Forgotten Fiancee Read online

  “Then you’ll pass Miss Timmins’s house. Could you let her know that I’ve got the special cat food she wanted?”

  “I’ll take it, if you like.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve no right to make a delivery man of you—”

  “It’s fine. I may as well be useful. Why is it special cat food?”

  “It’s an expensive line that I wouldn’t otherwise carry, but nothing’s too good for Crosspatch. He’s Miss Timmins’s only companion, and I think she goes short of food herself to give him the best.”

  He went out half an hour later, bearing six tins of cat food. “Tell her to drop in and pay for them whenever she can spare the time,” Sarah said. “Her pension’s not due until Friday, so she won’t be able to afford them until then, but don’t let on you know that.”

  Justin started his exploration with Haven Manor, the home of Alex Drew, to whom he’d taken an unaccountable dislike. It was exactly the kind of house he would have expected to produce such a thoughtless young puppy. The manor was in the heart of the village yet managed to be apart from it. The large house stood well back from the road, protected by high walls and wrought-iron gates. Through the gates Justin could see a good deal of the life of the Drew family.

  Two luxury cars were parked in the driveway. To one side of the house was a set of stables. Two Thoroughbred horses were just being led out by a groom; and the next moment Alex Drew appeared, dressed for riding. With him was a middle-aged woman with a hard face who looked just enough like him to be his mother.

  They swung themselves into the saddles, and the groom ran to pull open the gates. Alex gave him a cheeky grin as he rode past, but the woman started straight ahead, ignoring Justin’s presence. The groom blew out his cheeks in relief. “She’s in a bad mood today,” he confided.

  “She looks as if she was often in a bad mood,” Justin said.

  “A real Tartar. It’s him, her son. Home again. Another job gone down the drain ‘cause the boss caught him fiddling the cash. He’s useless.” He glanced over Justin’s shoulder, and alarm overtook his face. Turning, Justin saw that Mrs. Drew had looked back and was frowning.

  “Oh, gawd, she’ll have my hide for gossiping,” the groom moaned. He shut the gate and fled.

  Miss Timmins was in her garden, weeding energetically. She was a tiny, birdlike woman who regarded Justin quizzically until he mentioned Sarah’s name and presented the tins.

  “How very kind of you. I was just about to have some tea. Do come and join me.”

  He stepped into the tiny cottage, bending his head to avoid the low beams. It was spotless and smelled deliciously of furniture polish, but Justin, born in poverty, could recognize the telltale signs of a small income stretched to the limit. Miss Timmins was making a great show of hunting for her purse, much as he’d once seen his own mother do.

  “I’m not authorized to take money,” he explained quickly. “Sarah says you can drop in to pay when you’ve got a moment?”

  “How kind of her. I shall be rather busy until Friday—”

  “Friday will do fine.”

  While they were drinking tea the cat appeared. From the price of the food Justin had expected a pedigree Persian at the least, but Crosspatch was an angular black tom. A hundred fights had left his ears so torn they appeared to be fringed, but he had a certain magnificence as he regarded the newcomer with lofty disdain.

  “Home at last, my pet,” Miss Timmins called, adding with unexpected robustness, “been out on the tiles again?”

  “Does he do that often?” Justin asked, grinning.

  “Most nights, especially at this time of year,” Miss Timmins said seriously. “I’m always afraid he won’t come back.”

  “Couldn’t you have him, er…”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. Spoil his fun. One should have a sense of the fitness of things, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Justin said.

  “I got him nine years ago. Since then the number of black kittens in this area has gone right up.” She added conspiratorially, “Mrs. Drew hates him, you know. She breeds pedigree Siamese, and their quarters are like an armed camp. If he’s late back, I always worry in case she’s done something wicked to him.”

  Further exploration revealed to Justin that Haven was barely provided with necessary shops. There was no butcher. Sarah stocked some frozen meat, and anyone who wanted fresh drove to the little town of Market Dorsey, six miles away. Prescription medicines had to be bought there, too. Aspirin and bandages could be obtained in the tiny newsagent that doubled as a post office.

