Audrey Taylor settled herself on the floor beside Poppy and reached across to scratch the dog’s ears affectionately. ‘Pity he couldn’t come, too. It would do him good to relax.’
Poppy gave a hollow laugh. ‘Wouldn’t it just! We went for a walk in the woods the other day, and if I hadn’t sent him to change he would have come in his suit trousers and a tie!’
Audrey chuckled, then gave Poppy a searching look. ‘Tom was very worried, you know. Thought you were going to get into all sorts of trouble with him. Of course, I’ve never met him, and I trust your judgement, but I just wondered what it was exactly that made Tom’s alarm bells ring.’
Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘He thought James was too masculine, for heaven’s sake!’
‘And is he?’
A faint tide of warmth stained Poppy’s cheeks. ‘He’s just a man, Mum. Just a lonely, unhappy man.’
Audrey looked at her daughter thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps you are in trouble—but not the sort of trouble he meant.’
Poppy met her mother’s gentle, searching gaze and bit her lip. ‘I think you could well be right, Mum. I think you could well be right...’
The road was nearly empty. Mile after mile of lonely motorway and dual carriageway, with nothing to think about but the mess he had made of the boys’ lives. Had he really failed them so badly?
Probably—and it had taken Poppy, with her wide eyes and generous heart, to show him. She was good for them, warm and friendly and accepting, but by no means a push-over. He’d been listening to their daily bustle, and it was quite clear from the routine conversations that they were trying it on and she was definitely not falling for it.
He wondered how they were getting on at the farm, and a wave of loneliness washed over him, catching him by surprise. A distant memory tugged at him, from back in his childhood, of staying with his uncle at a huge old vicarage in Hampshire and going with his cousins to the farm at the end of the long, rambling garden.
It had smelt of cows and pigs and chickens, and there had been an ancient pony they had patted, and sometimes the farmer would let them ride on the tractor. In the summer they had helped with the harvest—well, ‘helped’ was perhaps too strong a word, but they had spent many happy hours playing in the fields in the glorious summer sunshine.
Nostalgia brought a smile to James’s mouth. They had been happy days—days before the reality of life had rammed home with such terrifying force. Before marriage, and responsibility, and the pressures of his business success—and before life had cruelly snatched his bride so long before her time, leaving him and the boys bereft of warmth and comfort.
Until Poppy.
There was a sign up ahead. Left was towards Norwich and home. Straight on a little further would take him almost to the Taylors’ farm. He hesitated just a moment, then ignored the turn-off. God knows if he could find the farm; he only had the vaguest idea where it was. It was possible, too, that Poppy and the boys had already left, but he had a sudden, desperate urge to be with them, to forget his business problems and the endless convolutions of the takeover, and just take time out.
He turned off the main road towards the village where the farm was supposed to be, and resigned himself to spending hours cruising round the countryside in a fruitless search. He was lucky, though. By a fluke he found it easily, and turned into through the wide farmyard gate, pulling up outside the big pink Tudor house that he had seen in one of Poppy’s photos.
It was nearly four, and in the house the lights blazed a welcome. For him? He opened the car door and hesitated.
It was years since James had been nervous about anything. In a boardroom he could cope with anything anyone threw at him. Here, now, at Poppy’s home, he felt like a fish out of water. He almost drove away, but then the back door opened and a woman came out, familiar to him again from Poppy’s photos. With a resigned sigh he got out of the car and walked over to her.
‘Mrs Taylor?’ he said, although he knew.
‘Yes—and you must be James,’ she said, and her smile enveloped him in warmth. ‘Did you get away early?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry to intrude, but Poppy painted such a wonderful picture—’
She cut him off with a wave of a floury hand. ‘You aren’t intruding at all. It’s a pleasure to see you. Come into the kitchen and keep me company. I’m just finishing off a batch of scones while we wait for the boys to come back. Poppy’s in the bath, grabbing a bit of peace and quiet while the going’s good, and I’m making tea. You can butter the bread so you don’t have to feel guilty.’
