Читать книгу Wicked Caprice - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

‘BUT who was he?’

Christine Nelson perched on the edge of the counter and regarded her friend and employer with impatient eyes. There were times when Isobel’s other-worldliness really bugged her, and her lack of interest in the dishy male Christine had seen coming out of the craft shop was positively infuriating.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t know,’ replied Isobel, examining the figures in the cash book which she was trying to balance with the contents of the till. ‘He didn’t say, and I could hardly ask him. It’s not as if it matters, after all.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Christine was frustrated. ‘Do you want to live in this old backwater all your life? For heaven’s sake, you should have seen the car he got into. If it wasn’t a Rolls-Royce, I’ll—’

‘Chris, please!’

Isobel was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate with her young assistant prattling on about a man they were unlikely to see again. For all he’d paid for the necklace, and for all he’d said he’d be back, Isobel was chary. She had the feeling he’d been looking for something she didn’t sell.

But what?

‘Well...’ Christine wasn’t daunted ‘...it’s time you realised you’re not getting any younger. The old body clock is ticking, Issy. And you are almost thirty. I wouldn’t be so blasé, if I were you.’

‘But you’re not me, are you?’ retorted Isobel, stung into her own defence. ‘And I’m not a seventeen-year-old girl who still believes in fairy stories. If he is as—as good-looking as you think, and rich enough to drive a Rolls-Royce, he’s not going to be interested in me, is he—an ageing spinster, with a mid-life crisis?’

‘Now you’re exaggerating,’ declared Christine, getting down from the counter and scuffing her toe against the worn vinyl flooring. ‘Just because I mentioned your age doesn’t mean I think you’re middle-aged. But you have to admit you’re not getting any younger, and, knowing how you dote on those children of your brother’s, I’d have thought you’d like a baby of your own.’

Isobel pressed her lips together. She was tempted to make some scathing retort, but she knew that anything she said could be misconstrued as sour grapes. Nevertheless, she resented Christine’s assumption that all women must necessarily want to get married. She wasn’t at all sure that that was an option she wanted to consider. She was quite happy being her own mistress, and although she didn’t dislike men she’d never felt the slightest inclination to submit her will to that of some nebulous male.

Until today...

But that was ridiculous, and she knew it. As she secured the roll of notes with an elastic band and added them to the jingling coins already in the leather bag she used to carry the money to and from the bank, she acknowledged that Christine would have a field-day if she knew what her employer was really thinking. Because, far from being able to dismiss the attractive stranger from her mind, Isobel had hardly known a moment’s peace since he had departed. To say that he had disturbed her was a vast understatement; it would be more accurate to compare an earthquake to the minor tremors they had felt in Wales.

‘You would like to get married, wouldn’t you?’ Christine persisted, and Isobel wondered how they’d ever got onto this topic. A schoolfriend of Christine’s had recently found herself pregnant and was having to get married, and since then Chris had become decidedly broody. Her own parents had produced seven children, and, since she was the daughter of a local farmer, she was well-versed in animal husbandry.

‘I don’t know,’ Isobel answered now, collecting her cardigan from the room at the back of the shop. ‘If you’re finished, can we get going? I want to go to Stoddart’s before they close.’

Christine had no choice but to precede her employer out of the shop, and Isobel set the alarm and then joined her. As she locked the door she couldn’t help casting a faintly apprehensive look about her. But there was no sign of her intriguing visitor, or the expensive car that Christine had said he drove.

Leaving the younger girl to go her own way, Isobel went to the bank first, stowing the day’s takings in the night safe before turning back to the local supermarket. She felt in need of some extra sustenance, and she put a bottle of white wine into her basket. At least she could afford to live reasonably comfortably, she reflected. Her grandmother’s legacy had enabled her to do that.

But as she walked home, exchanging greetings with many of the other shopkeepers who were closing up for the night, she couldn’t help wondering if that was why she hadn’t got married before now. Being independent had its advantages, but it also made one more inclined to think things out. Her usual criterion, when some man began to show too close an interest in her, was to ask herself what she had to gain from the liaison. If the answer was nothing, as it invariably was, she ended the relationship. In consequence, she had remained detached from any emotional entanglements.

Her own parents were hardly a good example of married bliss. Although she was sure they cared about one another, they each lived their own lives. Her mother ran a fairly successful interior decorating business in Stratford, and her father was the local doctor, and therefore absorbed in his work. Isobel was their only daughter, but they had never put any pressure on her. She supposed they would appreciate a couple more grandchildren one day, but her brother’s three seemed more than enough to be going on with.

