English Lord on Her Doorstep

by Marion Lennox

  ‘You said you’re an interior designer.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so, to look at me.’ She looked ruefully down at her grubby, dog-hair-covered self. ‘But I am. Tell me about your house. What’s the décor of your farm? Modern? Shabby chic? Don’t tell me, I’m guessing authentic provincial?’

  He smiled, thinking of home, of so many generations of taste flung together in so many weird ways. But he wasn’t letting her off the hook.

  ‘You,’ he said firmly. ‘So you went to university?’

  ‘I did,’ she conceded. ‘What did you study?’

  Honestly, this was like blood from a stone. ‘I started an engineering degree with a bit of commerce on the side. I decided if I was to be a farmer I was to be a canny one. So who sent you to university?’

  ‘I guess... Grandma.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘They’re not on the scene. Mum’s an anthropologist. Dad’s a professor of anthropology, which is how they met. He’s in the US now, on his third wife, with seven children that I know of. I don’t hear from him. My mum’s currently in Brazil, still bitter over what she sees as Dad’s betrayal. She sends me a card at Christmas.’

  ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘Not so tough,’ she said. ‘Dad’s family had money, though I gather Dad’s share’s dried up now. I’m guessing one paternity suit too many. But when I was young there was enough money to send me to the best boarding schools. I spent the holidays here with Grandma and Pa. I loved art, so Grandma and I sat down and thought about careers where I could use art to make a living. Grandma was...sensible then.’

  ‘Not sensible for the last few years?’

  ‘Increasingly dippy since Pa died. This place has never been very profitable and she was lonely and bored so she sold most of the land to set up an animal shelter. That meant she had a nice cache your uncle could steal—and of course the bank manager hadn’t updated her overdraft limits after she sold the farm, so on paper it looked like it was still there as security.’

  She was still steering around herself, he thought, pushing away the personal. So ask it straight out. ‘Charlie, am I right or was there trouble even before your grandmother got herself in so much debt?’

  ‘I was worried about her. She was getting older, frail...’

  ‘Charlie...’ He reached out and touched her face, the faintest of touches. Interrupting her words. Hauling her back to the personal.

  ‘There was trouble in your world before,’ he said and she flinched.

  ‘How did you...?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I can sense...shadows.’

  ‘Money hassles can do that to you.’

  ‘So there were money problems before?’

  She chewed her bottom lip. He refilled her wine glass and watched as the firelight flickered over the trouble on her face.

  She wasn’t used to sharing, he thought.

  Why did it seem so important that she did share?

  Why was it so important that she trusted him?

  He sat and waited. The dogs were settled, content to lie on their rug and enjoy the warmth from the fire, the proximity of humans. Tonight even Flossie seemed content.

  The silence deepened. He wouldn’t press, he decided. He knew, deep down, that Charlie wasn’t accustomed to talking about herself.

  Her childhood must have been solitary. He thought of his own. His mum and dad had always been there for him, and he and Louisa had been loved. They’d had the run of the lands. The tenant farmers’ kids had been their friends—were still his friends. His grandfather, his uncle, his cousin, had always been there for him. Home was a haven.

  He looked around at the land Charlie must have thought was her home. It now belonged to the bank. Her grandmother was dead. She must feel...untethered?

  That was how he’d feel if he lost Ballystone, he thought, and it didn’t matter that Charlie’s loss was twenty acres and if Bryn lost Ballystone it’d be thousands of acres. He knew deep down it’d feel the same.

  ‘I was married,’ Charlie said across his thoughts.

  That was a shock. The words were blunt, harsh, and he wasn’t sure where to take them.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ he asked, thinking he needed to back off. But he didn’t want to.

  ‘Not much.’

  He nodded, and scratched the ear of a black and white fox terrier who appeared to be missing an ear. Possum. By now Bryn had learned all their names. It seemed Possum was called Possum because he was obsessed with the species. Any faint rustle and he was onto it. His lack of ear was evidence that the brush-tail possums around here were bigger than he was, and far more vicious.