She led him into the warm, bright kitchen, showed him where to hang his suit jacket beside all the battered wax jackets and ancient anoraks on the row of hooks by the door, then sat him at the kitchen table in front of a mound of freshly cut bread.
‘Tea?’ she offered, heaving up the cover of the hotplate and putting the big kettle on the Aga to boil.
‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’
She bustled about, handing him a knife and the soft, fresh butter to spread on the bread. It looked suspiciously home-made, he thought, and sniffed appreciatively. Gorgeous. He rolled up his sleeves, spread and stacked and all but drooled.
‘Have a bit.’
He met her eyes and gave a wry grin. ‘Am I so easy to read?’
She chuckled. ‘Let’s just say I’m used to hungry boys. Go on.’
His smile widened. ‘I think I will; it smells wonderful.’
He sank his teeth into it and the flavour burst on his tongue, making him groan with pleasure. ‘Wow. After eating hotel food all weekend, this is...’ He waved a hand, speechless.
‘Poppy made it.’
‘She’s a talented girl.’
Mrs Taylor plonked a mug down in front of James and settled herself opposite with another mug. ‘She is. She’s also got a very soft heart.’
The warning was clear. James met her eyes, understanding the concern he saw in them. ‘I know. Don’t worry, Mrs Taylor, I won’t hurt her—not in the way you mean. I’ll annoy her and frustrate her to bits, I have no doubt, but on a personal level I—’ He looked down at his tea, suddenly conscious of the ambivalence of his feelings.
‘She’s a very attractive girl. I know that. But she’s safe with me. The boys need her in their lives too much for me to jeopardise their relationship with her for a fleeting one of my own. And, anyway, she deserves more than that, much more. I have too much respect for Poppy to use her as a temporary diversion.’
Audrey Taylor regarded him steadily over the table, then nodded briefly. ‘You’ll do,’ she said cryptically, and stood up. ‘Finish buttering the bread; they’ll be in in a minute.’
As she turned her back, James heaved a silent sigh of relief. He was conscious of having passed a test, but which test and for what, he didn’t have a clue. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know! He buttered the bread, drank his tea and then washed up the mugs in the sink while Audrey bustled about laying the table and checking the scones.
While they worked he was vaguely aware of sploshing noises overhead, and a sudden image of Poppy in the bath made his breath catch and heat race along his veins. And just when he had told Mrs Taylor that Poppy was safe with him!
Safe, my aunt Fanny, he thought disparagingly to himself. Did she really believe him? She wouldn’t if he carried on thinking about her daughter like this, because his body was all set to betray him if he couldn’t drag his feeble mind off the image of her skin slick with soap, the firm swell of her breasts—
He almost groaned aloud. He was contemplating going out into the chilly February air without the benefit of a coat, to settle his libido down again, when the back door burst open and the boys erupted into the room, accompanied by Tom and a boy of about sixteen whom James took to be Poppy’s youngest brother. Around their feet seethed a very wet and muddy dog.
‘Dad!’ one of the twins said, stopping dead in his track
s.
James looked carefully. ‘Hello, George. William.’
He gave them a cautious smile, but they didn’t smile back. Instead they eyed him suspiciously.
‘Have you come to take us back?’ William asked.
‘No—well, not yet. Not before tea. Hello, Tom. Good to see you again.’ He reached over the boys and the dog and shook Tom’s hand, and then extended his hand to the other lad. ‘James Carmichael—you must be Peter.’
The boy nodded, eyeing him assessingly just as Tom had done. The frank blue gaze was Poppy’s own, and James found himself inspected yet again. He stifled a smile.
‘So, boys, had a good time?’ he asked the twins.
They nodded. ‘Yes—great,’ George said. ‘We’ve just been out shooting. Bridie’s useless.’
This last remark was made with such scorn that James blinked. ‘Bridie?’ he asked in confusion, his mind still paralysed with the thought of the boys shooting.
The dog, hearing her name, bounced up to him and lolled against his leg, spreading mud up his trouser-leg with a beseeching paw.
