by Kate Hardy
‘That’s good,’ Harry said. ‘I’d better let you get on. Sorry for holding you up.’
‘Pleasure,’ she said, and her smile sent an unexpected surge of desire through him.
So inappropriate.
He needed to get a grip.
After a duty visit to his parents—who for once weren’t fighting or finding fault with their youngest child—and seeing his brother and sister-in-law, Harry headed back to Ellen’s house. He adored his nephew and niece. Seeing them was always a tiny bit bitter-sweet, because if his own child had lived then he or she would’ve been smack in between six-year-old George and four-year-old Alice. Every so often Harry caught himself wondering what his son or daughter would have been like. What his marriage might have been like. He might even have settled here in the village, so his child would grow up with cousins, aunts and uncles as a large part of his or her life...
He shoved the thought away. Not now. Instead, he played a complicated game about pharaohs, mummies and camels that George and Alice had made up together, and after his sister and brother-in-law got back from work he spent the evening chatting with them.
But he lay awake for a long time that night, thinking about Holly Weston and wondering what to do about the situation. The sensible thing would be to ignore it, to behave as if they were complete strangers. But, at the same time, Holly drew him more than any woman he’d met before; despite his common sense warning him that he didn’t do relationships, he couldn’t quite let it go. Maybe if he could get to the bottom of why she was behaving as if Bath had never happened, he could work out what to do next.
What he needed was an excuse to talk to her.
‘So are the archaeologists staying at the abbey?’ he asked Ellen casually over breakfast.
‘No, they’re staying at the Beauchamp Arms.’
So he could casually drop into the village pub this evening for a drink... But that would only work if she was sitting in the bar. She’d suggested talking through their finds, so maybe that would be a better start. ‘How long is it likely to be before you can carry on with your Orangery development?’
‘The end of the summer,’ Ellen said. ‘Though that’s fine. We’re not ready to open yet, and the delay gives us time to finalise the route, the guidebook, the gift shop and the website. If necessary, we can use marquees and make the café a pop-up tea tent until we can extend the Orangery.’ She paused. ‘I know your quartet is booked up for at least two years in advance, but do you think you’d be able to slot us in for the opening here?’
‘I’m sure we can shuffle things round, if the dates don’t work for you. But you’re wise to plan it now,’ he said. ‘Let me know and I’ll give the others the heads-up so we can pencil it in.’
‘Next April?’ she suggested. ‘I love the sound of the Regency ball you played at. Maybe we can talk Pa into doing something like that at the abbey.’
‘We didn’t play the actual ball,’ he reminded her. ‘We were outside on the bandstand in the middle of the lake—and there isn’t a lake at the abbey, let alone a bandstand in the middle.’ The event where he’d met Holly, and she’d turned his world upside down. ‘If you’re thinking of holding a dance in the house, that’s fine. Just tell me what sort of thing you want and we’ll come up with some ideas for a workable playlist. Or if you want music to fireworks outside, overlooking the garden, we know some really good pyrotechnics people who can set it up.’
‘Wonderful.’ She smiled at him. ‘So how long are you planning to stay?’
As long as he could, because he needed to talk to Holly and work out what was going on. ‘I’m playing on Friday and Saturday night, so I’ll need to head back to London on Friday morning; but I’d love to stay until then, if that’s OK with you?’
‘Of course it is. It’s not often we get to see you.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled at her. ‘Actually, as you’re putting me up, why don’t I babysit for you tomorrow night and send you and Tris out for a posh dinner? My treat.’
‘That’d be really nice.’ She hugged him. ‘It’s good to have you home.’
‘It’s good to be back,’ he said, meaning it.
After Ellen and Tristan had left for work and to drop off their children at their friends’ houses for a play date, Harry headed down to the Orangery, and discovered Holly on her own in a trench. Fate was definitely on his side this morning. ‘Good morning,’ he said brightly.
Holly looked up at him, and his pulse rate speeded up a notch. Her eyes were incredible. ‘Good morning,’ she replied.
‘Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine with water, but thank you for asking.’
She was being scrupulously polite with him, and he could guess why: he’d been so shocked to see her yesterday that he’d behaved like an idiot. If he explained why, it would be really awkward. He still hadn’t quite worked out how to broach the subject of their night together, and he needed to be careful not to alienate her. One thing he was clear about, though: he needed to apologise. ‘I’m sorry I was a bit unwelcoming yesterday,’ he said.
Her expression gave nothing away. ‘It’s understandable. We’re intruding and our work is making a bit of a mess of the grounds.’
‘It’s not that. I’m pretty sure I came across as a celebrity whose nose was out of joint at not being recognised,’ he said. ‘Which isn’t who I am. What I do is all about the music, not about me. I’m incredibly lucky to be able to do what I love most in the world for a living, and it’s not something I’d ever take for granted. So I apologise for being bratty.’
She inclined her head in recognition. ‘Ellen said you play the cello.’
‘I do, though my taste in music is a little broader than what we tend to play.’
