Country Plot (10 page)

‘Visitor for you, Miss Kitty,' she said, in a soft and liquid accent.

‘Fatty, dear, this is Jenna, who's come to help me with the cataloguing.'

‘How do you do,' Jenna said, and the woman smiled shyly and ducked her head in greeting.

‘Who's the visitor?' Kitty asked.

‘Mr Alexander,' Fatty said, though as she pronounced it, it sounded like ‘Sikander'.

‘Oh, good,' said Kitty.

Fatty nodded, and then added, rather like someone slipping a dose of medicine into the honey, ‘And Miss Caroline is with him.'

‘Ah. Good,' said Kitty, but it sounded quite different from the first one.

‘Nice wheels,' Jenna commented. A black drophead coupé with the roof down was parked on the gravel before the front door. Watch and Barney sniffed round it and then urinated lavishly on the rear tyres.

‘Caroline's,' Kitty said briefly. ‘Xander drives a Volvo estate – he needs it for his work.'

‘What is his work?' Jenna asked, picking out one of the many questions she wanted to ask before they got inside.

‘Oh, didn't I tell you? He has a shop in the village, selling antique and reproduction furniture, with a workshop behind it for repairs and restorations. He does all the big antique fairs and finds pieces on commission. He does some restoration work for the National Trust as well, so it all keeps him busy.' She seemed almost defensive about it, as if someone had questioned his choice of career. Jenna was piqued as to why. It seemed perfectly respectable to her.

‘It sounds interesting,' she said encouragingly.

‘Well,
I
think so,' Kitty said.

There was no time for more as they were entering the drawing room. The female half of the visiting pair was at the window with her back to them, and the male half was standing in front of the fireplace. Jenna stopped at the doorway in sheer surprise, for he was tall, dark and so absolutely gorgeous it was impossible for a moment to look anywhere else. A wave of pure pheromones seemed to come from him and set Jenna's receptors twitching. He was mid-thirties, his chiselled features were firm, his dark hair exquisitely cut and just wavy enough to be interesting, and his eyes, in exciting contrast, were swooning blue. He was wearing a very formal charcoal business suit, but his tie was well judged, modern without being too challenging.

He also looked cross, and in the split instant before anyone said anything, Jenna put that together with the woman's turned back and decided they had been quarrelling.

‘Xander,' Kitty cried, and there was no doubting the pleasure and affection she invested in the word. She went to him and rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His cross look disappeared into neutrality and he stooped to return the kiss.

‘Hello, Kitty. We were just passing so I thought you wouldn't mind if we popped in.'

‘It's lovely to see you any time, darling,' Kitty said. ‘My godson Alexander Latham – Jenna Freemont.'

He looked down at Jenna with an arrested look, almost of surprise, in his face; sadly, she thought, it was a surprise that seemed to give no pleasure. She didn't know what there was to disapprove of in her appearance, but he seemed to find something. He recovered himself and smiled slightly as he said, ‘How do you do,' but it was a professional smile with no warmth behind it. She adjusted her own to match and they shook hands. His was warm, firm and dry, and standing close to him there was something still very agreeable about the experience, despite the disapproval. She was confused.

An annoyed throat-clearing reminded them of the presence of the woman at the window, who had turned and was watching them. Alexander let go of Jenna's hand and said, ‘And this is Caroline, Caroline Russell.'

She came forward to join them: tall, willowy, in a beige silk suit and cream blouse, pearls at ears and neck, perfectly enamelled make-up and corn-blonde hair in a bob with not a strand out of place despite the open car: she must have tidied up before she came in, or worn a scarf.

It was, Jenna saw with a sense of inevitability, the rider from the day before. Out of the corner of her mind she noticed that Watch, who had followed them in, went up to greet Alexander with lavish wagging and a few half hops, as if he wanted to rear up and plant his feet on the man's chest, but was too well bred to do so; but he didn't go on to greet the woman. In fact, having finished with Alexander he went out again without having so much as looked at her. Don't blame you, boyo, Jenna thought, and went to meet her fate.

