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Wasn’t it...?
And couldn’t find an answer that made any kind of sense.
CHAPTER NINE
IT SEEMED STRANGE to be walking up the Manor’s drive to the main entrance rather than sneaking in through the no-longer-broken side gate. Strange, but infinitely safer.
Glancing around, Tavy saw that Ted Jackson and his gang had already done wonders in the grounds. Bushes and shrubs had been ruthlessly cut back to reveal what would once again be herbaceous borders, and a drastic weeding programme was in progress. The lawns had clearly been scythed and were now being mown and rolled.
She imagined work would also have started on the lake, but she was damned if she was going down there to find out. Forbidden territory, she told herself sternly, managing a smile as Ted Jackson appeared.
‘Well, you’re an early bird and no mistake,’ he said genially. ‘My missus couldn’t get over it when Mr Marsh rang last night, and said you’d be working here.’
And will now be busily spreading the news on the bush telegraph, Tavy thought, gritting her teeth.
‘Funny old business up at the school,’ he went on with relish. ‘My June says she can’t imagine Mrs Wilding and that Culham girl seeing eye to eye for very long. Fireworks pretty soon, she reckons.’
Tavy felt her jaw drop. Fiona, she thought with disbelief. Fiona—hardly one of the world’s workers—had taken her place and become the new PA?
Aware that her reaction to the news was being watched with keen interest, she pulled herself together. Even shrugged. ‘Not my problem, I’m thankful to say. But I mustn’t keep you.’
‘And when Mr Marsh gets in touch, tell him Bob Wyatt can start on the conservatory tomorrow,’ he added, handing her a key.
Tavy frowned. ‘What’s going to happen to it?’
‘He’s going to use it as a studio for his painting, seemingly. The right light, or some such.’
Another piece of information she hadn’t been expecting, Tavy thought, turning away. Yet becoming a professional artist was, presumably, the new beginning he’d once mentioned.
As she let herself into the house, her first impression was that the cleaners had done an impressive job, although their efforts couldn’t hide peeling wallpaper and shabby paintwork. And in spite of the fresh scent of cleaning liquid and polish, the overall impression was still one of neglect, she thought, carrying her bulging carrier bags down the long corridor to the kitchen at the back of the house.
She put the teabags, coffee and paper cups in the massive dresser, and placed the milk into the elderly, cumbersome fridge.
She made herself a coffee and carried it to the library, now just a room with a lot of empty shelves, and hoped with a pang that Sir George’s books had found good homes.
There was a large table in the middle of the room holding a smart new laptop, plus a printer and a telephone, while, under the window, was a stationery trolley with printer paper, notebooks, pens and markers, and two large box files, one containing quotations, the other catalogues mainly for white goods, furniture and bathroom equipment.
When she switched on the laptop, there was mail waiting. Hesitantly, she clicked on the icon and read, ‘I hope you had a restful night with sweet dreams.’
She swallowed, knowing how far that was from the truth. Because some of last night’s dreams, which she was still embarrassed to remember, had been far from conventionally sweet. In fact they’d provided the incentive for today’s early start.
Because she’d been driven into getting up, afraid to go back to sleep in case she once again experienced a man’s warm, hard body pressing her into the softness of the mattress, or found herself drinking from his kisses and breathing the heated, unmistakable fragrance of his skin as she lifted herself towards him in silent yearning for his possession.
Fantasies, she thought, that were the total opposite of restful and should never be recalled in daylight. But at least she’d never seen his face or put a name to her dream lover.
She took a deep breath and went on reading.
I suggest you spend some time today going over the place so that you’re thoroughly familiar with the layout. Open any mail that comes, deal with what you can, put the rest aside for my attention.
In case any serious problems arise and you need backup, I’m sending you my contact details, but these are strictly for your personal use, not to be disclosed to anyone else.
I’m using the master bedroom as temporary storage for my painting stuff until work on the studio is finished.
