CHAPTER 61
Harriet
Dorset
It was Christmas Day. Owen, Henry, Mother, Joanna and Harriet were sitting around the Christmas tree she and Joanna had decorated together and after two glasses of fizz, Harriet was feeling mellow.
The vegetables were in the oven, the turkey was resting (finally she knew how it felt) and most of the presents had been exchanged.
Joanna had bought her a silk dress in deep purple (when I am an old woman I shall wear purple, thought Harriet) which was quite simply the most beautiful dress she had ever seen; Mother had bought her a black cashmere pashmina and Henry had shyly offered an expensive bath and beauty set, the like of which had never graced Harriet’s bathroom before.
Harriet had given out home-made candles and chutneys, woollen sweaters for Mother and Joanna, and thick leather gloves for Owen.
The baubles of the Christmas tree reflected the white Christmas lights and the greenery she and Joanna had gathered from the lane smelt green and earthy.
Joanna had balanced precariously on the frosty bank of grass and stretched up to cut the sprays of holly with the brightest red berries, while Harriet held her around the waist for balance.
They had both ended up with sore pricked fingers but it had been worth it.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so much.
And when she opened her sister’s present, her eyes filled and she was lost for words.
She caught Joanna’s eye. ‘Perhaps you should put it on, Het,’ her sister said.
‘Oh, it’s far too glamorous.’ But Harriet eyed it with longing.
‘I agree with Joanna.’ Owen eyed Harriet steadily. ‘Why not put it on? It’s very warm in here. And it is Christmas Day.’
‘Well . . .’ She couldn’t deny that. Harriet couldn’t help noticing that Owen was looking rather dapper.
He was wearing a blue shirt that brought out the blue of his eyes and instead of his usual jeans, pale dove-grey trousers and polished soft-leather shoes.
In fact, he looked so different from usual she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
He’d probably made the effort for Joanna.
Had her sister noticed? Harriet wasn’t sure that she had.
‘And you also have your pashmina to keep you warm,’ her mother added.
‘Thanks, Mother.’ Harriet held the wool against her cheek. ‘So soft,’ she said. ‘But what about the lunch?’
‘I’ll do the greasy bits.’ Joanna laughed. ‘And isn’t that why someone invented aprons?’
So, Harriet went upstairs to change. She held the dress up in front of her and felt its delicate folds shiver against her legs. It was delicious. She would try it on at least and then . . .
She slipped the purple silk dress over her shoulders, wriggled a bit and regarded herself in the mirror. It fitted her perfectly. It flowed. The dress lent her a sort of sophistication – something Joanna possessed that she’d always envied. Was it so easy then? Was it simply a matter of a new dress?
Harriet was a bit surprised that there had been no gift from Owen – especially after he’d made the grand gesture of giving Joanna that painting.
Of course, he was just a neighbour, but he had become a friend and she fully recognised that now.
She had started to enjoy their conversations instead of trying to avoid him or palm him off with Mother and perhaps that was why she was feeling a lot less lonely these days.
Still . . . Owen had given Mother a lovely hamper of food and wine – which was both practical but also a great treat – so she supposed the gift had been meant for them both, to thank them for the meals they’d cooked for him, no doubt.
But there had been nothing personal and this put a shadow on the day somehow.
Harriet went back downstairs, feeling more than a little self-conscious. Joanna and Owen were in the kitchen whispering about something. Harriet frowned. More secrets? Now that she could do without.
‘Wow.’ Joanna voiced approval. ‘Het, you look gorgeous. Give us a twirl.’
Embarrassed, Harriet let out a laugh that turned into a cough and then back into a laugh again. She clearly hadn’t gained an iota of poise or sophistication after all.
Owen was staring at her. ‘You look beautiful,’ he murmured.
Oh, honestly . . .
‘And this is for you.’ He handed her a small package wrapped in silver paper.
As Harriet took it, she was half aware of Joanna scuttling out of the room. ‘Just got to . . .’ The rest of the sentence was muffled and indistinct.
‘Thank you.’ So, he hadn’t forgotten her after all. Harriet untied the clumsily wrapped package, opened the lilac-coloured box. For some reason it was becoming difficult to breathe. On a nest of white netting lay a gold locket and chain, the front of it bevelled and engraved with . . .
She took it out. It settled into her palm, heavy and satisfying. ‘It’s lovely.’ It was more than lovely. It was too much. Much too much.
‘There’re no pictures in it,’ he said. ‘Yet. That’s for you to decide.’
It opened with a click between her fingers. There was room for two pictures, one on either side of the locket. She shut it again, traced the engraving with her fingertip. Of course. She smiled. ‘It’s a mulberry tree.’
He smiled back at her. ‘Do you like it?’
Like it? She closed her fingers around it, reached up to kiss his cheek. He smelt different too – of crisp male cologne, of lemon and spice. ‘I love it.’
And she took his hand and pressed the locket into his palm, turning so that he could fasten it in place around her neck.
*
Later, much later, after they had eaten and drunk much more than they probably should, after Christmas telly and charades, after Mother had fallen asleep twice and then woken up again with a start to find them all still laughing and chatting, as if they’d always got on like a house on fire, it was time for the day to end.