‘How do you do,' the woman said, extending her perfectly-manicured hand, while her hard grey eyes bored into Jenna and reduced her casual clothes, messy hair and lack of make-up to shreds. Suddenly Jenna felt underdressed for a walk in the garden.

‘Caroline is Xander's fiancée,' Kitty added.

Another inevitability, Jenna thought, though still with a slight sinking of the heart. Not that she was interested, of course, but it was always a shame when a perfectly presentable man turned out to be taken – and by the wrong woman. ‘We've met,' she said.

‘Have you?' Kitty said, surprised.

‘I wouldn't call it a meeting,' Caroline said in crisp tones and a cut-glass accent. Everything about her screamed County and Public School. ‘There was no introduction. She was looking at me over your hedge into the lane, and failed to account for herself.'

Alexander seemed to think this was quite rude enough for starters, and stirred uncomfortably. ‘Have you been showing her round, Kitty? I hope you showed her your lovely flower-garden,' he said. And to Jenna, ‘What do you think of Holtby House so far?'

‘It's lovely,' Jenna said. ‘And full of such interesting things.' One more than there was this morning, in fact – but enough of that!

He nodded and then, his social duty done, turned his attention to Kitty. ‘By the way, that planning appeal of old Benson's – it's to be on Tuesday the week after next.'

They plunged into conversation, leaving Jenna to the mercy of the ice queen, who looked down at her with the superior faint contempt of a cat and said, ‘So, do you do a lot of this sort of thing?'

‘What sort of thing would that be?' Jenna replied, trying to be polite for Kitty's sake.

‘Cataloguing,' Caroline said shortly. ‘I suppose you worked for an auction house before?'

‘No, I was a features editor for a magazine.'

‘Oh, really? And what did that involve?'

‘Researching and writing articles on whatever subject was chosen for that week.'

Caroline looked artificially puzzled. ‘So, in fact, you have no qualifications or experience for this job at all?'

What was the woman's problem? Did she think Jenna was in league with a gang of house-robbers? ‘I believe I'm quite capable of doing what Kitty wants. Anyway, she thinks so, so that's all that matters, isn't it?' She thought that was direct enough a snub, but Caroline was made of sterner stuff.

‘Perhaps that's all that matters to
you
, but not Kitty's
friends
, who care about her. One wouldn't want her to be –
disappointed
.'

The hesitation seemed meant to suggest the words ‘taken for a ride' or ‘robbed blind' had been considered and discarded only for the sake of politeness.

At that moment Fatty, who was a much slower walker, appeared in the doorway, with a questioning look towards Kitty, to see if anything was wanted. Kitty broke off her conversation with her godson to say, ‘Oh, Fatty, dear, would you make some coffee?' And to her visitors, ‘You'll have some coffee, won't you?'

Caroline said, ‘I'm sure Jennifer will help – won't you, Jennifer? Why don't you go and help Fatima carry things in.'

Fatty had already disappeared and Kitty had gone back to her conversation with Alexander – nothing exercises country people more than planning applications – so the words, and the implied insult, were only for Jenna, who took them in the spirit intended.

‘I'm sure Fatty can manage,' she said. ‘And my name is Jenna. It isn't short for anything,' she explained kindly. ‘Just J – E – N – N – A.'

‘Is that a real name?' Caroline said with a slight curl of the lip. ‘I've never heard of it before. It must be so uncomfortable to have a made-up name.'

Jenna gave her a smile of tooth-aching sweetness. ‘Then you must be so relieved that Caroline is such a
common
name.'

So battle was declared.

That afternoon, Kitty said she had things to do, and suggested Jenna take a walk into the village to get her bearings.

‘We'll start work tomorrow,' she promised, when Jenna protested that she wasn't earning her keep. ‘I really can't concentrate today. I don't know if you heard Xander telling me, but there's a dreadful man called Benson who owns the piece of land opposite the end of my grounds. He's applied for planning permission to build ten holiday chalets, right between me and that lovely view of the hills – can you imagine? It's been turned down by the planning office, but he's appealed. And the thing is, he doesn't even want to build them himself – he wants to sell the land, but with planning permission it would be worth infinitely more. I suppose one can't blame him for trying to increase the value of his assets, but he knows everyone in the village is against it, and if he gets his way he'll use the money to retire to Spain, leaving us with the ghastly mess on our doorsteps. So annoying and unscrupulous of him. Go and have a nice walk, darling, while I do the rounds of my friends and rally the defences. We'll need a good turn out at the hearing.'

