“I’ve based the color scheme around them. Plus, if they are never enjoyed, what use are they?”
“This is very generous of you.” He sounded stiff.
“Your family has been very generous to me. For many years.” She set out the plates and stood back, delighted with the quiet color scheme. The thick aqua silk runner down the center of the table, the white cutouts of Hagen’s house inset with aqua menu sheets sitting between each set of knifes and forks, all looked elegant. The bright red camellias in her gold and white flower bowl looked stunning. Mercia’s elaborate white chandelier hanging low over the table no longer seemed to be the centerpiece. Now the light was dimmed by the tasteful setting. “I don’t think it’s overdone. I hope you approve.”
He picked his own place card and examined the house print on the top. “Where did you find the sketch for this?”
“I drew it.” She glanced at him.
He blinked and nodded. “Thank you. Have you taste-tested the canapés?”
“I trust Sam.”
“Let me pour you a pre-dinner drink.”
“Thank you. Is the fire stoked?”
“I started it when I arrived home. The room is now cozy. We can sit in there awaiting our guests unless you have something vital to attend to now.”
“I thought it might be a good idea if you went through the guest list with me. I have learned who is who by name and job, but I would like to know in what way these people can be useful to you.”
“Right. I have champagne cooling in the sitting room.” He hooked an arm behind her and guided her through the door to the hallway again, and then into the sitting room where the fire crackled cheerfully.
The room looked far more comfortable now. A carpet square brightly patterned in blue, red, and gray sat in front of the fireplace and cushions in the same colors warmed up the sofa and chairs. Again, she had added red camellias on the mantelpiece and a glass side table where the champagne cooler sat with fine-etched glasses. He poured out two measures and she sat on the couch with him in order to study the guest list.
Chapter 5
Hagen’s parents arrived first. Each kissed Marigold. His mother, dressed in a white silk shirt with a blue silk skirt, admired the room and seemed delighted to see the fire. “So cozy, darling,” she said to Marigold who gave a pleased little lift of her shoulders. “You told me you don’t have any ideas. That’s a wonderful idea. It makes a home out of a house.”
Hagen rubbed the back of his neck. “It could be the company rather than the fire,” he said, trying not to sound as if he needed to defend Mercia’s choices while at the same time realizing that until tonight he had never been particularly comfortable in the sitting room. He poured his parents a drink.
The doorbell rang again and he welcomed the head of the engineering department at the university, Caroline Mason, a brusque shorthaired woman in her fifties who dressed in layers of dusty colored wool. “I’ve brought along Morgan Evans, my assistant professor,” she said in her hearty voice. “I thought he deserved a good meal.”
Since Morgan, a chunky, curly haired man in his early thirties, could barely button his tweed jacket, Hagen accepted the statement with a smile and shook each of the pair’s hands. Morgan stared at Marigold with a hungry expression on his face. When he held her hand too long, he annoyed the hell out of Hagen. Then the doorbell rang again. Hagen stumped off, disgruntled. If Marigold had been his wife, she could have answered, but he had to leave her with starving Morgan instead.
The politicians had turned up in a group, smartly but casually dressed. One was in government and the other a member of the opposition. While he was ushering them into the sitting room, the government official and his female partner arrived. By this time, Rosie, the waitress, was handing around the canapés.
In due course, after everyone had expressed satisfaction with the champagne, the emu pate, the Stilton and grape bites, and the crab cucumber tartlets, among the other delicacies Marigold had chosen, he ushered everyone into the dining room. He saw the glitch in her seating plan. If she had been his wife…but she wasn’t. Therefore, she had put his mother at the other end of the table as the hostess. Instead of sitting near to him, where he wanted her, Marigold had placed herself between the opposition member for planning and infrastructure and Morgan. Hagen had the wife of the member on his right, and the wife of the opposition on his left. Both were diplomatic and determined to enjoy the night out.
However, neither of those ladies was the only woman he could think of lately. He watched Marigold enjoying herself too much, flirting with Morgan and the minister in turn. She had no right to be so at ease in exalted company. She should have been as miserable and bored at this business dinner as Mercia had always been when presented with intellectuals rather than the socially savvy people she ran with.
Instead Marigold was charming all with her natural manner and her offbeat humor. Not only that, but her dinner service was a great hit.
“Where on earth did you find these plates?” The wife of the minister for planning stared at the blue gold-edged setting. “I think these are Royal Doulton but it’s not possible. This design hasn’t been made for more than a century.”
“You’ll need to ask Marigold about the plates. She let me borrow them for the night.” Hagen took a rather large sip of his red wine.
The woman, Aggie Barwell, made an O of her mouth. “So brave,” she said to Marigold. “If we chip these or break one, you will have lost a true treasure.”
Mercia would have said, “No matter. We have another twenty,” which would show that she could afford to lose a plate or two. Ten years ago, Marigold had told him he was simply a person with someone else’s money made from someone else’s effort, newly rich, and completely crass.