‘Oh, Bridie, no!’ Mrs Taylor cried, but James found his hand going down to fondle the dog’s head.
‘Don’t worry. The suit needed cleaning.’ Bridie licked his hand with great enthusiasm and beamed up at him, clearly besotted by someone with such excellent taste. He grinned despite himself and scratched her chin. ‘You soppy dog.’
‘The boys are right—she’s a useless gun dog,’ Tom said, shucking his coat and hanging it behind the door. ‘She runs when the gun goes off. Here, Pete, put it away, could you?’
He handed the gun to his brother, and James was relieved to see it was broken and the cartridges had been removed. The thought of the boys let loose with a gun was enough to bring him out in a rash. The concern must have shown on his face, because he felt a hand on his arm.
‘They’ve been quite safe, you know,’ Audrey Taylor assured him. ‘Our boys are very sensible with guns. We’ve made sure of that.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ he muttered.
Then a door opened and closed behind him, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He turned slowly, and as his eyes met Poppy’s he felt his heart thud behind his ribs.
‘Hi,’ he said, suddenly self-conscious. Would she mind him invading her home?
No. A warm smile lit her eyes, and she crossed the room towards him. For a moment he thought she was going to hug him, but then she stopped short and raised her hands palm up in a gesture of amazement. ‘Hi, yourself. You got away!’ She looked pleased and surprised, and he had to forcibly stop himself from hugging her.
‘Yes. I couldn’t help myself; I could smell your bread cooking.’
‘Liar.’ She laughed, a soft, warm sound that curled round his heart and eased away the last remains of tension. He felt his mouth tilt in a smile, and was oblivious of the looks exchanged behind them. He was too busy looting at Poppy, her hair still wet from the bath, her face scrubbed clean, her eyes bright. Lord, she was lovely.
Only the crash of the back door signalling the arrival of Poppy’s father stopped him from disgracing himself by pulling her into his arms and kissing her senseless.
They all turned, and yet again James found himself subjected to the scrutiny of a pair of cornflower-blue eyes. These eyes, however, were the eyes of a father, and it wouldn’t have surprised James a bit to have been wheeled out into the hall, a hand firmly on his shoulder, and interrogated as to his intentions.
Instead the man held out a hand—cold, hard, work-roughened—and extended the same welcome as his wife, cautiously friendly. They gathered round the table and tucked into the biggest and most traditional high tea James had seen since his childhood, with heaps of lean home-cured ham, cold chicken and beef, a fresh crunchy winter salad, the bread he had buttered—and the most tempting array of cakes he had seen in his life.
He feared for the waistband of his trousers, but it was too delicious to turn away from. Finally he admitted defeat and sat back, to see Poppy watching him with an indulgent smile.
The others were still eating, the boys talking nineteen to the dozen, and Tom recounting the details of their disastrous afternoon with the scatty dog. James looked down at Bridie’s head resting hopefully on his knee, and stroked her ears. ‘Were you a bad girl?’ he asked gently.
‘Stupid—I don’t know about bad,’ Tom said in disgust. ‘Cat food, Bridie, that’s all you’re fit for. Useless woman.’
Bridie yipped indignantly, and Poppy defended her, too.
‘Sexist pig,’ she said placidly. ‘Don’t know why you want to go out and shoot harmless things, anyway. Pass the bread, James.’
There followed an obviously well-worn wrangle, and James sat back and soaked it all up. An only child, he had never enjoyed the dubious benefit of squabbling with his siblings, and he found himself smiling at their silliness. He was subliminally conscious of Bridie moving away from his leg, and then suddenly, under cover of the distraction, she reached up and swiped a big slice of ham from the plate at the edge of the table.
‘Bridie!’ everybody yelled, and the dog shot under the chair in the corner and swallowed the ham, then came out wriggling, tail going furiously, an ingratiating grin on her face. It was too much for James.
He started to chuckle, and the chuckle grew despite his attempts to control it. He propped his elbow on the table and put his hand across his mouth to smother the mirth, but it would have none of it.