Isobel’s cottage was situated off the high street, in a narrow lane that backed onto the church. It was another of the advantages that her grandmother’s legacy had given her. Until her grandmother died, she had been living and working in London.

Of course, she had been a part of the so-called rat race in those days. Leaving university with a double first in art and history, she had joined a well-known firm of auctioneers, with a view to becoming one of their in-house experts. The salary had been excellent and the work interesting, but the kind of social life she had been expected to enjoy had made her realise she was not really cut out for such political manoeuvring. She was basically a country girl who found life in the city rather shallow and specious. She was happiest with people who were not desperate to further their ambitions, and to whom an invitation to supper possessed no hidden agenda.

The crunch had come when her immediate superior had been dismissed because, according to her boss, she couldn’t handle it. It had not been until Isobel, promoted in her place, had discovered what the ‘it’ was that he had been talking about that she had given in her notice. The fact that her grandmother had just died had seemed just an unhappy coincidence until the solicitor had informed her of the legacy the old lady had left her. With it she had been able to buy the cottage, and take her time looking around for an alternative occupation.

The idea of opening the craft shop had been an inspiration, and it had been amazing how quickly the advertisement she had placed in the local newspaper had borne fruit. Until then, the many amateur craftsmen and women in the area had not had a shop window in which to display their wares. They’d been obliged to offer their work at fairs and jumble sales, often accepting less than the articles were worth to obtain a sale. With the opening of Caprice, they had their opportunity, and Isobel was always amazed at how the standard of the merchandise she was offered just went up and up.

The past five years had been the happiest of her life, and it was only the vague apprehension she was feeling about the coming increase in the rent for the shop that was looming like a cloud on the horizon now. It depended how much it was, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy absorbing the increase without putting up the cost of the goods she sold, and while she had great faith in the quality of the workmanship people often wanted designer names these days.

Still, she reflected, opening her front door and stepping into the cool, scented shadows of her hallway, Richard had promised to do his best to limit the increase. If he could persuade his employers not to be too greedy, he would, and the shopkeepers had little choice but to wait and trust his judgement.

Once again, an old lady’s death was proving decisive in determining the direction that her life was going to take. Old Mrs Foxworth, whose estate had once encompassed all the land and property in and around Horsham, had died a little over a year ago, and since then the majority of the estate’s remaining assets had been sold to Shannon Holdings. A public company, with dealings in many of the developed countries of the world, it was a world away from Mrs Foxworth’s agent, with whom they had had an almost intimate association. Barney Penlaw was retired now—compulsorily, some people said—and in his place they had Richard Gregory, who, for all his smiles and old-world courtesy, was still the face of capitalism, she supposed.

When he’d first appeared, about three months ago, Christine had made the same comments about him as she had made about the man who’d bought the shell necklace, and in Richard’s case Isobel had to admit they were not so misplaced. He had made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to her, and although she hadn’t encouraged him she knew his frequent visits to Horsham were not just to report on the expected increase in the rents.

But Isobel remained indifferent to his overtures. He was married, for one thing, and although he maintained that he and his wife were having problems the very fact that there were children proved that this hadn’t always been the case. Besides, she had no wish to get involved with him and possibly jeopardise the rights of her fellow shopkeepers, should their relationship come to grief. She liked Richard: he made her laugh. But she had yet to find a man who satisfied all her needs. Sometimes she thought she never would.

It was a warm evening. June had been a rather wet month so far, but for the past couple of days the weather had improved, and Isobel couldn’t wait to get the cottage windows open. In spite of the pot-pourri she’d brought from the shop and kept in dishes about the cottage to keep the air sweet and flowery, the heat had made the atmosphere a little musty, and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that swept through an opened blind.

But, for all that, the cottage still charmed her in much the same way as it had always done. Perhaps it was because it was hers, her first real home of her own. The flat she had shared with two other girls in London had never been that, and returning to live with her parents would have created difficulties she could see more clearly in retrospect.

In any event, she had been glad not to have to test that relationship, and in the five years since she’d moved in she had made many small improvements. Not least the installation of an adequate heating system, she reflected wryly. The first winter at Lime Cottage, she’d shivered in her bed.

But now the cottage welcomed her, its oak beams and funny inglenook fireplace gaining in character now that its shortcomings had been dealt with. It wasn’t big, just a living room and breakfast room-cum-kitchen downstairs, and two bedrooms—one of which was little more than a boxroom—and a bathroom upstairs. She’d added an Aga and a shower, and both the kitchen and bathroom had needed modernising, of course. But she had retained the cottage’s harmony, and visitors always remarked on its feeling of warmth.

