Читать книгу British Bachelors: Tempting & New - Сара Крейвен, Liz Fielding - Страница 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVEN WHEN SCHOOL resumed after half term, Tavy appeared to be still in the doghouse over the stationery cupboard incident.

On the face of it, this was the least of her worries. But the children’s return kept her busy and stopped her examining too closely the rest of the uneasiness piling up like thunder clouds at the back of her mind. At least in the daytime.

The nights, when sleep was often strangely elusive, were a different matter, leaving her prey to her churning thoughts.

The major worry, naturally, was Holy Trinity and the awaited surveyor’s report. Wasn’t that what judges did before passing sentence—ask for reports? And was that how her father felt—as if he was a prisoner in some dock, his future being decided by strangers?

He was almost as quiet and preoccupied as he had been after her mother’s death, she thought sorrowfully. As if some inner light had gone out.

Four years ago, she’d made a simple choice that she was sure in her heart was the right one. Now suddenly there were no more certainties, and she felt frightened as well as confused.

And Patrick was part of that confusion. Every day she’d expected to hear from him, via a phone call or a text, but there’d been nothing. So she’d called the flat in the evening a couple of times, but found only the answerphone, and had rung off without leaving a message, because she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make her sound needy.

Yet wasn’t talking over problems what people in love were supposed to do? Especially when they might affect the future. Their future, which now seemed to be a major part of the general uncertainty.

And there were other aspects of the immediate future to trouble her too, with the village grapevine humming with news.

Ted Jackson and his crew had started work on the Ladysmere grounds, as June Jackson importantly informed everyone.

‘Even that old greenhouse place at the back is being rebuilt, and special lighting installed,’ she’d announced in the Post Office, pursing her lips before adding with heavy significance, ‘No need to ask what for.’

Tavy was halfway home before she realised that Mrs Jackson was hinting it would be used to produce cannabis, and wondered if that was what Jago had meant by ‘other ideas’.

Wait till Mrs Wilding hears that, she thought groaning inwardly. She’ll be on the phone to the Drugs Squad in minutes.

Jago Marsh himself had not been seen in the village all week, but the constant gossip about his plans for Ladysmere possibly explained why, when she did sleep, Tavy’s fleeting, disturbing dreams so often seemed to feature a dark-haired, tawny-eyed man.

Proving, she thought bitterly, that ‘out of sight’ did not necessarily mean ‘out of mind’.

It made her head spin to realise that only a month ago, she’d been scarcely aware of his existence, her life set in a peaceful, secure groove, untouched by any hint of sex, drugs or rock ’n’ roll.

Now, she was being forced to acknowledge how swiftly and irrevocably things could change.

But perhaps, she thought, her throat tightening, I’ll be the one to leave instead. Find a new life with different challenges.

Or perhaps Patrick would take her in his arms and tell her, ‘You’re going nowhere. You’re staying here with me.’

And wished she found that more of a comfort.

She was thankful, however, when Saturday arrived, with the prospect of half a day’s relief from the increasingly heavy atmosphere of the school.

As she cycled to work, it occurred to her that when she’d gone to university, her ultimate plan had been to become a teacher. But that, of course, was before Fate had sent her schemes crashing round her.

But it was something she might well reconsider now circumstances had changed.

When she sat down at her desk, she was surprised to see there was no pile of correspondence with attendant Post-it instructions waiting beside the computer.

The door to Mrs Wilding’s office was closed, but Tavy could hear the faint murmur of her voice, interspersed with silences, indicating that she was on the telephone.

In which case, Tavy decided, maybe I’ll pop to the staff room. Ask a few pertinent questions about getting back into higher education.

She was on her way down the corridor when she heard a door open behind her and Mrs Wilding saying, ‘Octavia—a word, please.’ Her tone showed that the big chill was still on, and Tavy bit her lip as she turned back.

In her office, Mrs Wilding motioned Tavy to a chair. ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ she said. ‘I have to tell you that I no longer find our arrangement satisfactory.’

‘Arrangement,’ Tavy repeated, bewildered.

‘Your employment here as my assistant.’ The other woman spoke impatiently. ‘I have therefore decided to terminate it.’

Tavy stared at her across the wide expanse of polished desk. She said slowly, ‘You mean—you’re firing me? But why?’

‘Because the nature of the job will be changing.’ Mrs Wilding examined her manicured nails. ‘The school will be expanding and I require someone who shares my vision and can work closely beside me—even represent me on occasion.’

