Chapter 11 Tilda
TILDA
By Monday morning the wet weather feels like it’s here to stay.
I’m tired after staying up far too late, deciding on a whim at nine o’clock at night to clear out the kitchen cupboards after failing once again to send a video update to Poppy.
The courtyard is wet and shining, puddles collecting in the cracks between the cobbles.
The stack of branches I left to sort out today are now sodden and weigh twice as much as they did, so I decide to leave them to one side and make some sort of impression on the old greenhouse and potting shed.
The greenhouse was grand once, but the glass is now hazy with grime and thick layers of green moss.
Water streams through a cracked pane and splatters onto a faded sack of tomato food while the potting shed smells of creosote and damp wood.
It’s tiny, but it’s cosy in here sheltered from the rain.
Seed trays, old labels, and brand-new bags of compost are stacked up against the old wooden potting bench.
I’ve swept it clean and put the leftover detritus in a sack by the door.
I’m bent over a tray of seedlings which have arrived from the mainland when the door creaks. Finn fills the frame, his broad shoulders dripping rain, bringing the weather in with him and a gust of cold wind. The space feels instantly half the size.
I become acutely aware that I’m filthy – dirt under my nails, cobwebs in my hair, and most probably, mud on my face. Why does he always catch me like this?
His eyes sweep the chaos – scattered seed packets, a mug of cold tea teetering on the edge of the shelf, and the dibber I lost a moment ago lying under a catalogue that arrived with the plant delivery.
“Do you ever finish one thing before you start something else?”
“I do,” I say a little too quickly.
His brow lifts. “Really?”
I feel a prickle of temper rising and clasp the edge of the wooden table with both hands, taking a long breath in through my nose. I will not rise to it.
“It looks very much like you’ve got the brush-cutting half done, the front border half done, and now you’re half doing the potting shed.”
Heat rises on my neck. “That,” I say, pressing my fingers into the soft wood, “is exactly how gardening works. You do a bit here, and a bit there. It’s called multi-tasking.”
“It’s called unfocused,” he says, stepping closer, his voice low and maddeningly calm. I’ve heard it a million times over. “And unfocused can be dangerous.”
I straighten up and almost knock a tray of sweet peas over, swiping to grab them at the last moment before they fall. “Just because I don’t do things your way doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
I can see some dark threads of peat caught on the thick ridges of the wool of his sweater and catch a hint of the soap on his skin. His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Chaos,” he says, shaking his head slowly. His voice is so low I can’t tell whether he’s talking to me or himself. “It’s a good name for you.”
“Better than being a control freak,” I reply without thinking.
“Remind me who’s supposed to be in charge here?”
The air feels thick suddenly. We’re so close I can see the darker rings around the deep brown of his irises and count the raindrops caught in the long curtain of hair that’s hanging down over his forehead. His eyes drop to my mouth, and something flips over in my stomach.
For one weird, breathless moment I think he’s going to—
“FLORA!”
Georgia’s yell cuts through the crackling silence. The door bangs open and in barrels my basset hound, ears flying, dangling a string of sausages like a cartoon dog.
Georgia stumbles in behind her, soaking wet, and scarlet faced.
“Stop that dog!”
Flora does a surprisingly agile U-turn and shoots back out of the potting shed, with Georgia haring after her in furious pursuit. I burst out laughing, doubling over at the ridiculousness of it all.
“If you can’t control that dog,” Finn says, sobering me up instantly, “it might be better if you leave her at home.”
The warmth from the moment before – whatever it was – evaporates.
“Right. Of course. Whatever you say, boss.” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
Something flashes in his eyes – regret, maybe? – but he’s already turning away.
The next morning, I walk into the kitchen of Benruar House to find Georgia in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, and a businesslike expression on her face. She’s covered the kitchen cupboards with Post-it notes and the printer is spewing out what looks like a series of graphs.
“Jennifer the witch is on the rampage,” she says with a paperclip between her teeth. “She made it pretty clear she thinks this is a box-ticking exercise and that Glen Mhor are going to get the contract, and I’m bloody well not going to let her win.”
Finn clears his throat, surprising me. I didn’t even notice him in the corner, bending down by the dog bed, rubbing the tummy of an upside-down Poll. He straightens up, his expression thunderous.
“When did she call?”
