Chapter Fifteen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At some point in the middle of the night, the tone of Ash’s note begins to take on a sinister edge. While I was drunk, I thought that he’d written Not happening with kind of a cute, flippant air.
But once the high of alcohol wears off, paranoia sets in and I begin to wonder if he meant Not happening in a meaner way, as in: This is my home and I’m not going anywhere. If you’ve got a problem with that, you fuck off.
I don’t know him, not the way I thought I did. He’s got a girlfriend, a soon-to-be fiancée. If I cause trouble for him, he could have me fired. He holds all the power. I’m just a nobody gardener, easily replaceable.
But I can not lose this job.
I’m still on edge later that morning when I’m with Evan in West Court, making a start on the summer bedding. We’re planting an annual mix of Verbena hastata , Salvia ‘Love and Wishes’ and Ageratum houstonianum and it’s the sort of work I normally adore, pushing my hands into freshly prepared soil, feeling a connection to the earth, imagining how these tiny plants will grow into huge clouds of purple, pink and blue in the coming months.
But today my mind is all over the place.
I don’t like being this close to the house. West Court backs right up against the Tudor wing, behind the west bay of the eighteenth-century section of the house, which is where the family’s living quarters are.
Ash could be looking down from any window. He could be around any corner.
‘How are you feeling today?’ Evan asks.
‘Hungover,’ I reply, an easy answer after last night’s sesh. ‘What about you?’
‘I feel fine, actually,’ he replies with a grin, glancing at my arms. ‘Still suffering?’
For a second, I wonder if he’s talking about the scratches I sustained when I fell into the rose bush, but then I realise he’s referring to my sunburn.
‘Better. Just being careful.’
I’ve kept my arms covered since Monday evening, but my long-sleeve shirt is as much to hide my injuries as it is to protect my skin.
Evan looks past me. ‘Oh, hey, Mrs B.’
I instantly go tense.
‘Hello, darlings! Evan, Eleanor,’ she says.
I don’t know why she insists on saying our names every time she sees us, or why she calls me Eleanor instead of Ellie, although Eleanor is my proper name.
Maybe that’s why: because it sounds more ‘proper’.
I force myself to look over my shoulder at her. ‘Good morning.’
I haven’t seen her since I ran out of her anniversary party. Does she know I did that? She doesn’t appear to be regarding me any differently, but I’m seeing her through new eyes. That’s Ash’s mother .
‘Those peonies are marvellous,’ she says, admiring the blowsy tree peonies growing at the corner of West Court.
‘It’s a good year for them,’ Evan agrees. ‘Want me to cut some for you to put in a vase?’
Her face lights up as though this is the best idea anyone has ever had.
‘Would you? That would be wonderful!’
I can’t help but smile at how accommodating he is as he carefully steps back out of the garden bed and grabs his secateurs from his trug. The wooden baskets they use here are even fancier than the ones we used at Wisley.
I’m about to carry on with what I’m doing when Ash walks round the corner. My stomach drops off a cliff. And then my heart begins to pound .
‘Ashton!’ his mother calls with delight. ‘What are you doing here? Have you met our new gardener?’
In the moment it takes Ash’s eyes to find mine, his mother is already introducing us.
‘This is Eleanor Knapley. She’s come all the way from RHS Garden Wisley,’ she adds proudly. ‘Eleanor, this is my son, Ashton. Evan is just cutting me some peonies,’ she carries on happily.
‘That’s nice,’ Ash says mildly, nodding a greeting at Evan.
‘What are you doing here, darling?’ his mother asks. ‘You’re not normally outside at this time of day.’
What is he, a vampire? Nothing would surprise me.
Ash looks over at me again, his gaze catching and holding. I don’t feel angry now – I feel like I’m standing on a knife-edge. And maybe he sees that vulnerability in my expression because something keeps him from elaborating.
‘I’m just on my way out,’ I hear him say as I drop my gaze.
