Desirable Property

by Catherine George

  'I see.' This was untrue, as Verity knew Gussie was only too eager to get rid of the cottage, and unlikely to care who bought it as long as she could have the more modern, convenient house she wanted. 'Right,' she went on briskly, 'now shall we revert to the subject of surveys, Mr Dysart, or have you had enough for the time being?' Her smile was pleasant, but privately she wished him anywhere but under her aegis to augment his education.

  Ben stood up, his breadth of shoulder impressive, even in conservative tweed jacket and correct collar and tie. 'I thought we might have a pub lunch together,' he suggested.

  'I think not.' Verity was in much need of a respite. 'I usually just eat a sandwich in the park, thank you.'

  He gestured towards the small window. 'It's pouring out there.'

  'In which case I shall eat my sandwich right here at my desk,' she said sweetly.

  Ben shrugged. 'Just a thought. Some other time perhaps. See you later.'

  Verity stared moodily at his straight back as he went through the door, then slumped in her seat, feeling drained. On impulse she picked up the telephone and asked for John Randall.

  'Verity,' she said tersely, when he answered. 'Is Mr Dysart with you?'

  'No.'

  'How long is he to stay with me?' she demanded.

  'As long as it takes—at least all this week. That all right with you?' Her boss was plainly amused.

  'Oh yes, Mr Randall, absolutely spiffing,' said Verity sweetly and rang off with his laughter in her ears.

  She sent out for her sandwich and ate it while catching up on what she would have been doing all morning if she hadn't been playing governess to the landed gentry. She grinned at the thought and forgot about Ben Dysart as she immersed herself in routine. As thunder rolled overhead she made a face, wishing she'd driven into work instead of walking, but her habit was to leave the car at home when she was due in the office all day, as she enjoyed the exercise. It promised to be a wet walk home if the weather failed to clear.

  At two o'clock promptly Ben Dysart reappeared, and this time they both avoided personalities by tacit consent, keeping strictly to the workings of Lockhart & Welch. Even so, despite regular interruptions on the phone, the afternoon dragged by interminably, Verity almost disintegrating with relief when it was eventually time to leave. Ben Dysart was highly intelligent and very quick to absorb all the information given him, which should have made her unwelcome task easy, but Verity felt utterly exhausted as she tidied her desk, feeling as though two days' work had been crammed into one.

  'Tomorrow, Mr Dysart, I'm due out at two different properties being put up for sale. I imagine Mr Randall considers it a good idea for you to accompany me,' she said briskly.

  'He told me to stay close by your side the entire week,' he said, smiling faintly, 'which from my point of view seems like a very attractive prospect.'

  Verity brushed the pleasantry aside brusquely. 'I'll bring my car tomorrow—'

  'Haven't you any transport tonight?' he asked swiftly, and cast an eye heavenwards. 'It's throwing it down, Miss Marsh. Please allow me to drive you home.'

  'A rash offer—I might live in Birmingham,' she said ungraciously.

  'I happen to know you live in Tiddington,' he said surprisingly, and held the door open for her.

  'How do you know that?' She looked up at him curiously as she passed him.

  'I asked Gussie on Saturday.'

  Verity was silenced as they made for his car, parked in the employees' carpark which had once been a stableyard at the back of the building. The small car, its hood up against the weather, proved to be a Morgan, by no means new, but obviously treasured by its owner, who installed Verity inside then inserted his not inconsiderable dimensions behind the steering wheel.

  'I saw you in this on Saturday,' remarked Verity as they set off.

  'Oh?' He cast a wary look at her.

  'You were sprinting down through Gussie's garden, then you stormed past me on your way to the car. I was parked in the layby.'

  His profile was unreadable as Verity studied it with faint malice.

  'I feel Saturday is one of those days better wiped off the slate,' he said. 'I obviously made a very bad impression.'

  'It's really not all that important, Mr Dysart.' Verity gazed through the window through the streaming rain. 'As I said before, it's none of my business.'

  'But you disapprove.'