Expanding? Tavy felt her jaw dropping. Only a matter of days ago, Mrs Wilding had been prophesying doom and ruin.

With an effort, she kept her voice steady. ‘And I don’t qualify?’

‘Oh, my dear.’

Those three little words said it all, thought Tavy. Amused, patronising and incredulous.

Mrs Wilding allowed it to sink in, then continued, ‘You try hard, Octavia, within your limitations, but this was never intended to be a permanency. You needed work and, because of your sad personal circumstances, I felt duty bound to respond. But now the time has come to move on.’

She paused, looking past Tavy. ‘Which I imagine you too will be doing quite soon. I was speaking to Archdeacon Christie at a social function recently and he told me that Holy Trinity’s days are numbered. So this seemed a convenient moment to make a change.’

‘I see.’ Tavy rose shakily to her feet. ‘However, I suppose you’ll want me to work to the end of term?’

‘Actually, no. It might be best if you cleared your desk now.’ Mrs Wilding picked up an envelope, lying in front of her. ‘I have made out a cheque to cover your remuneration for the period in question, and enclosed a reference which you may find helpful.’

She paused again. Smiled. Pure, undiluted vinegar. ‘And please believe that I wish you well in the future, Octavia, wherever your path leads.’

She added with telling significance, ‘But you must always have known it could never be here.’

In that instant, Tavy knew that she was referring to Patrick. That she had probably known from the first that they were dating, might have guessed Tavy’s hopes and dreams, and always intended to put a stop to it—some day, somehow. And that this was the moment she had chosen.

Tavy would have liked to tear the envelope and its contents in small pieces and throw it in Mrs Wilding’s face, but the humiliating truth was that she could not afford to do so. She needed the money and whatever passed for a recommendation in her employer’s opinion. She didn’t flatter herself, of course, that it would glow with praise and goodwill.

But it was better than nothing. And repeating those words silently like a mantra got her out of the room before she actually threw up on Mrs Wilding’s expensive carpeting.

The desk clearing took no time at all. There were no personal mementoes to be packed, apart from a paperback edition of The Return of the Native which she’d been rereading during her lunch-breaks.

All the same, she was shocked to find Mrs Wilding waiting in the passage when she emerged from her tiny cramped office, as if she was guilty of some misdemeanour and needed to be escorted from the premises. She took her bag from her shoulder and held it out.

‘Perhaps you’d like to search it,’ she suggested, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘Make sure some errant paper clip hasn’t strayed in.’

Mrs Wilding’s lips tightened. ‘There is no need for insolence, Octavia. Although your attitude makes me see how right I am to dispense with your services—such as they are.’

Tavy found herself being conducted inexorably to the rear door, and the sound of it closing behind her possessed an almost terrifying finality.

No job, she thought numbly, as she retrieved her bicycle, mounted it and headed, not as steadily as usual, down the drive. No man, and soon—no home. Or, at least, not the one she knew and loved.

It was one thing to be considering a change in your circumstances, she thought, as she turned out of the gate. Quite another to have it forced upon you at a moment’s notice.

Patrick, she whispered under her breath. Patrick.

Did he know what his mother was planning? Was that the reason behind this week of silence? No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it. If he’d been aware of what was happening, she was sure he’d have warned her.

Or would he? She just didn’t know any more.

It occurred to her too that if she suddenly showed up at the Vicarage at this hour, her father, immersed as usual in his sermon, would know something was wrong.

And, remembering Mrs Wilding’s silky comments about her conversation with the Archdeacon, Tavy flinched at telling him that all the news was bad.

He has enough on his plate just now, she told herself defensively. I won’t even mention that I’ve been sacked. I’ll wait and choose a more appropriate time—for preference when I have the prospect of other work. I’ll go over to Market Tranton on Monday morning and see what the Job Centre has to offer—waitressing, shelf-stacking, anything.

But for now, she needed a bolt-hole, and the church was the only place she could think of where she could be seen without arousing comment.

She parked her bicycle in the porch, and opened the door, thankful that the building was never locked in the daytime, and discovering to her relief that she had it to herself, offering her a brief respite in order to calm down and gather her thoughts.

She chose a side pew in the shelter of a pillar, and sat, staring into space, breathing in the pleasant odours of candle wax and furniture polish, waiting for some of the icy chill inside her to disperse. Although the glorious blast of crimson from each end of the altar did nothing to help, showing her that her unwanted roses were still in full bloom when she’d hoped they’d be long gone.