  So Justin was surprised to discover a well-stocked antique shop. He knew just enough about antiques to recognize a few really valuable pieces and wondered where Colly Davids, the elderly owner, found his trade in this sleepy place.

  He got his answer over a cup of coffee, which the hospitable Colly pressed on him. “I don’t sell to Haven,” he confided. “Few people here could afford my prices. Besides, none of them know the real from the fake, although that old fool, Nick Mottson, thinks he does. I buy and sell internationally. I’ve got my own newsletter.”

  He produced a copy, and Justin commented on the professional production.

  “My granddaughter, Brenda, does desktop publishing on her computer,” Colly explained. “She produces this for me in between writing for the local paper, and we send it all over the world. Of course, not all my customers need it. Some of them just visit our web site.” He saw the look of surprise Justin wasn’t quick enough to hide and added mischievously, “We’re quite civilized out here, you know. Some of us can even read and write.”

  “I’m sorry,” Justin said, reddening. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, we’re used to being thought of as a load of hayseeds. Now, if you’re going past the pub I wonder if you’d give a few copies to Ted, the landlord. He likes to have them lying about. It doesn’t bring me any business, of course, but he feels it gives the Haystack a touch of class, and I don’t mind doing him a kindness.”

  By now Justin was getting the feel of the village, so it was no surprise when Ted received the newsletters with the cheery words, “It helps Colly’s business if people can see his stuff when they drop in for a drink. I sometimes wonder how he’d manage without my help. But there! I don’t mind doing him a kindness.”

  On learning where he was staying, Ted scribbled a list for him to give to Sarah. “It’s my usual order, with a few things extra,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

  “No problem,” Justin said, pocketing the list.

  At the far side of the village green stood a building that could only be described as a mishmash. Parts of it were weather-beaten stone, parts were brick. At one end stood a stone bell tower, giving the building the look of a church, an impression that was strengthened by the gargoyles flaring out over the green. Justin studied the ugly carved faces, fascinated.

  “It’s a bit of a monstrosity, isn’t it?”

  Justin turned and found a middle-aged vicar with a thin, amiable face. “How do you do?” the vicar said. “My name’s George Frensham, and I know you’re Sarah’s lodger.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “No secrets in a small place like this.”

  “It looks like a church,” Justin said, “but surely that’s the church over there?” He pointed to a gray building that could just be seen between trees.

  “This was once the village church,” Reverend Frensham explained. “It was built six hundred years ago, but it caught fire in the last century. They patched it up as best they could, which wasn’t very well, as you can see. But in the end they built a new church and abandoned this one. Now we use it as a community hall. It’s drafty and inconvenient, but it’s got masses of character, and we’re fond of it”

  He led the way to the tower. The old door was locked. George took the key from his pocket and showed Justin in. “Strictly speaking, nobody’s allowed in here, for safety reasons,” he said. “But every month I pop in to chec
k the place.”

  High up in the gloom the huge bell seemed to menace them silently.

  “He’s called Great Gavin,” the vicar said. “The timbers up there are in a bad way, so I suppose we should take him down, but he’s been a good friend to Haven. For centuries he was used to warn the village of flood or fire. It would seem a poor return to simply throw him away.”

  As they came into the sunlight Justin could hear the sound of a piano and a woman’s voice calling, “Bend and stretch—bend and stretch—stretch, Mrs. Adams. No cheating now.”

  “The hall’s kept pretty busy?” he asked, noticing a board with a rota.

  “Oh, there’s always something. The exercise class, the gardening club, the campaign for traditional beer— although they usually prefer to meet in the pub—the amateur dramatic society—”

  “You put on plays, too, in this little place?”

  “Plays and musicals,” the vicar said cheerfully. “Of course, the piano is a little out of tune, as you can hear, otherwise we were thinking of doing Carousel this year.”

  Justin stared, speechless.