She gestured to the radio playing at the edge of the trench. ‘I work to old pop songs when I’m on a dig, though I do like some classical music.’
‘We play old pop songs, too.’ He took a chance. ‘One of our popular ones is “Don’t You Forget About Me”.’
Not a flicker. He remembered playing that to her in Ferdy’s flat.
Why wasn’t she responding? There must be an obvious reason, but he couldn’t work it out.
‘Hey, Lara. I brought your banana,’ one of her students said, coming up to join them.
‘Lara?’ Harry asked.
Holly rolled her eyes. ‘My students think it’s funny to call me Lara Croft.’ She wagged her finger at the younger man. ‘It’s Dr Weston to you, Jamal.’
But the smile in her face and the gleam in her eye told Harry that she was teasing rather than being officious.
‘Yeah, yeah—Lara,’ Jamal said with a grin. He looked at Harry. ‘Actually, Dr Weston’s way better than Lara Croft. She’s a real heroine.’
Holly squirmed. ‘I’m perfectly ordinary.’
‘You’re a heroine,’ Jamal repeated. ‘Not many people would do what you did. He looked at Harry. ‘A couple of months ago, she was in Bath.’
So this was his Holly, Harry thought, reeling.
‘She rescued a little boy from the path of the car, but the car crashed into her, and she hit her head.’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ Holly said, ‘and I can assure you that I’ll be absolutely meticulous about leading this dig.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘The only real problem the accident caused was that I lost about a week’s worth of memories.’
‘You lost about a week’s worth of memories,’ Harry repeated, trying to take it in.
‘Retrograde amnesia. It’s when you lose memories from before your accident or traumatic event. It’s the most recent memories that are generally a problem. I don’t remember the accident, but from what I’ve been told I was lucky to get away with nothing more serious than a bit of bruising and memory loss,’ Holly said.
The penny dropped.
If she’d been hit by the car when she’d been on the way to meet him, that explained why she hadn’t turned up. It also explained why she hadn’t got in touch with him that morning: she must’ve been in hospital, plus she hadn’t had his phone number.
This was the missing piece of the puzzle. If Holly had lost a week’s worth of memories before the accident, that would include the memory of meeting him. Which was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why she’d acted just now if she’d never met him before, and also for why she hadn’t tried to find him via the hall and the string quartet’s website. How could she try to find him if she couldn’t remember him?
Relief flooded through him. So his instincts hadn’t been wrong after all. Holly Weston wasn’t a game-player; she simply had no memory of even meeting him, let alone spending the night with him.
‘That’s a pretty amazing thing to do, to rescue a child from the path of a car,’ he said.
She shrugged it off. ‘It’s what anyone would’ve done. Anyway, I’m assuming you came here as there was something you wanted?’
‘Yes—you offered to talk me through your findings yesterday, and I wondered when would be a good time for you?’ he asked.
‘I could do it now,’ she began, but Jamal put a hand on her arm.
‘Doc, I nearly forgot—Ricky needs you to come and check something.’
‘OK. Later, then?’ she said to Harry with a smile.
This was the perfect opportunity to get to know her again—and for her to get to know him. ‘How about I bring us lunch?’ he suggested.
‘A sandwich would be nice. Thank you,’ she said.
‘See you here at one?’
‘One,’ she agreed. ‘Sorry to be rude and rush off.’
He raised both hands. ‘You’re working and I’m interrupting. No apologies needed.’
He called into the deli and bakery at the village for picnic supplies, then headed back to Ellen’s and spent the rest of the morning on his laptop, researching retrograde amnesia.
Amnesia actually seemed to be quite common after a head injury. Either it was retrograde, when the person couldn’t remember the past, or anterograde, when the person had trouble forming a new memory. And Harry found the whole subject of memory itself fascinating, particularly when he clicked on an article about music and memory. It told him which areas of the brain lit up while someone listened to music, and how they were the same areas that involved memory. Studies showed that playing music helped people to remember things, and could spark memories even in people who had a brain injury.
So could he perhaps jog Holly’s memory with music?
The evidence said that people who used songs and music while studying found it easier to remember things, such as the ‘ABC’ song helping people work out the position of a letter in the alphabet. So maybe if he played something from the set he and the quartet had played at the lake, Holly might remember meeting him. If he played one of the pieces he’d played to her in Ferdy’s apartment, would it give her a flashback to the night they’d spent together?
He could try.
The next thing he needed to work out was how he could play something for her. He could hardly just turn up next to her trench and start playing his cello as she worked. She’d think he was either a maniac or a stalker.
He’d start with getting to know her a little better—or, rather, letting her get to know him again. And then perhaps together they could find a way forward.
* * *
Holly spent the rest of the morning feeling weirdly fluttery. And it was all because of Harry Moran. There was definitely something about him, and it felt as if she already knew him—which was ridiculous. She’d never met him before. And the attraction was so inappropriate. Nobody here at the abbey apart from her own team knew about the baby; but she couldn’t possibly start thinking this way about one man when she was pregnant by a man she couldn’t even remember. This was much too complicated.
