It wasn’t at all like her to talk so freely to a man who was not only a virtual stranger but her new employer, and she wished she had been more circumspect, more restrained.
When he made no effort to break the ensuing silence, fearing she had already got off on the wrong foot, she apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I was babbling. You can’t possibly be interested in my—’
‘Oh, but I am,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘And I found your “babbling”, as you call it, quite poetic.’
Unsure whether or not he was making fun of her, she let that go, and, trying to get back to the more mundane, pursued, ‘I presume from what you said just now that Slinterwood is somewhere near Mirren.’
‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’
‘Sorry?’
He repeated, ‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’
Still unsure if she had heard correctly, she echoed, ‘On Mirren?’
‘That’s right.’
She caught her breath, bowled over by the thought of actually staying on Mirren.
For as long as she could remember, she had felt a strange affinity with the place, a secret fascination that almost amounted to an obsession.
She had thought of it as her island.
It drew her, called to her. Even when she and her parents had been living in Jersey, Mirren had often been in her thoughts.
Having decided to go back to Kelsay to take care of her great-grandmother, she had made up her mind to ask the old lady—who had lived within sight of the island all her life—to tell her everything she knew about it.
But on the day before Jenny’s arrival another stroke had left her namesake partially paralyzed and unable to speak coherently.
Now fate seemed to be offering a chance, not only to learn something about her island, but to live on it for a while.
She could barely restrain her surprise and delight.
Giving her a sidelong glance, he commented, ‘You look pleased.’
Steadying herself, she said, ‘I am rather.’
‘And surprised?’
‘That too. For one thing, I thought Mirren was still privately owned.’
‘It is.’
So if he rented a house there, even if it was through an agency, he probably knew the name of the family who owned it.
She waited hopefully, but, when he volunteered no more information, unwilling to appear over-curious in case it stalled the conversation she refrained from asking.
No doubt she could broach the subject again, when they had got to know each other better.
Her restraint was rewarded when he went on, ‘You said, “For one thing”… So what was the other?’
‘I hadn’t realized there were any buildings on the island, apart from the castle.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘So where is Slinterwood, exactly?’
‘It stands overlooking the sea, about a mile south of the castle.’
‘How strange I never saw it.’
‘Not really. I’m half convinced that, like Brigadoon, it’s enchanted, and only appears from time to time…’
He sounded perfectly serious. But when she glanced sideways at him she saw the corner of his long, mobile mouth twitch.
‘Apart from that, until you actually reach it, it’s hidden by a curving bluff and a stand of trees.’
‘Is it the only house on the island?’
‘No. There’s a couple of farms, and about half a mile down the coast from Slinterwood there’s a small hamlet that was built in the eighteen hundreds to house the estate workers.’
Seeing her puzzled frown, he went on, ‘You wouldn’t have noticed it—because of the lie of the land it’s only visible from the seaward side.’
‘Oh… Do people still live there?’
‘Yes. Though the castle itself is no longer inhabited, the estate still needs its workers, most of whom have lived on the island for generations.
‘Though, of necessity, the young, unmarried ones leave to look for partners, there’s something about Mirren that seems to draw them back, and keeps the cycle going.’
He relapsed into silence, leaving her to mull over what she had learnt, which was both thrilling and a little disturbing.
Thrilling because she would be living on her dream island and working for a famous author. Disturbing because—though Michael Denver had told her from the beginning that he liked to work in ‘comparative isolation’—she was just starting to appreciate exactly how isolated they would be, and to wonder, with the faintest stirring of unease, if she had been wise to come.
Slinterwood, it appeared, was on the opposite side of the island to the causeway, which meant that once she was there it was a long way back.
Added to that, the causeway itself, which for part of the time would be under water, was well over a mile long and only safe to cross at low tide and in good weather conditions. So with no transport of her own, she would be a virtual prisoner.
Oh, don’t be so melodramatic! she scolded herself. All it amounted to was that she and Michael Denver were bound to be thrown together a good deal in relative isolation.
But so what? A man of his standing was hardly likely to turn into a Jekyll and Hyde, or prove a threat in any way. And though the house was isolated, there must be a housekeeper or a manservant, someone to take care of the place and look after Michael while he was there.
But would he expect her to provide some companionship for the odd times he wasn’t working?
It was a bit of a daunting prospect.
Though with his reputed aversion to women, he would hopefully prefer to spend his leisure time alone.
If by any chance he didn’t… Well, she had taken on the job, and if providing some companionship while he was at Slinterwood proved to be a part of it she would just have to cope.
After all, she was getting very well paid. And if, at the end of a month, she wasn’t happy with her duties, she could always say so and let someone else have the post.
Her thoughts busy, for the past few miles Jenny had been staring blindly into space, but now, her immediate concerns shelved, she was able to give her attention to the scenery.
They were travelling through pleasant rolling countryside where, in the shade, the grass was still stiff and white with frost, and the skeletal trees stood out black and stark against the pale blue of the sky.
Topping a rise, they ran into a small sunlit village with old mellow-stone cottages fronting a village green.
Standing opposite a duckpond, where a gaggle of white geese floated serenely, was a black and white half-timbered inn called the Grouse and Claret.
‘I thought we’d stop here for lunch,’ Michael said. ‘If you’re ready to eat, that is?’
‘Quite ready. I didn’t have any breakfast.’
‘Why not? Pushed for time?’
She shook her head. ‘To tell you the truth, I was a bit nervous.’
He found himself wondering about that rather naive statement. Had it been made for effect? To encourage him to think she was sweet and innocent?
When, his face cool and slightly aloof,