Chapter Seventeen
The farmhouse had changed little in sixteen years — homely, but spotlessly clean, with polished wooden floors and comfortably upholstered furniture. A heavy antique silver punch-bowl stood on the gleaming mahogany sideboard, and on the wall above was a fascinating display of photographs of some of the previous generations who had farmed this land, back to a solid-looking Victorian family in a proudly formal pose.
Tom’s parents had changed little too. Vicky had wondered if she would feel awkward, knowing that they knew that their son didn’t spend his nights in his own bed. But they were as warm and welcoming as they had always been.
“Ah, thank you, my dear.” Tom’s mother beamed as Vicky gave her the wine she had brought.
“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs Cullen.”
“Ah, now, call us Jack and Pam,” she insisted. “That’s what you used to call us when you were a little girl — Uncle Jack and Auntie Pam.”
“Oh, yes — I remember!”
She could feel the warmth of Tom’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back. It had been almost a week since that first night together, and she was fathoms deep in love with him — so deep it scared her.
“Why, it’s little Vicky Marston.” Jack Cullen strolled through from the kitchen. His eyes twinkled as he bent to kiss her cheek. As tall as Tom, his hair grizzled with grey, his skin weathered brown by years in the open air. “Last time I saw you, you were all skinny arms and legs like a newborn calf — and now you’ve grown into a beauty! And you’ve brought wine — that’s a good girl. I like a nice drop of wine. I brought back a few bottles with me from Oz — would you like to try one?”
She smiled warmly. “Yes, please.”
“Don’t suppose you’ll say no either, will you, Tom?” He beamed at his son. “Come on through to the dining room.”
“Did I hear someone mention wine? I thought you were never going to offer.”
Vicky recognised the tall, rangy man in glasses coming down the stairs — the scorekeeper at the cricket.
Lisa followed him. “Hi, Vicky.” She gave her a warm hug. “You’ve sort of met Ollie before, haven’t you?”
“Well, only from a distance.”
“Ah — then it’s nice to meet you properly.” He extended his hand to grasp hers. “Though I’ve heard all about you from Arthur. You’ve been very kind to him.”
“He’s a lovely old man.”
“Oh, ah — he is that.” He grinned at Tom, exchanging a high five. “Evening, mate. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Yourself?”
“Better when Uncle Jack gets round to opening the wine.”
“Now then, it has to breathe,” Jack protested. “You can’t hurry a good red wine. Here we go.”
He filled the glasses waiting on the sideboard, and passed them round. In the soft rays of the setting sun streaming in through the window, they glowed like rubies.
“It’s a Shiraz from Hunter Valley.” His eyes danced with mischievous laughter. “It’s a lively little wine, with a touch of berries and spice.”
“Oh, get along with you.” His wife shook her head in fond exasperation. “Mr Connoisseur.”
Vicky took a sip of the wine. “It’s delicious,” she approved.
“There now!” He shot Pam a look of happy triumph. “She knows her stuff, this one.”
“Is the little one asleep?” Pam asked as Lisa set the baby monitor on the sideboard.
“Fast asleep. She won’t wake for a couple of hours yet.”
“Good. Well, sit down, everyone. Dinner’s ready.”
Tom held out a chair for Vicky. She glanced up at him as she sat down, and he smiled — that smile that made her heart skip. It was a reaction she couldn’t control — every time he looked at her she felt as if she was going a little crazy.
The dinner was delicious — cool cucumber soup, followed by pork-and-apple pie with vegetables, which Vicky guessed were homegrown.
“Tuck in,” Jack urged. “I like to see a lass with a good healthy appetite.”
Tom’s glance flickered towards her, smiling with a secret amusement, and she felt that faint blush of pink rise to her cheeks again. He appreciated her appetite too — though not necessarily her appetite for food.
“So how was Australia?” Ollie asked.
“Big! And they’ve got spiders you wouldn’t believe. Every time you go to the dunny... !”
Pam rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Jack — we don’t need to hear the details of your dunny adventures while we’re eating.”
He chuckled. “You had a few yourself. But it was an eye-opener, and no mistake. Running a herd that size, and coping with those conditions...”
