Chapter Eleven

HE LEANT TOWARDS her, more angry than she felt was reasonable. ‘I’m responsible for you . . .’

‘No you’re not! I’m responsible for me. You may be male, and live here, but you’re not my keeper . . .’

She relapsed into silence. It was hard to shout at him when she felt so unsteady, perched up there. He was so near, he would have caught her had she fallen, but his nearness also prevented her from jumping off. And it would have looked as though she was running away – which she would have been. She clung on to the edges of the cupboard and leaned back slightly, to adjust her point of balance. The single kitchen bulb threw everything into shadows, altering the room she knew so well into somewhere more sinister. She could smell his aftershave and a faint whiff of cigars. Had he smoked one himself, or had he just been near someone who had?

‘I promised Samuel I’d look after you.’ His tone had changed. He was no longer haranguing her, he sounded tired and anxious. ‘Make sure nothing dreadful happened to you.’

‘What can possibly happen to me at a perfectly respectable dinner party?’

‘The dinner party may have been respectable, but you weren’t.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘You flirted shamelessly. I know your pride was at stake, and you didn’t want that prat to think you were nursing a broken heart, but you took it a bit far.’

She gave an indignant squawk.

‘I saw you exchanging billets-doux with that man you were sitting next to.’

‘So what? Whoever I exchange whatever with is none of your business!’

‘Then why look so hellish guilty about it?’

She flushed, not knowing how to answer him. ‘I didn’t . . .’

‘Yes you did.’

Hetty bit her lip to prevent herself from starting a did-didn’t session, which would add nothing to her dignity.

‘Like it or not, Hetty, you’re my responsibility.’

‘No I’m bloody well not! I’m responsible for myself!’

‘It would make my life a whole lot easier if you behaved as if you were.’

Curiosity began to overcome her indignation. ‘Why? What did you promise Samuel exactly?’

Connor’s expression became grim. ‘I promised him that no harm would come to you while you’re under this roof. I also promised . . .’

‘What?’

‘Not to seduce you.’

Hetty swallowed. He was leaning so close to her she could see a tiny thread caught into a loop in his lapel. She could see the movement of his breathing as he leaned on the cupboard. It seemed fast for someone who was so fit. She shifted back an inch and the cardigan gaped. She let go to pull it together again and slewed violently as she lost her balance. Connor took hold of her waist and pushed her backwards so she was sitting more solidly. His hands felt warm and firm. ‘That’s not likely to happen is it?’ she asked him, as if he alone had any control over the matter.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It depends a lot . . .’

‘On what?’

‘On my strength of character.’

He looked down, and for some reason she put her hand on his shoulder. It felt strong and cool under her hand and she knew she should remove it, but she couldn’t. ‘The kettle’s boiling,’ she told him, giving him an excuse to go away.

‘Is it?’ He didn’t move and she didn’t want him to. She sat up straighter and put her other hand on his other shoulder. This time she didn’t worry about her cardigan falling open.

Connor kept his gaze lowered. ‘I don’t think you should do that.’

‘What?’

‘Hold me like that.’

‘If I don’t, I’ll fall off. You put me here,’ she added. ‘And it’s not very safe.’

He cleared his throat and straightened up, removing her hands from his shoulders. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

Hetty, still clinging to the edges of the cupboard, watched him. He moved about, finding mugs and milk, and she wondered why she had never noticed how graceful he was. There was an economy of movement as he went about the task that was very attractive.

‘It’s ready.’ He didn’t look at her.

‘I can’t get down.’

Now he did. ‘What do you mean?’

‘My feet have gone to sleep. If I jump, it’ll be agony.’

He moved across the kitchen and picked her up. For a moment, he held her close, and then let her slither down to the floor. Even lowered so gently on to them, her feet hurt. ‘Ow.’

‘What’s the matter?’ He took hold of her shoulders again and looked at her, concerned.

‘Nothing, it’s just my feet hurt. You know how they do? Something to do with the blood supply.’

Connor kept hold of her. She could feel the wool of her cardigan prickle on her skin where the weight of his hands pressed it against her. ‘I think we should have the tea,’ he said.

