Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (22 page)

“I like him well enough; why wouldn’t I? He’s never been anything but polite, and friendly, to both of us.” Elinor sat down and sipped her tea. “But I’ve heard rumours, mum. And while I don’t normally listen to gossip, at least one of the sources is reliable.”

“And what does this source say?”

Elinor leaned forward, her expression troubled. “I’ve heard that Kit Willoughby is a womaniser, and always has been. I hope I’m wrong; but I think that from the beginning, he didn’t intend this romance with my sister to last any longer than his time at Allenham Court.”

“I see.” Her mother set her cup down. “Well, I don’t agree. I think Kit’s absolutely charming, and quite sincere in his affections for Mari. There’s a logical explanation for all of this, I’m sure. Time will tell. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she added, and stood up with a weary sigh, “it’s getting late, and I’m tired. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, mum.”

Elinor wanted to believe her mother was right, that Kit’s intentions towards Marianne were honest and sincere. But her doubts about him remained.

I hope I’m wrong about Willoughby, Mari
, she thought as she returned her cup to the sink.
I hope the two of you can find your happy ending.

But she very much doubted her sister would ever see Kit Willoughby again.

***

Marianne flung herself headlong onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows. Sobs wracked her, wrenched from within a deep, dark place inside her, and left her red-faced and puffy-eyed and barely able to hitch in a breath.

“I’m leaving Allenham Court, straight away. In fact I’m leaving Hadleighshire altogether, and going back to London.”

How could this happen? How could Willoughby leave her, so abruptly, so cruelly, without reason or explanation?

She sat up, her chest heaving. She couldn’t bear not knowing. She couldn’t understand, after he’d said he loved her, after he’d looked into her eyes and persuaded her to wait before they made love, how he could’ve possibly done such a thing to her.

Yet he had. And now he was gone, and might never return.

She reached out to the nightstand and groped amongst the damp, crumpled tissues and picked up her mobile. No messages…

…not a single call or text from Kit.

There was no possible way she could go into work tomorrow. Grimly, knowing that no one would answer after hours, she rang the clinic’s front desk.

“You’ve reached the Endwhistle Veterinary Clinic,” her own voice chirped. “Please leave your number and a brief message at the beep and we’ll respond as soon as we can.”

At the sound of the beep, Marianne drew in a shuddery breath. “This message is for Dr Brandon,” she said, and paused. “It’s Marianne. I won’t be in tomorrow. I’m feeling poorly. I’m…sorry.” And she rang off.

She fell back against the pillows as tears seeped from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. Her life was over. There was no reason to carry on. No reason to smile, or laugh, or watch a romantic film ever again. She’d die as she was born, a virgin, and a spinster, to boot…

Her mobile buzzed and danced across the nightstand.

Startled, Marianne sat up and stared at it. Who on earth could be calling at this hour? Her hopes rose. Was it Willoughby –?

She grabbed up the mobile. But the number belonged to the Endwhistle Veterinary Clinic.

“Hello?” she said warily. “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, you won’t be in tomorrow?” Matthew Brandon said abruptly, not bothering to identify himself. “I need you.”

I need you.
She almost laughed as she imagined hearing those words, not from her employer, but from Kit. Unfortunately, there was nothing remotely funny in the thought. It only made her want to cry again.

She sniffled. “I’m not feeling well. You’ll have to call in Mackenzie.”

“I’m damned well not calling in a temp. She’ll only bollocks up my files, and tie the entire clinic up in knots to boot. Unless you’re dead in the morning, Miss Holland, you’ll come into work, and sit your arse in your seat, and do your bloody job.”

“If that’s the case, then you can just sack me, and hire someone else,” she snapped. Then she burst into a spate of noisy, hiccupping tears.

There was a pause. “Oh, bloody hell,” he sighed. “What’s happened? Why are you crying?”

“I can’t…can’t do my job…he’s gone,” she sobbed, knowing she was incoherent but not caring. “To London. He’s gone!”

“
Who’s
gone?”

“Kit. He came by the cottage tonight,” she choked out, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, “and I – I thought he meant to – to talk to me about our wedding plans, and –” she stopped, aghast. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the engagement.

What difference does it make now?
she thought bitterly.
Kit’s gone.