‘I’d best be getting back,’ Owen said.
‘Lucky you only live next door,’ Joanna teased.
Harriet looked at her watch. It was past midnight and she thought it had been the best Christmas Day ever. Since her father’s death she’d imagined that no Christmas could ever be the same without him. But now . . .
Owen was standing beside her and she got to her feet, feeling awkward once again.
‘I’ll see you out,’ she said.
He nodded.
She took off the paper hat that she’d only just realised she was still wearing, wrapped herself in her new pashmina and at the last minute threw her waterproof winter parka on top. Owen smiled. But Harriet didn’t want the evening to end quite yet and she sensed that Owen felt the same.
Sure enough, he drew her arm through his and without speaking, slowly, they strolled down to the mulberry tree and the pond.
The farmyard was almost silent and the moon was almost full, but not quite, Harriet realised, not quite. As they moved apart, she fingered the locket around her neck. ‘This is so special, Owen,’ she said. She wanted to thank him again, but right at this moment she didn’t have the words.
He gave her a look. ‘The locket?’ he asked. ‘Or the night?’
‘Both.’ She couldn’t repress a small shiver.
He moved closer. ‘I suppose you know that it’s a love token,’ he said.
Love? Harriet didn’t know what to say. Love? ‘The locket or the night?’ she asked.
He seemed very serious now. ‘Both.’
Harriet gazed down. The moonlight was shining on the surface of the pond.
An occasional arrow of gold wove through the water – the fish weren’t sleeping either.
Above Owen and Harriet the overhanging boughs of the mulberry tree hung: dense, heavy and waiting.
Love? But what about Joanna? Harriet realised that she’d been completely wrong about Joanna – in oh, so many ways.
‘Owen, I thought—’
‘I’d give up the farm,’ he said. ‘If you wanted to start afresh someplace else.’
‘You’d give up the farm?’ Harriet hugged her arms around her chest. But he belonged here, didn’t he?
‘It’s only a place,’ he said. ‘Not so important in the scheme of things.’
Harriet shook her head. It was important.
It was part of what made him who he was.
She’d railed against Warren Down and Mulberry Farm Cottage and the life she’d had here for so long that it had become a habit.
But now that she had the choice, now that she could leave if she wanted to, she found that . . .
‘No,’ she said.
‘No?’
‘No.’ She didn’t want to lose any of it.
Which was confusing, very confusing. But the truth was – just as her father had always known, she guessed – that Harriet belonged to this place too.
She always had and she always would, despite everything she had now discovered.
Yes, in the past, she’d been given no choice.
But now that she had a choice, there was no place she’d rather be.
Simple. This place was as familiar to her as her own skin.
Because it was her skin; it was part of her.
‘If you won’t have me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be going somewhere else anyhow. I won’t be sticking around any longer.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet tried to imagine Warren Down without Owen. And failed. And as he stood there in front of her, she became aware of something she’d never noticed before. Or maybe she had noticed, but had dismissed it.
He was a big man, of course, six feet two inches in his socks.
And bulky. Inside the cottage he had always looked too big for their kitchen.
He was ungainly, she had thought. A typical farmer.
But she’d been wrong. He was no more a typical farmer than her father had been.
What was a typical farmer anyway? She thought of what Owen had said to her about the mulberry tree and Shakespeare, what she now knew of his background.
Outside, working in the fields, tending the pigs and the sheep, chopping wood, he was different.
He was rooted to the land, she realised, sure of his ground, part of this landscape, his landscape. Not ungainly at all.
It was a revelation. He was a revelation. She hadn’t really seen him before. He was solid, that’s what he was. Her gaze took in the broad shoulders, the brown weathered skin. Every male inch of him. His body was so substantial. So real. And . . .
She reached out to touch his arm. He hadn’t bothered to put on a coat.
The blue shirt was soft, but his arm was hard, the flesh firm, the muscles taut.
It was a body you could depend on. She moved closer.
Under the lemon and spice cologne, she thought she could smell the scent of farmyards, rich, grassy and sweet.
She breathed deeply. It was a body you could lean against, lean into.
And he wouldn’t give way. She put her hands on his chest. Pushed gently.
‘What?’ He was watching her, smiling.
‘You’re immovable.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ He took her hands in his. ‘You move me. You always have.’
‘But love . . .’ she said. She rested her head against his shoulder.
It felt good, felt as if that was where it should be, where it should stay.
She thought of the others – Jamie and the disasters that had followed when she was young.
She thought of the long years of getting older and crosser.
She thought of the Someone Somewhere dating site, the men she had met, and she thought of Scott.
Mmm. But not mmm because of Scott, just mmm at the thought of lovemaking.
The kind where love was the most important thing.
And all the time, Owen was there. Here. Solid, reliable, trustworthy. A rock. But she hadn’t seen.
‘Love,’ he said decisively. With his fingers he tipped back her chin so that she was looking straight at him.
‘For how long?’ she whispered. Their lips were very close. And in a moment, he might kiss her. This was doing something with her life, she realised. This was what it was all about.
‘Forever,’ he said.
That was a long, long time. ‘I never knew,’ she said. But in a funny sort of way, she had.