Her heart actually skipped a beat when he came to her trench at one o’clock precisely, carrying a proper wicker picnic basket and a tartan rug. If she’d offered to bring someone a sandwich for a lunch meeting, it would’ve been a prepacked sandwich from the nearest supermarket; but, then, Harry Moran was the son of a viscount, so of course he’d go beyond that.
‘Hi,’ he said, looking faintly flustered.
Did he feel this weird spark of attraction, too? Her heart skipped another beat before her common sense kicked in. She was a scruffy archaeologist. She hadn’t been enough for Simon, and she certainly wouldn’t be enough for a famous cellist from a very posh family. ‘Hi,’ she said, and her voice actually squeaked. How pathetic was that? She sneaked a glance; either he hadn’t noticed or he was in a similar state to her, because he didn’t look as if he was laughing at her. ‘That looks very nice—and a bit impressive.’
He winced. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to go over the top. It’s just how...’
How people in his world did things. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
She helped him spread out the tartan rug, and when her hands accidentally touched his she felt a zing like an electric shock. Oh, help. Right now, she was way out of her depth.
The wicker hamper contained china, proper cutlery and two glasses, plus a sourdough loaf, Brie—her favourite, though right now she couldn’t eat it—a bowl of tiny plum tomatoes still on the vine, sliced chicken and watercress.
‘This looks fabulous. I feel very spoiled,’ she said.
‘Pleasure.’ He looked pleased, she noticed. ‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d prefer wine or something soft, so I brought both.’ He indicated the two bottles in the hamper.
‘I’m working,’ she said, glad of the excuse, ‘so elderflower cordial is perfect.’
He clearly noticed that she didn’t touch the Brie. ‘Sorry. I should’ve thought to buy cheddar as well.’
Not wanting to explain that pregnant women shouldn’t eat Brie, she said, ‘Chicken, tomato and watercress is the best sandwich in the world. And this is one of the nicest picnics I’ve ever had.’
‘I brought lemon drizzle cake as well,’ he said.
‘Oh, now you can definitely visit again,’ she said with a grin. ‘It’s my favourite.’
This was so strange. Part of her was flustered by him, but part of her felt at ease with him, as if she’d known him for a while. ‘Have we...?’ she began, then stopped. There was no reason why their paths should have crossed before.
‘Have we what?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Ignore me. It just feels as if I know you. It’s probably because I can see the resemblance between you, Dominic and Ellen.’
‘Probably,’ he agreed, though there was something in his expression she couldn’t quite read.
‘Well, I need to earn my lunch,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to be telling you about the dig.’
‘I know you’ve probably already explained this several times to different members of my family, but I’d love to know what you’ve uncovered about the abbey so far, he said. ‘I always imagined the monks chanting plainsong, except none of us really know where the church once was.’
This was a safe subject. And if she concentrated on work she could push that swell of attraction to the back of her mind. ‘Benedictine monasteries tend to be built to the same kind of layout. They had the church to the north, and they built the cloisters and the garth—that’s the garden in the middle of the cloisters—on the south side of the church. The chapter house and dormitories would be on the east of the cloisters, the dining room and kitchen to the south, and the accommodation for visitors and the infirm to the west.’ She grabbed her notepad and drew him a quick sketch.
‘So where am I standing at the moment?’
‘The west end of the church,’ she said. ‘Your house is roughly on the site of the chapter house, where they had meetings, and the li
ving quarters of the monks.’ She gestured to the building. ‘I’m guessing there would be signs of the original building in the cellars, because the house obviously dates from after the Reformation. The cloisters run around the edge of the lawn, and the dining room and kitchen would be opposite us.’ She gestured to the wall to their right. ‘Your walled garden—a lot of the material was probably taken from the original west range.’
* * *
Holly Weston really knew what she was talking about. And her work was clearly her passion; she was lit up from the inside out as she talked to him, Harry thought.
Just like the gorgeous woman he’d met wearing a Regency dress.
And to think he’d asked her back then if she’d ever visited the Roman Baths. As an archaeologist, she’d probably done more than just visit the place; she’d probably studied the site. If she ever got her memory back, he rather hoped that little bit of embarrassment would stay quietly forgotten.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is amazing.’
She looked pleased. ‘You could’ve found any of that information on the Internet.’
‘It’s not the same as actually hearing it from someone who knows their subject. Someone who’s passionate about their subject.’
She’d seemed almost on the cusp of getting her memory back when she’d started to ask if they knew each other. He should perhaps have told her then; but it hadn’t felt like the right moment.
He couldn’t think of a way to get back to the subject of her memory loss, when she said, ‘It’s a real thrill to be part of this. To put a story back together. To find things that haven’t been seen for centuries.’ She looked at him. ‘Is it like that with what you do?’
He nodded. ‘We’re telling a story and painting pictures for the audience, pretty much interpreting what the composer felt when he or she wrote the music.’ And this was perhaps his cue. ‘Maybe I could play for you some time and show you what I mean.’