  He was swept off for tea at the vicarage and shown the vegetables George grew in every available corner of the large vicarage grounds. He left with a written order for Sarah and the news that George would bring her some vegetables for the shop the following day.

  As soon as he turned into the main road he found himself confronting a flock of sheep, and in a moment they surrounded him. A buxom young woman was chivvying them along, and she waved to him in greeting. “Milking time,” she said cheerfully.

  He was too astonished to speak. He stood there while the flock swirled around him and passed on, leaving him in the road.

  He walked for another few minutes before realizing that he’d left the village. Turning, he went back and explored the side roads, but in half an hour he was out of Haven again. Around him stretched fields in which cattle grazed, and in the distance he could see a farmhouse.

  He leaned against a fence, feeling oddly disappointed. Was that it? All of it? Haven was charming, of course, and the peace and quiet were pleasant after his recent experiences. But he couldn’t imagine staying here for more than a couple of days without becoming bored. Despite his lost years he knew the man he’d been before that—ambitious, driving, hardheaded, seeking power through size, determined that Hallwood Construction and Engineering would dominate the market. He was still that man.

  But his disappointment had a deeper cause, one he was reluctant to face because it was irrational, and he was a rational man. It had to do with the sense of pilgrimage that had come over him on the road. For a while Haven had seemed like a sanctuary, beckoning him on. Now here it was, a place the size of a postage stamp, where the big news of the day was that Crosspatch had been pursuing Mrs. Drew’s Siamese, life moved at a sheep’s pace, and nobody seemed to have heard of the telephone. He thought of his headquarters, where big decisions were made. What would these people know of the real world?

  Suddenly he felt foolish, and that passed easily into irritation. As he made his way back he was determined to tell Sarah he would be leaving the next day. It was time to return to work, take a hold of himself and force his memory to do his will.

  He found the shop shut, for it was early closing. Letting himself in at the side, he was assailed by the delicious smell of home cooking. Sarah was in the kitchen, up to her elbows in flour. She wore a yellow dress, the color accentuated by the sunlight streaming in through the window. At her feet Nicky was tearing up paper and clamoring for her attention. She gave it, laughing, kissed him and went back to her work. Justin stood unnoticed, feeling inexplicable happiness steal over him. His irritation seemed to be draining away out of the soles of his feet.

  It was Nicky who noticed and gave a shout of glee. Sarah looked up, smiling. Meeting her eyes, Justin had the same sensation he’d known at their meeting the day before, a delight that was almost painful in its intensity.

  “Could you put the kettle on for me?” Sarah asked, waving her floury arms.

  He did so, observing, “I shall be afloat at this rate. I had coffee with Colly Davids, who spoke slightingly about your uncle’s knowledge of antiques—”

  Sarah chuckled. “Did he call him an old fool?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “That’s nothing to what Uncle Nick calls him. They have a deadly feud, which they both enjoy enormously.”

  Justin grinned. “I thought it might be something like that. I also had two cups of tea with the vicar, plus one of the best rock cakes I’ve ever tasted. He’ll bring you some vegetables tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good. His stuff is wonderful. I get queues down the street for his asparagus.”

  “Is the vicar allowed to use the vicarage for a commercial undertaking?” Justin asked with a grin.

  “Probably not,” Sarah observed serenely. “But he needs the money. He’s a demon plumber, toomended our cistern last year.”

  Justin began to laugh. Sarah watched him with a pleasure that was partly relief. Yesterday he’d returned to her out of the void by a process that almost seemed magic. When he’d strode out this morning she’d half expected him to disappear into the void again.

  Yet here he was, relaxed and genial. Her heart overflowed with happiness, and she had to struggle not to let her gaze rest on him too often in case he read her feelings. Once she risked a quick glance, only to find him watching her with a strange smile on his face. She looked away, but she could feel the tide of color sweep into her cheeks.

  “I took the chance to do a batch of cooking,” she said, for something to say. “You need feeding up. You’re much too thin.”

