She took the dig good-naturedly. 'So I'm thorough.'
'Aye. I'll not argue with you there.' His eyes slid sideways away from her, and he smiled a greeting at me, pitching a handful of dirt-encrusted weeds onto the heaping mound beside him. He was looking the proper countryman this morning, in rough trousers and a faded blue flannel shirt, with the leather gauntlet gloves pulled up over his forearms. He was also looking exhausted. His gray eyes were strained and deeply shadowed in his stoic face. I thought of my cousin Ronald, in Cornwall, who rose at four every morning to milk his thirty cows, and wondered for the hundredth time why anyone would choose to be a farmer.
Iain yanked off one of the weathered gloves and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a large sunburned hand. 'I gave your message to Geoff,' he informed me. 'There was no problem. He's been called away himself, up north on business, for the next few days, but he said he'll give you a ring when he gets back.'
'Oh, yes?' Vivien cocked her head mischievously.
'He promised me a tour of the Hall,' I explained, hoping no one would notice my blush in the strong sunlight. For the second time, I changed the subject. 'The garden looks lovely,' I said.
It truly did. The orderly rows of tiny green shoots were now surrounded by verdant clumps of hyacinth and primrose. He had added a climbing rose as well, perhaps a transplant from the famous rose gardens at Crofton Hall, its sleeping tendrils trailing lazily over the sun-warmed stories. In a month or so, the small plot of land would be positively bursting with life and color.
Iain followed my appreciative gaze, and shrugged his broad shoulders. 'It'll do,' he said modestly.
I glanced down at my wristwatch. It was nearly half-eleven. 'Would anyone like a cup of tea?' I offered.
'Lovely.' Vivien abandoned her rake with evident relief, and Iain gave her a look of indulgent affection before his tired gray eyes met mine and he smiled.
'I'd not say no,' was his reply.
I wouldn't have admitted it to a soul, least of all to myself, but I was glad that I was not alone when I unlocked the door of the silent gray house and, with a deep breath of determination, stepped across the waiting threshold.
Eleven
I need not have worried, after all. The remaining days of the week passed in quiet, perfect normality, dull as ditch water. Perversely, I was disappointed. It was not a rational reaction, but I could not help myself. Patience, as my family would wholeheartedly attest, was never my strongest characteristic, and now that I was prepared—even eager—to experience another scene from Mariana Farr's life, I found it frustrating to be denied the opportunity. Even the watcher on the gray horse had deserted me, and the place beneath the old oak tree, whenever I had the courage to look, was empty.
By Friday morning I had grown restless in my impatience, and I looked to my work for diversion. It was high time I started working, anyway, I told myself in resolute tones. Seated in my familiar pose at the drawing board, with the marked page of manuscript clipped to the top bar and a fresh sheet of drawing paper spread beneath my pencil, I felt instantly more focused and relaxed.
It had been over a month since I had last worked on the storybook illustrations. I had been too excited after buying the house, too busy during the move, and too distracted by the events since to even contemplate drawing my goblins and queens. The little characters had waited, brooding, all that time, and now they fairly ran from my mind to the tip of my pencil and onto the pristine page, bringing to life an adaptation of a Korean folktale about a disgruntled dragon.
The story required four illustrations in all. By early afternoon I had completed the pencil sketches, with the almost fussy amount of detailing that was my trademark. The sketches would still have to be painted over in watercolors, but that could wait until tomorrow. I leaned back in the high, padded, specially made chair, stretched my arms above my head to loosen the knots between my shoulder blades, and looked around the room with pleasure.
I could not have chosen a better spot in which to work. The room was small, and square, and low-ceilinged, but the walls were painted a pale sunrise yellow and coaxed an answering glow from the wide polished floorboards. It was a comfortable, cheerful little room.
By swiveling my chair I could command a clear view, through the window, of the dark line of trees marking the slow, winding curve of the river to the west of my property, and beyond that the clear patchwork farmlands and low rolling downs. To the southwest, just within my line of vision, the squat, crenellated tower of the village church stood sentry over the village, and the tall brick chimneys of Crofton Hall rose majestically above the green canopy of trees.
I had not yet heard from Geoffrey de Mornay, and so I assumed that he was still away on business. Up north somewhere, Iain had said. Lancashire, maybe, I speculated, or Northumberland. Morland Electronics had factories in both places.
At any rate, I reminded myself, I wasn't holding my breath, waiting for his phone call. After all, I wasn't some lovesick adolescent, and I had plenty of other things to occupy my time. Besides, I thought, as I went downstairs to brew a long-overdue cup of tea, I had only known the man a week.
Which did nothing to explain why, when the telephone finally did ring, I nearly vaulted over the kitchen table to answer it. Or why my voice suddenly turned sultry, conjuring up images of Greta Garbo in her prime. 'Hullo?' 'Julia?'
'Oh, it's you,' I said, my disappointment showing. 'Sorry.' Tom sounded taken aback. 'Who should I be?' 'No one." I recovered my normal voice. 'What's up?' My brother paused, decided not to pursue the matter, and went on somewhat cautiously. 'I just got back from the library,' he informed me, 'and I thought you might be interested in some of the stuff my librarian has managed to scrape up for me.'