“Is there still a drought problem?”
“There’s always a drought problem.”
Soon the men were deep in discussion of silage and carrying capacity and irrigation systems. Pam turned to Vicky.
“Tom tells me you’ve done some renovations to Molly’s place. It certainly needed it.”
“That’s right.” She smiled. “You must come over and have a look.”
“I’d like that.”
“Can I come?” Lisa asked eagerly.
“Of course.” She turned back to Pam. “You knew Aunt Molly well, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes — I knew her for nearly forty years.” Pam laughed. “She was quite a character.”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve found out quite a bit about her that I never knew. Dancing at the Moulin Rouge, modelling for a top Parisian fashion house. And I found a medal she was given for working with the Resistance in the Second World War.”
Lisa’s eyes widened. “But wouldn’t she have been just a teenager then?”
Vicky nodded. “Yes, she was. But Mr Digby’s friend, the one who found out about the medal for me, said there were quite a few teenagers who helped. The youngest child who was involved was only six years old.”
“Six!” Lisa looked shocked. “That’s not much older than my Noah!”
“It’s true — I looked him up. His father was a Resistance leader, and he carried letters between groups in his schoolbag. Molly ran messages for the Resistance too, and sometimes she carried weapons for them. And Mr Kovacs, the medal expert, told me that she’d helped with the lifeline for airmen who’d been shot down, and escaped prisoners of war, guiding them between safe houses on their way to Spain.”
“That’s right — that was how she came to be left the cottage.” Pam had finished her dinner and took a sip of her wine. “There was a pilot who’d broken his leg when he’d bailed out — he couldn’t be moved for a couple of months. Molly took care of him — nursed him, took him food. His wife and baby daughter had been killed in the Blitz, and he never married again. When he died he left the cottage to Molly, in gratitude.”
“Oh — that’s so sad.” Vicky sighed.
“And that wasn’t all,” Pam went on. “Molly told me that she had spent several years in East Berlin during the Cold War, running a nightclub and cabaret. Then when they closed the border she began smuggling defectors to the West.”
“Wow!”
“She was allowed to go backwards and forwards into West Berlin every few weeks, to buy the good wines and spirits the senior party members preferred to the stuff you could mostly get in the East. The border guards never even thought of stopping her or searching her van — she was too friendly with the higher-ups.”
Vicky listened to the story, fascinated.
“She had a secret compartment behind the passenger seat where a person could hide. She brought out several disaffected military and party members, but most of them were just ordinary people who wanted freedom and a better life. That was how she met Juan.”
“She helped him escape?”
Pam shook her head. “No. There was another artist, who’d been blacklisted by the Russians — they didn’t approve of his work. He’d been labelled a dissident and warned he was in danger of being arrested. By that time things were getting a bit too hot for her in Berlin, so she fled with him to Spain. There was a group of other artists living there, and that was where she and Juan met.”
“Oh, yes — Mr Loughton, the auctioneer, told me she and Juan lived in an artists’ colony near Barcelona. Molly modelled for several of the artists, but it was Juan she fell in love with. Did you ever meet him?”
“No — he died a few years before I married Jack. She didn’t speak about him much.”
“There was nothing of his in the cottage, except for the portrait, and a poem he’d written. I wonder why she got rid of everything?”
Pam’s eyes softened. “She once told me that she didn’t need anything to remember him by. She sold everything but the portrait, and sent the money to an orphanage in Spain.”
“Oh . . .”
“That’s lovely.” Lisa sighed. “So romantic.”
“Why did they come and settle in England?” Vicky asked.
“I don’t know the details. It was something to do with his brother and an assassination attempt on some politician. They lived here for... oh, it must have been about fifteen years. Then Juan got sick — lung cancer. It was quite quick in the end.”
“He wrote a poem for her?” Lisa asked, a wistful note in her voice. “And he’d painted that portrait of her, too.”
“Yes — I found the poem in one of her books. And he did the sketch of Arthur’s wife, and a few others.” Vicky took a sip of her wine. “They’re all in that same weird style — not quite surrealist, not quite cubist. I don’t know what you’d call it — it was unique. Mr Loughton at the auction house said it was closest to Expressionism.”
