English Lord on Her Doorstep

by Marion Lennox

  * * *

  The house was two storeys of ramshackle. The veranda was wide and wobbly. Floorboards had creaked and sagged as he’d crossed it, and the line-up of saggy, baggy settees along its length added to its impression of something straight out of Ma and Pa Kettle. Or maybe the Addams family, Bryn thought ruefully, as a sheet of lightning seared the sky before he was plunged into darkness again.

  And then the door opened.

  Light flooded from the hallway within. Dogs surged forward, though not lunging, simply heading for a sniff and welcome—though there was a warning yip by an ankle-sized fluffball.

  And behind them was a woman. Youngish. Late twenties? She was short, five feet four or so, with bright copper curls tumbling around a face devoid of make-up. She looked a bit pale. Her eyes were wide...frightened? She was wearing faded jeans and a huge crimson sweater. Bare feet.

  She was looking straight past him.

  ‘Flossie,’ she said and her voice held all the hope in the world.

  Thank you, he breathed to whoever it was who was looking after stranded and stressed gentry in this back-of-beyond place. To have lucked on the owner... He could hand her over and leave.

  ‘You have Flossie?’ she demanded, her voice choking. ‘Where?’

  ‘She’s in my car,’ he said, apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry but I’ve hit her.’

  ‘You’ve hit...’ He heard the catch of dread. ‘She’s not dead?’

  ‘She’s not dead.’ He said it strongly, needing to wipe that look of fear from her face. ‘She’s hurt her leg but I can’t see any other injuries and her breathing seems okay. I’m hoping the wheel skimmed her leg and nothing else was injured. But the vet—’

  ‘That’s Hannah Tindall. Yallinghup. I have her number.’ She was already reaching for the phone in her back pocket. ‘I’ll take her straight—’

  ‘Hannah’s delivering a calf,’ he told her. ‘She should be through in about an hour. The vet at Carlsbrook’s on leave.’

  ‘You’ve already rung?’ She took a breath and then another. ‘Thank you. I...is she in your car?’ She stepped towards him, past him, heading into the rain.

  He was wet. She wasn’t, and Flossie had already shown she was amenable to him carrying her. There was no reason for both of them to get soaked. He moved to block her.

  ‘Find some towels,’ he told her, gently now as if he was treating two shocked creatures instead of one. As maybe he was. ‘Do you have a fire? She’s wet and I think she needs to be warm.’

  ‘I...yes. The kitchen... I have the range on...’

  ‘Go grab towels and I’ll bring her in,’ he said and then hesitated. ‘That is, if it’s okay?’ He looked past her into the hall. ‘Do you have anyone to help?’

  ‘I...’ She took another deep breath and visibly regrouped. ‘No, but it’s okay. Of course it is. Please bring her in. Thank you so much.’ Her voice broke a little. ‘Oh, Flossie...’

  She disappeared, almost running, into the back of the house, leaving the door wide and Bryn thought...what had he just asked her to do?

  He wasn’t thinking. The chaos of the last weeks had pretty much robbed him of logical thought.

  He shouldn’t have asked for access to the home of a solitary woman late at night. She’d run for towels and left him in the doorway, with total trust.

  Trust. There was a word that had been lacking in his life for the last weeks. The days of interrogation, the sick sensation in his gut as he’d realised the extent of his uncle’s dishonesty, the appalling feeling as he’d checked the local media...they’d made him feel as if he were smeared with the same smutty tar brush as his uncle. Yet here he was, in this woman’s home, totally trusted. He should go give her a talk on trust and where it could lead—but she was trusting for a reason and he needed to honour it.

  He headed back into the rain, which seemed to be increasing in intensity by the moment, gathered one injured pooch carefully in his arms and carried her inside.

