by Rose Amberly
Millie laughed. “Way to let go, mein Herr.”
“It’s no laughing matter.” His voice was mild, but the words carried a passion. “You should see some of his would-be nurses, would-be secretaries, would-be trophy wives. People don’t become trustworthy just because we’re foolish enough to trust them.”
Their feet crunched on the lane. A light, warm breeze like a soft breath caressed her skin. It also lifted strands of George’s hair briefly before it dropped them back on his forehead.
“Rather a grim view of people,” Millie said.
He snorted. “This from you?”
“I like to expect the best from everyone.”
“Refresh my memory, Millie. Did you expect the best from your ex-husband? How did that pan out for you?”
“Hardly the same situation.”
“Exactly the same situation.” His voice was mild but serious.
“Henry didn’t marry me for my money. I wasn’t rich.”
“No, but he still took advantage of you.”
GOD! This man! She suppressed a groan. “No, he didn’t. I had no advantage to give him. He was just busy following his dream.”
“You had your dreams and he took those from you, isn’t that enough?”
She would have told him to mind his own business if her voice hadn’t suddenly deserted her. Her dreams, her once beautiful dreams of designing gardens and researching wild plants.
This was the one thing that could still upset her, make her feel foolish and weak and a doormat. For ten years. The one thing that could make her blush with deep shame.
George wasn’t looking at her though. “I know what law school costs.” Again, there was that passion in his voice. “London is expensive. What did you earn from both your jobs, thirty-five thousand a year? Which you spent on him. Rent, bills, food, clothes. How much would a housekeeper have cost him, another thirty to forty thousand a year? Factor in the free secretarial work, organizing his papers, his diary. And let’s not forget the free counselling service, the emotional support and motivational pep talks. Stress counsellors and therapists charge a hundred pounds an hour. So in your ten-year marriage,” George paused, calculating. “He’s taken you for a million.”
She had never placed a value on her time. Tonight, walking in the dark, George was shining a harsh light on her past.
“And at the end, did he even have the grace to thank you for the years he’d taken from you? No, he blamed you for what taking care of him had done to you? You said he compared you to other women? I could punch his lights out, just for that.”
She pulled her hand free of his and turned away; her shawl fell to the ground.
Who the hell gave George the right to judge her life? Her choices? Yes she’d made mistakes but it wasn’t his place to take her side, to fight for her. To defend her. It wasn’t his place.
He wasn’t her husband to fight for her.
Her chest tightened painfully on a long lost memory
A few years ago, a sleazy friend of Henry’s had come-on to her at a Christmas party. She’d mentioned it to Henry and wanted to go home. He’d told her she must be imagining it and refused to leave; those were colleagues and contacts he wanted to cultivate. Later, that sleazy man cornered her in the kitchen, alone, pushed her against the wall and felt her up. She’d slapped him then walked out. Henry had followed her into the street. Outraged that she’d made a scene. When she told him what happened he’d accused her of mishandling the situation, giving the man the wrong signals, causing trouble for him with an important colleague.
So, she’d gone home alone and Henry had sulked for weeks until she apologised, swallowed her humiliation and accepted the blame.
Tears Millie had held back for years, now escaped as she stood in the lane, her hands to her face.
She felt George’s arms around her, gathering her to him, pulling her head against his chest.
How, how, how? Why had she been so pathetic?
Why hadn’t she left Henry then and there, instead of wasting more years, giving up more of her self-respect, her youth, her ambitions and dreams, all the things she’s wasted, and willingly, for what? An occasional crumb of affection.
The enormity of it, left her gasping for breath as she wept into her hands.
George said nothing; he just held her close, his hand cradling the back of her head. They remained like that for a long time.
Slowly the tears stopped. George had his chin on her head, his strong fingers laced in her hair. A soft breeze played on her skin. Her arms, shoulders and upper back were all bare—where was her shawl?
Gradually she became aware of his heartbeat, his breathing, his throat against the side of her face. He made a sound, swallowing.
They stood in a different kind of silence now. When she moved a little, taking a deep breath, his heart hammered faster against her hand.
If she pressed her body to him a little closer, she’d be able to feel—
Really?
Now? Here?
Was she really going to have sex with him in the middle of a field?
After she gave him hell about being her boss?
She pulled away. Wiping her face, Millie pretended to brush her dress and straighten her hair.
George turned back to where she’d dropped her handbag and shawl earlier. He picked them up. A minute later, he gave them to her and waited while she draped the shawl loosely around her arms and started walking.
For a while, they walked in silence.
George seemed happy to stroll at her pace, but Millie was less content.
It couldn’t have been just her imagination. There definitely had been a little frisson between them back there? Something in the way his breath deepened, the fingers in her hair had rubbed the nape of her neck a couple of seconds too long.