“He did one of my grandmother,” Lisa recalled. “Mum thought it was rubbish — she kept threatening to throw it away. But I think she’s still got it. She’d probably be quite keen to sell it, if it was worth anything.”
“He did one of Jack’s mother too,” Pam added. “It’s upstairs.”
“That old thing?” From the other end of the table Jack laughed raucously. “It’s hideous. If these auction people think they can sell it, let ’em! Be glad to see the back of it — gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“You’re going to sell the portrait of Molly?” Pam asked.
Vicky nodded. “Yes. I’d like to keep it, but I need the money to pay the inheritance tax on the cottage. And besides... well, if it goes to an art gallery, more people will be able to see it.”
“So you’re going to stay here?”
“Yes.” Vicky glanced briefly at Tom. “I love it here — the beach, the village, the countryside. It’s so beautiful.”
“It is. So we’ll be neighbours. That’s nice.” She stood up to collect the empty plates, waving Vicky and Lisa back to their seats when they rose to help her. “No, sit down, you two. It won’t take a tick to put these things in the dishwasher. Coffee, everyone?”
* * *
Vicky sighed in well-fed contentment. “That was a lovely evening.”
They were strolling up the lane to the cottage, Tom’s arm resting casually around her shoulders, Rufus running at their side and dodging in and out of the hedges. “You enjoyed it?”
“It was really nice to see your mum and dad again. They’ve hardly changed a bit. Though I suppose they must be in their sixties now.”
“Dad’s sixty-seven.”
“So he’ll be retiring soon?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Farmers don’t retire.”
“The farm always comes first?”
“You’ve got it.” He hesitated briefly. “Sometimes... outsiders don’t understand how it is. I was engaged once, but... She didn’t want to stay buried away down here.” There was a tension in his voice. “So it didn”t work out.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. Vicky didn’t want to tell him that she knew about Nyree — it didn’t feel like something to discuss. She crossed her fingers behind her back as they reached her gate. “So... would you like to come in for a coffee?”
He smiled down at her, that smile that always sent her pulse into overdrive. “I like your thinking. Anyway, it looks like Rufus has already decided.” The pup had raced up the front garden and was scrabbling excitedly at the door. “He’s going to be asking me to move his basket up here.”
He spoke lightly, but Vicky felt her heart skip. Could she dare hope that he was suggesting... ?
No — she mustn’t let herself read too much into it. It had been less than a week... But the dream had lodged obstinately in her brain, and it wouldn’t go away.
* * *
“Yes, you can get to Dartmoor very easily from here. It’s only about a twenty-minute drive, at most.” Vicky picked up one of the leaflets from the reception desk and handed it to the couple who had enquired. “This will show you the easiest paths for walking.”
Saturdays were always busy at the hotel, with guests leaving and new guests arriving. But she didn’t mind — she enjoyed it. Even when, as tonight, it meant working late.
It was after nine o’clock when she left. A soft breeze was drifting in from the sea as she strolled up the hill, the air tinted gold by the last long rays of the sun as it slid down behind the hills to the west of the bay.
She had a lamb tagine cooking in the slow pot — if Tom was held up by the calving, she could put his share in the freezer. She turned into the lane — and stopped dead. Dammit. There was only one grey BMW that would be parked on her drive. What on earth was Jeremy doing here?
He was sitting in the front seat, absorbed by his phone. He didn’t even notice her until she tapped on the window. His face was taut with annoyance as he climbed out of the car.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
“What do you mean, where have I been?” she retorted. “What are you doing here?”
“I came down to see you, since you aren’t answering my calls. I’ve been sitting here for two hours.”
“I’ve been to work. You could have texted to let me know you were coming.”
“Work? What work?”
Vicky sighed impatiently. “Assistant manager at the hotel.”
He frowned. “You’re a qualified estate agent. What do you want with a job as an assistant manager in some crappy little three-star hotel?”
“Four star.” She stepped past the car and stalked up the drive. “We can’t stand here arguing — I suppose you’d better come in.”
“That’s not a very warm welcome.”