  The dog seemed limp, listless. Her bones were sticking out of her ribcage. If the woman hadn’t been surrounded by visibly well-cared-for dogs he’d have suspected neglect but there was no neglect here. As he walked back into the hall she reappeared with her arms full of towels. She dropped them as she saw the dog in his arms—and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Flossie...’ She was sensible though, he thought. She didn’t rush to hug. She came close and touched the dog behind her ear, a feather-touch. ‘We thought we’d lost you. Oh, Grandma...’ And then she hauled herself together, stooped and gathered the towels again and led the way into the kitchen.

  It was a great kitchen. A farmhouse kitchen in the very best sense of the words. It was cosy and faded, with worn linoleum, an ancient wooden table and random wooden chairs with cheerful, non-matching cushions tied to each with frayed gingham bows. An ancient dresser took up almost the length of one wall and the opposite wall held the range and an extra electric oven—presumably for days when it was too hot to light the fire. The range was lit now, its gentle heat a welcome all on its own. A tatty, faded rug stood before the range and an ancient settee stood to one side. There were photographs stuck randomly to the remaining wall space, dogs, dogs and more dogs, plus the odd faded family shot. A guy in khaki took pride of place in the photograph display but the dog pictures were edging in, overlapping, as if the soldier’s memory was being gradually overlaid by woofers.

  Something was simmering on the stove. Something meaty and herby.

  The whole effect was so comforting, so far from the bleakness of the last few days—so reminiscent of home?—he stopped dead in the doorway and had to take a moment to take it in. Which was used to good effect as the woman darted forward and hauled the settee closer to the fire.

  ‘Put her down here. Oh, Flossie...’

  And Flossie gave an almost imperceptible wiggle of her tail, as if she too recognised the kitchen for what it was. A sanctuary, a place almost out of this world. A time capsule where everything in it seemed safe.

  He caught himself. Dog. Settee. He walked forward and settled her with care on the towels the woman laid out. Flossie’s tail wagged again as her body felt the comfort of the settee and she looked adoringly up at the woman hovering beside her.

  ‘Oh, Flossie...’ the woman murmured again. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘I can’t see anything obvious apart from the leg,’ Bryn told her. ‘I’m not sure if it’s broken or not.’ It was badly grazed, still sluggishly bleeding. ‘I can’t feel anything else but she hasn’t moved.’

  ‘It could be shock,’ the girl said. ‘And hunger. She’s been missing for three weeks.’

  ‘Three weeks!’

  ‘I know.’ She shook her head. Her fingers were running lightly over the dog’s sides, watching for reaction. ‘She’s a stray, dumped here a couple of months back. People do that—toe-rags. They don’t want an animal so they think, I know, we’ll dump it outside a farm. And of course everyone knows Grandma takes strays in. So Flossie was dumped but she must still remember being thrown from the car. So off she went and I’ve looked so hard...’

  The emotion he heard in her voice was for a stray dog she’d only known for weeks?

  ‘That’s your jacket underneath her,’ she said, seeming to notice the soft leather for the first time. ‘Oh, heavens, it’ll be ruined. I’ll get it out for you... I don’t know... Can I give you something towards cleaning?’ She paused and seemed to regroup. ‘Sorry. I’m not thinking clearly.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m Charlie Foster, by the way. Charlotte. You’re... Bryn Morgan, did you say? I’m very pleased to meet you and I’m deeply thankful for your help, but I can manage now. I’ll ring the vet as soon as she’s available. Once Flossie’s cleaned and fed, though, I’m hoping I might not need her. You’ve done...great. Thank you so much.’

  She moved to edge the jacket out but he stopped he
r. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘You don’t want your jacket?’

  Um...not. Carrying a blood-soaked jacket back to the UK...it was a good one but not that good. ‘It’s fine,’ he told her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right here? Your grandmother...’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She straightened and reached out and took his hand, shaking it with a firmness that told him this was a woman of decision. ‘You’ve been fabulous, Mr Morgan, but there’s nothing more you can do. I won’t keep you any more.’

  Great. He could step away, head back to the car. He could even make it to the airport in time.