‘It’s not funny!’ Poppy protested, glaring at the setter. ‘She’s a bad dog!’
Bridie wriggled up to James and rolled onto her back, to howls of protest from the family, and he gave up. Throwing back his head, he laughed until his sides ached while the family remonstrated helplessly with the usepentant hound. Then he straightened up, still chuckling, and noticed the boys were watching him, their faces shocked.
The laughter left him at a stroke. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked worriedly.
‘You were laughing,’ George said.
‘You don’t ever laugh,’ William added, his voice hushed with awe.
There was a stunned silence at the table, and James felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. Did he really laugh so rarely that the boys were shocked that he had?
‘He is allowed to, you know,’ Poppy said gently, breaking the silence, and then the boys looked at her instead of him and the breath eased back into his lungs. Oh God, he thought, have I really become such a misery? He tried to remember the last time he had laughed with them, and he found he couldn’t. He was dismayed, and grateful to Poppy for distracting the boys while he recovered his composure.
He studied them, noting the glow in their cheeks and the light in their eyes. Bless Poppy for bringing them here. Obviously they’d loved it, and he realised suddenly that if he could have chosen an upbringing for them, this would have been it.
Sadness washed over him again—regret that he’d failed them, sorrow that Clare wasn’t there to share their lives, despair that he might never be able to offer them the real ingredients of a home. He looked up to find Poppy watching him, her eyes concerned, and he dredged up a smile.
Her eyes softened, sending him a message of—what? Comfort? Promise? Promise of what, though? Happy ever after?
He knew better than that. He looked away, unable to cope with her understanding. Damn, he wanted her all of a sudden, despite his promise to her mother. Well, tough. He’d discovered self-discipline years before. He’d just have to exercise it.
They all finally finished eating and adjourned into the drawing room, a big room with a huge log fire and great squashy sofas, the riot of flowers smothering the curtains at each window echoed in the tapestry cushions that were dotted around the place. The floor was scattered with Persian carpets, and Bridie threw herself down on one in front of the fire and went instantly to sleep. James was tempted to join her. His eyelids could droop with very little encouragement.
‘What a beautiful room,’ he s
aid to Audrey with a sigh.
‘Isn’t it? Poppy redid it for us last year and we’re thrilled.’
He turned to Poppy at the other end of the big sofa. ‘Can you do this to mine? Turn it into a home?’
Was the longing wntten so clearly in his eyes? He could have sworn he saw pity there in hers. ‘I can try. I thought you were joking.’
He shook his head. ‘No. Really. Could you try?’
She nodded. ‘I’d have to go to some auctions for the furniture.’
He turned to Audrey, a wry smile on his lips. ‘Is that safe, letting her loose with my money?’
She laughed. ‘Depends how brave you are. She’s no fool, but she’s got a good eye. You may end up with a sizeable bill but your money would be well invested.’
He turned back to Poppy. ‘I’m in your hands,’ he said softly.
Something flared in her eyes, and found an echo in his veins. Their eyes locked, the message plain, and he forced himself to look away. Damn, this was going to be hard. Impossible.
It dawned on him then that keeping his promise to her mother would be one of the most difficult things he had ever done...
CHAPTER FIVE
JAMES was acting strangely.
For a moment, there, Poppy had thought things were actually improving. At her parents’ house he had seemed relaxed and comfortable, and then suddenly—wallop. Different James. Distant again, but only with her.
With the boys he seemed better, more relaxed, and once or twice she even heard him laughing with them, as if having rediscovered his sense of humour he kept getting it out and playing with it like a new toy. The boys loved it, and he seemed to love it, too. Probably for the first time in years he was actually having fun—but not with her.
With her he was—well, nothing. He wasn’t with her at all. That was the difference. Where before he had sought her out, now he seemed to avoid her, closeting himself in the library when a week ago he might have come and had a cup of coffee and watched her work in the kitchen, or helped load the dishwasher and then suggested a nightcap in the sitting room.
Just Another Miracle! Page 7