If he was surprised by the news, Matthew gave no sign. “And I’m guessing he didn’t,” he finished.

“No, he didn’t. He told me he’s leaving. He’s g-gone to London.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “He says he won’t be back.”

She waited, expecting him to dismiss her concerns, or make a sarcastic joke at Willoughby’s expense; but he didn’t. “I’ll be over in a few minutes,” he said. “Watch for me out front.”

Marianne held the phone out and stared at it. “Why would you do that?” she asked as she returned her mobile to her ear.

“Because you need to talk to someone, and I don’t like bloody cell phones. I’ll see you soon.”

And he rang off.

Chapter 34

Marianne edged her bedroom door open. The upstairs hallway was still and dark; her mother and sister had already gone to bed. She grabbed a cardi and slipped out of the door, careful to avoid the creaky stair tread on her way downstairs, and went into the kitchen.

She found mum’s writing tablet and pen and scrawled a quick note – ‘Gone out for a bit. Don’t worry. Be back soon. Love Mari xx’ – and left it on the table, in the event anyone woke and wondered where she’d gone.

The front doorknob was cold under her hand as she twisted it open and let herself out into the chilly darkness. She closed the door behind her, then sat huddled atop the front steps to wait for Matthew.

She slid her arms into the cardigan and drew it around her. Perhaps she shouldn’t involve Dr Brandon in her mess of a personal life. He was her boss, after all. And she knew, without a doubt, that Elinor would advise her to keep herself to herself.

But she needed someone to talk to – someone besides her sister or mother. She needed someone who’d listen impartially, and understand, and not judge or advise or reprimand her.

A quarter of an hour later she heard the Land Rover coming up the drive. Headlights stabbed through the darkness, jolting across the hedges and trees and sweeping over the front of the cottage as Matthew stopped the truck at the bottom of the steps and flung the passenger door open.

“Get in,” he said without preamble. “Nudge Emily over before you sit, mind. She doesn’t fancy being squashed.”

Marianne leaned forward and glimpsed the little Blackface curled up on the seat. “Hi, Em,” she murmured, and ruffled the sheep’s ears before she nudged her gently over and squeezed in beside her. “Who’s the pretty girl?”

Emily let out an aggrieved bleat and rearranged herself.

“She’ll have none of that silly animal talk, if you don’t mind,” Matthew warned as he shifted the truck into gear and pulled away. “Emily won’t be condescended to.”

Marianne managed a watery smile. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

She fell silent as they jolted back down the drive to the end of the twisted, rutted track. A low burble of music and talk sounded from the radio as Matthew turned onto the main road.

She risked a glance at him. His face was indistinct in the darkness of the truck cab. He reached out to shift again, and kept his attention focused on the road ahead.

“So,” he ventured finally, after they’d driven around a fallen tree limb and continued north for a few kilometres, “do you feel like talking? Or would you like a cup of coffee first? There’s an all-night diner in Carywick. Or,” he added, and slanted her a glance, “we can just drive round.”

“With the high cost of petrol? I wouldn’t dream of it,” she retorted. She hesitated. “Matthew, about the badger fund, I’m really sorry about what happened; it was all my fault –”

“It wasn’t.” His words were abrupt. “I’ll drum up more money, no worries.” He slowed and downshifted as the truck approached a crossroads. “So, tell me, Miss Holland – what’s it to be? Do you fancy a coffee in Carywick, or a dashboard confessional, or tea and a greasy fry-up at mine? I need to know before I go any further.”

Marianne met his eyes as he glanced at her. “Let’s go to yours. Although I can do without the greasy fry-up,” she added. “Do you have any wine?”

“A couple of bottles. Chardonnay, I think, and a jug of cheap red.”

“Perfect,” she said.

“But no getting drunk and morose, mind,” he warned. “I don’t fancy watching you cry into your Merlot all night. Besides,” he went on as he took the turning towards Endwhistle, “you’ve work in the morning. We both have.”

Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. “I can’t p-possibly go into the clinic tomorrow. I can’t face anyone. Not even a cat, or a budgie.”

“You can. And you will.” He kept his eyes fixed on the road, but his words were determined. “Keeping busy and focused is the best thing you can do when something like this happens, trust me.”