  'Nothing to do with me. Except that I feel sorry for Peter.' To her surprise Verity saw this had struck home. A full flush rose in the dark lean cheeks and Ben Dysart's mouth tightened, his eyes hooded as he concentrated on the road.

  'Where exactly do you live, Miss Marsh?'

  'Turn right here and it's half way along. The house is called Marshbanks.'

  He stopped the car at her gate and turned to her, a hand on her wrist as she prepared to get out. Verity looked down at the hard brown fingers, then up at his hard face, but there was no loosening of his grip.

  'You obviously believe the worst of me, Miss Marsh,' he said quietly.

  Verity shrugged indifferently. 'As I've said before, I can't see what significance you can possibly attach to any opinion of mine. What you and Gussie get up to behind her husband's back is nothing to do with me. Now I must go—thank you for the lift—'

  'Wait, please.' His fingers tightened on her wrist. 'Would it surprise you to learn that I left Tern Cottage only a few minutes after you did on Saturday, and that I haven't been back since?'

  'Yes,' said Verity shortly. 'It would.' She shook off his detaining hand. 'Goodbye, Mr Dysart.' Removing herself from the car with more speed than grace, she went up the garden path without looking back, aware that the Morgan stayed where it was until she was inside the house.

  The following morning was clear and sunny. Verity woke early with the feeling that something unpleasant was hanging over her, groaning when she remembered Ben Dysart. The day would at least be spent away from the office, and with this thought in mind she got up extra early with the idea of putting in an hour's work at her desk to clear up any backlog of work from the day before.

  Verity had two separate wardrobes, the clothes she wore to work and those she wore socially, with a third category—her 'scruff as Hett called it— kept for housework and gardening. For the trip into the country she chose a casual safari-style suit in beige cotton, tabbed and pocketed, worn with a sleeveless brown T-shirt underneath it, and brown leather sandals with high, but fairly sturdy heels. She brushed her hair ruthlessly and tied it with a brown chiffon scarf, then let herself out quietly to open the garage doors and back out her Mini.

  It promised to be a beautiful day, and as she drove through streets relatively empty of traffic at that hour she looked around her with appreciation, enjoying the charm of the town normally so packed with people. Only the night watchman was at the offices when she arrived, though he greeted her without surprise, as it was Verity's habit to utilise this quiet early morning period to catch up on herself when the work piled up during the busy season.

  Verity felt a glow of satisfaction at her achievements by the time the usual busy day was in full swing. Summoned to John Randall's office soon after nine she went along to see him with some reluctance., wondering if he had any more unpleasant little surprises up his sleeve.

  'Good morning, Verity.' John looked up, smiling. 'Sit down—want some coffee?'

  She smiled back warily and accepted his offer, suddenly hungry at the mention of coffee. 'Thank you. I'd love some.'

  He picked up the telephone and ordered coffee and a couple of sticky buns, then sat back, his eyes questioning.

  'How did you get on yesterday with Ben?'

  She shrugged, her face shuttered. 'All right, I suppose. Perhaps you ought to ask him.'

  'I did. Last night.' The sleepy blue gaze missed nothing. 'He says you were very helpful, very informative. But at lunchtime yesterday I rather got the idea you were less than pleased. Don't you like him?'

  Verity remained wooden. 'You asked me
to pass on anything I know about land management and surveying, Mr Randall. You didn't say I had to like him as well.'

  He grinned. 'As bad as that? Funny. From what I hear he usually has the reverse effect on your sex.'

  'Possibly—' Verity broke off as Nicola appeared with a tray of coffee and two luscious-looking Danish pastries. 'Lovely—shall I pour?' She smiled warmly at the girl, then handed John Randall a cup of coffee and a pastry, raising an ironic eyebrow at him. 'This is the second time in two days I've been honoured with coffee on a tray. Aren't you afraid I might get ideas above my station?'

  He shook his head, munching with enjoyment on his pastry. 'As I've known you since you were a fat little girl in pigtails, I'm not over worried on that score.'

  Verity licked her fingers. 'Pigtails yes. Fat, definitely not!' She looked at him very directly. 'Seriously, though, John, if I do get out of hand just cut me down to size. I shan't mind. I'll always be grateful that you took me on.'