They walked side by side, but he hadn’t taken her hand again. Apparently, he was no longer worried about her tripping.
Was the silence awkward or just a normal silence and she the one feeling awkward?
Nothing good was ever going to come from comparing Henry with George. Just because she’d had a poor life, starved of affection, was no reason to get the wrong idea about nothing.
Okay, then, why did he go to such lengths to reassure her he wasn’t her employer? It’d sounded like he meant to… establish an equality, or… something.
No, she was reading too much into it. Millie shook her head, kept her eyes on the ground and side-stepped another half-buried stone. The lane stretched long and gently winding before her feet. Thank God she’d worn comfortable ballerina shoes instead of the barely-there gold sandals Joanie had made her order. If it wasn’t for the lucky delay in delivery, she might have tripped and fallen on her face. George would have had to carry her in his arms, which would be bad. And she’d have had to rest her head on his chest; and that would be even worse.
No, where was her independence?
She searched for something to say, something mundane, to end the fanciful thoughts in her head.
“It’s strange I can see better in the dark now.”
“O—h?” He drew out the syllable as if returning from distant thoughts.
“I can see quite a way ahead now—” She looked up at the sky. And then the words died on her lips.
The sky. How could this be the sky?
He stopped. “Ah. The clouds have cleared. And you didn’t notice. You’ve been looking at your feet for fear of tripping, haven’t you?”
She turned her head in a circle, taking in the spectacular dome of the sky. There were no words to describe this. With he clouds gone, a hundred thousand stars, of every colour shone. The view left her speechless for long moments.
“Millie, you’ve been here for months,” George said eventually. “How is it possible you never saw our night sky before?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes still scanning around. “I never go out in the evening, and it’s usually light until ten o’clock.” She looked back at the sky. “I’ve never seen this in London.”
“No. Too much light pollution,” George said. “That’s why we don’t allow artificial lights at night here.”
She tried to absorb this. “I thought it was about saving electricity.”
George’s rich laughter came from behind her. “You thought the nasty old seigneur was miserly with municipal lighting?”
She couldn’t stop watching the magic overhead. “It looks like a balloon full of sequins exploded in the sky.” There were dazzling white, yellow, pink, and blue ones, glittering, achingly beautiful. “That thing there.” She pointed. “Looks like a wisp of purple fog.”
George came to stand close behind her. “We are designated a Dark Sky Island,” he said, quiet pride in his voice. “There are just ten islands in the entire world that have an IDA.”
IDA? Millie glanced back at him.
“It’s a United Nations Dark-Sky certificate.” He explained. “La Canette was the first to be awarded it.”
He took her hand in his and pointed it at different constellations.
“Hunter’s belt,” he said quietly over her shoulder. “That is the Plough,” he added, pointing. “Andromeda. Perseus. Polaris. Virgo. The Dragon—”
“What’s that red burst?”
“Aha.” His voice was almost a whisper, his other hand pressed slightly into her side. “Can you see?” He waved to draw an oval against the sky, following the curve of the constellation. “It’s shaped like a swan.”
“Yes.”
“That, Millie, is the Cygnet. It’s what we’re named after.”
She turned around to face him, trying to find the answer in his face.
“La Canette. Didn’t you ever wonder?” he asked.
Suddenly it all fit. “It means duck, doesn’t it?”
“Actually duckling.”
So that’s why it was called La Canette. She remembered her first sight of the island when she sailed here, like a swan.
George tucked her hand in his elbow again, and they resumed walking while he talked. “The legend goes that sailors, on first spotting the island, thought it was a small duckling. It was supposed to grow into a beautiful swan, but Druids tied it up in an unbreakable spell.”
“Why?” Millie loved old legends.
“So it would never outgrow the channel and connect England to France and allow the Vikings access. And that spell kept our island small and Britain and France separate.”
She laughed. “So this is the secret of the Hundred Years’ War between England and France? That this island never grew enough to join both countries together?”
“It’s a great theory, don’t you think? La Canette’s always been neutral.”
Millie looked at him. In the starlight, his hair was very dark, rare in England. He’d ordered their dinner in French; maybe it wasn’t just a posh thing. “Does everyone here speak French?”
“Most do. At least a little.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t worry. We all speak English, too.”
“Cute, very cute. I’ll have you know, I got an A-star in my French.”
“A respectable result,” he said. “Why have you forgotten it?”
“It’ll come back to me.”
“Hmm.” He sounded amused.
“I can download a refresher course off the internet. Give me two weeks, and you won’t be able to tell the difference between me and anyone on this island.”
George said nothing but the teeth flashed again in the starlight.
“I’ll prove it to you. I’ll bet you anything you want.”
“That you’ll speak like anyone on the island?”
“In two weeks.”
“Then, we have a wager.” His eyes danced with merriment.
Perhaps he wasn’t convinced, but she was. She would win this challenge even if she had to study all night every night for two weeks.
