Читать книгу The Mistress of His Manor - Catherine George - Страница 7

WHEN she turned into Park Crescent later, Jo felt her usual rush of pleasure as she drew up outside her house. As simple as a child’s drawing, its white walls glimmered under the street lamp, and a welcome shone through the fanlight over the blue door, due to her father’s insistence on security lights. Until she’d been old enough to live here alone the house had been let out to tenants, but the moment the final lease had terminated Tom Logan had begun redecorating the entire house for his adored granddaughter, delighted that she’d chosen to revert to the original paint colours she’d helped choose for it in her teens.

When her phone rang the moment she got in Jo was surprised—and delighted—to find her caller was March. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re home.’

‘Just this minute. Thank you again for supper.’

‘A small return for your company, Joanna. Now I know you’re safe and sound I’ll let you get that early night. Until Tuesday, then. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight—wait.’ But he’d rung off. So he was still plain March.

Jo thought long and hard about her hot gardener while she got ready for bed. He was obviously well educated, with the speech patterns and the air of bred-in-the-bone assurance common to the old Etonians she’d met in college. March had obviously been schooled if not at Eton, at some similar place of learning. But it was equally obvious that he was down on his luck these days. Jo frowned, wishing now that she’d insisted on paying her share of the meal. She might work for her father, but like all his employees she was well paid. So to avoid any hurt male pride on Tuesday she would treat March to some home cooking.

Feeding hungry male visitors was nothing unusual. Leo and Josh Carey, the twins who were her oldest and closest male friends, were both trainee doctors, and they worked such punishing hours at the local hospital they were only too glad to collapse at Jo’s kitchen table during an hour or two off and devour, either separately or together, whatever food she put in front of them.

‘Nice evening?’ said her father, when Jo arrived at Logan Development next morning.

‘Very pleasant. How’s Kate today?’ she added anxiously.

Jack heaved a sigh. ‘Tired. The baby’s not giving her much rest at night.’

‘You either, by the look of you,’ she said with concern. ‘How about some coffee?’

He patted her hand. ‘What would I do without you?’

‘Make your own coffee?’

He chuckled. ‘So, tell me about this gardener.’

She gave him a Cheshire Cat smile. ‘He’s a charmer. I like him.’

‘Charm,’ said her father darkly, ‘is not the most important qualification on a man’s CV. Are you seeing him again?’

‘Yes. Tomorrow night.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Are you, indeed? Does your mother know?’

‘Not yet. I’ll ring Kate later. Don’t worry, I’m a big girl now, boss.’ Jo smiled at him as she handed him a steaming cup, then made for her own office. ‘Time to get my nose to the grindstone.’

Jack Logan gazed after her as he drank the coffee, still, after all these years, amazed by his luck with the women in his life. He frowned, wishing he’d paid more attention to the gardener who’d taken so long to show Joanna the pansies. He’d never considered himself a violent man, but he knew from experience that he was ready to inflict grievous bodily harm on any man that caused his daughter the slightest grief. And soon there would be another little Logan in the mix. Jack shivered and picked up the phone, wishing that the love of his life was safely through the birth.

‘Kate? Are you feeling better now, my darling?’

Although she knew she looked good in the mannish white shirt and black velvet jeans, Jo felt surprisingly nervous as she waited for her dinner guest to arrive. The table in the small dining room was laid with her best china, plus silverware borrowed for the occasion. The wine was breathing, the Beef Wellington was ready and would rest happily until March arrived—if he was punctual. She grinned suddenly. Josh and Leo would tease her unmercifully if they saw her fussing like this. She’d cooked countless meals for them, and for her family, without turning a hair. But this was different. She was so deep in thought she jumped yards when the doorbell rang. She threw her apron on a chair, took in a deep breath, and went to open the door.

March stood smiling down at her. His tanned face looked even darker against a white shirt, and his suit was the casual, unstructured kind that could have been either charity shop or Armani. But it was nevertheless a suit.

‘Hi,’ she said, wishing she’d worn a dress.

‘Hi, yourself. What a delightful house, Joanna!’

‘Thank you. Come in.’ She led him into the parlour and waved him to the sofa. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

He eyed the small room with such admiration Jo’s heart warmed to him. ‘I’d better have something soft if we’re driving any distance. I wasn’t sure what you had in mind, but I put a tie in my pocket in case it’s somewhere formal.’

‘It’s not,’ she informed him. ‘Having boasted about my cooking, I decided to let you judge it for yourself.’

