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‘Please tell me, Grandmother. Are Jago and I related?’
‘What?’
‘Are we from the same bloodline?’
‘Related? In a way, unfortunately. Do you have the same blood? No. So don’t worry your pretty little head over things like that. You won’t go to hell for your wanton thoughts. At least not just yet.’
Ha, ha. Isn’t she just charming?
So we’re not related! What’s the story, then? How can I get her to share her life and feelings with me, and how are we ever going to grow close if she keeps shutting me out?
*
A few hours later, Calvin appears at the kitchen door, where I’m peeling potatoes like a proper Demelza fromPoldark.
‘Emmie? I forgot. There was a delivery for you a few days ago. It’s on the console by the front doors.’
‘For me? Thank you, Calvin,’ I reply as I go out into the hall and reach for the small brown paper packet on the table.
Who could it be from? The only people who know I’m here are Maisie and Stephen. And the MIL, of course, but I can’t see her sending me a gift of any sort. I turn it over, but there’s nothing except my name on it, scrawled in a masculine hand I don’t recognise. This is exciting!
Inside is the scarf I lost to Jago, with a note:
Seeing as we’re in this fifty-fifty until we find a solution, I thought we’d have joint custody of the scarf. You might want to hang on a bit tighter next time.
No signature, of course. As if I didn’t know who sent it. But why the sudden change of tack? Did he think that this unexpected kindness would make me change my mind about my inheritance? In that case, he’s got another thing coming.
We meet the next day in Starry Cove, on the breakwater – the perfect place in case I need to chuck him in and get rid of the body. But he doesn’t seem as aggressive as I expected. Still, we have come to a stalemate. He won’t budge and nor will I. It’s December 15th and I’m nine days away from leaving for London for my engagement party on the 24th to start a new life and I can’t even get my assets straight because of him.
As we walk side by side, I’m aware of people throwing curious glances at us, and possibly already making up scenarios between the duelling owners of Bend or Bump. Yes, well, I’d gladly bend him into a million pieces. Or bump him off.
‘Need a hand?’ he says as I falter on the flagstones. ‘The first ice is always the slippiest.’
I move away from him purposely. ‘No, thank you, I don’t need your help. I can actually walk by myseee…!’
And before I know it, I slip, do a frantic dance to right myself and end up flat on my back, hitting my head on the flagstones.
He’d been watching me amused, but when I hit the ground, he lurches forwards in concern, skidding to my side, checking me for broken bones, his hand sliding behind the back of my head, which is bleeding.
‘Judas, are you alright?’
I lie completely still, waiting for my brain to stop rocking inside my skull. It hurts like hell. Oh! how ithurts…
‘What do you care?’ I bite off to fight back tears of pain.
Without a word, he peels me off the ground, lifts me into his arms and crosses the breakwater to the shore as if he were carrying a child.
‘I can walk,’ I suggest, but even the sole idea makes me want to hurl.
‘And you sure proved that,’ he remarks grimly as he carries me into the village, where people turn to stare at us.
Not a few weeks in and I’m already the centre of attention. Grandmother will be rightly pleased.
‘Where are you taking me?’ I manage as I rest my head against his chest, grateful that he’s decided to carry me despite my resistance.
‘To the doctor’s office. Where else?’
*