‘Let’s take it into the sitting room.’ Hetty suddenly wanted to prolong the evening, and she didn’t want to stay in the kitchen.

‘No. I’m not sitting on that sofa next to you.’

‘Why not?’

He turned sharply away from her and picked up a mug of tea. ‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea to sit next to you in that dress, in the mood you’re in.’

Hetty felt indignant. ‘What do you mean? What sort of mood am I in?’

‘Dangerous.’ She started to protest and he interrupted her. ‘I warn you, I’m within an inch of throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you upstairs to bed. Just like Peter and Samuel and everyone else in this damn village thinks I already have.’

‘I’m sure no one thinks anything of the kind,’ she breathed, trying to banish the picture his words had created from her mind.

‘Get real, Hetty, they all think it. And, as I’d prefer not to sink to the level of their expectations, I’d be grateful if you didn’t do anything else that means I have to come near you.’

‘Are you saying you want to go to bed with me?’

‘I’d have to be dead if I didn’t. Surely even you’re not so naïve you haven’t realized that!’

She hadn’t consciously realized it, but now she had been told, she discovered she wanted it just as much. She put it down to wearing Caroline’s clothes. This sudden wave of desire for strong arms, for danger, for the smell of Connor, was something to do with her clothes.

She moved briskly across the room, picked up her mug and sipped. It was scalding hot, enough to bring anyone back down to earth.

‘The good old cuppa,’ he said, watching her drink. ‘Works every time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Every emergency, just have a cup of tea, and everything’s instantly all right.’

‘Is this an emergency?’

He nodded. ‘Narrowly averted.’

Hetty lowered her eyes as she lowered her mug, not sure what message he would read in them should he look. It must be because it’s been such a long time since I had sex, she thought brutally. It’s purely hormonal, nothing to do with feelings of love or anything pure. I just want him so badly because I haven’t had anyone for so long. She took another sip of tea. Why couldn’t it have been Peter who made her feel this, instead of Connor? Nice, safe Peter. She tried to transfer her desire to Peter, but found it quite impossible to summon up any of the excitement she felt in Connor’s presence.

She took a couple more sips from her mug. ‘I think I’ll take this upstairs. I’m very tired. I’ll drink it in bed.’

‘Hang on . . .’

Hetty’s heart did a forward roll, half fear, half desire.

‘You forgot your hot-water bottle.’

‘Oh. So I did.’

‘I’ll do it for you.’

‘That would be kind.’

Numb with disappointment, Hetty watched him take her hot-water bottle from where she had hung it on the kitchen door and pour boiling water into it. How much more mundane and unsexy an action was there?

‘Here.’ He moved across the room to hand it to her.

Now, do something, kiss me, touch me, anything – just to show you’re not as much in control as you seem, she willed, looking at her feet. But he didn’t. He just handed her the bottle.

‘Good-night, Hetty.’

‘I suppose a good-night kiss is out of the question?’

‘Yes. Good-night, Hetty.’

Hetty sighed, annoyed that she’d exposed herself, but not feeling as rejected as she might have done. She knew that Connor would have liked to kiss her good-night very much indeed.

It was only upstairs in her bedroom that she remembered she had discovered a means of ruining all his plans. She sat on her bed and hunched herself into a ball, contradictory feelings causing adrenalin to course round her veins. What would have happened if she’d got her way, and they had gone to bed? Could she still have gone on plotting behind his back? Had Alistair turned her into the sort of woman who could use men just for sex? Or had she always been like that, but just hadn’t realized it before?

Of course, it wasn’t surprising that Samuel had told Connor not to seduce her. It was just the sort of thing he would do, possibly primed to do so by her mother. What was surprising was how much Hetty wanted him to do just that. She yearned to feel his hands on her breasts, his lips on her mouth, his strong arms around her. She had had an inkling of the strength of his arms while he was lifting her, now she longed to feel the hard, smooth shape of them without the intrusion of cloth. She longed to press her cheek against his chest and hear his heart thumping, strong and solid beneath her ear.

