Chapter Eleven
‘You must be joking,’ said Ditty, horror in her voice.
She had to be dreaming. No, not dreaming; she must be having a nightmare.
Because what she had just heard, it couldn’t be true. Not with ten days to go before the most perfect proposal she had ever planned.
The proposal that would restore her reputation. The proposal that would show all the newspapers back in London that what she did was worthwhile, not a scam. The proposal that would keep allowing her to provide for her family.
The proposal that would show Henry just how romantic it could be…
Ditty swallowed. She should not be thinking of Henry at a time like this.
As she sat within the inn’s breakfast room, surrounded by the shapes of hearts and a pink lamp with wings, she could not believe what she was hearing. She had thought it bad enough that the fireworks she had ordered were yet to arrive, but this?
On the opposite side of the table, Reg sighed. ‘I am not joking.’
‘But it must be a mistake. It cannot be as serious as all that,’ Ditty said eagerly, as though she could persuade him.
‘Ditty, I’m telling you, the roof has fallen in,’ said Reg gently, as though it was her restaurant destroyed in the night. ‘With all the snow melting… I’ve been meaning to get it looked at for a while—’
‘But the whole roof? The entire restaurant? Are you sure there isn’t a part that—’
‘Ditty, the restaurant is closed.’ Reg sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know what to say, except that I’m sorry. I won’t be able to host your planned proposal—I won’t be able to host anything for a while.’
Ditty leaned back against her chair as she heard the resignation in Reg’s voice, as panic threatened to overwhelm her.
The roof, the restaurant, it was all ruined. She’d never find a place suitable in time, and all the preparations had been made with Reg’s place in mind, how could she—
She was being selfish. A wave of guilt overcame her, and she bit her lip as she tried to think what to say.
This wasn’t about her.
Well, the urgent meeting Reg had requested was. The distraught man had wanted to let her know the moment he had arrived at Cantelli Restaurant that morning and discovered the destruction.
Wanted to give her enough time to replan the proposal, he had said.
But though this was a blow to her plans, it was a far greater blow to Reg. His restaurant, his precious business—he loved welcoming people into that place, seeing them well-fed, enjoying their enjoyment, gaining joy from their joy.
And now it was all destroyed.
She couldn’t be selfish and pretend this was her tragedy. It was Reg’s.
‘I am so sorry, Reg,’ she said softly.
When Reg spoke, Ditty could see he was holding back tears. ‘Oh, what’s a restaurant in the grand scheme of things! Nobody died!’
The crack in his voice said otherwise.
Ditty clutched at the table. ‘I know, but it’s still sad, and once I’ve sorted out this proposal I’ll work out a plan to help you, Reg. You’ve been so kind to me, welcoming me to Brexley.’
Ditty embraced Reg before he left the inn. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to take it all in. The Cantelli Restaurant was closed. The perfect proposal was no longer perfect.
And she had only ten days to make it so.
Besides, it was not only her problem. The loss of the only restaurant in the place was going to play havoc with their plans for their Valentine’s Day Festival.
She swallowed. All those visitors coming here for the festival; all the preparations the town had been doing, all the flowers Miss Vivienne had brought in, all the decorations Mrs Fletcher had added to her inn.
It would all be a disaster without somewhere for all the tourists to eat.
Ditty twisted her hands together as she tried to think, forcing the panic at bay. There had to be a solution—but really, she needed to think of Charles’s proposal first. That was the reason she was in Brexley in the first place!
And she wanted to show Henry, really show him, what she could do.
If she was at home, she’d have all her books out on the carpet by now. How would she order them this time? By her enjoyment rating? By age of the author? By average length of chapter?
Ditty rose from the chair and pulled on her pelisse. She had to see Henry. He would help her.
The walk from Mrs Fletcher’s inn to the Lodge was not a long one, but the brisk fresh air did wonders to Ditty’s state of mind.
Her determination only increased as she entered the Lodge.
‘Ah, Ditty! I didn’t expect to—’
‘Henry,’ she said, the name of the one person she wanted most in the world in that moment spilling from her lips. Swallowing, she said, ‘Dr. Paisley. The Duke of Glanyrafon—I need—where is he?’
The woman blinked. ‘Oh. Oh, I think he’s in his study.’
Ditty waited for directions, but as none seemed forthcoming, prompted, ‘And that is…?’
The woman flushed and pointed to her left. ‘Dr. Paisley doesn’t like being disturbed in his—’
‘Thank you,’ Ditty said swiftly, striding in the direction that the woman had pointed. This part of the Lodge seemed to be…well, she wouldn’t say it aloud, but even more decrepit. There was a flickering lamp at one end, and the carpet had definitely seen better days.