  ‘He was like your uncle,’ Charlie said and her voice was little more than a whisper.

  Like Thomas. Uh oh. But he didn’t respond. Shut up, he thought. She’ll tell you if she wants.

  ‘How was I to know?’ she said, flatly now, staring at the fire and not at him. ‘I met Graham as I was getting started as an interior designer. He was older than me and gorgeous. He had a name in the business, and he was loving, totally attentive—and he loved my work. It was so flattering but what I didn’t realise—what I was too stupid to see—was that he was marrying a workhorse. That’s what he needed and that’s what he got. He brought me into the business and I worked my butt off.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie...’

  ‘I was dumb,’ she whispered. ‘Young, naïve, stupid. I met him as I finished my course and he was trying to set up a glitzy interior-design studio for the rich and famous. What I didn’t see was that I was simply cheap labour. I guess...he must have loved me at some level, but the bottom line was that he didn’t have to pay a wife. He loved being the frontman, the guy out there wooing the clients. The hard work of sifting through fabric swatches trying to find a match, endless phone calls to suppliers, trying to juggle finances...not at all. But he expanded the business and I was too young and too stupid to object. You should have seen our premises—you have no idea how swank. Of course all of it was on borrowed money but I was so busy trying to keep clients happy I didn’t realise what a house of cards it was. Then it started to get nasty and suddenly he was gone, with a wealthy client, with homes here, in New York, in Hawaii. Leaving me with debts up to my ears.’

  ‘Like my uncle,’ he said softly. ‘The moral compass of a newt.’

  ‘Never trust people with Italian supercars?’ she whispered. ‘I’ll add expensive watches to that list. Titles and mansions and promises and lies... I’d just managed to haul myself out of the mess he landed me in when Grandma landed me in another. And now...’ She looked bleakly at the dogs. ‘Now it’s not just money. These guys... I can’t bear to think about it.’ She sighed and almost visibly braced. ‘But that’s enough of bleak. Is this fire died down enough to bury spuds?

  ‘Can we scrape some coals out a bit so we can cook the sausages? I’m still hungry. Come on, Bryn Morgan. Let’s get on with our silver lining.’

  So they did.

  For the rest of the night there was no talk of lies, of cheating, of debt. No talk of the past. They ate. They lay on their backs on the picnic rug and watched the stars appear. Bryn had thought the stars back home were bright but these were amazing. Or maybe it wasn’t the stars that were amazing.

  Charlie was pointing out the Southern Cross, the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, the Pointers, and he listened to her soft voice. He watched her hand gently pat Flossie’s head—Flossie had somehow edged onto their blanket and her big, soft head was nestled in the crook of Charlie’s arm...

  The night was still and warm. The fire had died to a mass of embers, every now and then spitting a spray of sparks into the night, sparks that looked as if they merged with the stars. There was still heat from the fire, but it was a gentle heat.

  They’d buried their spuds and then dug them up and eaten them and Bryn couldn’t reme
mber when anything had tasted so good.

  Was it just that the past few weeks had been so bleak, filled with lawyers, police, investigators, the knowledge that his name had been used to con small people, people like Charlie...?

  But Charlie wasn’t small. She was warm and curvaceous and kind, and her hand was stroking Flossie and...

  And this time it was his hand reaching out and taking hers. So both their hands were resting loosely on the dog’s soft fur.

  Charlie’s hand stilled.

  She could pull away. There was no pressure.

  He would put no pressure on this woman.

  What was he thinking? Where were his thoughts taking him?

  He knew exactly where his thoughts were taking him. Or where they already were, and they’d been there from the moment he’d walked into this farmhouse and seen her, scared, defiant, brave. How many women would open their doors to strangers on such a night? And she’d been so joyous when it was Flossie, a misbegotten mutt that only someone like Charlie could love.

  Someone like Charlie.

  How much debt was she in? How much trouble?

  She had a good career, though. She could walk away, leave these animals to refuges, wipe her debts with bankruptcy, take a paid job.

  It was unthinkable.

  He could help. Surely?

