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They ordered a Ploughman’s Platter which came with generous slices of ham, two kinds of pâté, three sorts of cheese and a green salad, all accompanied by a tray of small dishes holding pickles and chutneys, butter in a cooling dish and crusty bread, still warm from the oven. With it, they drank clear, cold cider.
She said, ‘The girl at the end table keeps looking at you and whispering to her mother. I think you’ve been recognised.’
He sighed. ‘Even wearing the shades?’
She nodded. ‘Even so, you’re fairly unmistakable.’
‘Present company excepted, of course,’ he said. ‘The first time we met, you hadn’t a clue who I was.’
She looked back at the river, remembering the coolness of water against her bare skin and felt the swift, urgent clench of her body. She said quickly, ‘I just wanted you to go.’
He said quietly, ‘Whereas I wanted equally badly to stay.’
There was a catch in her voice. ‘Please—don’t say things like that.’
‘Why? Don’t you like to be thought desirable? Or has that idiot Patrick Wilding given you a complex?’
She swallowed. ‘You can hardly claim any high moral ground. He was already spoken for. So are you.’ She added, ‘If you recall.’
‘I have no intention of forgetting.’ He went on, musingly, ‘“Spoken for”. What a sweet old-fashioned phrase.’
‘I’m an old-fashioned girl,’ she said. ‘If not particularly sweet. And your fan is coming over.’
She watched as Jago turned smilingly to greet the girl, who was young, awestruck, and extremely pretty. She’d brought one of the pub’s white paper napkins with her and shyly asked him to sign it.
‘I can do better than that.’ He took the pen she was offering. ‘Stand quite still.’
He studied her blushing face for a moment, then proceeded to draw on the napkin with swift, assured strokes.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked as he finished.
She told him, ‘Verity,’ and he wrote it under the instant likeness he’d achieved before signing his own name and adding the date.
As the girl ran back beaming to her family, Tavy said, ‘That was a nice thing to do. She’ll love you for ever.’
‘I’m capable of the odd, kindly gesture.’ He signalled to the waitress to bring the bill. ‘Now, shall we be getting back—in case I get besieged by potential lovers and miss out on my dining table?’
His mood had suddenly changed, she thought in bewilderment, and not simply because other people were turning to look at him, murmuring to each other.
Back to business, she told herself, reaching for her bag. Which was, after all, the real purpose of her presence here. And certainly gave her no reason to feel quite so desperately forlorn, or have to struggle so hard to hide it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS GETTING on for late afternoon as they drove back to Hazelton Magna. The auctioneer had taken his time over the sale and, understandably, had kept the best lots until last.
Tavy was glad to see that the hideous whatnot failed to reach its reserve, and the glum Scottish cattle went for a tenner, probably, as Jago said, for the frame.
When the walnut table and chairs finally came up for sale, and hands were raised round the room, Tavy nudged him. ‘Aren’t you going to bid?’ she whispered.
He shook his head. ‘The auctioneer’s doing that for me, on commission.’
‘That man who was watching us—he wants them too.’
‘Only if he can make a profit on resale,’ Jago returned softly. ‘Whereas I’m buying them for myself.’
‘But he’ll force up the price,’ she said. ‘You must have set a limit.’
‘I’ll pay whatever I have to,’ he said. ‘For something I really want.’ The tawny eyes rested on her ironically. ‘Don’t you know that yet, Octavia?’
She stared down at her catalogue. She said very quietly, ‘I don’t think I know you at all.’
In the end, Jago got his furniture with comparative ease, the dealer in the linen jacket clearly deciding it was a battle he couldn’t win.
‘And it will all be delivered on Monday,’ Jago said with satisfaction as they turned up Ladysmere’s drive.
Tavy glanced at him. ‘You sound as if Christmas is coming early.’
‘The house is beginning to come together,’ he said. ‘It’s a good feeling.’
