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'Your grandfather was getting old.' Nick shrugged. 'It's easy to overlook these things.'
Not, she thought, when the company had sent constant reminders, and the cottage was desperately over mortgaged. But what was one more demand among so many? In spite of her distress about Baz, she'd seen why her grandfather had needed to sell him—and the land—to provide an urgent injection of cash, to stall their creditors. If Oak Tree Cottage hadn't burned down, they'd have only lost it in another way.
The horror of the fire had forced on her the discovery that they were broke. Not that her grandfather had ever been willing to discuss the situation, but she'd known she should have realised that all the signs were there, becoming more serious with every day that passed.
She said abruptly, 'I've seen enough, thanks. It—it was a mistake to come here.'
'Not altogether.' Nick opened the gate, allowing her to precede him. 'At some point you'll need to make a decision about the place.'
'At some point, yes.' She didn't look at him. 'Just now I have other things to worry about.'
It felt strange to drive through the village again. It seemed to her that she'd been away for a thousand years, yet nothing had changed. There weren't many people about, but she knew that the car had been spotted, and her presence noted. It wouldn't take long for word to get about that she'd returned.
Another nine-day wonder for the gossips to pick over, she thought wearily. And when she and Nick finally parted there'd be a feast for the wagging tongues.
Wylstone Hall stood in its own extensive grounds, and Cally could see instantly that a lot of work had been done there. Sir Ranald, in his latter years, had let the maintenance of the gardens slide, and Adele had taken no interest in it either.
But then she'd probably had other plans for what remained of her elderly husband's money, Cally thought with distaste.
Yet now the lawns had been cut and the trees pruned, while the formal flowerbeds had been replanted and were coming into bloom. Even the old fountain that stood in the middle of the broad gravelled sweep in front of the Hall's main entrance had been coaxed to work once more, and its showering droplets gleamed in the sunlight.
Wylstone Hall was a big, rambling place, more imposing than beautiful, combining a number of architectural styles from medieval to Victorian.
Cally had never found it particularly warm or welcoming, but was ready to concede this had probably been down to Adele and her hatchet-faced housekeeper.
The woman who now emerged to greet them as they got out of the car was a very different proposition, in her middle thirties, slim, and pleasant-faced.
'We're home, Margaret.' Nick drew Cally forward. 'Darling, this is Mrs Thurston, who'll help you all she can.'
'It will be a pleasure, sir, and welcome back. How do you do, your ladyship?' Her smile was anxious. 'There's something I should mention...'
'Later,' Nick said. 'And tell Frank to leave the bags for a while, too.' He looked down at Cally, said softly, 'I have an omission to repair. I broke with tradition the first time round, and failed to carry my bride over the threshold. Clearly a mistake.'
Before Cally could protest, or take any evasive action, he'd lifted her into his arms and started towards the entrance.
After the sunlight, the big hall felt cool and shadowy, and there was a scent of lavender in the air.
Cally realised that he was carrying her towards the sweep of the staircase. She said breathlessly, 'Nick—put me down.'
'In my own good time.' There was a note of amusement in his voice—and something else, infinitely more dangerous.
'Asserting your marital rights already, darling?' It was a woman's voice, low-pitched, drawling, and instantly unpleasantly familiar. 'And it's only just teatime. No wonder the poor child looks stunned.'
There was a frozen silence, then, slowly and carefully, Nick lowered Cally to the ground and turned.
'Adele,' he said expressionlessly. 'What an unexpected pleasure. I really thought you were in Paris.'
Adele Tempest remained where she was, framed in the doorway to the drawing room. She was wearing a close-fitting white skirt and a wrap-around top in a deep violet shade. Her red-gold hair was piled on top of her head, with a few artless tendrils allowed to escape around her face and the nape of her neck. She was smiling.
'Oh, but I was,' she said. 'Then a little bird told me you were returning with the prodigal bride, and I thought at least one person should be here to welcome her. Apart from the servants, that is.' She looked Cally over, her smile widening. 'Nick's powers of persuasion must be overwhelming, my pet.
Or was it his money that you couldn't resist—yet again? After all, you've been living rough for a year now, and a fate worse than death probably seems marginally preferable to no fate at all."
