Chapter 48
‘Respect for right conduct is felt by everybody.’
The frost had finally lifted. The grass still crackled underfoot, but the thaw was here at last. Winter was yielding to spring. I walked Rocky across the field behind the pub, wellies slick with dew. He tore ahead, zigzagging through clumps of grass, pausing only to sniff down a rabbit hole.
The sun was out and the light had that ethereal brilliance that made everything look new and full of promise. Even the ruined barn on the edge of the field glistened with potential.
Behind us, the pub’s fresh windowpanes caught the light, though scaffolding still framed half the roof.
A sheet of tarpaulin had been stretched across the exposed beams, its edges snapping softly in the breeze.
It no longer looked deserted, just unfinished.
I thought back over the months since I’d left California.
So much had happened, and it had all been here in this one place.
A place I now called home. Gone were the cocktail dresses, club lunches and pearls.
Here I was in boots, with builder’s notes in my pocket and a pub renovation in full swing.
Every day I made decisions and solved problems I’d never even known existed.
I was tired in that deep, satisfying way you only get when your muscles ache with purpose.
The Black Horse was finally beginning to resemble the thing I’d imagined on the long, winter nights in the caravan. A place with its own heartbeat.
Dom was coming today to check on progress. Lachlan, too. The site meeting had been in the diary for weeks. A line in the sand progress update. Nothing to worry about.
If it was only Dom, I’d be excited, but with Lachlan there too it was going to be a battle.
I took a deep breath, let the cool air fill my lungs, and started back towards the caravan.
Rocky doubled back, tongue lolling. He nosed my hand for the usual treat.
I reached into my coat pocket and handed one over.
He took it and then fell into stride by my side.
If only it was so easy dealing with humans.
By the time I got back to the caravan, the first delivery lorry was pulling into the car park – wood cladding for the stables. Igor gave me a cheery wave as he stood, guiding it into position. I waved back and began mentally flipping through the day’s to-do list.
I quickly changed into my site boots, located my yellow hard hat, and checked my phone.
07.57. The meeting was at nine.
Rocky flopped onto his bed under the little table as I filled my travel mug with coffee and opened my laptop to review the progress report.
Lime plaster was drying nicely. The electricians were two days ahead, miracle of miracles.
Igor had managed to source antique brass taps at half the expected cost, and the pub kitchen was, at long last, ready for floor sealing and screed.
We were doing well. Really well.
The pub was a hive of motion when Dom arrived: a kind of cheerful, functional chaos.
Power tools screamed intermittently, and someone was arguing about whether the new drainage trench needed to be an inch deeper.
I was standing with Igor near the back wall, going over the insulation schedule with a clipboard that had developed a permanent film of grime.
Dom clapped his hands, loud enough to cut through the noise. ‘Christ, you lot are actually doing it.’
I turned. He was wearing his usual outfit: a peacoat, dark jeans, suede shoes that didn’t belong within ten metres of a construction site. He took a few steps forward, surveying the chaos with something like paternal pride. Dom liked big gestures, and this place was becoming one.
‘It’s happening,’ I said. ‘We’ve even stopped finding mice.’
He grinned.
Lachlan appeared through the front door, holding a plan and frowning at something architectural. He wore his usual all-weather gear and that slightly aloof expression, like he was trying to envisage the building ten years into the future and didn’t entirely trust what was happening now.
‘Florence Elliot,’ he said, with a nod in my direction.
Dom glanced between us. ‘You two aren’t still bickering about the revisions, are you?’
‘We’re not bickering,’ I said.
‘No,’ Lachlan said. ‘We’re aligned.’
Which was technically true. Our last three emails had all begun with phrases like ‘as per agreed parameters’ and ended with our initials. The revisions were progressing. The budget was tracking and we were on schedule. But something else had frozen over in the process.
Dom frowned. ‘Right. Well. Someone walk me through the courtyard. I want to see the new drainage solution.’
I turned and led the way. ‘We’ve re-levelled the paving base,’ I said. ‘Igor had to dig up the original runoff slope, which was sending water straight into the storeroom. We’re installing a new French drain under the outer wall, feeding into the main trench here.’
Lachlan handed Dom the tablet. ‘And we’ve rerouted the external lighting cables so we can avoid trenching the whole span twice. Florence’s team moved quickly on it.’
He didn’t look at me when he said it. It was technically a compliment. It landed like a financial accounting note.
Dom studied the screen. ‘Looks tidy.’
We moved back through the pub, past the kitchen area where two of the crew were arguing in Polish about something involving the extractor hood. The smell of solder filled the air.
‘Bar framing starts next week,’ I said. ‘And the snug is dry enough now for first coat primer. We’re still debating whether to keep the old beam exposed.’
Lachlan spoke before I could finish. ‘Structurally it’s sound. Aesthetic’s up to you.’
‘Thanks. Appreciate the delegation.’
Dom whistled under his breath. ‘Okay. You two need a mediator or a boxing ring?’
I gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. ‘We’re fine.’
‘Aye,’ Lachlan added.
Dom said nothing for a moment, then exhaled. ‘Look, I don’t care if you hate each other as long as this thing keeps moving. But the mood’s weird, and I’m not great with weird.’
Lachlan shifted his weight. ‘Noted.’
We ended the walk-through at the far end of the pub where the herringbone flooring had been preserved. The sun was hitting the wood blocks at just the right angle, casting them in a warm glow.
‘This is good,’ Dom said. ‘This is better than I thought it would be.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ I said, folding my arms.
‘I’m not. I’m impressed. This thing might actually fly.’ Dom handed the tablet back to Lachlan and gave me a pat on the shoulder. ‘Right, I’m off to a thing in Mayfair that involves tiny food and tedious people. You want to break out of this place and join me?’
‘Only if there’s a funding cheque involved.’
He laughed. ‘Then I’ll see you next week. Don’t kill each other.’ He left, calling out a goodbye to the builders.
I stood awkwardly for a moment, then turned to Lachlan. ‘You didn’t need to come today. The email updates are more than enough.’
‘Dom asked. He wanted a walk-through with both of us.’
‘You could’ve sent someone from your team.’
‘I wanted to see it myself.’
The wind picked up slightly outside, whistling faintly through a gap in the framework.
‘The progress is good,’ he said. ‘You’ve been efficient.’
‘Thanks.’
He paused, and for a second it felt like he might step out of the frosty tone and say something human.
But instead, he nodded once. ‘I have a site visit in Holborn this afternoon. I’ll send over the revised cellar details tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’
He turned and walked out. No goodbye. No glance back.