His eyes lit up with the familiar gleam. ‘We’re eating here?’

She nodded. ‘So, how about a beer? Or would you like a glass of the red wine breathing in the kitchen?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Good. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll fetch it.’

‘I’ll come with you and fetch it myself.’

‘There’s not much room,’ she warned.

March followed her down the hall to her kitchen, recently refitted with plain white cupboards and a Belfast sink. Due to a frantic tidying session before her guest arrived the only notes of colour came from a potted cyclamen, a bowl of fruit, and the heap of prepared vegetables waiting for the pot.

‘Small, but perfect. And something smells wonderful,’ he added, sniffing the air.

Jo smiled, pleased, and handed him a glass of wine. ‘There are some nuts and so on in the parlour. If you go back in I’ll deal with the vegetables. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘I’d rather stay here and watch.’ He leaned against the counter, looming large in the small space.

‘As you like.’ Long accustomed to an audience as she cooked, Jo wasn’t flustered by the eyes watching her so closely. Not much. ‘Right,’ she said at last, putting the lid on the steamer. ‘Just twenty minutes or so for the vegetables and we’ll be there. No first course, I’m afraid. Will you take my glass of wine too, please?’ She set a timer and took it with her as they went back to the parlour.

Her guest eyed her with respect as he handed her wine over. ‘If you carry out your job as efficiently as you cook, your father’s a lucky man.’

Jo smiled. ‘You haven’t tasted the food yet,’ she warned.

‘If it tastes half as good as it smells I’ll be happy,’ he assured her, and raised his glass in toast. ‘This is such a pleasure, Joanna.’

‘Have you been stuck inside all day again today?’ she asked.

‘No. I went on an in-depth tour of the gardens and grounds at the Hall, listening with attention as the tyrant in charge outlined his plans for next year.’

‘Did you contribute any ideas?’

‘Several. Who knows? Ed may even use some of them.’

Jo laughed. ‘He’s obviously very full of himself, this horticultural genius.’

March shook his head. ‘Genius, yes, but Ed’s not full of himself at all. He just loves his work. So, what have you done today?’ he added.

‘I’ve been chasing up suppliers and contractors.’ She pulled a face. ‘Much smoothing over was necessary. The boss was a bit abrasive yesterday.’

‘And you won them over?’

‘Of course—you catch more flies with honey!’ She jumped up as her alarm went off. ‘Time to put dinner together.’

He got up quickly. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Joanna shook her head. ‘At this stage I work better alone. Why don’t you read the paper for five minutes until I call?’

March opened the door for her. ‘I’d be only too happy to help.’

‘I may take you up on that later.’

Left alone, March took a look round the room, hoping to learn more about Joanna from her taste in literature. An alcove alongside the fireplace held an eclectic mix of classics, large illustrated books on fine art, and rows of paperback bestsellers with the accent on gruesome crime. No romantic fiction. He pulled out a dog-eared anthology of poems, and grinned as he saw the flyleaf. Joanna Sutton, Form 3A. He put it back and moved on to the watercolour studies grouped on two of her walls. He nodded, impressed. The subtle tints were exactly right for the understated charm of the room.

March turned as the door opened. ‘I was just admiring your artwork.’

Joanna smiled. ‘Good, aren’t they? All local scenes. A talented friend of mine painted them. Right, then, come with me—dinner is served.’

In the small dining room candles flickered in crystal holders to highlight the central platter of colourful vegetables surrounding a golden-crusted Beef Wellington.

‘What a wonderful sight,’ said March in awe.

‘Do sit down.’ Jo filled their glasses, then took up a carving knife. ‘I should have done this in the kitchen, but I wanted you to see my creation in all its glory first.’

‘Glory is the right word,’ he agreed, as she served him a substantial slice of rare beef encased in perfect crisp pastry.

‘Help yourself to the rest,’ said Joanna. She served herself, then sat down and held up her glass. ‘Happy eating.’

March raised his own. ‘To the beautiful chef.’

They fell on the food with equal enthusiasm. ‘I enjoy my own cooking,’ she admitted. ‘My artist friend, Isobel James, cooks great meals. But, unlike me, by the time she gets them to the table she can never eat much herself.’

‘This is superb,’ said March indistinctly. ‘It would be tragedy if you couldn’t eat it. What’s the bit between the meat and pastry?’

‘Duxelle of mushrooms. Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Nice? It’s glorious!’

‘Have some more.’ Joanna got up to serve him.

‘Who taught you to cook like this?’ March asked. ‘Your mother?’

