's such a warm, kind person. It was fun just being with her.'
He nodded. 'Chloe's fine. She likes you, too, by the way—she asked after you, said more or less what you've just said.' He looked at her with a faint smile. 'You're two of a kind—born home-makers.'
Emma flushed. The compliment was too sweet, too unexpected, for her to be able to bear it with equanimity. She looked away, beginning to tremble.
There was a little silence. She peeped at Ross and found him watching her, leaning carelessly against the door frame, his hands in his pockets and a wry expression on his face. An expression which seemed to say…well, what have I said? Ross probably found her obvious embarrassment very embarrassing! Didn't she know, hadn't he told her a hundred times already that he did not want to get involved with females? That he steered clear of such involvement like the plague?
She went into the kitchen, back very straight, eyes guarded. 'I'll make your coffee,' she said.
'I thought you said a meal?' He followed her.
'If you were at Chloe's house you've had a meal,' she said firmly. 'Chloe never let anyone leave without feeding them to the brim!'
He laughed. 'Isn't that the truth? She loves to see people eat, especially men. It must be some sort of tribal custom.'
'She's hospitable,' said Emma in a squashing tone. 'Don't you make fun of Chloe!'
'I wouldn't dare!' Ross gave a mock-shiver. 'I'd be too scared of that look in your beautiful big brown eyes!'
She made coffee, poured him a cup, without saying another word. Because he had said she was like Chloe she peculiarly took a great dislike to the mockery with which he had just alluded to her. If he made fun of Chloe he made fun of herself…
He sat and drank his coffee in an easy chair before the fire. Emma pretended to go on with her sketching, concentrating without really seeing what her pencil was doing. Her mind was buzzing with questions she dared not ask him. How could she betray her curiosity? He would never forgive her, she knew him well enough to know that.
But how could she help wondering about that curtailed visit? Who had been in that car? She wished now, wished bitterly, that she had not been such a coward, that she had looked in the back, seen whatever was to be seen, even if it was, as she had feared, Amanda's mocking, malicious, triumphant smile.
All this feuding business was so silly, so wrong, that she had to hope that Leon Daumaury would forgive his son and daughter-in-law, take back the family into loving relationship, welcome his grandchildren. It was right and proper that he should do so, and Emma was sad to know that he still held off aloof from them. How could anyone, let alone a grandfather, reject little Donna, Robin and proud little Tracy?
Why had Ross sent her to fetch the children if it had not been their grandfather who had come to visit them? Or had he only been getting rid of her, Emma, so that he could talk to Amanda alone?
She winced inwardly. That was a possibility. It made sense of the peculiar little incident—painful sense. She squared her shoulders. She would face it, painful or no. What else was there to do, anyway?
I'm beginning to make a habit of it, she told herself with fierce self-contempt; a habit of facing unpalatable thoughts, of admitting unpleasant facts. It was a wearing way of life. Why do I fall in love with the wrong men? she asked herself angrily. Why don't I grow up, learn some sense?
She went to bed early, eager to forget pain in oblivion, and slept deeply, her dreams troubled and shifting.
She woke to a cool, cloudy morning. The wind had changed during the night. There was a scent of rain in the air.
Ross went off early. Edie went down to the inn to work with her sister, and Emma, having done what needed to be done about the house, decided to take the children for a walk.