The door before her said, in gold letters: D CT R.
‘It used to say “Doctor,”’ said Mavis with a sigh. ‘But that was a few years ago now. I don’t know why Henry doesn’t have that fixed, but there we are. Have fun, Miss Ditty, but not too much fun.’
‘Mavis!’ said Ditty, shocked.
The older woman winked, then returned up the corridor.
Ditty swallowed as she turned to the door suddenly hesitant. Henry was a busy man. Doctor and duke, it was a wonder he’d had time to speak with her so much as he had. And why was that? she wondered for the first time. He had been very kind, but—
‘Ditty?’
She blinked. The door before her had opened and there stood Henry, thick greatcoat on and heavy scarf wrapped around his face. He looked as though he had stepped in from the outdoors, rather than from his study.
‘Henry,’ Ditty said weakly.
‘What are you— Is everything quite well?’
‘Yes,’ she said instinctively. Her shoulders slumped. ‘No. I need your help. Can I come in?’
For some reason, Henry looked over his shoulder and glanced back into his study. ‘Erm…yes. I don’t see why not.’
Deflated, Ditty turned to go. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have come. Do not concern yourself with my—’
‘Ditty, wait!’
She froze. No, that wasn’t the right word—because heat was washing up her arm, through her pelisse, where Henry had grabbed hold of her.
She turned back to face him and saw…what was that, in his eyes? Eagerness? Something more?
‘I just didn’t want you seeing my study in such a mess,’ he said ruefully. ‘But come on in. I… I want to help.’
Ditty tried to think about his words as she stepped into the study. He wanted to help? What did that mean?
Unfortunately, she was unable to consider it any further as she looked around her.
Well, at everything not covered by paperwork.
She had never seen such a mess; every square inch of the place was covered with paper, teacups without saucers scattered everywhere, their rings left staining anything they rested on.
There was a box of what appeared to be bills sitting in one corner, and the desk at one end of the room could have been light or dark wood but it was impossible to tell.
Notebooks filled with spidery handwriting—a doctor’s handwriting, Ditty thought wryly—were all over the sofa, along with envelopes, which from the look of them, hadn’t ever been opened.
‘You…you work in here?’ Ditty had not intended to speak, but couldn’t stop herself.
Henry gave her a wry grin as he pushed some papers from a sofa and indicated she should sit. ‘Not really. I escape it as much as possible, I’ve never really been a dab hand at paperwork.’
Ditty’s eyes widened as she sat. ‘Yes, I am getting that impression.’
Yet her heart warmed. This was a man who clearly focused on what he thought was important: his residents. Paperwork could always wait. Clearly.
‘So, what’s wrong?’
Ditty took a deep breath as all the panic she had pushed down from Reg’s conversation soared. ‘Reg’s restaurant—’
‘I heard, the roof’s fallen in.’
Ditty frowned. ‘How do you—’
‘Brexley is not that big a place, I told you,’ Henry said with a laugh as he leaned against his desk. There wasn’t enough space for him on the sofa—something Ditty noticed with a tinge of regret. ‘That rather scuppers your proposal plan, doesn’t it?’
How could he speak so calmly? ‘I thought you could help me.’
‘I’m not sure what I can do,’ said Henry, popping his hands in his greatcoat pockets. It was remarkably cold in here, now Ditty came to think of it. ‘I mean, I’m not a roofer.’
‘But I had the perfect plan!’ The words exploded from her.
‘Sometimes you don’t need a plan.’
‘I need a plan,’ said Ditty, glaring, wondering why on earth she thought she could come here for help. It could not be more clear he was delighted her perfect plan was over! ‘I had a plan, and now it’s ruined. What am I supposed to do now?’
* * *
Henry swallowed.
He hadn’t meant it to sound like that.
Sometimes you don’t need a plan.
It was just…well. She’d had a plan, Henry knew. The plan now couldn’t work, so she would have to make a new plan.
How hard could it be?
But he looked at Ditty—really looked. He saw her hands, fingers twisted together in her lap, constantly moving as though if she stopped, the world would end. He saw her wide eyes, as though desperately seeking a solution somewhere in his study.
Henry almost laughed at that. If there had been solutions to anything in his study, he would be the one desperate to find them. As it was, he hadn’t found anything in his study for a while—except a sandwich, once. In his filing cabinet.
But most of all, he could hear in Ditty’s voice that she was frantic. It was so unlike the Ditty he had grown to know over the weeks; the strong, determined, capable Ditty.
This was Ditty in real distress. And she had come to him.