That would have been one positive step, she thought and felt the acrid taste of tears in her throat.

She leaned a shoulder against the pillar, eyes closed, struggling desperately for control, and heard someone ask, ‘Are you all right?’

Only it wasn’t just ‘someone’ but the last person in the world she wanted to see or hear.

Reluctantly, she straightened and forced herself to look up at Jago Marsh. No black today, she noticed, but a pair of pale chinos topped by a white shirt. To show off his tan presumably, she thought, her mouth drying.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded strained and husky.

‘I arrived earlier,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sketch that rather nice pulpit. And do some quiet thinking.’

‘Sketching?’ she repeated. ‘You?’ Then paused. ‘Oh—you went to art school. I’d forgotten.’

He grinned. ‘I’m flattered you bothered to find out.’ He paused. ‘But let’s get back to you, my fellow refugee. Why are you here?’

‘My father said some of the kneelers needed mending,’ Tavy improvised swiftly. ‘I came in to collect them.’

‘I saw you creep in,’ he said. ‘You didn’t look like a woman with a mission. More as if you wanted somewhere to hide.’

She said shortly, ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ And rose to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t allowed her feelings of pain and insecurity to cause her to break down altogether.

‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she added with a kind of insane brightness, unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front.

‘Are you intending to repair them here?’

‘No, I’ll take them back to the Vicarage,’ said Tavy, wishing now that she’d picked some other—any other—excuse for her presence.

‘I have the car outside. I’ll give you a hand.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

The tawny eyes glinted. ‘Planning on transporting them one at a time?’ he enquired affably.

‘No,’ she said, tautly. ‘Deciding the repairs can wait.’

‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘You can show me round the church instead.’

‘It’s hardly big enough to merit a guided tour.’ She gestured round her. ‘What you see is what you get. Plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sure there’s a whole section about it in the book Dad lent you.’

‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘For instance, I know it was built by Henry Manning, the owner of Ladysmere just after Queen Victoria came to the throne. He gave the land and paid for the work, also adding a peal of bells to the tower in memory of his eldest son who was killed at Balaclava.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘William Manning. There’s a plaque on the wall over there. But now there’s only one bell, rung before services. The others were removed several years ago.’

‘People objected to the noise?’

‘No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, everyone was very sad about it. But it turned out the tower just wasn’t strong enough to support them any longer.’

He frowned. ‘That sounds serious.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. Very. But it’s not your problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

‘To do what? Count the hymn books?’ He paused. ‘Or change the altar flowers, perhaps.’ His faint smile did not reach his eyes. ‘They must be past their best by now.’

Tavy’s face warmed. ‘The flowers aren’t my responsibility,’ she said, replacing the kneeler.

‘Tell me, do you recycle all your unwanted bouquets in this way?’

‘I don’t get flowers as a rule.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘As I said—I assumed it was a mistake.’

He said silkily, ‘But one that won’t be repeated, if that’s any reassurance.’

‘And now I’ll go,’ she went on. ‘And let you return to sketching.’

‘I’ve done enough for one morning. I’ll drive you back to the Vicarage instead.’

Oh, no, she fretted silently. It was still much too early for that.

‘Thanks, but I’m not going straight home.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Could I be interrupting some assignation?’

Her breath caught. ‘Please don’t be absurd.’

He said slowly, brows lifting, ‘Anyway, you work on Saturday mornings. Is that why you’re lurking in here—hiding away—because you’re skiving off? Playing truant from school?’ He tutted. ‘What would your father say?’

She said hoarsely, ‘I’m more concerned about how he’ll react when he hears I’ve been fired. Thrown out on my ear.’ Her voice cracked suddenly. ‘Just as if things weren’t bad enough already.’

And, all her good intentions suddenly blown, she sank down on to the pew and began to cry. Not just a flurry of tears but harsh, racking sobs that burnt her throat, and which she could not control.

And in front of him. Of all people.

She would never recover from the shame of it. Or from the knowledge that he was now sitting beside her. That his arm was round her, pulling her to him so that her wet face was buried against his shoulder. So that she was inhaling the warm musk of his skin through the fabric of his shirt with every uneven gasping breath, as she struggled for composure, and for a semblance of sanity, as she realised his free hand was stroking her hair, gently and rhythmically.

