Chapter Fifteen
Marcus
Wren’s quiet as I signal and turn off the main road onto the drive, but I can see her looking at the view as I press the button for the gate, and it swings open. The Bentley’s tires scrunch on the gravel as I ease it forward, and I close the gate behind us and head for the house.
The drive winds through rolling paddocks, most of them with sheep grazing contentedly in the warm afternoon sunshine. Eucalyptus trees provide a windbreak on one side, partly obscuring the round hay bales stacked near the fence, the old hay shed, and the tractor barn.
We crest the hill, and below us, the farmhouse sits at the end of the drive, its white weatherboards bright in the sun.
A large central section opens out onto a wing on either side, with French doors facing the lawn that wraps around the house.
Lavender bushes line the path, and hydrangeas provide a splash of pink and blue around the porch. Baby colors. I can’t help but smile.
I pull up and turn off the engine. For a moment there’s only silence, just the rustle of the trees in the breeze and the sound of birdsong, a world away from the intense buzz of the city. Wren exhales, and she glances at me, her blue eyes wide.
Then two Border Collies, trained sheepdogs used for mustering, break the peace as they come running out, barking, but with wagging tails.
“Are you okay with dogs?” I ask.
“Of course.” Wren opens the door. “Hello!” She bends to greet the Collies, laughing as they nuzzle her and threaten to push her over. “Aw, this one’s pregnant. Hello, sweetie! Look at you! You must be close to having your pups.”
“Any day now.” A woman in her late fifties comes out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiles. “Hello, Mars.”
“Hey you.” I stride up and throw my arms around her.
“Long time no see.” She hugs me back, then says, “And this must be the new Mrs. Ashford.”
I move back and turn to where Wren is watching us shyly. “This is Wren. Wren, this is Mrs. Maxwell.”
“Oh, gosh, Ruth, please,” she scolds. “You’re not twelve anymore. Hello, Wren.”
“Hello.” Wren shakes her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Ruth’s been our housekeeper since we were kids,” I explain. “She’s married to Jacob, our estate manager.”
“For my sins,” Ruth says cheerfully. She turns and leads the way into the house.
“Now, the cupboards and fridge are full. Tonight’s dinner is in the slow cooker, and I made the bread this morning.
Jacob’s filled the wine rack, but there’s more out in the shed, obviously.
You know I’m only a phone call away if you want anything.
But I’m sure you’d rather be alone as much as possible on your honeymoon. ” She winks at me.
I glance at Wren, but she’s busy looking around and doesn’t see it.
I follow her gaze. The house was restored around five years ago, but its bones are still visible beneath its new coat—exposed beams in places, the original wide floorboards, the old heavy table in the kitchen where we used to sit as kids.
Wren walks around, trailing her fingers over the linen curtains moving in the breeze, bending to smell the lavender sprigs in the vase on the table.
I follow behind, letting her explore. The house smells of wax polish, freshly cooked bread, and whatever’s in the slow cooker.
I lift the lid—it’s a beef casserole, and it smells amazing.
While Wren looks out of the window, I open the fridge, take out a water bottle, and have a few mouthfuls as I investigate the contents.
Bottles of white wine in the door, fresh milk, meat and cheese, salad and vegetables in the crisper, and, at the top, a packet of Squiggles—New Zealand chocolate biscuits.
I laugh and show Ruth. “You remembered.”
“I never forget,” she says with a grin. “You and Caesar ate so many packets of those.”
I put them back in and close the fridge, smiling as Wren turns. “What do you think?”
“It’s very homely. Has it changed much since you were a child?”
“Same layout, same body. Just a new dress.”
“Come and see your room,” Ruth says.
Wren glances at me but doesn’t say anything as we follow Ruth along the hallway to the east wing of the house.
My old bedroom looks very different from how it looked when I was a child.
Gone is the single bed, the rugby posters, the science-fiction books in the bookcase.
Some of my sports trophies still sit on the shelves, and Wren picks them up and reads them, then examines the large black-and-white photos on the wall.
One is of me when I was about fourteen, bending down, stroking my old, beloved sheepdog.
The other is of me, Caesar, and Aurelia sitting on the fence not far from the house.
Caesar’s about fourteen, I’m nine, and Aurelia’s seven.
The king-size bed that replaced my single one is covered in a new lavender-colored duvet and pillows, with the drapes in a darker shade. Ruth’s put another vase of flowers on the dresser and opened the windows to let in the fresh country air.