“What do you expect?” She opened the door and left him to follow her into the kitchen.
He glanced around, his professional eye evaluating the changes. “Well, this is certainly an improvement. Though you’ve spent rather too much on it — you’ll be lucky to recoup the cost.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not selling.”
“Not... ? Well, what are you going to do with it?”
“Live in it. Would you like a coffee?”
“Live in it? Don’t be ridiculous. What would you want to do that for?”
“I like it. It’s a nice cottage, a nice village. I have a job, friends.” She chose not to mention that she had a boyfriend.
“You had a job and friends, until you walked away.”
“The job wasn’t really all that, and my friends were mostly your friends. I can’t say I miss any of them. Was that a yes to the coffee?”
He sat down at the kitchen table. “You’ve changed.”
She returned him a bland smile. “Yes, I expect I have. I don’t see that as a problem.”
She turned her back on him to fill the coffee machine.
Had he always been so annoying? As if he had the right to just walk in here and question her decisions. Breaking off her engagement had been the best thing she had ever done — perhaps her stepsister had inadvertently done her a favour by hardening her determination not to back down.
She glanced at the clock. Tom would usually come over around this time in the evening. But she knew that some of the cows were due to calf, and there was one that they had been a little concerned about, so he could be up with them all night.
The coffee was ready. She added more cream to hers than she had usually allowed herself when she had been with Jeremy, and carried the two mugs over to the table.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked again.
“We need to talk.” He gestured impatiently with his hand. “That day... I just came home and found your ring, and that stupid note. No explanation. How could you just end it like that, with no warning?”
Vicky sipped her coffee slowly, contemplating what to tell him. “How’s Jayde?”
A flicker of his eyes told her that she had hit home. “Jayde? Your stepsister? Why ask me that?”
“Have you come back to me because things didn’t work out with her?”
“What things? Don’t be silly, Vicky. Whatever would I have to do with Jayde?”
“You tell me.”
“Oh, really, this is ridiculous! Have you got some stupid idea in your head that I was having an affair with her?” Too much bluster — he was giving himself away. “Of course she’s pretty enough, if you like that sort. But frankly she’s a bit of an airhead. I don’t think she’s got two brain cells to rub together.”
“You don’t need brain cells in bed.”
“Oh, come on, Vicky.” Indignant now. “You’re imagining things — letting jealousy get the better of you. Don’t you trust me?”
“Er... no.” She took another sip of her coffee and put down the mug. “You see, I came home earlier that day — it must have been around one o’clock. I let myself in, and, gosh, what a surprise! Jayde’s leather jacket, hanging in the hall. You know, the red one.”
“Well, I...” He couldn’t quite look her in the eye. “She must have left it there sometime when she came round.”
“I might have assumed that. But then I heard giggling from the bedroom.” She raised one hand to stop him speaking. “Please don’t try to tell me it was the radio. I know her voice, and yours, well enough. And just to clinch it, I stopped for a bite of lunch in the café downstairs — you know the one. And guess who I saw coming out of the block, and sharing a touching farewell at the bus stop?”
It was almost amusing to watch Jeremy slowly deflating. His only response was a weak, “Oh.” He dropped his head in his hands, twisting his fingers into his hair. “It was a mistake. She came on to me. I admit it — I was weak. I shouldn’t have done it. But she came up to the flat and... we had a couple of glasses of Prosecco...”
“In the middle of the day?”
“Yes... well... she’d brought it with her — she wanted to celebrate getting to a thousand followers on her TikTok. And, well, one thing led to another. It was only the once.”
“Once?” She arched one eyebrow in sardonic enquiry.
He hesitated. “Well . . . maybe a few times.”
She laughed. “Oh, you’re such a liar, Jeremy. I suppose that patter works well enough when you’re trying to convince some poor unsuspecting stooge to sign up to the insurance company that pays you the best commission. But I’m not impressed.”
His face darkened with annoyance. “You really have changed.”
She sighed, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe that was a bit mean. But you can’t say you didn’t deserve it.”
He managed a crooked smile. “Yes, well... I suppose I do.”
Vicky watched him, surprised at what was almost an apology.
