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And the sheer absurdity of that made her cringe inwardly.
‘I think I really have gone mad,’ she whispered. ‘But it won’t last, and very soon I’ll stop building cloud castles and be the sane and sensible Octavia Denison again.’
The following morning, in keeping with that resolve, she retrieved from her wardrobe the anonymous grey skirt she used to wear at Greenbrook School, teaming it with a short-sleeved white cotton blouse, and pinning her hair in a loose knot on top of her head, in acknowledgement of the fact that the temperature was climbing again.
Once at work, there was no time for brooding as the shower for Jago’s private bathroom had been delivered without several essential components. There was also a sheaf of estimates from the decorator to check and print off, and the curtain fitter who’d arrived punctually at nine o’clock to measure the windows in the drawing room, dining room and master bedroom, was clearly disappointed to be dealing with Tavy rather than the new owner himself.
‘I was really looking forward to meeting him,’ she said petulantly as she descended from her stepladder. ‘Of course, like everyone else, I’m such a fan.’
‘Of course,’ Tavy echoed politely.
The people’s choice also arrived punctually, cool in dark jeans, a faded indigo shirt, and sunglasses.
He looked her over, his brows lifting, as his gaze lingered on her hair. ‘Very businesslike.’
‘Because this is business,’ Tavy returned crisply. ‘My time off starts tomorrow.’
His mouth slanted into a grin. ‘I’ll consider myself rebuked.’
Tavy was aware of Ted Jackson watching as she got into the Jeep.
Putting two and two together to make five and then some, she thought biting her lip. I wish I’d borrowed Dad’s briefcase as a finishing touch.
But the drive through lanes, their verges heavy with Queen Anne’s lace, while the lightest of winds ruffled the long grasses, soon eased much of her tension, even if it made her wish that she’d left her hair loose for the breeze.
Ashingham Hall, where the sale was being held, was rather like Ladysmere—a hotchpotch of various styles, which, according to Jago, had been sold to a company offering upmarket residential care for the elderly.
The furniture to be auctioned was being displayed in situ but, instead of making straight for the dining room, Jago wandered from room to room making notes in his catalogue, with Tavy getting more and more bewildered as she followed him.
At last: ‘But you can’t possibly want that,’ she whispered to him urgently. ‘It’s a Victorian whatnot and totally hideous. I thought you came for a table.’
‘I did,’ he returned softly. ‘But it’s unwise to appear too keen when there are dealers around.’
Accordingly when they reached the dining room, Tavy struggled to keep her face straight as Jago stood in rapt admiration of an ornately framed oil painting of some gloomy cattle grazing in an improbable Scottish glen.
‘Getting inspiration for your own work?’ she enquired dulcetly.
‘Now, how could I ever hope to emulate that?’ he asked and turned, at last, to look at the table.
It was the best thing they’d seen so far, a large circle of elegant walnut on a carved pedestal base, with one extra leaf and eight matching chairs.
Tavy had to stifle a gasp of pleasure, and saw that Jago too had allowed himself a swift smile of satisfaction.
Aware they were being observed by a sharp-faced man, his catalogue pushed into a pocket in his linen jacket, Tavy moved closer to Jago. She said in a clear, carrying voice, ‘It’s all right, but we want a refectory table, darling, and a couple of those big chairs with arms for each end of it. You promised me.’
Jago leered at her. ‘Don’t fancy me as King Arthur, then, doll? Come on. Perhaps I’ll have more luck with you up in the bedrooms.’
When they reached the main hall, Tavy tried to hang back, but Jago’s hand was firm under her arm, guiding her away from the broad flight of stairs and back to the entrance.
‘No need to panic,’ he advised coolly. ‘My sleeping arrangements are already catered for.’
Tavy lifted her chin. ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ she said, wondering how many more flowers she would throw away before the elusive Barbie made an appearance.
‘Apparently there’s a good pub in the village,’ Jago went on. ‘Let’s get an early lunch, and then we’ll go back for a chat with the auctioneer.’
Other people had the same idea about lunch, but Jago and Tavy managed to snaffle the last parasol shaded table on a terrace overlooking a small river, where ducks foraged busily and moorhens played hide-and-seek under the drooping pale green fronds of a willow tree.