Marianne shot him a quick, questioning glance, and she longed to ask him more; but he didn’t look at her, and he didn’t elaborate. “If you say so,” she muttered.

“I do.”

She wiped her eyes and settled back against the seat alongside Emily’s reassuring bulk, and gazed out of the window at the darkened landscape sliding by as they headed towards Greensprings Farm.

***

She followed Matthew up the porch and inside the front door of his farmhouse. It wasn’t nearly so grand as Barton cottage, she noted as she followed him inside; just four up, four down, with a central staircase and a comfortably furnished lounge; but the rooms had a cosy simplicity, and she liked what she saw of it.

The mess she’d expected – after all, Matthew was a bachelor, which fact usually meant at best, a tip, or at worst, a pizza-box and beer-can laden horror – didn’t exist. Instead she saw braided rugs on the floors, and landscapes hung on the walls, and a pleasing mix of antiques, like the huge Welsh dresser in the dining room, its shelves lined with blue and white dishes, along with a modern sofa and armchairs in the lounge.

As she followed him through into the kitchen, Marianne stopped and let out a small breath of pleasure. A stone fireplace took up the far wall, with a mantel hewn of wood. A table and six mismatched chairs tied with blue gingham cushions took up the centre of the kitchen; a rocking chair stood before the hearth, and a ginger cat was curled up and sleeping on the cushioned seat. An Aga, a fridge, and cupboards and counters occupied the other end.

Matthew went to one of the cupboards and began taking down cups. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” she said, and went to the rocking chair to pet the cat and – cautiously – sat down and lifted him onto her lap. “What are you doing?”

“Making a pot of tea.”

“I don’t want tea.”

“Well,
I
do,” he retorted, and switched the kettle on. “Are you still set on having that glass of wine?”

She nodded. “Red, please.”

“Right.” He unearthed a jug from under the sink and twisted off the cap. “You’ll have to make do with cheap Valpolicella in a jelly glass. I haven’t got round to buying wine glasses just yet. Or decent wine, for that matter.”

Marianne took the glass from him. “I don’t mind,” she said, and took a sip, then another. She grimaced. The wine was strong and tasted like paint varnish, but she didn’t care. “Anything with alcohol in it’ll do.”

“Why don’t you let me make you some eggs first? You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. When was the last time you ate something?”

She considered. “I don’t remember. Ages ago. But I’m not hungry.” She took another, longer sip of wine.

“Well, then, sit there and keep Major Tom company while I make tea. He likes you,” he added, mild surprise showing on his face. “You should be honoured. He doesn’t usually take to strangers.”

“He’s beautiful.” She stroked the cat’s ginger-and-white striped fur. “How long have you lived here?”

“Three years, ever since my gran died. The farm was hers.” He took down a box of PG Tips and jerked his head in the direction of the dining room. “That’s where the Welsh cupboard came from, and the blue and white crockery. It was all hers.”

“She must’ve thought a lot of you to leave you the farm.”

He opened the box and dropped a teabag into his mug. “We always got on. I kept her company after granddad died. She taught me to cook,” he added, and withdrew a cut-up lemon from a bowl inside the fridge. “Simple stuff like soup and baked chicken with carrots and potatoes, but she could do even a lowly turnip justice.” He smiled briefly. “She passed her love of animals, and farming, on to me as well.”

“Did she run the place by herself?” Marianne asked. “That must’ve been difficult.”

“She did. I helped out until I went away to veterinary college.” The kettle whistled. “She died midway through my third year. Left the lot to me. Lacey never had any interest in the place. Gran knew I’d take care of it, and look after the animals properly.”

“Obviously, her trust wasn’t misplaced.”

“I like to think not,” he said, and turned back to pour boiling water into his mug.

He carried his tea to the table and sat down. “Now,” he said as he glanced over at her, “you can stop faffing around asking me questions about my gran, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I’m not ‘faffing around’,” she retorted. She took another sip of wine and realised to her surprise that she’d nearly finished it. “I just want to know more about you. Is that so wrong?” she added, and set the cat down as she got to her feet.

“There’s nothing to know.” His words were measured. “I’m a small animal vet. I consider a full night’s sleep a rare luxury. I like a beer now and again but I’m indifferent to wine.” He slurped a bit of tea from his mug. “What else is there to know?”