“So, you’re really sure that’s what you want? An end to everything we had, to call off the wedding, to throw in your job?”
“That’s what I want.”
“I see.” His shoulders slumped. “But... look, can we at least still be friends?”
Vicky sighed. As infuriating as she found him, she couldn’t quite bring herself to knock him back — she had thought that she was in love with him, once.
“Okay, yes, we can be friends,” she conceded reluctantly. She glanced discreetly up at the clock again. It looked as if Tom wouldn’t be coming tonight. She hoped the calf would arrive safely.
Jeremy smiled, and sniffed the air. “Is that your lamb tagine I can smell cooking? That’s always been my favourite.”
“Have you eaten?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Damn her mother for bringing her up to always be so polite!
Jeremy looked delighted. “I had something in a service station on the way down, but I suspect it was made of cardboard.”
She laughed, in spite of herself. Well, if he was going to stay for dinner, at least he’d brought his sense of humour. She’d feed him, and then with luck he’d be gone.
* * *
“That was delicious.” Jeremy downed his second glass of wine and poured himself another. Vicky declined his offer of a refill. “This is nice. Like old times.”
“I suppose so.” As the evening wore on, she was beginning to ask herself why she had taken so long to break off their engagement — in fact why she had let herself get engaged to him in the first place.
“Vicky, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Jayde... it didn’t mean anything. I still love you.”
“Jeremy, don’t—”
“No, hear me out,” he pleaded. “I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few weeks, and I realise I’d been letting things drift. I was taking you for granted. But it can be different now — I can be different. I promise...”
“Jeremy—”
“Can’t we get back together again? We were good together — we had some good times, didn’t we? We’ve always said we’d go to Paris — we could do that. A long weekend — it’ll be great. What do you say?”
“No, Jeremy.”
“Don’t answer at once. Think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it.”
“Vicky, please.” He reached across the table and tried to take her hand. “Don’t throw it all away, what we had. I mean it when I say I love you.”
“I’m sure you do — or at least you think you do.” She drew her hand back out of reach. “But it’s over, Jeremy. I’m not going to change my mind.”
His mouth thinned, and for a moment she thought he was going to persist with the argument. Instead he smiled suddenly, and poured himself another large glass of wine. “This is a particularly fine Merlot, don’t you think? I got a whole crate from Freddie Lester, at quite a decent price.”
“That’s good.” Hmm — change of subject. She knew him well enough to recognise his usual tactic — divert the conversation from the bone of contention, then come back to it later.
He had quickly regained his usual easy confidence. “I always get a good deal. I always get what I want, in the end.”
She returned him a level look.
“Well, I mean... most things. I wasn’t referring to us getting back together. I wouldn’t expect... I wouldn’t take that for granted. I just hope... well, just think about it.”
“Jeremy, I told you — I don’t need to think about it. I’ve made up my mind — in fact I’d decided before finding out about you and Jayde. I realised we were going in different directions — we want different things. Let’s just accept that, and settle for being friends.”
His eyes flashed with anger and he drained his wine glass in one gulp, and poured himself another.
“That’s your fifth glass. You’re not going to be able to drive anywhere tonight.” Her voice was taut with impatience. “You’d better stay.”
The glint of triumph in his eyes fuelled her suspicion that he had deliberately drunk too much so that she would be forced to let him stay. As he said, he usually got what he wanted.
But if he thought he was going to share her bed, he would learn his mistake. “I’ll make up the bed for you in the spare room. I won’t be a minute.”
She slipped away upstairs. It was late — well past eleven o’clock. It was unlikely that Tom would come now. But she would see him tomorrow. That thought gave her a warm feeling in her heart.
Tomorrow . . .
* * *
But Tom didn’t come.
Vicky had seen a hungover Jeremy off after breakfast, hoping he wasn’t still over the limit from last night’s wine. She had filled the dishwasher and done some laundry, then gone down to Debbie’s for lunch before heading to the hotel for her afternoon shift.
She was singing as she pottered around the kitchen preparing a Thai curry for dinner — Tom’s favourite. But as the evening ticked by he didn’t appear. Eventually she ate her curry alone at the kitchen table, then sat down to watch some television — alone.