She washed her face in cold water to rid herself of all warm feelings and, back in her bedroom, she wandered about naked to make herself really cold. The sheets were icy as she slid between them and should have purged her of any sensual feelings. But she didn’t have the strength of character to abandon the hot-water bottle Connor had filled for her.

‘Typical bloody Connor,’ she muttered, trying to summon up her safe, familiar feelings of anger towards him, and finding a jumper to wrap round it. ‘Can’t even give me a hot-water bottle that’s safe to touch.’

Neither Connor nor Hetty made any reference to what had happened after the dinner party, though they entertained Caroline with a full account of the party itself. Hetty’s account was longer than Connor’s, and mostly conducted at Caroline’s house after she had returned the clothes.

‘. . . and he’s an architect, who specializes in old buildings. He’s going to come on Sunday to have a good look. And he says the house is probably listed, which would mean Connor couldn’t pull it down. So that’s really good news, isn’t it?’

‘Why do I get the impression there’s more “really good news”, and that it involves me?’ asked Caroline.

‘Mind-reader! We need Connor out of the way, so James can have a good poke about.’

‘And you feel I’m the person to get him out of the way?’

‘There’s no one better. You know how much he . . .’ she faltered on the word ‘fancies’, ‘. . . likes you.’

‘Oh, hell! I am awfully fond of Connor – I know I’m not supposed to be, but I am – but I really don’t know how I could keep him amused all afternoon; decently, that is.’

Hetty thought hard. Caroline could hardly suggest it was the perfect afternoon for a country walk when she was well-known for hating country walks. Nor could she express a desire to see a stately home, not if she wanted Connor to take her. What else was there to do in the country on Sunday?

‘I know! The very thing! Why don’t you ask him to look at a car for you? A special sort of car, like he’s got; say you’re thinking of buying it for Jack and you need an expert to look it over for you.’

‘He’d tell me to contact the AA.’

Hetty considered. Caroline was right, it was just the sort of thing Connor would say. ‘Well, say you want Connor to test-drive it. That if he likes it, Jack will.’

‘And if Connor likes it, I have to buy it?’

‘Of course not! You just tell him there turned out to be something dire wrong with it. You only have to look. Dead simple.’

‘How will I find a car to look at? It’s Easter Sunday!’

‘Car people aren’t religious, and you look in Exchange & Mart! Honestly, Caroline, don’t you know a simple thing like that, and you married to a car buff?’

‘Exchange & Mart is a national paper. There might only be a suitable car in Scotland, or the other side of London!’

Hetty beamed. ‘You see how good my plan is?’

It was only after she’d gone home to Courtbridge House that Hetty realized how unhappy she felt about Connor and Caroline spending the day together. Connor hadn’t promised Samuel he wouldn’t seduce Caroline. And although she didn’t think Caroline would cheat on Jack, she hadn’t known her long enough to be certain. Hetty had sensed last night that Connor wasn’t as immune to her as he made out, and she didn’t want this little bit of feeling wiped out by Caroline’s eighteen-carat sex-appeal.

She dismissed her feelings as ridiculous and selfish and concentrated on trying to get Connor and Mrs Hempstead on speaking terms before opening-day.

Connor had condemned Phyllis Hempstead as an interfering old bag long since, and had tried to avoid actually meeting her for a while. Several times he had seen her Volvo pull up in the yard and escaped, but eventually Phyllis had been too quick for him. Hetty had made introductions, seeing each wince as they were forced to touch the enemy’s hand. Since then, they had avoided each other whenever possible. Mrs Hempstead had made a few pertinent remarks about ‘strong men too idle to help their heritage’, but, as Connor was out of earshot, they produced no result.

The day before the grand opening, Connor was absent from early morning. If he’d been present, not even he would have been able to avoid the person known secretly to Hetty and Peter as the Clipboard Queen.

Phyllis Hempstead had missed her vocation. She really should have been a general in the army, or a captain of British industry, or at the very least the leader of a revolution. Her organizational skills were second to none.