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything more you can do.’ Which wasn’t quite answering the question, but he agreed with her. The dog’s tail was wagging, feebly but with every indication that warmth and food and medical care to her leg would see her recover. There was nothing more he could do, and he had a plane to catch.

  ‘I’ll see myself out, then.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  The hand clasping his... It was a clasp of friendship and gratitude and it made him feel...

  Like he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Not since he’d left home.

  Maybe not even then.

  He looked down at her, at her tumbled curls, at her face, devoid of make-up, flushed now with the warmth of the fire, her brown eyes direct and clear. She was smiling at him. She was half a head shorter than he was.

  She made him feel...

  He didn’t have time to feel. He had a plane to catch.

  ‘Good luck,’ he told her, and on impulse he grabbed a pen lying on the table and wrote his name and email address on a pad that was clearly used for shopping lists. ‘Will you let me know how things go? And if there are any veterinarian bills... I hit her. I’m more than happy to cover them.’

  Something flashed over her face that might have been relief but was quickly squashed. ‘It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘But you will let me know.’ He took her hand again. It seemed strangely imperative that he didn’t release it until he had her agreement. To head off and not hear anything seemed the pits.

  ‘I will let you know,’ she said and tugged her hand away and that was that.

  He turned and headed back out into the night.

  * * *

  Why had it been so hard to tug her hand back?

  It was the dark, she told herself. Plus the storm. Plus the fact that she had an injured dog on her hands and she wasn’t as sure of treating her as she’d told the guy... Bryn.

  Anyone would want company on such a night, she told herself, but there was a blatant, very female part of her that told her that what she was feeling was more than that.

  The guy was gorgeous. More than gorgeous. He was tall, clean-shaven, dark hair, a ripped and tanned body, wearing good chinos and a quality shirt open at the throat. His voice had been lovely, deep, gravelly, English, with just a hint of an accent that might have been...something? Welsh, maybe. That’d fit with his name. Bryn. Nice name.

  He’d been carrying her beloved Flossie with tenderness. There was enough in all those things to make her think...hormonal stuff, and he’d looked at her with such concern... He’d smiled, a lopsided smile that said it was sensible to leave but he didn’t like leaving her alone.

  The smile behind those dark, deep-set eyes was enough to make a girl’s toes curl.

  But men who made Charlie’s toes curl had no place in her life. She’d been down that road, and never again. Besides, a woman had other things to do than stand here and feel her toes curl. Bryn was heading out of her life, and she had an injured dog to attend to.

  But life had other plans.

  She turned back and stooped over Flossie just as a vast sheet of lightning made the windows flash with almost supernatural light. There was a fearful crash, thunder and lightning hitting almost simultaneously. And then...extending into the night...something more. A splintering crash of timber.

  There was a moment’s pause, and then something crashed down, so hard the house shook, and her feet trembled under her. Every light went out. The dogs came flying from wherever they’d been and huddled in a terrified mass around her legs. She knelt and gathered as many of them into her arms as she could.

  It must be a tree, she told herself. One of the giant red gums in the driveway must have come down. And then she thought... Bryn. Dear God, Bryn... He was out in that. Almost before the thought hit, she was on her feet, shoving the dogs aside, heading through the darkness to the outside door...

  And just as she reached it, it swung open.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Light was flickering through the doorway, lighting his silhouette. A tree on fire? She couldn’t see enough to make out his features, but she could see his form and she could hear.

  ‘Bryn...’ She backed away, almost in fright, and the dogs gathered again around her legs. She stooped to hug them again, more to give herself time to recover than to comfort them. For what she really wanted was to hug the man in the doorway. For an awful moment she’d had visions of him...

  Don’t go there. The vision had been so appalling it still had her shaking.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said and he sounded it. ‘But there’s now a tree across the driveway.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Her voice wasn’t working right. ‘You’re not hurt?’