  And then out of nowhere, the thought, and even as the thought flashed through his mind it was in his mouth, spoken, out loud. A wish.

  ‘Charlie...’

  ‘Mmm...?’ It was a sleepy murmur. The day of hard physical work, then good food, good wine, warmth and peace was doing its work. Was that why she was leaving her hand under his?

  Or was the link as important, as strong, as meaningful, as it was to him?

  That was a crazy thing to think. How could it be making sense—but suddenly it did, and the words were there. Spoken.

  ‘Charlie, I want you to come home with me.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NIGHT STILLED.

  Neither of them spoke. There seemed to be no words.

  Charlie’s hand still lay under his but it had stiffened. No longer was it loose, warm, trusting. It was as if she was waiting for...what? The axe to fall?

  This woman had been betrayed, he thought. By her absentee parents, by her husband, by his uncle. She didn’t trust. And how could she trust? What he was proposing was crazy.

  It was crazy for him, too. He didn’t do relationships. So why did what he was feeling now seem so different? As if the rules he’d held rigidly to for so long no longer applied?

  ‘What...what are you saying?’ she whispered at last and finally she drew her hand away.

  He wanted it back. The link seemed more than important while he tried to sort what he needed to say.

  What he’d asked had been a spur of the moment thought, an idea only, but this woman didn’t need speculation. She needed facts, something solid she could trust. Trust was something he could offer but who knew if it’d be accepted?

  He had to give her space. The linking of their hands was a pressure she didn’t need, and maybe it formed an emotion he needed to back away from.

  Facts. Right.

  He thought of what he could tell her—he should tell her—who he was, the extent of his fortune, the power he wielded back home. And he thought of her words... ‘Titles and mansions and promises and lies...’ She didn’t need that. More, she couldn’t trust it. What he needed to offer was something solid, with no embellishments. Something to take away the shadows, not add more.

  She was still fixedly watching the stars. Thinking who knew what? He had an image suddenly in his head of a fawn he’d once found, separated from its mother. Trapped in briars. Watching him approach without moving, but with every fearful sense tuned to what was coming.

  He’d managed to free it so it could run back to where it belonged. He needed to do the same here, but he didn’t want Charlie to run. Whatever he offered had to be non-threatening.

  ‘Charlie, I told you I’m a farmer,’ he said and waited until he got a slight nod. It wasn’t a committal to anything other than she’d listen, but it was enough.

  ‘My land’s been in my family for generations,’ he told her. ‘It’s good land—no, it’s great land—and it’s prosperous. I’m what some would call a warm man.’

  ‘A warm man...’

  ‘Wealthy, if you will.’

  ‘You’ve had to pay to come here,’ she said cautiously. ‘And lawyers...’

  ‘Believe it or not, it hasn’t dented my income.’

  She was still staring at the stars, her body rigid. She couldn’t trust, he thought, and his heart twisted. This woman...she seemed so alone.

  ‘I could pay your debts,’ he told her and he watched the rigidity increase, the way her face closed and he knew there was more than one reason why he couldn’t go down that road. But he repeated the sensible one. ‘My lawyers tell me, however, that if I pay one lot of Thomas’s debts then I set a precedent. It’d mean I could be accepting liability for them all and no one’s wealthy enough to cover Thomas’s scams. But what I can do...’ His hand touched hers again. ‘What I’m free to do is be a friend. I can offer you a holiday in the UK on my farm. I can afford your fares easily. You could come...for two weeks maybe? I’m not sure of your work commitments. You could come for however long you can manage. But here’s the thing. I’m also in a position to take your menagerie with me.’

  ‘My...menagerie...’

  He was thinking fast. How to make this offer seem...not ridiculous.

  ‘I’m not sure about the hens,’ he confessed. ‘Charlie, could you bear to leave the hens behind?’

  ‘There’s a place that’ll take the hens,’ she managed, bemused, humouring the lunatic? ‘A friend of Grandma’s. A place that houses ex-battery hens, a lady who’s passionate about chook care. For a donation...’

