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If, of course, there was ever going to be a right moment, Tavy had thought, sighing inwardly.
Mrs Wilding cultivated sweetness like other people cultivate window-boxes. For outward show.
How she would react if and when she discovered her assistant might one day be transformed from drudge to daughter-in-law was anyone’s guess, but Tavy’s money would be on ‘badly’.
But I’ll worry about that when I have to, she thought, putting up a hand to wipe away the sweat trickling down into her eyes.
The first inkling she had that a vehicle was behind her came with a loud blast on its horn. Gasping, she wobbled precariously for a moment then got her bike back under control before it veered into the ditch.
The car that had startled her, a sleek open-top sports model, overtook her and drew up a few yards ahead.
‘Hi, Octavia.’ The driver turned to address her, languidly pushing her designer sunglasses up on to smooth blonde hair. ‘Still using that museum piece to get around?’
Striving to recover her temper along with her balance, Tavy groaned inwardly.
Fiona Culham that was, she thought with resignation. She would have recognised those clipped brittle tones anywhere. Just not anticipated hearing them round here any time soon, and would have preferred it kept that way.
Reluctantly, she dismounted and pushed her cycle level with the car. ‘Hello, Mrs Latimer.’ She kept her tone civil but cool, reflecting that although Fiona was only two years her senior, the use of Christian names had never been reciprocal. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, but you’re a little behind the times. Didn’t you know that I’m using my maiden name again now that the divorce is going through?’
Heavens to Betsy, thought Tavy in astonishment. You were only married eighteen months ago.
Aloud, she said, ‘No I hadn’t heard, but I’m very sorry.’
Fiona Culham shrugged. ‘Well, don’t be, please. It was a hideous mistake, but you can’t win them all.’
The hideous mistake—an enormous London wedding to the wealthy heir to a stately home, with minor royalty present—had been plastered all over the newspapers, and featured in celebrity magazines. The bride, described as radiant, had apparently been photographed before she saw the error of her ways.
‘A little long-distance excitement for us all,’ the Vicar had remarked, at the time, laying his morning paper aside. He sighed. ‘And I can quite see why Holy Trinity, Hazelton Magna, would not have done for the ceremony.’
And just as well, Tavy thought now, knowing how seriously her father took the whole question of marriage, and how grieved he became when relationships that had started out with apparent promise ended all too soon on the rocks.
She cleared her throat. ‘It must be very stressful for you. Are you back for a holiday?’
‘On the contrary,’ Fiona returned. ‘I’m back for good.’ She looked Tavy over, making her acutely aware that some of her auburn hair had escaped from its loose topknot and was hanging in damp tendrils round her face. She also knew that her T-shirt and department store cut-offs had been examined, accurately priced and dismissed.
Whereas Fiona’s sleek chignon was still immaculate, her shirt was a silk rainbow, and if Stella McCartney made designer jeans, that’s what she’d be wearing.
‘So,’ the other continued. ‘What errand of mercy are you engaged with today? Visiting the sick, or alms for the poor?’
‘Delivering the village newsletter,’ Tavy told her expressionlessly.
‘What a dutiful daughter, and no time off for good behaviour.’ Fiona let in the clutch and engaged gear. ‘No doubt I’ll see you around. And I really wouldn’t spend any more time in this sun, Octavia. You look as if you’ve reached melting point already.’
Tavy watched the car disappear round a bend in the lane, and wished it would enter one of those time zones where people mysteriously vanished, to reappear nicer and wiser people years later.
Though no amount of time bending would improve Fiona, the spoiled only child of rich parents, she thought. It was Fiona who’d made the skinny red-haired kid remark, while Tavy was helping with the tombola at a garden party at White Gables, her parents’ home.
Norton Culham had married the daughter of a millionaire, and her money had helped him buy a rundown dairy farm in Hazelton Parva and transform it into a major horse breeding facility.
Success had made him wealthy, but not popular. Tolerant people said he was a shrewd businessman. The less charitable said he was a miserable, mean-spirited bastard. And his very public refusal to contribute as much as a penny to the proposed restoration fund for Holy Trinity, the village’s loved but crumbling Victorian church had endeared him to no one. Neither had his comment that Christianity was an outdated myth.