For opening-day, every woman was assigned a task and a position for the moment when untold numbers of people would surge through the old front door. From there, with luck, they would stream through the sitting room, which for the purposes of the public was now called the drawing room. Then they would move on, in an orderly fashion, to the morning room, which had probably caught the early sun in the days before the chestnut trees had grown so large, and thence to the great hall. After that, they would be allowed upstairs to see the three bedrooms that Hetty had worked so hard on, and the bathroom, a late entry. It wasn’t an awful lot to see, but Hetty hoped it was enough.

Hetty was not given a specific duty, beyond checking that nothing unsightly protruded from under the beds. She was detailed to do what she could with the outbuildings, and decide which, apart from the resurrected dairy, were fit for viewing. Hetty, who had a lot on her mind that didn’t directly involve the house or its contents, was pleased to be away from the main field of battle and able to dally about on the fringes of the action.

Hetty had swept the forge and was wondering whether it was worth trying to move anything, or if it was time for a cup of coffee, when Peter appeared.

‘Hi! Have you come to help?’ Hetty asked, pleased to see him. He was so nice and reliable, such perfect son-in-law material.

‘Yup. Do you want that shifted over here, then people can see the bellows, and, if they’re strong enough, pump them?’

They worked companionably all day, sweeping, painting, knocking things together and writing signs. It was tiring but satisfying.

‘Do you really think we’ll get all the people Phyllis thinks we will?’ asked Hetty, holding the post while Peter banged in the NO PARKING ON THE GRASS sign.

Peter delivered a final wallop, causing the sign to lean sideways a little. ‘Who’s to say? There have been adverts in all the local papers, and some of the not-so-local ones. And people are always curious. Although the house has been open for years, no one’s ever been aware of it.’

‘Well, I hope they do. Apart from the gate money, the first lump of which needs to complete payments to Andy, there’s a woman in the village who’s been bullied into making two hundred scones.’

‘Can you freeze scones?’ Peter was also sceptical about the need for so many. ‘At two scones each, that would be a hundred people.’

‘At three pounds each, that would be three hundred pounds – people, I mean, not scones.’ Peter still seemed confused. ‘We’re not selling the scones at three pounds each, we’re charging the people three pounds.’

Peter shook his head. ‘That’s a lot more than Samuel used to charge. A pound for adults and fifty pence for children.’

‘It’s a lot less than we would be able to charge if we had a bit more to see. Phyllis is still on at me to open the kitchen.’

‘That’s a bit of an undertaking, isn’t it? It’s in a terrible condition.’

Before Connor’s arrival she would have flung herself into the task with enthusiasm and dismissed Peter’s caveats. But now, with the house’s future uncertain, she felt less enthusiastic. ‘We’d have to ask Connor, and I can’t see him agreeing to having the kitchen messed about with. He loves cooking.’

Peter made a rude noise.

‘I’m worn out,’ said Hetty, before Peter could deliver his opinion of the heir apparent. ‘Let’s go and have something to eat.’

‘Opening-Saturday’ dawned with all the good portents it could possibly manage. Phyllis, she decided, must have a hot line to the Almighty, and had arranged it so.

Sun, lack of wind, and the right number of magpies all greeted Hetty as she came downstairs just after six. Phyllis was due at eight, to finish off the cleaning and do the flowers. Hetty would have liked to do the flowers herself, but as Phyllis had worked so hard, doing all the co-ordination, not to mention organizing the weather, it only seemed fair to reward her by letting her fill the vases with catkins and early daffodils. At ten, God willing, the first visitors would arrive.

Hetty took advantage of the quiet to visit each room and try to consider how it would look from an outsider’s point of view. There was one room, now full of all the least aesthetic furniture, which Phyllis told her had been the music room.

‘I’ve got the piano, by the way,’ she had said. ‘If you want it back, just say the word. It’s a pretty room, pity to fill it up with junk.’

Not sure whether she should be pleased or sorry about this generous offer, Hetty tentatively explained that she might indeed need it, and why.

‘I used to sing a bit before . . . I went to London to work.’