  ‘Not a scratch.’ He said it surely, strongly, as if he realised how scared she must have been. ‘But I appear to be stuck. Unless there’s another road out? I’m so sorry.’

  For heaven’s sake... He’d brought her dog home. He’d almost been killed by one of the trees she’d told her grandmother over and over were too close to the house. And he was apologising?

  ‘There’s no way out while it’s pouring,’ she told him. ‘I...the paddocks will be flooding. And those trees...red gums...they’re sometimes called widow makers.’

  She caught a decent sight of him as the next flash of lightning lit the sky. He was wet, she noticed. He must have been wet before this. She’d been too caught up with Flossie to notice anything except how...

  Um...she wasn’t going there.

  In fact she was having trouble going anywhere. She was having trouble getting her thoughts to line up in any sort of order.

  ‘Widow makers?’ he queried, helpfully, and she struggled to pull herself together. She rose and faced him, or she faced the shadow of him. Every light was gone but the lightning was so continuous she could make him out.

  ‘That’s what they’re called. The trees. River red gums. They’re notorious. They drop branches, often on hot, windless days, when it’s least expected. They look beautiful and shady and people camp under them.’

  ‘Or park under them?’

  ‘Yeah, and bang...’

  ‘It’s not exactly a hot, windless day.’

  ‘No, but they’re so tall they’re the first thing that lightning strikes and Grandma won’t...wouldn’t...clear the ones near the house. Even the dead ones. She says they made nesting sites for parrots and possums. She says... She said...’

  And then she stopped.

  ‘Said,’ Bryn said at last, very gently, and she flinched.

  ‘I...yes. A heart attack, three weeks ago. That’s why...that’s why I’m here. These are Grandma’s dogs.’

  ‘So you are here alone.’

  She shouldn’t say it. It was really dark. He was nothing but a shadow in the doorway.

  She should tell him she had a bevy of brawny men sleeping off a night at the pub upstairs.

  She didn’t.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘And I’m not very good with storms.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ he told her. ‘Do you have a lamp? Torches?’

  ‘I...yes.’ Of course she did. Or Grandma did. This was a solitary country
house, with trees all around. Power outages were common, happening often when Charlie was visiting.

  Not as scary as this one though.

  She fumbled her way back into the kitchen, to the sideboard, and produced a kerosene lamp. It was older even than Grandma, she thought. Lit, though, it produced a satisfactory light.

  Bryn hadn’t followed her into the kitchen. He’d stopped at the door, a darkened, watchful shadow.

  Her fingers trembled as she lit the wick and re-laced the glass, and he saw.

  ‘Charlie, I’m safe as houses,’ he said gently. He thought about that for a moment and then he smiled, finally coming further into the room to inspect her handiwork. His voice gentled still further. ‘I am safe,’ he repeated. ‘In fact, I’m even safer than houses that have red gums all around them. You think anything’s likely to crash down on our heads? You think we should evacuate?’

  She adjusted the wick until it stopped smoking, then turned back to the sideboard to find more. Grandma had half a dozen of these beauties, filled and ready to go.

  The good thing about that was that she didn’t have to look up. She could play with the lamps on the sideboard. She could speak without looking at him, which seemed...important. ‘It seems...more dangerous to leave,’ she managed. ‘Even if there was a way out. And they say lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of trees,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Do you think same place includes every tree less than twenty feet from the house?’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake... She swung around and glared. ‘Mr Morgan, it seems...it seems you’re stuck here for the night. I’m very grateful, and I’m not scared of you. But I am scared of storms. So while I’m happy to give you a bed for the night, supper, a place by the fire, it’s predicated on you manning up and saying things like, “She’ll be right,” and, “What’s a little lightning?” and, I don’t know, “Singing in the rain” kind of stuff. So if you dare tell me there’s a snowball’s chance in a bushfire that another tree will come down and squash me, then you can step right out in the rain and take your chances. So what’s it to be?’ And she put her hands on her hips, jutted her chin and fixed him with such a look...