That thought was a swift blow to her solar plexus. Just because she’d come here, it didn’t mean she was part of anything. She was just helping out.
He lowered his voice. ‘Where I come from, family isn’t about blood and we look after our own. Judge Evans needs more care than they’re giving him.’
‘Well, I’m here now so things will get done.’ And there was a curl of panic in the pit of her stomach, but she wasn’t going to give in to it.
He carried on as if what she was saying was of no consequence. ‘It’s Sunday, so it’s Tilda’s night. They take it in turns; half a week each and Marion, the sitter, on Saturday. Which, surely you’d know, if you were really their sister. Step or otherwise.’
‘There was something about a carer breaking her leg and Tilda and Tamara had to go to Paris to be with Sylvie – their mother. She needs an operation. So here I am. Not that I have to explain anything to you.’ She shrugged and turned to The Judge to indicate to Mr No Social Skills that the conversation was over. Although, as he appeared to be the only person able to give her any inside information on The Judge, he was probably worth mining for information. ‘Actually, about The Hall, you were saying it needs fixing…?’
Judging by his pained expression she probably didn’t want to hear his answer. ‘The roof is rotten and if it’s not fixed the whole place will fall down in the next big downpour we have. As regards The Judge, Tamara is very bossy and treats him like a naughty child instead of stimulating him. He can’t live here on his own any more. In fact…’ The intruder gestured to her to follow him into the hallway. ‘I can’t say this in front of Judge Evans, but he gets quite confused and goes wandering. He’s going to hurt himself or worse. He’s a good man and I’d hate to see that happen to him.’
Emily sighed, inwardly. She’d come here thinking all she had to do was make the odd cup of tea and provide a pencil for his crossword, perhaps pull a rug over his knees and finally make amends. Some fresh country air, and time out to think about Brett and their future.
Not… not policing a frail old man and mending a broken house.
Suddenly the enormity of what she’d taken on started to become clearer. She didn’t even know how to climb a ladder safely, never mind build a roof… or whatever you did to make roofs watertight. How could she fix things with The Judge when he didn’t even know who she was? She didn’t have nursing skills; that much was proven when her mum died and Emily had utterly fallen apart. Working twenty-four hours in a day didn’t bother her, and neither did the prospect of dealing with two hundred sex-obsessed dogs, but where illness and death were concerned she didn’t have coping strategies, she just panicked. Because serious illness, in her experience, meant death. And she didn’t know if she could face that again.
She could feel that panic start to rise a little. But she wasn’t going to let anyone see that, least of all this stranger. ‘Well, yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m going to fix things.’
‘I hope you’ve got deep pockets and that New York can spare you for a good few months then, because this won’t be an easy fix. Don’t think you can just shove him into a home. He might be prone to confusion, but he’s a stubborn old bugger when he’s lucid, so he’s not going to budge from Duxbury Hall, that’s for sure.’
‘We’ll be fine. Thank you. We’ll manage.’ Somehow. There was his pension, his retirement money and surely he had savings. She just needed to clarify things with Tam and Tilda. ‘You don’t have to worry anymore.’ Or interfere. ‘I’ll work it out.’
‘Well, that’ll make a nice change from your sisters. They couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery.’ Shaking his head he glanced at his watch. ‘This hasn’t exactly been the best start to my day.’
Nor mine, to be honest.
But she suspected he wouldn’t be interested in anything else she had to say.
***
‘Okay, Judge. Breakfast’s ready. Finally. Come eat and let’s have a chat, too.’ What she really meant was, let’s do this getting-to-know-you thing. He’d seemed a little more lucid this morning, not truly back to his old pernickety self, but a step closer. So it was time to find out more about him and what he needed.
After the early-morning start, she’d ushered him towards the bathroom and he’d emerged almost clean-shaven, but his hair was still too long and a little matted. He definitely looked a lot more like The Judge of old, just a little as if someone had opened a valve and let a lot of air out. He was too skinny and his clothes hung off him. ‘Let’s eat here, shall we? I don’t think we need to take it into the dining room. That table’s far too big for the two of us. We’d have to shout across to each other.’
Emily put the laden plates down on the kitchen table, making sure he had everything he needed close to hand.
He nudged the food around the plate, peering at it over his half-moon glasses. ‘Okay, yes, my dear. Why not? I like it in here.’
‘Me, too. We always used to eat in the big dining room, but it’s much cosier in here.’ She’d always liked the comfort of the large kitchen with its warm baking smells and washing drying on wooden racks overhead. Unlike anyone else she knew, they’d had a housekeeper, hired after her mum had died to cook and keep the place clean, and Emily had sought solace from the comfort of informality in here. Often she’d sneak in and just sit at the big old table and wish with all her heart that it was her mum kneading the dough or peeling the potatoes.
So many times she’d wished she could rewind the clock and be with her mum right here again. Just once. She’d tell her everything she wished she’d told her then instead of taking her for granted – because in Emily’s youthful, innocent eyes no one would ever be unlucky enough to lose both parents. She’d thought she’d have her mum for ever.
Her throat filled with a rush of sadness – she’d loved her mum; her mother had doted on her until her marriage to The Judge and Emily knew she’d tried after that, too. Their hours in here together had been filled with laughter and shared jokes but they would never have that again.
She swallowed hard and looked round the room. It was a pity that while she’d been in here all those times she’d never actually paid any attention to how to cook anything.
Or how to use the ancient Aga. What the heck was that about? There were no instructions so she’d had to work it out – switching it on was the first problem, then a long, slow wait for it to heat. Now she was starving and had only managed just-about-cooked, but too-hungry-to-care food.
God, she’d taken the New York twenty-four-hour culture for granted. Pizza at four in the morning? No problem. Cheesecake for breakfast? Be our guest. Here, it was a case of rummaging around to see what scraps she could find.
The Judge glanced up at her, pale-blue eyes wide. ‘They let you eat in the dining room? With them? What kind of people were they? Letting the cook eat with the family? I’ve never heard such a thing.’
‘Oh, but I’m not…’ A cook. She pressed her lips together. He’d been brought up in a different time and with different expectations and they’d never breached that gap of class or age. Looking at the aged decor it felt like she was living in an episode of Downton Abbey. Unfortunately, without the intrigue or sex.
‘So what’s this meant to be?’ He looked down at his plate and prodded the eggs with the tip of his knife.
‘Scrambled eggs on toast. It was all I could rustle up from the empty cupboards. We need to go shopping.’
‘Eggs? Are you sure? Aren’t eggs supposed to be yellow? You’re a cook, you say? How can a cook make eggs that are green? Are you in training, is that it? Have they sent me the wrong person?’
Whoa.