Isobel put the things she had bought on the kitchen table, unloading perishable items into the fridge before going upstairs to change and take a shower. It was one of her idiosyncrasies that she liked to bathe and change her clothes before sitting down to supper. Then she could look forward to a pleasant evening ahead, with good food, a glass of wine, and possibly some music on the radio.

She had a television, but she seldom watched it, preferring the radio or her own choice of music on compact disc. She wasn’t particularly highbrow in her choice of listening: she enjoyed a lot of modern music, particularly jazz. But her favourite composer had to be Chopin, his sonatas filling the cottage with beauty whenever she felt depressed.

Because it was a warm evening, she didn’t bother getting dressed again, but came downstairs wearing a dark red silk kimono with orchids appliquéd along the satin lapels. It was hardly her sort of thing, but her mother had brought it back from a buying trip to Tokyo, and although the colour was more vivid than she was used to there was no doubt that it was superbly comfortable to wear.

She was stir-frying some vegetables to go with the omelette she intended to have for her supper when someone knocked at the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, and although it wasn’t late she had hoped to spend the evening alone. Neither of her parents was likely to call without prior warning, and there’d been no messages on her answering machine from either them or her brother and sister-in-law.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought of the man who had come into the shop earlier. Was it possible he had decided he wanted to take the necklace tonight after all? But no. That was ludicrous. He didn’t know where she lived, and in any case she never brought other people’s purchases home.

Removing the pan from the heat, she wiped her hands on a paper towel and surveyed her appearance with some misgiving. She had washed her hair in the shower, and although she’d used the drier on it she’d left it loose about her shoulders, and her image now wasn’t at all the one she preferred others to see.

The knocker was rapped again, and she heaved a sigh. With all the windows in the cottage open, she could hardly pretend she wasn’t at home. No, there was nothing for it but to see who it was, and hope she could get rid of them. She grimaced. It might be the vicar, after all.

The idea of the fairly sanctimonious Mr Mason being confronted by the scarlet kimono made her smile, and she was attempting to straighten her expression as she opened the door. But it wasn’t the Reverend Mason, it was Richard Gregory, and he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes darkening. ‘You look nice. Are you going somewhere special?’

‘In this?’ Isobel was mildly sarcastic. ‘I don’t think so somehow.’ She paused. ‘How did you know where I live?’

‘Oh, Chris told me ages ago,’ responded Richard without hesitation. ‘Can I come in?’ He lifted his hand. ‘I’ve brought a bottle of wine.’

Isobel’s tongue circled her lips. ‘It’s very kind of you, but-’

‘You’re not going to turn me away, are you?’ His face assumed a mournful expression. ‘I’ve driven all the way from Oxford. I thought you’d be glad to see me.’

Isobel suppressed a sigh. ‘Now why should you imagine that?’ she asked, vaguely resenting his presumption. ‘I’m sorry. I—I should have explained at once. I am going out this evening, actually. I was just getting ready.’ She crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back, and gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

Richard’s features suffused with a rather unbecoming colour. He was very fair, his hair so light that it appeared almost white sometimes, and the redness that entered his cheeks gave his face a hectic look. He was obviously disappointed, but there was something more than disappointment in his manner. If she hadn’t known he was such a good-humoured man, she’d have said he was angry. There was something almost aggressive in his stance.

‘And that’s it?’ he said, revealing a side of himself that hitherto she hadn’t encountered, and Isobel felt a momentary twinge of fear. After all, the cottage was at least a dozen yards from its nearest neighbour, and the elderly couple whose property adjoined hers were away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and something—perhaps an awareness that he was in danger of destroying their friendly association—seemed to bring him to his senses.

‘Yes,’ he said, in an entirely different tone. ‘Yes, I should have phoned first; I realise that now. Well—’ he handed her the bottle ‘—there’s no point in wasting this. Have it with my blessing, and I’ll see you next week.’

Isobel wanted to refuse the wine. The way she was feeling at the moment, she wanted nothing of his to mar the peaceful ambience of the cottage. But it was easier to accept it than risk creating another confrontation, and she thanked him very politely as she bid him farewell.

It was only as she closed the door that she wondered if by chance he could have smelt the stir-fried vegetables. It seemed likely, which might account for his sudden aggressive mood. If he’d thought that she was lying to him, he could have felt resentful, but, either way, she was extremely glad he had gone.