Joanna shook her head. ‘I learned this kind of thing from Molly Carter, who used to be Jack’s cook and housekeeper before he married Kate. Molly owns a restaurant in town these days.’

‘I’ll take you there next time, then,’ said March promptly, and grinned at the look on her face. ‘Or am I breaking the speed barrier again?’

‘Not exactly.’ She smiled. ‘But let’s enjoy this evening before we move on to the next.’

‘Enjoy is the word.’ He applied himself to the rest of his dinner. ‘Tell me more about yourself, Joanna. I noticed several books on art on your shelves.’

‘I did Fine Art in college for a while.’

‘Where?’

‘Oxford.’ She put down her knife and fork and drank some wine.

‘Weren’t you happy there?’

Her face shadowed. ‘In the beginning I loved it, but it didn’t work out for me. So at the end of the first year I left the dreaming spires and came back here to take a business course at the local technical college.’

March eyed her with respect. ‘That must have been a big adjustment after Fine Art at Oxford.’

‘It certainly was.’

‘It must have helped to have this house to get back to?’

She shook her head. ‘I had to wait for the tenant’s lease to expire before I could move in.’

‘You lived with your parents until then?’

‘For almost a year.’ She smiled at him wryly, her eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. ‘I’d been away at school since I was eight, and went straight from there to Oxford. No gap year for me. So, much as I love my parents, it was quite an adjustment to live permanently at home in Mill House.’ Hey, watch it, she warned herself, and collected the plates to change the subject. The man was so easy to talk to she’d be telling him all her secrets if she wasn’t careful. Not her usual policy with someone she knew so little. Or even with people she knew well. She smiled brightly. ‘I didn’t have time to make a pudding, but I can give you cheese with home-made biscuits—another of Molly’s recipes.’

March got up, curious about the shutter she’d suddenly pulled down between them. Ignoring her protests, he picked up the heavy platter to follow her into the kitchen.

He was obviously someone used to doing things for himself, noted Jo, and it was making her more and more curious about him. ‘Just leave it on the counter,’ she told him. ‘I don’t put this in the dishwasher.’

‘I’m good at washing up. Let’s do it now.’

She shook her head. ‘If there’s a next time, you can do it then.’

‘Next time,’ he said, moving closer, ‘I’ll take you out to dinner. But,’ he added deliberately, ‘I’ll insist on washing up the time after that. Shall I take the cheese in?’

‘Thank you. I’ll make some coffee.’ Glad to be alone for a moment, Jo frowned while the coffee-maker did its thing. She liked this relaxed, self-assured man very much, but the way he took so much for granted was a bit unnerving. She smiled wryly. On the other hand it was only human to feel gratified when a man of March’s calibre made it so plain he was interested in her.

‘I couldn’t resist trying your biscuits,’ he confessed when she rejoined him. ‘You’re a very talented cook, Joanna. Have you ever thought of it as a career?’

She pulled a face. ‘Lord, no. When I came back here after—after Oxford, I worked for Molly that summer, then did weekends and holiday periods for her when I started the new course. So I know what fiendishly hard work it is. I enjoy a little social entertaining now and then, but that’s as far as it goes.’

‘Who do you entertain?’

‘Josh and Leo Carey mostly—twin brothers I’ve known for years. And I don’t exactly entertain them—just feed them whenever they’ve got an hour off. Then there’s Isobel, the artist whose work you liked. We met at a party when we were thirteen, and we’ve been firm friends ever since. She lives in an attic flat above the art gallery she manages in town.’

March looked at her steadily. ‘But no boyfriend for you, Joanna?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘If there were you wouldn’t be here tonight.’

‘Point taken. But you’re a pleasure to look at, gainfully employed, you own a jewel of a house—and you cook like an angel.’ He spread his hands. ‘Why hasn’t some man snapped you up long since?’

Joanna kept her eyes on the coffee she was pouring. ‘Because I don’t want to be snapped up.’

‘Is that written in stone?’ He took the cup she handed him. ‘Because be warned, Joanna. I intend to know you better. Much better.’

‘Are you suggesting we become lovers?’ she said bluntly.

March drained his cup and set it down with a click. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘I had to ask.’

‘Well, now you have. And, since we’re calling a spade a spade here, I won’t pretend the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.’ His eyes speared hers. ‘But that’s not my reason for being here tonight. I came to enjoy your company, so relax. I don’t have any shortcuts to paradise in mind right now. These twins you mentioned,’ he added. ‘Since they eat here regularly, I take it neither of them aspires to a closer relationship with you?’

