The Australian Affairs Collection. Margaret Way
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another word he started to stride towards it. Even with her long legs, Shelley had to quicken her pace to keep up.
The substantial shed looked to be of a similar age to the house and was charmingly dilapidated. The door had once been painted blue but was peeling to reveal several different paint colours dating back to heaven knew how long. A rose—she couldn’t identify which one immediately—had been trained to grow around the frame of the door.
If the shed were hers, she wouldn’t paint that door. Just sand and varnish it and leave the motley colours exactly as they were. It would not only be beautiful but a testament to this place’s history.
As if.
She was never likely to own her own house, garden or even a shed. Not with the exorbitant price of Sydney real estate. Worse, she had loaned Steve money that she had no hope of ever getting back. Foolish, yes, she could see that now—but back then she had anticipated them getting engaged.
One day, perhaps, she might aspire to a cottage way out of town somewhere with room for not just a shed but a stable too.
In the meantime, she was grateful to Lynne for letting her share her tiny apartment in return for a reasonable contribution to the rent. All her spare dollars and cents were being stashed away to finance that trip to Europe.
Come to think of it, this shed looked to be bigger than Lynne’s entire apartment in nearby Double Bay. ‘Double Pay,’ her sister joked.
The door to the shed was barred by a substantial bolt and a big old-fashioned lock. It was rusted over but still intact. Even the strength in Declan’s muscled arms wasn’t enough to shift it. He gave the door a kick with a black-booted foot but it didn’t budge.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Where the hell is the key? I’ll have to go look inside for it.’
He was obviously annoyed she was keeping him from his work but she persevered.
‘I’d appreciate that. I’d really like to see what’s in there.’
She hoped there would be usable tools inside. While she had a basic collection, she was used to working with equipment supplied by her employer. She didn’t want to have to take a hire payment from her fee.
He turned again to head towards the house.
‘Sorry,’ she said. There went that darn sorry word again. ‘But one more thing before you go. Is there...well, access to a bathroom? I’ll be working here all day and—’
‘At the side of the house there’s a small self-contained apartment,’ he said. ‘You can use the bathroom there. I’ll get you that key too. A door leads into the house but that’s kept locked.’
‘Are you sure? I thought maybe there was an outside—’
‘You can use the apartment,’ he said, in a that’s-the-end-of-it tone.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Take a walk around the garden while I go hunt for the keys,’ he said. ‘I might be a while.’
She watched him as he headed towards the back entrance of the house. Did he always wear black? Or was it his form of mourning? It suited him, with his dark hair and deep blue eyes. The black jeans and fine-knit sweater—cashmere by the look of it—moulded a body that was strong and muscular though not overly bulky. If he spent long hours at a computer, she wondered how he’d developed those impressive muscles.
She realised she’d been staring for a moment too long and turned away. It would be too embarrassing for words if her employer caught her ogling the set of his broad shoulders, the way he filled those butt-hugging jeans. He was very ogle-worthy.
She put her disconcerting thoughts about her bereaved boss behind her as—at last—she took the opportunity to explore the garden. Slowly scanning from side to side so she didn’t miss any hidden treasures, she walked right around the perimeter of the garden and along the pathways that dissected it. It was daunting but doable.
Dew was still on the long grass and her trousers and boots got immediately damp but she didn’t care. Sydney winter days were mild—not like the cold in other places she’d lived in inland Victoria and New South Wales where frost and even snow could make early starts problematical and chilblain-inducing. The cold didn’t really bother her. Just as well, as she’d set her heart on finding a job in one of the great gardens of the stately homes in England, where winters would be so much more severe than here.
The scent of the daphne haunted each step but she didn’t immediately find where it was growing. She would have to search for that particular gem under the undergrowth. There was no rush. She had time to get to know the idiosyncrasies this particular landscape would present to her.
Every garden was different. The same species of plant could vary in its growth from garden to garden depending on its access to sunlight, water and the presence of other vegetation. She suspected there would be surprises aplenty in a garden that had been left to its own devices and was now coming into her care.
A flash of purple caused her to stop and admire a lone pansy blooming at the base of a lichen-splashed stone wall. She marvelled at the sheer will to survive that had seen a tiny seed find its way from its parent plant to a mere thimbleful of hospitable soil and take root there. It didn’t really belong there but no way would she move it.
Not only had she learned to expect the unexpected when it came to Mother Nature, she had also learned to embrace it.
Declan Grant was unexpected, unexplained. She batted the thought away from where it hovered around her mind like an insistent butterfly. He was her boss. He was a widower. He wasn’t her type.
Her experience with men had been of the boring—she’d broken their hearts—and the bad boys—they’d broken hers. She suspected Declan was neither. He was a man who had obviously loved his wife, still revered her memory.
Her thoughts took a bitter twist. He was not the kind of man who cheated and betrayed his wife. Not like Steve, who had pursued her, wooed her, then not until she’d fallen deeply in love with him had she found out he was married.
Steve’s wife had confronted her, warned her off, then looked at her with pity mingled with her anger when she had realised Shelley had had no idea that her lover was married.
Shelley still felt nausea rise in her throat when she remembered that day when her life based on a handsome charmer’s lies had collapsed around her. She’d felt bad for the wife, too, especially when the poor woman had wearily explained that Shelley hadn’t been the first of Steve’s infidelities and would most likely not be the last. Even after all that, Steve had thought he could sweet-talk his way back into her affections, had been shocked when she’d both literally and figuratively slammed the door in his face.
The only vaguely comforting thing she’d taken away from the whole sordid episode in her life was that she’d behaved like an honourable ‘other woman’ when she’d discovered she was a mistress not an about-to-be fiancée. Not like the other type of ‘other woman’ who had without conscience seduced her father away from his family.
Now she swallowed hard against the remembered pain, took off her hat and lifted her face to the early-morning sun. Then she closed her eyes to listen to the sounds of the garden, the breeze rustling the leaves, the almost imperceptible noise of insects going about their business, the gentle twitter of tiny finches. From high up in the camellias came the raucous chatter of the rainbow lorikeets—the multicoloured parrots she thought of as living jewels.
Out here in the tranquillity of the garden she could forget all that had hurt her so deeply in the past. Banish thoughts of heartbreak and betrayal. Plan for a future far away from here. ‘You might have more luck with the English guys.’ She hadn’t known whether to laugh at Lynne’s words or throw something at her sister.
But she didn’t let herself feel down for long—she never did. Her spirits soared at the privilege of working in this wonderful