It was odd — she hadn’t minded being alone those first few weeks after she had come down here. She had enjoyed being able to pick any film she liked from Netflix or being able to concentrate on her writing.
But even in the short time since that first night with Tom, she had got used to him being there, to snuggle up with on the sofa or in bed.
The film ended, and she checked her phone again — no messages. Should she ring him? No — she had promised herself that she wouldn’t be the needy girlfriend. Besides, he might be busy — there could be more than one of the cows having a difficult birth, or new calves needing a lot of attention.
Instead she settled in her workroom and turned on her computer to crack on with the chapter she was working on. But somehow she couldn’t concentrate. She was too conscious of the slow movement of the hands of the clock on the wall above her desk.
She stayed up until almost one o’clock in the morning — but he didn’t come.
The next morning she woke alone. That in itself wasn’t unusual — Tom often left for milking before she woke. But there would be a warm dent in the pillow beside her, the unique male scent of his skin lingering on the sheets.
But today there was nothing — and the scent was fading.
Maybe she should walk up to the farm and see if he was there. On the pretext of a casual visit to Pam. No — maybe not. He’d see right through that. Just be patient — be sensible.
Or... maybe he didn’t want to see her today. Maybe the initial gloss of their relationship was wearing off already and he wanted ‘space’.
She rolled out of bed, impatiently brushing a tear from her eye. Maybe she was the one moving too quickly. But would he really have dumped her like that, without a word? Even if she had just been a stopgap, a temporary bandage over the wound in his heart inflicted by the beautiful Nyree Donovan?
Surely he would have been upfront about it, told her honestly... wouldn’t he? She didn’t know — she really didn’t know him that well.
In the bathroom she gazed bleakly at her reflection in the mirror. She’d watched some more episodes of that detective series. It was a stupid thing to do, but they had taunted her, sitting there on her screen, prompting her to ‘continue watching’ the box set every time she opened it.
As Debbie had said, Nyree was stunning — flawless features, the loveliest smile, laughing blue eyes. And though it might be just the role she was playing, she seemed to be sweet-natured and charming.
How could she follow that?
Well, if it was over, it was over. She’d been in relationships before that had ended, and she’d survived — she’d survive this time.
But first she’d sit down on the edge of the bath and let herself have a really good cry.
* * *
An hour later she was on her way to Exeter. She wasn’t going to hang around waiting for Tom Cullen to deign to drop by — that would just be pathetic. Anyway she needed to pick up a few things for the cottage — new curtains for the spare bedroom, a good office chair for her workroom. Some perfumed candles.
She had lunch in the sunshine on the pavement beside Cathedral Green, browsed in a bookshop, thought about treating herself to a pretty necklace in a quaint little jewellers near the art gallery.
But when she got home there was still no sign of Tom. No missed calls. No messages. Just a long, empty silence.
Why? Had she done something wrong? Said the wrong thing? Almost obsessively she picked over the memories of their last time together, but she couldn’t find anything that might account for him ending things like this.
Could he be ill, maybe had an accident? No — he would have let her know, or his mum would. At the least, Debbie would certainly have known.
Oh for goodness’ sake — why couldn’t she work up the courage to just call him? This was the twenty-first century. Women didn’t have to sit at home waiting for the phone to ring.
Had he seen Jeremy’s car parked outside and jumped to the wrong conclusion? Without even giving her a chance to explain? If that was it, then she’d be damned if she’d go running to him, begging, apologising.
She’d done too much apologising with Jeremy — for putting the cutlery the wrong way up in the dishwasher or not ironing his shirts exactly as he liked them. No more.
She made herself toast for dinner — she didn’t feel like eating much. There was nothing on television she wanted to watch, and she had come to the conclusion that the novel she was trying to write was the most boring rubbish anyone had ever committed to print.
She went to bed early, but lay awake, alternately staring at the ceiling and sobbing into her pillow. There was no denying it — she’d been dumped in the most unceremonious way since the demise of the fax machine.
* * *
The days passed in a cloud of dull misery. Even the news from the auction house of the date of the sale of Molly’s portrait couldn’t lighten her mood. She avoided going down to Debbie’s, afraid her friend would be sympathetic and she’d end up crying in public.