“The ensuite has all kinds of toiletries,” Ruth says, “and you’ll find some of my very own handmade soap and bath salts there, too, made with lavender oil from the farm.”
“I love the smell of lavender, thank you,” Wren says.
“I’ve made some chicken rolls for your lunch,” Ruth states. “They’re wrapped in the fridge. And there’s a ham quiche, and a fruitcake in the tin.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“I’ll go and find Jacob,” she says. “Get him to bring your cases in.” She smiles and goes out.
Wren turns in a circle, her gaze eventually falling on me. “It’s a beautiful home,” she says softly. “I can see echoes of you, Caesar, and Aurelia running around as kids.”
“We were very happy here. Just like you and I will be in our house in Stanley Point.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she looks up at me as I close the distance between us. “It’s so quiet here,” she whispers, glancing out of the open windows. “So peaceful. The birdsong is like music.” She looks back at me as I stand in front of her. Her eyes are very blue, like the sky behind her.
I slide my left hand to cup her face and brush her cheek with my thumb. “My wife,” I murmur.
She lifts her right hand and covers my hand with hers. For a moment I think she’s going to pull mine away, but she doesn’t. Instead, I realize she’s touching my wedding ring.
“My husband,” she says.
“All yours.” I lower my head and kiss her.
Her lips are warm and soft. She closes her eyes, and her breath mingles with mine as she gives a little sigh. She rests her hands on my chest, and then slides them up to my neck as I pull her close and wrap my arms around her.
“Oh! Sorry.”
Wren leaps back, and I turn and chuckle as Jacob delivers the cases with a grin.
“Apologies, I should have knocked first,” he says, and then he laughs as I go up to him and give him a bearhug. “Congratulations,” he adds. He moves back and smiles. “You’re far too young to get married. What are you, fifteen, sixteen?”
“Almost,” I reply with a chuckle. “Wren, this is Jacob Maxwell. Jake, this is my wife.”
“I can see how much you enjoy saying that,” he says, and he goes up to her and shakes her hand. “Hello, Mrs. Ashford. So nice to meet you.”
“Wren, please, and lovely to meet you, too.”
“Ruthie said I should tell you that I’ve recently refilled the hot tub.”
“Excellent, thank you.”
“If there’s nothing else, we’ll be off now. But please, call us if you need anything.”
We walk out with him and meet Ruth at the front door. She lets the dogs out and gives us a big smile. “I’ll be over tomorrow morning at eight to cook you breakfast and sort dinner out. But don’t feel you have to get up if you don’t want to.”
She gives Wren a mischievous smile. Wren immediately blushes scarlet.
I try not to laugh. “See you tomorrow.”
Jacob chuckles, picks up the pregnant dog and puts her in the back of the ute, letting the other one jump up, and he and Ruth get in.
We wave goodbye, and the car sets off down the drive.
Within a minute, the sound of the engine fades away, and all we can hear again is the breeze in the trees and the sound of birdsong.
I look at Wren and take her hand. “Come on. Let’s have some lunch.”
I take her through to the kitchen, open the fridge, and retrieve the rolls that Ruth made earlier and the packet of Squiggles.
“She makes the best bread,” I advise. “What would you like to drink? Shall we open a bottle of champagne?” I peer around the fridge.
Wren is standing there, biting her bottom lip.
“I was thinking,” she admits.
“Yeah…”
“Maybe we should just get it over with.”
The fridge door slowly closes.
“Sorry?” I say.
“The sex,” she replies.
I blink and say flatly, “We should get it over with.”
“Well, yeah.” She swallows hard, and then words come tumbling out. “I keep thinking about it, and I know you probably are too, and it feels as if it’s in the way, and I don’t think we’re going to be able to move on until it’s done, so I thought maybe we should just, sort of, do it.”
There’s a long silence.
Wren swallows again, looking terrified.
Finally, I nod. “Makes sense.”
She looks relieved. “I think so.”
“Yeah.” I look around and pat the kitchen counter. “Okay. Jeans off. Bend over. I’ll make it quick.”
She stares at me. Her gaze slides to the counter. Then it comes back to me. “Are you serious?”
I open the fridge and take out a bottle of champagne and a carton of orange juice. “Find some glasses. Let’s eat out on the deck.”
“But—”