it will make it harder. When did you last teach? You’ll probably need a police check, and they take weeks. By the time it’s done you’ll be on maternity leave and it’ll be the summer holidays anyway. And the ordinary job market is a real scrum these days, never mind in your condition.’

      She shut her eyes briefly. She really didn’t need him pointing this out to her, she was well aware of the paucity of her options.

      ‘It’s not a condition, Sam. I’m fit and strong. I can do anything. I’m only nineteen weeks pregnant. Lots of women work right up to the end if they have to.’

      ‘But you don’t, so you could just stay here and be sensible.’

      She stared at him blankly. ‘What—till the compensation’s agreed? It could be weeks. Months, more likely.’

      ‘Even more reason. I’m sure we’ll all survive,’ he said drily.

      She wasn’t. Not if he kept on wearing those jeans—no! She mustn’t think about them. About him. Not like that, it was crazy. She met his eyes. ‘Not without money—and before you say it, I can’t just sponge off you, Sam—and even if I could, what would I do all day?’ she argued, trying to be logical in the face of rising panic. ‘I can’t just sit about. How is that sensible? I’ve got over four months before the baby comes. I have to do something to earn my keep.’ Even if I am unemployable…

      Sam scanned her face, saw the flicker of anxiety that she tried to mask, and knew before he opened his mouth that he’d regret this.

      ‘Can you cook?’

      ‘Cook? Why?’

      He shrugged, regretting it already and backpedalling. ‘Just an idea. I thought you could pay your way by taking that over, if you really feel you have to, but it’s not very exciting. Forget it.’

      Her brow pleated. ‘Cooking for you? A few minutes a day? No, you’re right, it’s not especially exciting and it’s not much of a deal for you, I’m a rubbish cook. And anyway, I’ve done a bit of supply teaching recently to stop me going crazy, so my police checks are up to date. Maybe I’ll contact the local education authority and ask them if I can go on the supply list. There must be schools around here. Maybe one of them needs some cover.’

      She wouldn’t be underfoot. He felt relief like a physical wave—and as the wave ebbed, regret. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. He didn’t want her here.

      But he wanted the baby. He’d said so, in as many words, yesterday, and she seemed to be taking it on board. And of course that meant she’d be around, and he’d have to live with the consequences—

      ‘Tell me about the garden,’ she said now, cutting through his troubling train of thought. ‘Who looks after it?’

      He laughed, more than happy to change the subject for a minute. ‘Nobody. Couldn’t you tell by the weeds in the cattle grid?’

      ‘Have you tried to find someone?’

      He shrugged. ‘There’s a lad from the village who’s done a bit. He helps from time to time when it gets too bad. And I cut the grass—hence the dirty hands. I had to rebuild the mower again this morning. I hit something.’

      ‘Something?’

      He shrugged again. ‘A branch? Who knows. It was out in the wilds a bit, and I was cracking on, because it’s a heck of a task, even with a ride-on mower. There’s a lot of it.’

      ‘How much?’

      He shrugged. ‘Fifteen acres? Not all cultivated,’ he added hastily as her eyes widened. ‘There’s the old knot garden on the terrace, the kitchen garden and the walled garden by the house. That’s my favourite—it opens off my study and the sitting room we were in last night, but it’s a real mess. And then there’s the laburnum walk and the crumbling old orangery which is way down the list, sadly. The rest is just parkland—or it used to be. None of it’s been managed for years and it’s all just run wild.’