  John Randall returned her look with interest. 'Your father taught me everything I know about the business when I first came here to work under him, Verity. He would never have employed anyone not worth their salt, and neither would I. I took you on because I thought you were efficient and talented and likely to do a good job for the firm—a chip off the old block, in fact. Which does not mean I'm about to give you a rise,' he added. 'Though it has neatly sidetracked the issue of Ben Dysart, or to give him his late description, Capt. B. Dysart, RM—Mentioned in Despatches by the way.'

  Verity made a face, impressed despite herself. 'My goodness. A hero to boot. Where did he earn his laurels?'

  'Falklands—not that he'd thank me for telling you. Why don't you like him, Verity?'

  She avoided his eyes. 'I wouldn't say I don't like him, precisely. We rather got off on the wrong foot, that's all.'

  'Do you want me to put him with someone else—I don't know quite who at the moment, now that school holidays have started, but I dare say I can manage something if I put my mind to it.'

  Verity shook her head, getting to her feet. 'No, of course not. We're going out today, in any case—the big place outside Chipping Camden and the cottage near Ilmington. He's rather large to be penned up with in my office all day; we'll probably get on better at opposite ends of a tape!' She smiled mischievously. 'Best place for all you chaps, Mr Randall—at arm's length, if not farther!'

  'You'll change your mind one day,' he said teasingly.

  'Don't hold your breath!' Verity was still smiling to herself when she got back to her office, the smile dying a sudden death at the sight of Ben- Dysart, peacefully doing The Telegraph crossword. He rose to his feet at once, smiling politely.

  'Good morning, Miss Marsh; a much pleasanter day today.'

  'Good morning, Captain. It's really quite beautiful, isn't it?' Verity sat in the chair behind her desk, waving him to the other one.

  'Not "Captain" any longer, Miss Marsh,' he said quietly.

  'Very well, Mr Dysart—perhaps you'd like to know something of the places we intend visiting today…' Verity filled him in on procedures and gave him what information she knew about the vendors, then suggested they get on their way.

  'It all looks remarkably tidy in here this morning,' he remarked. 'What happened to that mountain of paperwork?'

  'I came in early to clear some of it before we went out.' Verity opened the door, but he gently removed her hand and closed the door again. He stood looking at her in silence. He was wearing a lightweight grey suit with a white shirt and a sober dark blue tie, none of which managed to detract from a certain slight aura of menace Benedict Dysart seemed to wear like a cloak.

  'I assume I'm the cause of the extra work?' he asked.

  'I often come in early in the summer when we're at our busiest,' Verity answered casually. 'Then I can go out with a clear conscience.'

  'Your conscience can surely never be anything but clear.' His habit of speaking quietly, almost in a monotone, made it hard to tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. Verity gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  'We shall be late, Mr—'

  'Couldn't you bring yourself to say "Ben"?' he said swiftly. 'If we're to spend the next few days in each other's company it seems silly to stand on so much ceremony.'

  Verity had no intention of becoming even the least bit less formal with Gussie's lover. It seemed to smack of approbation to be on first name terms, yet churlish to refuse, so she gave him what her mother called "Verity's Sunday smile".

  'Of course. Shall we go?'

  There was a further moment of unpleasantness in the car park, when Verity took it for granted she would drive the Mini, and Ben insisted they travel in the Morgan. He won, Verity refusing to indulge in an outright squabble, and the first part of the drive was accomplished in complete silence.

  'A rare gift,' he observed after a while.

  'Oh?' said Verity indifferently.

  'Silence,' he said. 'Not something the women I know practice with any degree of success.'

  This was the wrong remark to make if his intention had been to thaw the atmosphere, as Verity immediately thought of Gussie and retreated even farther into her shell. She spoke only to give last-minute instructions on how to reach their destination, a converted farmhouse rather a long way from anywhere. Ben negotiated the car up a bumpy track and came to a halt in what had once been the farmyard in front of a lovingly restored seventeenth-century farmhouse in the celebrated limestone of the Cotswolds.