  “That’s the result of the accident,” he said. “But Sarah, I was going to say, about my staying here—”

  She raised her head. Her cheeks were prettily flushed, and there was a dab of flour on the end of her nose. Suddenly Justin found that his speech about departure wouldn’t get itself said.

  “What was it, Justin?”

  “Well—we didn’t talk about how much I was to pay you. It’s not just the room—you’re cooking for me, as well. How about…?” He named a figure, and Sarah’s eyebrows rose.

  “I can’t take all that,” she said, scandalized. “It’s far too much.”

  “As long as it’s not too little. Right, that’s settled.” He would stay until the end of the week.

  “Before I forget,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “I’ve written down various messages for you.” She studied them, thanked him and pinned them up. “I don’t mind,” he said, “but why don’t they just telephone?”

  “They probably would have if you hadn’t happened by. But why use a phone when there are people?”

  “No reason, I guess. By the way, I think my hearing must be failing. I was ambushed by a gang of sheep. The woman with them said something about milking time, but I couldn’t have heard that right.”

  “Oh, yes, sheep milk makes lovely cheese. They belong to Penny Farm, just outside the village. The farmer grazes some of his flock in the churchyard, so he gets the grass and the vicar doesn’t have to pay anyone to cut it. He takes the sheep home at milking time and returns them afterward. The quickest way is through the village.”

  “What do passing motorists do?”

  “They wait.”

  Justin grinned. “I should have thought of that.”

  Sarah was just making the supper and about to call Justin when a shape darkened the doorway. “Uncle Nick,” she cried eagerly, giving him a bear hug. He was a large, heavily built man, with a gray beard and a head of white hair. He hugged her, then did a little jig as nimbly as his bulk would allow.

  “I did it,” he carolled. “I finally did it.”

  “You got a real antique?” she asked breathlessly.

  “A Hepplewhite cabinet in good condition, and it only cost me sixty pounds.”

  “The owner let it go for that?”

  “Oh, he didn’t know what he had, but you ca
n’t fool me.” Sarah forbore to mention the number of times he’d been fooled. “That cabinet is genuine eighteenth century, made by George Hepplewhite, or I’m a Dutchman. Now, what’s been happening while I was gone?”

  “We’ve got a lodger. His name’s Justin Hallwood, and he walked in here yesterday morning and collapsed—because he was in a car crash—and he’s taking a walking holiday because he was badly hurt.” Sarah gabbled the words slightly, hoping her selfconsciousness didn’t show.

  The old man was still. He seemed struck by a thought.

  “Uncle Nick?”

  “Sorry, darling. That was a bit jumbled, and I was trying to sort it out. Are you sure this isn’t too much work for you?”

  “No, he’s being a real help. That sounds like him now.”

  Uncle Nick turned to look at the tall man who appeared in the doorway. “Sarah’s been telling me about you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  They shook and uttered courtesies. Justin could see that Uncle Nick was sizing him up, which was disconcerting. He was usually the one doing the sizing. He seemed to pass, however, for Nick grunted and turned his attention to food.

  Over supper he questioned Justin, politely but insistently. “Sarah says you had an accident.”

  “That’s right. It’s taken the last two years out of my life.”

  “You mean you can’t remember?” Uncle Nick asked with a touch of sharpness.

  “That’s right.”

  “What, nothing?”

  “Uncle Nick,” Sarah protested.

  “All right, all right. At my age a man’s allowed to forget his manners occasionally. Don’t mind my asking, do you?” he demanded.

  “Not at all,” Justin assured him, although the subject made him uncomfortable.

  “Well, I mind,” Sarah said firmly. “I want to hear some more about your Hepplewhite cabinet.”

  Luckily this distracted Nick. “Ha!” he said gleefully. “You wait until Colly sees it. He’ll be green with envy. Now, don’t make that face, Sarah. I know you mean well, but you don’t know anything about antiques.”

  “Neither do you, according to Colly Davids,” Justin said with a grin.