His Izzy.
No. Not now. Not any more. Not for years—not since he’d betrayed her trust—
Hell, why hadn’t Rob warned him? Would he still have come?
Fool. Of course he would have come. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept him away. He needed to speak to her, but first he had to greet all these people who were so pleased to see him—good people who’d supported them through the nightmare of the last few years. So he smiled and laughed and made what he hoped were sensible remarks, and when he looked up again, she was gone.
Inexplicably, panic filled him. ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, and, squeezing his way through the crowd, he went through the doorway at the back of the room that led out to the side hall. It had been the door nearest to her, and the most likely one for her to have used to make her escape, but he couldn’t let her go until he’d spoken to her. He was suddenly afraid that she would have slipped out and gone away, that he wouldn’t have a chance to speak to her, and he had to speak to her.
There was so much to say—
She hadn’t gone anywhere. She was standing in the side hall looking lost, absently shredding a leaf on the plant beside her, her fabled composure scattered to the four winds. The powerful, dynamic woman of the glossy society magazines was nowhere to be seen, and in her face was an extraordinary and humbling vulnerability. His panic evaporated.
‘Hello, Izzy,’ he said softly. ‘Long time no see.’
Her smile wavered and then firmed with a visible effort. ‘Hello, Will,’ she replied, and her voice was just as warm and mellow and gentle as he’d remembered. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, you know,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Still farming.’ He ran his eyes over her elegant and sophisticated evening trousers and pretty little spangled top, and his gut tightened. ‘You’re looking as beautiful as ever—not the least bit like an assassin.’
‘Still the old sweet talker, then,’ she murmured, her lips kicking up in a smile that nearly took his legs out from under him. ‘Anyway, I’m surprised you remember. It’s been a long time—twelve years.’
‘Eleven since I saw you last—but I’ve got the newspapers and the glossies to remind me, lest I should forget,’ he told her, trying to keep his voice light and his hands to himself.
She rolled her eyes expressively, and a chuckle managed to find its way out of the constricted remains of his throat.
‘So—how’s Julia?’ she asked, and he felt his smile fade. Oh, hell. There was no easy way to do this.
‘She’s dead, Izzy,’ he said gently. ‘She’s been dead a little over two years. She had cancer.’
Even though his words were softly spoken, he felt their impact on her like a physical blow. Her eyes widened, her mouth opening in a little cry as her hand flew up to cover it. ‘Will, no—I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Oh, Will—’
If he’d had any sense he would have kept his distance, but he couldn’t. She looked so forlorn, so grief-stricken. He took one step towards her, and she covered the ground between them so fast he barely had time to open his arms. She hit his chest with a thud, her arms wrapping tightly round him in a gesture of comfort that was so typically Izzy it took his breath away.
Dear God, he thought wildly. She felt the same—she even smelt the same. It was almost as if the last twelve years had never happened—his marriage to Julia, the two children, her slow, lingering death, the long fight back to normality—all that swept away with just one touch.
Her body trembled in his arms, and he tightened them reflexively around her. ‘Shh—it’s all right,’ he murmured softly, and gradually her trembling body steadied and she eased away from him. Reluctantly, yet knowing it was common sense, he let her go and stepped back.
Her hand came up and caught a tendril of hair, tucking it back behind her ear, and her smile was sad. ‘I’m sorry. I really had no idea, Will. It must have been dreadful for you all. Why didn’t Rob tell me? I can’t believe it—I’m so sorry I brought it up like that, spoiling the party.’
He laughed, a rough, scratchy sound even to his ears, and met her anguished eyes with a smile. ‘You haven’t spoilt the party. I hate parties anyway, and besides, mentioning Julia doesn’t change anything. We talk about her all the time. Her death is just a fact of life.’
He wanted to talk to her, to share the huge number of things that had happened for both of them in that time, but people were coming through the hall, heading for the cloakroom or the kitchen, and they all paused for a chat.
He felt the evening ebbing away, and panic rose again in his chest. He couldn’t let her go again without talking to her, properly, without constant interruptions. There was so much to say—too much, and most of it best left unsaid, but still—
‘Look, it would be really nice to catch up with you—I don’t suppose you’ve got any time tomorrow, have you?’ he suggested, wondering as he said the words whether he himself could find any time in the middle of what was bound to be a ridiculously hectic schedule.
‘I’m staying at the White Hart for the night,’ she said. ‘I was going to head back some time tomorrow, but I don’t have any definite plans. What did you have in mind?’
He crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped his father could help out with the children. ‘Come for lunch,’ he suggested. ‘You’ll know how to find the farmhouse—it hasn’t moved.’
His smile was wry, and she answered with a soft laugh. ‘That would be lovely. I’ll look forward to it.’
They fell silent, the sounds of the party scarcely able to intrude on the tension between them, but then the door opened behind him yet again and Rob came out, punching him lightly on the arm.
‘Here you both are! Come and circulate—you can’t hog each other, it’s not on. Everyone wants to talk to you both.’
And without ceremony he dragged them back into the party and forced them to mingle. They were separated from each other within moments, and when Will’s phone rang to call him back to a difficult lambing, she was nowhere to be found. Still, he’d see her in the morning.
He shrugged his coat on, said goodbye to Rob and Emma and went back to the farm. It was only later, as he crawled into bed at three o’clock with the lambs safely delivered, that he realised they hadn’t discussed a time.
Izzy pulled up outside the farmhouse and stared around her in astonishment.
Well, it was certainly different! The house looked pretty much the same, and the barns behind it, but beyond the mellow old brick wall dividing the house from the other side of the farmyard there had been some huge changes.
The weatherboarding on the old farm buildings was all new and freshly stained black, sharp against the soft red of the tiled roofs, and on the front of one was a sign saying, ‘The Old Crock’s Café’. There was a low fence around an area of tables and chairs, and though it was still only April, there were people sitting outside enjoying the glorious sunshine.
There were other changes, too, beyond the café. The farm shop beside it seemed to be doing a brisk trade, and on the other side of what was now a car park the big building that she was sure had once been the milking parlour now housed an enterprise called Valley Timber Products. She could see chunky wooden playground toys and what looked like garden furniture in a small lawned area beside it.
There was a basket shop, as well, selling all sorts of things like willow wreaths and planters and wigwams for runner beans, as well as the more traditional baskets, and she could see that, at a quarter to eleven on a Saturday morning, the whole place was buzzing.
A thriving cottage industry, she thought, and wondered who ran all the various bits and pieces of this little complex and how