So Jenna changed her shoes and strolled down the gravel drive, turned Barney and Watch back at the gate and slipped through into a green lane which after a few yards developed houses first on one side and then on both, and then emerged on to the village on the opposite side of the green from the pub. The sunlight was streaming through the chestnuts, two elderly women were sitting on a bench feeding the pigeons, and two girls on glossy ponies were watering them at the horse-trough. It was an idyllic scene.

She examined the shops: a bakery and sandwich shop, a very upmarket deli, a butcher, the post office – which doubled as a hardware shop – and a newsagent-cum-sweetshop which had some aisles of general groceries. At the end of the green the road forked and there were more shops down one of branches. There was a second pub, she discovered, a rather plainer, darts-and-bitter effort called The Castle;
two
dress shops, displaying the sort of frightfully expensive and yet terminally ugly clothes in floral print that you could never imagine anyone buying; and The Castle Tea Rooms (morning coffee, light lunches, afternoon tea) with rather home-made looking cakes on the counter, and a ginger cat basking on the window sill. One medieval building was sliced into two down the middle to make a tiny wool shop with embroidery canvases in the window, and an equally tiny art gallery, displaying what were obviously a local artist's efforts at watercolours, and some blobby oils of holiday destinations with the paint put on in chunks and very indigo shadows under everything to make it look as if the sun was shining brightly. A sign in the window said
PICTURE FRAMING
and
PASSPORT PHOTOGRAPHS WHILE YOU WAIT
.

There was just about everything you might want day to day, she thought, except for fresh fruit and veg, but she would bet twenty quid there was a farm shop somewhere nearby. She returned to the main drag alongside the village green to look at the shop she had really wanted to see. A large window had the sign above it, LATHAM FURNITURE, and in smaller, curly letters, on one side
ANTIQUES
and on the other
RESTORATIONS
. In the window was a wing-backed chair, a drum-table bearing a silver tray and a cut glass decanter, and a pair of Georgian wine-coolers. Peering in, she saw other furniture nicely displayed and well polished. The shop was on a corner, and looking down the side turning she could see the workshop behind it with a big gated yard opening on to the side street. A roller-back van was parked inside the yard, and there was a maroon Volvo at the kerb outside. So he was in there, she thought. She resisted the urge to go and see him at his work, hesitated a moment, and then decided to go and have a look at the church instead.

As she was about to cross the road, the roar of an approaching car made her stop and look around. It whizzed past her, making her jump back – though it wouldn't have touched her: a bright red, sporty little Mazda MX5 with the window down, and a glimpse of a young man inside. It performed a U-turn round the end of the green and came to a halt outside the pub, opposite where Jenna stood. The driver stuck his elbow on the window, leaned out and grinned at her.

‘Hey, Red!' he called.

He looked to be late twenties, fair-haired, good-looking, in a dark blue shirt open at the neck, the sleeve rolled up to the elbow. His forearm was tanned, and decorated with a very nice-looking watch.

‘Sorry I made you jump,' he called, with a mischievous grin.

‘No, you're not,' she called back.

‘Don't buy furniture in there,' he said, pointing at Latham's. ‘You'll be robbed and cheated. Terrible crooks, they are.'

‘I promise I won't,' she said.

He eyed her with interest. ‘Fancy a drive? You're new round here, aren't you? I'll show you the countryside. Hop in.'

‘With you? Dream on!'

He grinned, completely undiscouraged. ‘It's a small place, y'know, Red. We're bound to meet again.'

‘Then you've nothing to worry about,' she said. She waved goodbye with the tips of her fingers. ‘Got to go.'

He waved and returned his hand to the wheel. ‘See yah!' And drove away with a show-offy roar.

She grinned to herself, much refreshed by the exchange, and went on to look at the church, which she found, to her disappointment, was locked.