When the sobs eventually choked into silence, she drew away, and he released her instantly, passing her an immaculate linen handkerchief.

Sitting rigidly upright, she blotted her face, and blew her nose, trying to think of something to say.

But all that she could come up with was a mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What do you have to apologise for? I’d have thought the boot was on quite a different foot.’

‘I mean I’m sorry for making such a fool of myself.’

‘You’ve had a shock.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘Under the circumstances, I’d say tears were a normal human reaction.’ He paused. ‘So what were the grounds for your dismissal? Have you had the usual verbal and written warnings?’

Tavy shook her head. ‘Nothing like that. She just told me I wasn’t up to the job as she saw it, handed me a cheque and told me to go.’ She swallowed another sob. ‘But what’s going to happen to the office? She has no idea about the computer. I don’t think she even knows how to switch it on.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure she has your successor already in place.’ He watched her absorb that, and nodded. ‘However she’s driven a horse and cart through your statutory rights. You could take her to a tribunal.’

Tavy shuddered. ‘No—I really couldn’t. I simply want to find another job and get on with my life.’

He was silent for a moment, then: ‘So what else has gone wrong?’

She looked around her. ‘It’s this,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Dad’s church. It needs thousands of pounds in repairs, and the diocese can’t afford it. We were hoping for a reprieve but it’s going to be closed. So we’ll be leaving.’

She swallowed. ‘She—Mrs Wilding—told me so, as part of her justification for getting rid of me. She knows the Archdeacon.’

There was a silence, then Jago said softly, ‘She’s a real piece of work, your ex-boss. I wouldn’t want a daughter of mine to go to her school.’

A daughter of mine...

Something that was almost pain twisted deep inside her, as she tried to imagine him as a father—and, of course, a husband, which was ludicrous with his track record. He could never settle for anything so conventional, she told herself vehemently. And heaven help anyone who hoped he’d change.

‘Well, there’s no chance of that,’ she said with sudden crispness, as she rallied herself. ‘She thinks you’re Satan’s less nice brother.’

‘Then maybe I should immediately withdraw from this sacred place to more appropriate surroundings,’ he drawled. ‘Come with me to the pub and have a drink. I think you could use one.’

‘No,’ she said, too quickly. ‘Thank you, but I really should get back and talk to Dad. It won’t help to delay things.’

He walked beside her as she wheeled her bike down to the gate.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What does your boyfriend think of his mother’s decision?’

Tavy bit her lip. ‘I—I don’t think he knows.’

‘How convenient.’

The note of contempt in his voice stung.

She turned on him. ‘Patrick will be devastated when he hears,’ she said hotly. ‘And, anyway, just what business is it of yours? How dare you walk into this village, making assumptions, passing judgements on people you barely know?’

‘Because outsiders can often see the whole picture,’ Jago returned, unruffled. ‘Whereas you, my sweet, are incapable of looking further than the end of your charming nose.’

‘You know nothing,’ she hurled back at him, her voice shaking. ‘Nothing at all. You’ve mixed in dirt for so long, you can’t recognise or appreciate decency.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Back to that, are we? If that’s the case, what do I have to lose?’

One stride brought him within touching distance, his fingers gripping her slender shoulders, rendering her immobile. He bent his head and his mouth took hers in a long hard kiss that sent strange echoes reverberating through every nerve of her body, and sent the world spinning helplessly out of synch.

His lips urged hers apart, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth’s inner sweetness and explore it with a fierce and sensual insistence totally unlike his previous gentleness. It was impossible to breathe—to think. Or, even, to resist...

At the same time, his hands slid down to her hips, jerking her forward, grinding her slender body against his. Making her shockingly aware that he was passionately and shamelessly aroused.

And, worse still, making her want to press even closer to him. To wind her arms round his neck and feel the silky gloss of his hair under her fingers. To make the kiss last for ever...

When he finally released her, she was trembling inside, with fury that she had not been the one to step back first, and disbelief at her body’s own reaction to this stark introduction to desire.

She wanted to call him a brute and a bastard, but somehow her voice wouldn’t work.

He, of course, had no such problem. He said harshly, the tawny gaze scorching her, ‘A word of advice. Open your eyes, Octavia, before it’s too late.’

Then he turned and crossed the road to where a Jeep was parked under a chestnut tree, swung himself into the driver’s seat, and roared off without a backward glance.

Leaving her staring after him, a shaking hand pressed to her swollen mouth.