Joanna shook her head, kicking herself for bringing the subject up. ‘They’re like brothers. I’m very fond of them, but they irritate me sometimes, too.’

‘Because they’re men?’

‘Right.’ She smiled crookedly. ‘The only man I know who never irritates me is my grandfather.’

‘Not your father?’

‘Jack’s too dictatorial not to irritate me sometimes, but I love him just the same.’

‘Fortunate man.’ March raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘So, Joanna, where do we stand, you and I?’

She thought it over. ‘I’d like us to be friends,’ she said cautiously.

‘Then we will be. Your house is a surprise,’ he added, stretching out his long legs.

‘In what way?’

‘Because you look like modern woman personified I expected contemporary furnishings and abstract art.’

Jo chuckled. ‘Anachronism in a nineteenth century house, March. Besides,’ she added, ‘this is how the house was when it was made over to me. I helped Kate choose the paint colours and some of the furnishings eleven years ago. When I was thirteen,’ she said demurely, ‘in case you’re wondering. But the chairs and some of the other pieces in the house belonged to the aunt who left it to Kate. How about you?’ she added. ‘Is your place all minimalist and leather?’

‘God, no—anything but!’ March’s eyes fastened on hers. ‘So. Now it’s established that my intentions are honourable, when can I see you again?’

‘Next week?’

March jumped up and pulled her to her feet and into his arms. ‘This weekend,’ he said firmly, and planted a kiss on her lips. He raised his head to look into her eyes, then kissed her again. ‘Saturday. Make a reservation for two at your friend Molly’s.’

Jo nodded rather than trust her voice.

He smiled triumphantly. ‘Good. I’ll ring you to find out the details. And now I’d better leave—before you change your mind.’

‘I won’t. How about some more coffee before you go?’ she suggested, surprised by how much she wanted him to stay a while.

‘Wonderful idea,’ he said, as he opened the door for her, giving thanks that he hadn’t frightened her off by kissing her. It had been a risk worth taking.

To Jo’s relief March did not follow her to the kitchen, which gave her time to recover from the kisses which, though brief, she could still feel like a brand on her mouth. He turned with a smile as she returned to the parlour with two mugs of coffee.

‘Your taste in literature is unexpected, Joanna.’

‘Ah, but I keep the cookbooks in the kitchen, and my romances and Georgette Heyers lurk upstairs in my little study! I enjoy a happy ending as much as any other female.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ He took one of the mugs, impressed to find his coffee was black with a touch of sugar. ‘Perfect. You’re a very efficient hostess.’

‘Molly says the details are important, so I try to remember the various tastes of my guests. Not,’ Jo added wryly, ‘that it matters with the Carey twins. They eat whatever I put in front of them.’

March returned to the sofa. ‘You’ve known them a long time?’

‘Ten years or so. I met them at a very sad time in my young life, and they were a huge help.’

‘What happened?’

She looked at him for a moment. ‘Like your etchings, that’s best left until I know you better.’

‘Which,’ he informed her very deliberately, ‘you will do. And sooner rather than later—Miss Sutton.’ He grinned at her startled look. ‘I investigated your taste in poetry just now. Your name was on the flyleaf.’

‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Which reminds me: I still don’t know your other name.’

He drained his coffee mug and stood up. ‘It’s Aubrey. And now I really must go. I have a lot to do tomorrow.’

‘Back in the grafting house again?’

‘No. The weather forecast is good for the next week, which means I’m on grass-cutting detail while the weather holds.’

Jo stared at him in awe. ‘It’s your job to cut all that grass?’

‘Afraid so.’ He grinned. ‘Did you imagine I got this tan in Barbados?’

She eyed him in sudden doubt. ‘Look, we don’t have to go to Molly’s on Saturday. There are other places to eat—I could even drive to your local again.’

‘Absolutely not. It’s too far for you at that time of night.’ He moved closer. ‘Joanna, I swear I can spring for dinner for two with no problem—even at your friend Molly’s establishment.’

She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, March.’

‘But you did,’ he said promptly. ‘You wounded my male pride. So kiss it better, please.’ He took her in his arms and tipped her face up to his. ‘Just a nice, friendly kiss between friends to say you’re sorry.’ But when their lips met the kiss heated to a long way short of mere friendly before he finally released her.

‘Thank you again, Joanna,’ he said, in tones very different from his usual lazy drawl. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Drive safely.’