  Verity jumped out of the car to meet the elderly couple emerging to greet them, introducing Ben to them as 'my colleague, Mr Dysart'. The owner, a tall, white-haired man in his early seventies, screwed up his eyes as he looked at the younger man.

  'Dysart? You from Priorsford, young man? Hugh Dysart's boy?'

  Ben nodded, smiling, his face lighting up in a way Verity hadn't seen before, and for the first time she began to realise just how potent his attraction could be as he put himself out to be charming to the couple, who insisted on a glass of sherry before Verity and Ben got down to the real business of the morning. By the time the necessary inspection had eventually been made, all the relevant details noted and several photographs taken of the picturesque property, it was lunchtime.

  As he drove carefully back down the track Ben asked, 'Where would you like to eat? I know a couple of good places in Chipping Camden.'

  'My expenses don't run to that sort of thing,' answered Verity. 'There's a good pub along here—the Lamb & Flag. We can have a ploughman's and a lager.'

  A black look passed over the swarthy features for an instant before Ben said stiffly, 'I meant I would stand you lunch, of course.'

  'Yes, I know you did, but I'd prefer the Lamb & Flag, if you don't mind.'

  Despite his pokerfaced expression it was quite obvious that Ben Dysart did mind rather a lot, the extra-careful way he brought the car to a halt in front of Verity's chosen hostelry only underlining the restraint he was imposing on himself. Without a word he ushered Verity into the room marked 'Lounge', though she would have preferred the saloon bar where a noisy game of darts was in progress. With formality her escort installed Verity on a settle by an open window, and without -consulting her went off to get the drinks. Verity sat quietly in the deserted room looking out on a pretty garden where several people were seated at rustic tables, wishing she could join them. Almost before she'd missed him Ben was back with a tray on which reposed a pint of bitter, a pint of lager, and two plates with thick slices of cottage loaf, pats of butter, slabs of cheese and some rather fierce-looking pickled onions.

  Verity accepted her portion with private misgivings, never having drunk a pint of lager before, but determined to swallow it all if it killed her. Both hunger and thirst lessened considerably as Ben sat beside her on the settle, the fresh bread sticking in her throat, and the cheese so strong it burnt her tongue. The pickles she left severely alone and after a few minutes gave up all pretence of eating and concentrated on the lager. Ben Dysart seemed indifferen
t to the silence, and despatched his bread and cheese with speed, though Verity couldn't help noticing he also refrained from the pickles. He drained the last of his pint and stood up.

  'Will you have another?' he asked.

  Verity shook her head. 'No thanks, I'm fine with this.'

  Ben collected the plates and took them over to the bar, returning shortly afterwards with a half pint glass of bitter. As he sat down beside her bursts of laughter came from the taproom from the dart players, and snatches of conversation floated in from the garden, but in the lounge bar all was quiet. For once Verity wished it were the sort of pub that had speakers murmuring forth 'wallpaper' music, because for the life of her she couldn't seem to start up a conversation.

  'Are you always such a restful companion?' asked Ben suddenly.

  Verity blinked. 'Restful? Don't you mean boring?'

  'If I'd meant boring I'd have said so.'

  'I couldn't think of anything to say,' said Verity with truth. 'If you want to talk by all means do so.'

  'Thank you. Would you mind if I took off my jacket?'

  She shook her head and Ben got up, shrugging off the grey suit jacket and putting it over a chair, then he sat down opposite her on a stool instead of resuming his seat beside her. He looked at her with searching black eyes that held hers steadily. 'I have a story to tell. Will you listen?'

  Verity stiffened immediately. 'Please, Mr Dysart—' she was saved from saying more as several people came into the room, and their privacy was gone.

  Ben stood up, holding out his hand. 'Shall we get out of here?'

  Verity consented with such relief there was a wry twist to Ben's wide mouth as he slung his jacket over his shoulder and followed her out of the pub, forestalling her as she would have made for the car.

  'What time are you due at the next place?'

  'Three.'

  Ben looked at his watch. 'It's not two yet.' He gave a quick glance round him, then pointed out a sign further along the road. 'There's a public footpath over there. Will you come for a walk? Please?'