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And for once, her newly washed and shining hair had allowed itself to be piled up on top of her head without too much protest, even if it had taken twice the usual number of pins to secure it there.
She’d even treated herself to a new lipstick in an unusual shade between rust and brown that she found became her far more than the rather soft pinks she normally chose. And was almost tempted to wipe it off, and revert to the dull and familiar. Yet didn’t.
Any more than she’d gone into Dad’s study and said, ‘I have to tell you what happened yesterday...’
Tonight at some point, she would offer Jago Marsh a stiff, well-rehearsed apology for trespassing on his property, then ask if the entire incident could be forgotten, or at least never referred to again. And somehow make it clear that what he’d referred to as ‘gentle teasing’ was totally unacceptable. As were softly loaded remarks about water nymphs.
After that, if the way she was feeling now was any indication, she might well be sick all over the tablecloth.
She had the cash left over from her shopping expedition tucked into her bag, in case she needed to make a speedy exit by taxi at some point. Her mother, she remembered with a soft catch of the breath, had been a firm believer in what she called ‘escape money’.
And how strange she should be thinking in these terms when millions of girls all over the world would give everything they possessed to be in her shoes this evening. And so they could be, she thought, grimacing. She was wearing her only decent pair of sandals and they pinched.
When the doorbell rang, she felt her heart thud so violently that she almost cried out.
I shouldn’t have dressed for the restaurant, she thought, as she made her way into the hall. I should be wearing a T-shirt and an old skirt—maybe the denim one I’ve had since school. Something that would make him wish he’d never put me on the spot—never asked me, as well as ensuring that he won’t do it again.
Her father was ahead of her, opening the front door, smiling and saying she was quite ready. Then, to her embarrassment, telling her quite seriously that she looked beautiful, and wishing her a wonderful evening.
So she was blushing and looking down at the floor, only realising at the last moment that the man waiting for her on the doorstep was not Jago Marsh, but someone much older, grey haired and wearing a neat, dark suit.
‘Evening, Miss Denison.’ A London accent. ‘I’m Charlie, Mr Jago’s driver. Can you get down the drive in those heels, or shall I fetch the car up?’
‘No.’ Her flush deepened. ‘I—I’m fine.’ If a little bewildered...
Her confusion deepened when she realised that she would be travelling to Barkland Grange in solitary state.
‘The boss had a load of emails to deal with,’ Charlie told her. ‘Last-minute stuff. Or he’d have come for you himself. He sends his apologies.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Tavy muttered as she was helped into the big grey limousine with tinted windows. In fact, she added silently, it was all to the good. At least she’d be spared his company for a while.
Charlie was solicitous to her comfort, asking if the car was too hot or too cold. Whether or not she’d like to listen to the radio.
She said again that she was fine, wondering what he’d do if she said that she’d really like to go home, so could he please turn the car around.
But of course she wasn’t going to say that because this was her own mess, and it wouldn’t be fair to involve him or anyone else.
One evening, she thought. That was all she had to get through. Then, her duty done, she could tell her father with perfect truth that she and Jago Marsh were chalk and cheese, and tonight would never be repeated.
Besides there was Patrick to consider. Patrick whom she could and should have been with tonight.
It’s time we talked seriously, she thought. Time we got our relationship on a firm footing and out in the open, for everyone to see, particularly his mother. Made some real plans for the future. Our future.
And she found herself wondering, as the limo smoothly ate away the miles between Hazelton Magna and Barkland Grange, why, when she’d been quite content to let matters drift, this change should now seem to be of such pressing and paramount importance.
And could not find a satisfactory answer.
Her first sight of Barkland Grange, a redbrick Georgian mansion set in its own sculptured parkland, with even a small herd of deer browsing under the trees, seemed to confirm everything she’d heard about it and more.
She sat rigidly, staring through the car window, feeling her stomach churn with renewed nerves. Cursing herself for not having found an excuse—any excuse—to remain safely at home, sharing the cold chicken and later a game of cribbage with Dad.
