CHAPTER SIX
Edward
I INTRODUCE SUMMERto the staff, but my eyes are all for her, watching her every move.
She’s nervous. The nip she gives her bottom lip between introductions is so very telling, but then she smiles and I watch it work its magic over everyone. She’s wearing one of her new sweaters—a chunky knit in fluorescent pink. It should hurt my eyes. Instead it enhances everything about her...everything that seems designed to entice me.
More layers were meant to be a good thing. The less flattering and the thicker the better. But I’m staring at her now and I’ve never wanted her more. Hot off the back of our emotional exchange, our shared grief and understanding... Is it possible to be starved of someone for so long that their appeal returns so much stronger for the deprivation?
Marie lets out a squeal of delight that jolts right through me, saving me from myself.
‘Miss Summer! This is the best news, lass!’ She tugs Summer in for a hug. ‘The best, I tell ye!’
James, our butler, clears his throat. It’s a warning to Marie, but she’s been here longer than me and no amount of throat-clearing will rein her in.
I tear my gaze away, concentrate on the helicopter being unloaded, her baggage so light even with the addition of all the purchases I insisted she make.
Is that really all she owns? She’s made no arrangements, no requests to have anything else shipped...
‘Mr Fitzroy, sir?’ Mrs McDougall, James’s wife, calls for my attention. She’s been the Glenrobin housekeeper for a decade now and still I address her by her title. As does every staff member, including her husband. ‘Shall I arrange for tea in the sitting room?’
‘Please.’ I turn to Summer. ‘Shall we?’
I nod for her to go ahead, but she waits for me. I tilt my head, questioning her hesitation, and her smile tightens in return. She doesn’t want to walk in first.
And now the staff are staring, their curiosity mounting, so I move before we can look any more out of place.
I guess it hasn’t been her home in so long returning to it must be strange. Particularly when it’s not just a home now. It’s a responsibility, a job, an estate that needs managing twenty-four-seven to keep it ticking over. I wonder if she realises that. It’s no free ride caring for such a large estate—a two-hundred-year-old one at that—no matter how temporary I hope to make this entire arrangement.
I cross the entrance hall, my shoes clipping the rich wooden floor, and that’s when I realise it’s only my footsteps I can hear. I turn to find her in the middle of the room, the double-height space dwarfing her form as she stares up at the crystal chandelier and then all around. At the wood-panelled walls, the hunting regalia, the portraits of ancestors gone by...
I want to read her mind. I want to know exactly what she’s thinking. Is her head racing with the same questions...? How is this supposed to work? What was Gran playing at? How do I resist the way my body reacts to her at every turn?
OK, so that latter problem is all me...
The staff disperse behind her and we’re alone once more.
‘Summer?’
Her eyes fall to mine, wide, unsure.
‘The sitting room is this way.’
Like she needs the reminder... She might have been gone twenty years but her memory is intact.
Still, she nods as if she doesn’t already know, then takes another look around, her eyes landing on the tapestry of the family crest that hangs above the inglenook fireplace. Its dominant presence leaves guests in no doubt as to who this house belongs to...even if Gran has now stuck a dividing line down its middle.
But to Gran, Summer was family. She became family the second she moved in all those years ago.
‘Summer?’ I try again, and this time she moves, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and avoiding my eye. ‘Are you okay?’
I’m angry at myself for asking. Even more angry that my heart insists on caring.
She gives another nod, but I know she’s not. She knows she’s not. And it should make me happy, but I’m not.
I want to howl with frustration. Instead I clench my jaw shut, don’t open it again until we’re settled in the sitting room and the tea has been poured. I thank Mrs McDougall and tamp down the desire to ask for something stronger—neat.
‘You’re welcome.’ She pauses on her way out the door. ‘Which rooms would you like your luggage in?’