It was made far worse when she was out weeding around the roses in the front garden, and saw Tom drive past in his silver-grey SUV. He didn’t even glance in her direction. So — not ill, not in an accident. Just very clearly not interested.
Ambling up the hill after work on Friday evening, she was even beginning to wonder if she should sell the cottage after all, move away, start again somewhere else. But the thought was painful. She had been happy here, before she had been stupid enough to fall in love with Tom Cullen. She loved the village, she had friends...
Turning in through her front gate, she was startled by a blast of excited barking and Rufus hurtling towards her.
“Well, hello, you.” She laughed, bending to tickle his ear. “Have you run away again?”
The little dog raced off to zoom round the garden at top speed, then came back to her for another ear-tickle.
“You’d better go home. Your master will be looking for you.”
His response was to roll on his back, suggesting that she might like to tickle his pink tummy.
“Go on, go home.” She pointed towards the farm. “Go! Shoo!”
A pair of liquid brown eyes regarded her, filled with canine mischief, then a flea was found, which required immediate attention from a flicking paw. A passing bumblebee had to be chased, and there was a very interesting smell to be investigated behind the water-butt.
Vicky sighed. “Am I going to have to catch you and drag you home?”
The enquiry was ignored as Rufus snuffled off down the side of the cottage to the back garden. It was clear that she didn’t stand a chance of catching him, at least not without resorting to bribery.
Armed with a couple of biscuits from the kitchen, she set off in pursuit. She found him bouncing around happily in the long grass. He regarded the proffered biscuit with suspicion.
“Here, boy — look. Come and get it.”
The little dog crept closer then darted away, inviting her with a play-bow to join in his game. As she reached to grab him he darted to one side, barking happily and setting off to zoom around the garden again.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake . . .”
“Ah. I thought this was where I’d find you.”
She turned sharply. Tom was standing there. He spared her the briefest glance, then hunkered down on his haunches to call to Rufus.
Vicky felt her heart racing, her mouth too dry to utter a word. He was here — but in seconds he would be gone, while her mind was still spinning between the pain of losing him and boiling anger at the way he had dumped her so casually.
He clipped on Rufus’s lead and stood up, his eyes unreadable. “So you’re still here then?”
She blinked, startled by the question. “Where else would I be?”
“Aren’t you selling the cottage and going back to London?”
“You know I’m not. Why would you think that?”
He arched one dark eyebrow. “Your fiancé told me.”
“Jeremy told you?”
“I came over after we’d delivered Violet’s calf — and what a surprise, there was your fiancé’s car on your drive. I knocked, and there he was, in his shirtsleeves, very much at home, the remains of your cosy supper for two on the table. And delighted to tell me that you were together again, all nice and cosy. He said that you were upstairs getting ready for bed.”
Vicky stared at him, appalled. “He... ? Of all the... it wasn’t true! I had no idea he was coming down.”
“Oh?”
“I’d broken off my engagement weeks ago. I’d already decided I was going to do that when I found out he’d been screwing my stepsister, the dirty lying scumbag — I actually caught them at it. There was no way I’d ever take him back after that.”
His dark gaze levelled on hers. Did he believe her? He had to believe her...
“And I was upstairs making up the bed for him in the spare room. He’d had too much to drink — he did that deliberately so he couldn’t drive home.” She drew in a long, deep breath and let it go. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
“You didn’t?” The start of a smile was lifting the corner of his mouth.
“Of course I didn’t. How could you even think that?”
“Oh.” The smile widened, warm with relief. “It looks like I jumped to the wrong conclusion — again. We both seem to make a habit of that.”
She laughed a little unsteadily. “We do, don’t we?”
“I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Something was constricting her throat, but she forced her voice past it.
“I . . . might.”
“Please?”
He opened his arms, and she walked straight into them. Happiness was bubbling up inside her like champagne, and she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, resting her cheek against his hard chest.
She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but it still felt a bit precarious. She would tell him — soon. But for now... She lifted her face, smiling up at him as his mouth came down to hers in a long, deep, tender kiss.