“She emailed.” Georgia’s eyes widen in emphasis. “At two in the morning. I swear she never sleeps.”
“Bats are nocturnal,” Finn mutters.
I snort out a brief laugh, and he looks over as if he’s just remembered I’m there. Our eyes meet and for a second – only a second – there’s something almost like amusement in his expression. Almost like he’s pleased I laughed at his joke.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the habitual stern mask.
“You can email back and tell her we’re making good progress.”
“She’s going to need proof.” Georgia slips a paperclip over a file and plonks it on the table, then turns to the Aga. “And we are going to need a lot more coffee.”
I bite my lip. There’s a lot to do, and right now it feels like we’re getting nowhere fast. Wordlessly, I fetch the milk from the fridge and pass it to Georgia, who spoons coffee into mugs and passes them out before heaving a sigh and dropping her chin into her hands.
“What we need – and yes, before you say, I do mean as well as the regular distillery work – is fresh paint on the tasting room walls. And the window frames. Tilda” – she jabs her pen in my direction – “I think we need to really focus on sightlines. Tidy first, charm second, big picture last. I’ve printed a list.”
“I don’t need a list,” Finn says.
“I love a list,” I say at the same time. He side-eyes me from under his dark brows and sips his coffee. I catch the tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth before he hides behind his mug, and I feel a little wave of something warm inside.
“Excellent,” says Georgia, ignoring him. She slaps the folder down on the table. “We’ve covered all bases between the two of you. We need photos – today. Preferably with some sunshine for good measure, and Flora looking decorative in the background.”
Flora looks up at the mention of her name.
“If you could refrain from stealing any more sausages,” says Georgia, waggling a finger at her, “that would be very helpful indeed.”
Her tail wags against my leg. Finn tuts disapprovingly and picks up one of Georgia’s folders with a heavy sigh.
“I can’t believe we’re having to jump through hoops to justify our existence. Fairfax would be turning in his grave. It’s the whisky that matters, not all this nonsense.”
“Fairfax,” says Georgia, crossing her arms and looking at him sternly, “is the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”
“Did you know him?” I look across at her and she shakes her head.
“Nope. I came along posthumously, shall we say. I was hired as a PA, and somehow—”
“Now she’s the captain of the ship,” says Finn, surprising me. He gives her a mock-salute. “We’re merely the deck scrubbers.” He puts down his mug and pushes his chair back from the table, scraping it on the stone floor.
“Come on you two,” he says, summoning the spaniels. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before she gives us any more work to do.”
I think I catch the edges of another smile tugging at his mouth as he heads for the door. Maybe he’s not completely made of stone, after all.
Outside on the steps – which are made of stone – he gets to work, taping the edges of the wooden door with pinpoint accuracy.
My painting method can be summed up as impressionistic at best, so this is a revelation.
He works fast, masking off all the edges around the woodwork with practised ease.
Meanwhile – because Georgia’s decreed that we need to get the front of the house looking perfect for photos – I’m ripping up bindweed from between the cobbles and hacking back couch grass that’s sneaked its way through the border, digging out the roots, and swearing at whoever allowed it to get out of control.
I sneak glances when he’s not looking, watching as he levers off the lid of the paint, placing it carefully out of reach. I almost drop a strand of ivy in the pot as I step sideways to avoid standing on my freshly dug earth.
“If you could try and avoid contaminating the paint before I’ve even got started,” he says, glancing at me as if I’m an irritation he can’t shake off.
I sigh pointedly and move to the other side of the step. He works the brush along the tired wood, making long neat strokes that quickly brighten up the look of the door and the frame, somehow managing to do it without spilling a drop.
“Amazing,” I say, almost without thinking.
“Sorry?” Finn looks up.
“You actually stop scowling when you’re concentrating.”
His brows arch slightly. “I didn’t realise you were studying my facial expressions.”
“It’s an occupational hazard,” I mutter. “You’re always in the way.”
One side of his mouth lifts slightly. “You could garden elsewhere.”
“I have to get this done. I got my orders from the boss.”
Finn laughs. “In which case you’ll have to put up with me, frowning or not.”
I turn away, biting my lip as I pretend to be interested in a particularly stubborn weed.
We work in silence for a while when I step back to admire what I’ve done, and Finn turns around.
He folds his arms and studies me. “Georgia mentioned you’re renovating your place?”