  He smiled at that, liking that he’d crossed the first hurdle and made her listen. ‘I doubt a donation to poultry welfare would count as legal precedent for settling Thomas’s debts.’ He couldn’t resist. He touched her nose. Lightly. Just to see if he could make her smile back.

  She didn’t. She was still rigid.

  ‘It’s crazy,’ she whispered. ‘Seven dogs. Two cows...’

  ‘Charlie, my farm’s big enough for two cows to spend the rest of their days grazing to their hearts’ content. I can put them with the rest of my herd, taking them out only when the bull has access. They’ll cost me nothing but a little extra feed in winter. I suspect there’s quarantine, but Cordelia’s coped with being stuck in mud. Quarantine with her baby beside her should be no big deal.’

  ‘You’re crazy. It’d cost—’

  ‘Shut up about the cost,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve said I can afford it. You need to trust me on that, Charlie.’

  Trust? She didn’t. How could he expect her to? She turned and looked at him and then turned back to star watching. ‘You’re being...it’s nuts.’

  ‘No, it’s fun.’ He touched her nose again, willing her to lighten. ‘Fun for you and security for the dogs.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I have two plans here,’ he said, unbelievably firmly for a man whose plans were building as he spoke. ‘Number one is a holiday—a real holiday—for one Charlie Foster. Number two is finding homes for seven needy dogs, good homes, personally inspected and approved by that same Charlie.’

  ‘You really are nuts.’

  ‘I might be,’ he agreed and thought suddenly of his mother’s reaction when seven dogs were unloaded from quarantine crates at Ballystone. The thought made him smile. His mother would have kittens—and then she’d put the almost frightening power of aristocracy and her love of animals to the fore.

  ‘Charlie, you haven’t met my mother, and you need to,’ he told her. ‘She’s crazier
than I am about animals. The one thing our nation is known for is dottiness about dogs. I’m thinking Mum could organise a heartrending piece in our local paper, outlying Thomas’s infamy. That’ll get the locals in. Thomas might be a villain but he’s our villain and the locals follow his infamy with morbid curiosity. We could add a picture of each of your dogs, saying that Thomas has robbed them of their happy ever after. If we add a lump-in-your-throat description of their backgrounds to go with them I’m guessing we’ll have queues wanting to adopt. And my plan is...you and my mum can have fun vetting each potential owner personally while you have a break. Fun, Charlie bach. How does that sound?’

  ‘It won’t... We can’t...’

  ‘We can,’ he said, and enough of star watching. He took her hands and tugged, forcibly so Flossie slipped sideways and Charlie was lying on her side facing him, with Flossie sandwich-squeezed between them.

  ‘It will work,’ he said strongly. ‘My mother will love doing this. I’ll love doing this. I’m promising good homes, Charlie, I swear.’ He hesitated, knowing this plan had to be solid. ‘And if we don’t find them good homes, our farm is big enough to house them all.’

  ‘Seven...you’d go nuts.’

  ‘What’s a dog or seven on a place as big as ours? The place is already impregnated with generations of dog hair.’ He grinned. ‘Who knows? They might even become cow dogs.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’d be fun watching them try.’

  ‘You’re nuts,’ she said, dazed. ‘The whole concept’s nuts. But even if it wasn’t...the dogs... I mean, that’d be great but... I don’t need to come. Bryn, the cost...’

  ‘I can easily afford it. I promise that, too. What’s more, Charlie, you’ll have a return ticket in your hand before you leave. No tricks. I’m offering you a break from everything you’ve been facing here. A holiday on a farm that’s just as beautiful as this one, but different in so many ways. Have you ever been to the UK?’

  ‘I...no.’

  ‘There you go, then. I have plenty of room to put you up. By the way, even though I’m sure my adoption plan will work I’m thinking of keeping Flossie myself. I don’t see why my neighbours should get all the joy. And trust... Charlie, my mother’s house is two minutes’ walk from mine and if you don’t want to stay with me then she’ll love to have you. Or if you’re really unsure, you can stay at a B&B in the local village. No pressure. So go on, Charlie, just say yes.’