Remember, most rich families lose their money within the first three generations, she had said, poking one long finger into his chest. And you’re the third. He had never forgotten that. Her words had preyed on his mind ever since. Although he’d been born with self-confidence, a man had to take into account the fact that he needed to work hard to maintain his family’s professional standards.
And as one who knew firsthand what happened to the third generation of money, she now said, “The dishes were meant to be used. It’s a shame to keep them for best and never enjoy them yourself, don’t you think?”
“I’m honored,” Aggie said in her careful voice. Her father had also been a politician and she made the perfect wife for another with her inbuilt charm and tact. “To be eating from something this precious is a first for me. How did you come to own this set?”
“I inherited it, but the reason we are using the set tonight is because it originally belonged to the house. I thought putting the plates and the house together one more time would be rather special.”
“I’m honored, too,” said Susan Payne, the wife of the other politician. “My parents have some lovely old things they never use and it does seem to be a waste.”
This moved the group into reminiscing. Marigold managed to turn the conversation to one of the newer AA projects, which then led to the proposed one, which had been the purpose of the dinner. Hagen no longer had the urge to compare Marigold to Mercia. He had never been more conscious of his greatest mistake, six years ago, assuming he could have Marigold, which rankled tonight more than ever.
Finally, when the last dish had been removed from the table, he ushered the now replete and mellow company back into the sitting room for a glass of his father’s treasured old brandy. The fire crackled, his guests settled comfortably, and Rosie appeared in the doorway. She caught Marigold’s glance, and the two disappeared. Marigold returned and sidled up to him. “The staff has cleaned up and gone. I told them they were magnificent.”
Aggie turned and said, “I should have thanked them, too. The meal was perfectly prepared and presented. I think Doug and I could use Eight’s Late for our di
nners, too.”
“I’ll find you a card. I have one in my bag in the kitchen.” And Marigold disappeared again.
Not long after she returned, his parents made departure noises, which the rest of the company picked up, leaving Marigold with him. The silence lingered while he stared at her, noting her natural elegance, her beautiful clear skin, her shiny bright hair, and the way she avoided his gaze. Her body language told him he couldn’t have her. Once upon a time, he had thought he loved her. Back then, after she had spurned him, he had thought he would never desire another woman.
“Sit,” he told her in an impartial voice, using an indifferent smile. “Now is your chance to relax and put up your feet. You and your plates were a great success tonight.”
“We probably need to thank your mother for the success. She put me onto Sam and Rosie. The meal was superb and the unobtrusive service was delightful. I won’t waste any more of your time, but do you think you could help me carry the dinner service to my car?”
“No,” he said promptly. “I wouldn’t consider doing any such thing at this time of night. You’ll have to get it out again at the other end, and I think that is the least I can do for you. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. Will you be home sometime in the afternoon? I know you shop in the morning.” Trying not to show his uncertainty, he plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and stood, his chin raised, staring at her lovely face.
“That would be nice. Yes, I’ll be home in the afternoon. Now, brrr.”
“Brrr?”
“It’s cold outside. I didn’t think to bring a jacket. I had too much else on my mind. I’m not exactly longing to brave the night.”
“If you’re wanting a jacket or a coat, I can give you at least one.”
“At least one?” She laughed. “One would be plenty. That would be very chivalrous, and I won’t say no.”
“Follow me, then.” He stepped through the doorway and made his way to the hallway.
“I’m allowed to choose?” She sounded puzzled, but she followed behind him.
“I wouldn’t give you any old thing. I have a selection upstairs.” He kept his tone casual.
“Lead on.” She laughed.
He had to admit to a touch of indecision. Taking the stairs, he continued talking to relax her, or himself. “I have a private boutique of clothes, all brand new and hoping to be worn before they pass into antiquity.” He paused at the top landing. Guiding her into his bedroom challenged the past and fought hidden memories. “Step inside.” He opened the door into a room whose décor she wouldn’t like. He didn’t like his white bedroom either, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to make a change while he needed to atone.
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable wandering into your bedroom.”
“I quite understand.” He tried for a remote voice. “I don’t like the décor either, but I have a large room through here full of clothes. It’s called a dressing room because we like, liked, to be able to say to our friends that we have separate dressing rooms.” He opened the door to the area that had once been Mercia’s. “I won’t crowd you. Go in there and choose whatever you want. All of it, if you like. I would be glad to have the clothes removed but my daily, Imelda, wouldn’t hear of it. She took away everything Mercia had worn and donated it to the AIDS Society, but she said that was enough and that the new clothes needed to go elsewhere. I have never discovered an elsewhere.”
“Are you telling me that this is a roomful of clothes that have never been worn?”
“The price tags are still intact, as you can see.”
She glanced along the row of clothes that Mercia bought and hadn’t gotten around to wearing. “I can see at least two coats. How weird. Why would you buy two coats if you didn’t need them?”
“For emergencies, I presume,” he answered drily, watching a crease form between Marigold’s eyebrows.
“I don’t want to wear Mercia’s clothes.” She skimmed a dismissive finger along a line of evening dresses.
“I no longer have any of her clothes. I consider these to be my clothes. Everything here was delivered after she died. Mercia had a plan for my money which she didn’t share with me.”