My hands are quivering as I continue with what I’m doing, but out of the corner of my eye I can see that Ash has not left.
A familiar tickling sensation hits the back of my nose, and before I know it I’m engaged in a sneezing fit.
‘Bless you, Eleanor!’ Lady Berkeley exclaims.
But, oh, I haven’t finished.
Evan chuckles. ‘She’s the only gardener I know who suffers from hay fever.’
Still sneezing, I hastily dig around in my pocket for a tissue, but before I can hunt one out, Ash is already stepping forward with his hand outstretched.
His lips are curved up at the corners as I snatch the tissue from him and blow my nose.
‘Bless you, Eleanor,’ Lady Berkeley calls over again.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, avoiding Ash’s gaze.
‘Will these do?’ Evan asks Philippa Berkeley. ‘Or would you like something else to go with them?’
‘Ellie,’ Ash whispers.
I shoot my eyes towards his, panicked, and give him a tiny shake of my head.
He looks pained for a second and then nods pointedly towards the western bay of the house. Meet me there.
I shake my head more fervently. Please. I can’t.
He cocks his head to one side. Yes, you can.
Evan and his mother have disappeared around the corner of the Tudor wing.
Ash nods emphatically towards the end of the house again and gives me a meaningful look. ‘See you later,’ he calls to his mother and Evan.
‘Yes, bye, darling!’ I hear his mother reply from what sounds like a fair distance away.
I try to get back to work, but I’m distracted by Ash’s retreating frame. He’s wearing a white shirt tucked into mid-grey trousers with a black belt. He looks smart, as though he might be going out for a fancy lunch or something. He looks good actually, though that’s not something I want to notice. But it’s impossible not to: his shoulders are so broad and his hips so slim, and those trousers really do fit him very well …
He turns around and looks back at me. I’ve got my hands five inches into the soil, tentatively carrying on with what I was doing. I try to ignore the way he’s staring me down, but my heart is stuttering, and a moment later, he throws his arms up in the air and I can’t be sure he won’t catch the attention of his mother or Evan if one of them suddenly reappears.
My temper spikes, quashing some of the fear I felt a moment ago.
Fuck’s sake, fine. You win.
I climb out of the garden bed and walk towards him, dusting off my hands without a word. He disappears around the corner of the house.
‘What?’ I snap as soon as I’m sure we’ll be out of the eyesight of Evan and his mother, should they return. I can say I went to get more tissues.
‘Eleanor Knapley,’ Ash says significantly.
‘Yes, well done, now you know my last name,’ I reply caustically, giving him a round of applause.
My hands are filthy. I try to brush off some more dirt after I’ve finished my sarcastic clapping.
‘Well, it would have helped.’ There’s a bite to his tone. ‘If you’d told me that you were Eleanor Knapley of Knap Sofas, I would have found you sooner,’ he has the gall to add.
Wait a sec. ‘How did you know about Knap?’
‘I googled you yesterday. What, you thought I learned your surname just now?’ He shakes his head and frowns. ‘No. Obviously I looked you up on the payroll system as soon as I could. I’m a big fan of your Lisbon range.’
His tone is difficult to work out. I can’t tell if he’s toying with me or being genuine. There’s an edge there, as though he’s a little pissed off with me. But what the hell have I done wrong? Diddly-squat, that’s what.
‘I like the canary yellow,’ he says, still talking about sofas. ‘Inspired by the trams, I presume? But I couldn’t work out why you went for light brown.’
I’m damned if I’m going to tell him that the range was half inspired by his eyes.
Suddenly he looks baffled. ‘Why did you downplay your family’s business?’ Ah, so that’s why he’s put out. ‘Knap is huge. My mother has a copy of the Sunday Times Home section inside with a huge advert on the back cover.’
‘Let’s not get into how little we told each other about our families’ businesses,’ I reply darkly.
I only downplayed Knap because I didn’t want to rub his nose in it after he told me that his family only had a small workshop.
