At The Millionaire's Bidding. Lee Wilkinson
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in subtle shades of mauve and blue.
On her way out, a pair of sandals caught her eye and, with scarcely a qualm, she added them to her purchases.
By the time she got home, conditioned to not spending, she had started to regret her recklessness. But she wouldn’t feel guilty, she told herself firmly. The lot barely came to what Dave had spent on a jacket, and they now had ten thousand in the bank and a job that should pay well…
Next day dawned fine and, though the sky was still grey and overcast, there were breaks in the clouds. The weather report on the radio suggested that a high-pressure system was moving slowly in, which meant a settled spell was on its way, with soaring temperatures forecast.
Rejoicing at the prospect of seeing a bit of sunshine, even if it was only through some window, Eleanor cleared the small fridge and made herself a salad lunch. Then, having dressed in a patterned skirt and a plain lavender-coloured top, she swirled her hair into a neat knot before finishing her packing.
Dave was late, and it was nearly four-thirty before she heard the sound she’d been waiting for. Grabbing her case, her shoulder bag, and her jacket, she hastily locked up and made her way downstairs.
Outside, the fume-laden air was appreciably warmer, and the pavements were dry for the first time in what seemed weeks.
The white van was waiting by the kerb. Sliding open the rust-spotted door, she pushed her belongings inside, before climbing into the passenger seat.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ Dave looked anything but pleased. ‘I’m parked on double yellows.’
‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ she found herself saying, as they pulled out to join the traffic stream. ‘You’re more than an hour late.’
‘Had a game of snooker with the boys. It looks like the last bit of fun I’ll be getting till next weekend, stuck in some dead-and-alive hole.’
He made it sound as if it was the end of the world, she thought. Then chided herself for being so edgy. She didn’t usually criticise Dave in this way.
‘But it’s worth it, surely?’ She made an effort to sound cheerful.
‘I suppose so.’ Having reached out a hand and patted her knee, he turned on the radio. He liked his pop music loud, which made any kind of conversation virtually impossible.
As usual, the traffic was heavy, and stopping and starting they crawled their way out of London at a snail’s pace.
Left with her thoughts, Eleanor made a concentrated effort to steer them towards the—hopefully—not too distant future, when the business was thriving, and she and Dave could be married.
But the more she tried to focus on that future, the more nebulous it became, a kind of mirage that, as she attempted to grasp it, receded steadily, so that it was always out of reach.
The moment she stopped concentrating, her thoughts refocused on Robert Carrington. He had made such an impact on her, that since the previous afternoon she had thought of little else.
Images of his compelling, strong-boned face, his dark-lashed wolf’s eyes, his austere, yet oddly sensitive, mouth had filled her head. She remembered his voice and his well-shaped hands, how she had felt when he touched her.
He had flustered and disconcerted her, made her angry and reckless, altogether rattled her; and through it all had run a strong thread of attraction, fascination even, that she had refused to admit.
But apart from the way he had affected her, and the fact that he owned Greyladies, she knew nothing about him. Had he a wife? Children?
She recalled him saying, “Someone who loves you? In that case you’re one up on me”.
Did that mean he had no wife? Or a wife who didn’t love him? The media, while admitting that he guarded his privacy fiercely, had apparently dubbed him as a ladies’ man.
Of course that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t married… But if he was a philanderer, it might explain why his wife didn’t love him….
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE time they had left the outskirts of London behind them the traffic had lessened, the sky had cleared, and as they ran into Little Meldon the sun was shining.
The main street was wide, with cobbled areas on either side that sloped gently up to rows of picturesque cottages. In the centre it widened even more to straddle an old stone butter market.
There was a mere handful of shops: an old-fashioned grocers, a bow-fronted butchers, a greengrocers, and a post-office-cum-newsagents.
At the far end was a black and white half-timbered coaching inn, with overhanging eaves and barley-sugar chimneys.
There was hardly any sign of life, and the whole thing could have been lifted straight from Dickens.
‘What a dump!’ Dave said disgustedly.
Eleanor, who had thought the village delightful and been about to say so, held her tongue. If he was in a bad mood there was no point in antagonising him.
About half a mile further on, as Robert Carrington had said, they came to Grave Lane, and turned down it. On one side was a patchwork of green fields bordered by a ditch and a hawthorn hedge. On the other was a wide expanse of grass, and an old, lichen-covered wall enclosing what appeared to be rolling parkland.
A stone building with gables and turrets and crooked chimneys appeared on their right. A gatehouse in every sense of the word, it spanned a huge, cobbled archway which was guarded by iron gates that put Eleanor in mind of a portcullis.
She gazed at it enthralled. Somewhere, almost certainly in a book, she had seen one just like it.
Grimacing, Dave switched off the radio and touched the horn, and a few seconds later a gnome-like little man appeared in rolled-up shirt sleeves and gardening gloves, and swung open the gates.
‘Afternoon,’ he said laconically, when Dave rolled the window down. ‘Mr Carrington’s expecting you.’
As they started up the drive, past a neatly laid-out vegetable and flower garden, he closed the gates behind them and returned to his digging.
For perhaps a quarter of a mile the drive wound serpent-like between banks of flowering rhododendrons and sweet-smelling shrubs, with no sign of a house.
Dave was slumped in his seat, on his face a look of complete boredom, but Eleanor sat up straighter feeling a strange surge of anticipation.
Then, as they rounded the final bend, the manor was suddenly there, like some wonderful surprise.
Only it wasn’t a surprise.
A split second before it came into view, she had pictured Greyladies just as it was. As if she had always known it. As if it was as familiar to her as an old friend.
Though long and rambling, the house was a mere two stories, built randomly of old and mellow stone. Creepers climbed its walls and moss grew on its steeply pitched roofs.
It had sturdy chimney-stacks and earthenware chimney pots adorned with cheerful, gargoyle-like faces, and its casement windows were mullioned and leaded, the old, uneven panes catching the light.
An imposing, black-studded front door, the wood of which was almost silver with age, was flanked by long, stained-glass windows, arched at the top, and running from some eighteen inches above the ground almost to the second floor.
High, sun-warmed stone walls, one with a small black door, the other with a wide archway, curved away on both sides.
Bringing the van to a halt on the paved apron, Dave grunted. ‘I thought a manor house would be a lot grander, more formal somehow, with pillars and things. This isn’t a bit what I expected…’
It was exactly what she had expected, and she was lost to it even before she went inside.
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