She scrutinized his expression. “Oh, damn. This is a Burberry.” Her hand lingered on a camel-colored coat. “I can’t leave a Burberry to be eaten by moths.”
“Take it. Here’s a scarf to match the lining. And a bag.” He stuffed the scarf into the bag and pulled a cream knit and a dark blue knit from the hangers and shoved them on top, remembering Marigold’s comment about a higher wage meaning she could buy a few new things to wear. Until now, he hadn’t connected the dots. Of course she couldn’t afford the luxuries he had hanging in this room and going to waste. “Please. You will be doing me a favor.” He slid the coat off the rack and held it open for Marigold to don.
With a wary glance at him, she slipped her hands through the sleeves. In the circle of his outstretched arms, he wrapped her into the fine wool, wishing he could hold her close against his heart and rest his face in her warm glossy hair.
She moved away closing two buttons. “She and I are the same size,” she said, her palm flat on her belly as she glanced at herself in the mirrored wall at the back of the room.
“You’re taller but the coat is still a good fit. Now, although I would love to entertain you in my bedroom all night, I think for the sake of my sanity we should grab these things and leave.”
She gave him a sideways, quizzical glance. “Are you finding being in a bedroom together unnerving?”
“Somewhat.” He twisted his mouth into the semblance of a smile. “And, unfortunately, too intimate.”
She nodded. “Let’s not be awkward about this. I know you well enough to feel perfectly safe with you. As for the coat, as gorgeous as it is, I’m not sure I should take it.” She smoothed the fabric over her slim hips while she lingered over her decision.
“Please. Even I can see these clothes are well worth the money spent and I would like someone worthy to have them, someone who will do justice to the price.” Which Mercia had never done. For her, shopping was a competitive sport. She wanted the best and the most expensive and she thought being complimented for the way she dressed was meaningful. Marigold, on the other hand, took compliments as polite encouragement, which for most people they were.
“I don’t want to disregard Mercia’s memory,” Marigold answered, sounding wistful. “You’re right. If you just sling them off to any old body you are being disrespectful. I gave my mother’s treasures to people who knew her and wanted something to remember her. I’m honored that you trust me with your treasures, Hagen, and thank you.”
“Take the bag, too. I would like to be rid of everything in here. The way you transformed downstairs has proved that it’s time I moved on.”
She picked up the bag, and wearing the coat she proceeded toward the stairs. “I’m moving on, too. Tonight seemed to be the start to a whole new beginning. I could count on my left hand how many dates I’ve been on in the past six years, and tonight, I had a worthy offer. It pays to be an event coordinator, that’s for sure.”
“A date?” Trying to sound lightly entertained, he followed her down the stairs. “Morgan, I’m guessing.”
“Not a bad guess, since he was the only single male, other than you,” she said, turning to smile delightedly at him. “We have a lot in common. He reads for relaxation and we like the same food. I’ll just nip into the kitchen and get my bag.”
He waited in the hallway beside the bag he had given her, finding that the thought of her with Morgan did not please him one bit. If she planned to throw herself away, she could throw herself in his direction. He had more money than Morgan and, though the point was moot, possibly more class. As well, she liked his family, who certainly liked her.
When she returned, he raised his head, keeping his expression neutral. “You can’t
choose a man because he reads. He has to, because of his job. You decorate, but you wouldn’t want him to be interested in you because you have a good color sense.” He moved toward the front door, knowing he sounded as peeved as he felt.
She shrugged and picked up the new bag. “Of course I would. Every time I enter someone’s house, I automatically redecorate in my head. I can’t help myself. My mind also moves furniture to other spots, too, in almost everyone’s house.”
He studied the expression of challenge on her face. “That’s interesting to hear. I’ve been pondering about having someone look over this house with a view to redecoration. The success of your dinner set gave me the idea that my entire house should be redone as a tribute to the history of the place. Would you consider taking the job?”
“Do you want your house furnished in antiques?” Her forehead creased.
“No, not entirely, but I would like to see a nod to the house’s heritage.”
She hesitated. “I would really love to do that, but I have a full-time job at present. After Christmas I would be free.” She buttoned the coat all the way down, and snuggled the collar to her face as if savoring the soft fabric. The color complemented her hair color and her face softened with pleasure.
“I would like it finished for Christmas,” he said, lingering over his words, and congratulating himself for finding a way to interest her. “Perhaps I could redeploy you.”
“You can’t do that.” Her tone heightened with indignation. “I have a million things I need to do at AA. Tiggy would be devastated if I didn’t turn out to be reliable. I have to finish the jobs I started and keep up with the others. But I tell you what”—she stared into his eyes—“I could mock up the design during my days off.” Her nose wrinkled. “But I can’t for a few weeks. I need to renovate a room in my own house and if I don’t finish before the summer arrives, I’ll put myself a year behind.”
He placed his hand on the doorknob. “What do you need to do?”
“Strip wallpaper, strip paint, sand, and then paint. I want to move into the main bedroom.”
Golden Opportunity Page 8