‘Why did you tell me that your family had a furniture business?’ I ask. ‘What was the point in that?’ I’m furious at the lie.
‘They do have a furniture business,’ he replies calmly, unashamed, walking a bit further on until he comes out at the front of the house. ‘There.’
I glare at him, but go to see where he’s pointing.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ I mutter resentfully when I realise that he’s got the Victorian outbuildings in his sight.
There is no way he can claim that that is his family business! This is his family business! This right here , this house !
‘That is a furniture workshop, Ellie,’ he states. ‘In front of the sawmill.’ I can’t believe he has the nerve to sound annoyed. ‘I used to hang out there all the time with Taran. He used to work there. I worked there too once. His uncle still runs it.’
I’m caught off guard. ‘Edmund is Taran’s uncle?’ I ask with surprise of the man in his late fifties with the warm handshake and kind smile. I met him at the barbecue on Sunday and have seen him around since.
‘Yes. Owain is too. Taran’s father, Gareth, used to be head ranger here. He’s retired now, but he and his wife, Carys, used to live here on the estate with Taran and Celyn.’
I shake my head, confused. ‘Celyn?’
‘Celyn is Taran’s older brother. He’s head ranger now.’
My head spins as all these threads connect. I can barely believe that I’ve ended up right here on Ash’s home turf. On Taran’s .
‘We have so much to talk about,’ he states heavily.
‘I need to get back to work.’
‘Not yet. Wait.’
I meet his eyes. ‘Don’t wreck this for me.’
He recoils, shocked at my plea, and shakes his head quickly, as though denying that he ever could.
I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.
‘I don’t want anyone to know about us.’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel stupid. As if he’d want anyone to know about us! I’m just his bit of rough from the old days.
‘And I don’t want you to be seen near my cottage,’ I spit, my temper spiking again as humiliation swallows me up.
If my new colleagues had any idea that I once thought I had a future with him … It would be beyond embarrassing.
And not just because I’d appear delusional – where, outside of a fairy tale, does a gardener snap up the son of a viscount? – but because I hate the idea of them thinking that I’d even want this life.
‘Then let me give you my number so we can arrange a time and a place to meet,’ Ash says.
‘I don’t have my phone on me,’ I snap. ‘But wait, I’ve got an idea,’ I add mockingly. ‘Why don’t you write it down on your dead best friend’s book and shove it through my letter box?’
He flinches.
‘Where is it?’ I demand to know. ‘Stella’s book?’
He shakes his head miserably.
‘What did you do with it?’ I ask, my voice rising.
‘I lost it,’ he admits in a whisper.
‘You lost it?’ I feel hot and prickly.
‘I’m so sorry.’
He does look genuinely remorseful, but I can’t contain the fiery-hot fury that bursts from me.
‘Reading that book was like having a conversation with her, the last conversation we could ever have! How could you lose it? You knew how important it was to me!’
He shakes his head, stricken. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He reaches out to me, but I slap his hand away, and then suddenly it dawns on me.
‘Is that why you didn’t call?’ I ask in a small voice, breathless with hurt and yet somehow hopeful.
I’ve been so convinced that he didn’t call or turn up in Madrid because of all this , because of this lie , but if it was because he lost Stella’s book …
His eyes widen with surprise. ‘Of course it’s why I didn’t call . I mean, there’s more to it than that, but …’ He sighs. ‘We have so much to talk about.’
I stare at him, wanting to believe there was a real reason he never called, never showed up.
But then I remember the days I spent searching Madrid, bereft and alone. I remember that he lied about who he was and where he came from – even putting on a fake accent.
And he’s got a girlfriend now, a soon-to-be fiancée. It would be in everyone’s best interests if we just pretended we’d never met.
My throat begins to thicken, but I’m damned if I’m going to shed another tear over this man.
‘Please just … Just let me do my job,’ I say dully.
His jaw clenches as I turn and walk away.