Phyllis nodded. ‘Good idea. Have to do it in the great hall of course, for that many people, but anything we can offer to add to the price must be encouraged.’

Hetty had nodded back, cravenly not mentioning whose idea the cabaret had been, and who was going to play the piano.

Now, alone, she tested the acoustics in the great hall. She shut her eyes and sang, softly at first, and then louder, until her voice would have reached everyone in the room, had it been full, even those sitting at the back. The tapestries deadened the sound somewhat, but it wasn’t a huge space – she should manage to be heard well enough.

Now her only concern was what sort of a pianist was Connor? Could he really play more than ‘Chopsticks’, ‘Heart and Soul’ and the first five bars of the Moonlight Sonata? Hetty determined to audition him the moment they got the piano moved and tuned.

The house, Hetty concluded, after her private tour, was beautiful. A gem; shabby and idiosyncratic, but a gem, nevertheless.

Phyllis, who arrived fifteen minutes before she’d said she would, agreed with her. They heaped thanks and congratulations upon each other for a while and would have hung on each other’s necks had Mrs Hempstead not been of an era when touching and hugging were largely considered to be unnecessary.

‘I suppose the Barbarian’s still in bed?’ she asked, when they returned to the kitchen.

‘Connor? I expect so. He was working on his report until late last night.’ She had been unable to sleep and had heard him come upstairs after two.

Mrs Hempstead harrumphed. ‘I’m a lark, always have been.’ Not for the first time, her opinion of owls was made perfectly clear.

At ten past ten the first car drove into the designated parking area. Hetty, watching from an upstairs window, was suffering from stage fright. She had been called in from behind the scenes to fill in upstairs for one of Mrs Hempstead’s cronies, and she was terrified. Supposing she wasn’t able to speak to the people as they came upstairs to view the bedrooms? Mrs Hempstead had told her what to say, and she had a crib-sheet, giving the dates of all the furniture and the history of the house.

By four-thirty, speaking to people about the house had made her feel tired, but no longer anxious. And she found that she liked sharing the house with people. They were mostly so appreciative and enthusiastic. They all loved visiting a house where people actually lived. They loved the little quirky windows, the wood floors, the planks of different widths butted together, with fillets of timber making them complete. Even things not intended to be part of the show were admired. The bookcase in the passage, full of books from the twenties and thirties, attracted a lot of attention, and it was only there because Phyllis had deemed it out of period for the four-poster bedroom.

Hetty staggered down the stairs, exhausted, but happy. Their work hadn’t been in vain. The people had come, and they would have made money.

Phyllis was counting it when she got into the kitchen. ‘Look at that!’ she said triumphantly. ‘Who says this house can’t support itself!’

She shot a look of venom at Connor, who had come back before the house was closed, and had been skulking in the kitchen.

‘Yes.’ He got up from the table and went to the door. ‘But now all the locals have been, who is there left?’ Without waiting for an answer, he stalked out of the room.

Phyllis and Hetty regarded each other across the piles of pound coins, silver and coppers.

‘Much as I hate to agree with him,’ said Phyllis, ‘he might be right. Most of the people who came today were local.’

‘Never mind,’ said Hetty. ‘We can pay for the newspaper adverts and Andy. The car-boot sale paid for the fire extinguishers. If we earn anything tomorrow, we’ll be ahead. And Caroline knows the man from one of the papers who writes about stately homes. She’s going to tell him about us.’

Phyllis had no faith in Caroline’s press connections. ‘He won’t come. But if we made this much each weekend, and something during the week, we’ll eventually make a profit. But we might never see as many people in the house again.’

‘It’s not like you to be so pessimistic, Phyllis.’

‘I know, dear. I’m tired, I expect. And Peter told me a rather depressing item of gossip.’

Hetty was alerted by Phyllis’s expression and the mention of Peter. ‘Oh? What?’

‘The Barbarian wants to pull the place down.’

For a moment, Hetty wanted to pull Peter down, and savage him.

‘He can’t do it, of course,’ went on Phyllis. ‘It’ll be listed. But it shows the way he’s thinking.’