* * *
She didn’t run away from a challenge. He liked that about her.
George walked, listening to her lovely laugh. It sounded like a secret pleasure she wanted to share with him. He’d never laughed so much before tonight. His entire body resonated to her.
His body.
His body was a whole other problem.
Get a grip, George!
What was he doing? Normally he was very careful around women. Never allowed himself to get drawn in unless he’d already decided the relationship was a good idea.
Millie is off limits, his conscience chided. She works for you? You’re her employer?
He’d been carried away earlier. Speaking ill-advised words bordering on flirtation. They rolled across his mind’s eye now like witnesses at a trial. Lies, all of them. Of course, he was her boss.
You’re a lawyer, for God’s sake. You know how this would be seen. His conscience lectured him like a prosecutor in a court. A power deferential equals coercion.
What coercion? He tried to defend himself.
You all but bullied her yesterday. Demanded her attendance at this dinner.
I was suspicious. Had she proved dishonest, that meeting would have saved everyone a lot of headache.
Then you undressed her with your eyes.
Not fair. She’s a beautiful woman, and I’m a man with eyes.
Chatted her up over dinner. Plied her with wine and dessert. Softened her up.
They walked in the warm night. It was a blessing. Even in summer, nights on the island could sometimes turn chilly. Tonight, though, the air was warm. Crickets and frogs croaked and chirped up a racket in the stream as George and Millie’s feet took them over the stone bridge. She stopped to throw pebbles over the side into the river. He didn’t try to hold her hand again.
Just when you’d lulled her into dropping her guard, you dragged up her marriage until she was in tears.
He hadn’t meant to upset her.
Oh yes you did. Made her cry so you could hold her in your arms.
No.
His conscience would not back down. Yes, you pressed her head into your neck. What did you think? That you’d push her against a farm wall?
Of course not. She works for me.
Did you enjoy holding her?
No
Then, why did you have to bend over and pick up her handbag off the ground? Tell us why?
To give my body a minute to recover, so she wouldn’t notice.
you enjoyed touching her. Are you planning to date her?
I can’t. It would complicate everything.
Are you planning to marry her?
Does she meet your criteria for a wife? Is she the equal you’ve been holding out for?
An equal in every way?
In every way?
No, he conceded grimly.
So what is she to you? A soft body on a dark night?
Then what? You’ll leave her to pick up the pieces while you fly off to the city.
Hasn’t she suffered enough already?
She’s the first assistant to really cares about your father. And this is how you thank her?
And you have the nerve to call her husband a bastard?
George sighed.
He deserved a United Nations certificate all to himself. Arsehole of the year.
Tomorrow there would be a new plan. He’d keep it strictly business. In fact, he’d go to the municipal offices in the village and take care of his father’s business from there. Out of her way.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Tonight was coming to an end far too quickly; already they were through the woods, and the house came into view. Faint light by the front door under the porch.
He s
earched for something to delay them, an excuse to stop. To hold her hand again.
No, let the night end naturally. Say a polite good night and don’t kiss her.
Don’t kiss her.
Too soon they were at the front door.
“Thank you for a lovely walk,” she said as they entered the house and stood at the bottom of the stairs.
It felt like the end of a date?
Don’t you dare kiss her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quickly, then he took the stairs, two at a time up to his room and closed the door.
Liar.
Liar, liar, liar, his conscience taunted. There is no tomorrow for the two of you.
TWELVE
Three days later. The Marina, 4pm
Millie found a comfortable spot on the stone parapet at the bottom of the garden. It overlooked the marina, where a single small yacht bobbed in the water next to the pier. She unslung the tote bag from her shoulder and found the packed picnic Joanie had given her.
There was still a good hour till the old man had his dinner and needed her again. Enough time to eat and go through the second lesson in her online French course.
She’d been kept occupied for three days cataloguing papers and books for old Du Montfort. Typical man with a new toy. Having finally agreed to embrace the digital revolution, he now wanted everything scanned and saved electronically.
But whenever she had a few minutes alone, her thoughts would wander back, reliving her evening with George. And just like old Du Montfort, her memory re-examined and scanned over every part of that night.
She had seen an unexpected side of him when he’d apologized to her. Clearly he struggled with being wrong—that famous Du Montfort pride.
His anger when he’d talked about Henry—I could punch his lights out—was an odd flash of rage from an otherwise carefully controlled man. It gave her a thrill because it was about defending her. A delicious shiver ran through her whenever she remembered.
But her favourite was the moment he’d stood close behind her telling her about the stars. His voice had whispered, rich with love for La Canette, its dark sky, its legends and history. Something transformed him when he spoke about it, and he became a boy, eager to show off his beloved island. It impressed her far more than his money, his executive lawyer’s power and his ability to order dinner in French.
