Even as she said the word she had an image of little Bonnie Butler in Gone With the Wind, dressed in a velvet riding habit and ostrich feathers. Or had she just imagined the feathers…?
‘Trousers, for instance?’ she offered, more in hope than expectation, unzipping the child’s holdall to look for herself.
The white voile dress, she discovered as she unpacked—shaking out dress after dress and putting them on the mauve satin padded hangers she found in the wardrobe—was, by Maisie’s standards, restrained.
She’d even packed a pair of tiny designer fairy wings for those extra-special occasions. Embroidered and beaded in silver and the inevitable mauve. Very pretty, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, sensible.
There were no jeans. Not even a pair of designer jodhpurs or handmade boots, which would have been more Maisie’s style. No trousers of any kind, in fact. No boots. No hard hat. Not even a pair of mauve, sparkly waterproof wellington boots to keep her feet dry. Just more pairs of satin slippers to match her frocks.
‘There are wellingtons and coats in the mud room,’ Maisie offered. ‘You just try them on until you find stuff that fits.’
‘Right, well, I’ll just put my bag next door and we’ll go and sort something out.’
‘Next door’ hadn’t had the benefit of a decorator any time in the last fifty years if the faded floral wallpaper was anything to go by. But it was warm and, if the comfort was shabby, it was genuine.
She’d search out the linen cupboard and make both their beds later.
Petting the pony—since no matter what Maisie’s views on the subject, she wouldn’t even be sitting on him without a hard hat—obviously, was far more important.
Ten minutes later they were walking across the courtyard. Jacqui, well shod in ankle boots, declined to join in Maisie’s hunt for a pair of wellies that fit, but she had borrowed a waxed jacket so old that all trace of wax had pretty much worn away.
The smallest one in the mud room was still too big for Maisie. With the sleeves folded back it did the job, but Jacqui had to stifle a smile at the sight of her stomping happily across the courtyard in a pair of slightly too large green wellington boots, a froth of white skirt sticking out from beneath the jacket, sparkly tiara still perched atop her dark curls.
Maisie Talbot might be precocious, but she certainly wasn’t dull.
‘Where are you two going?’ Harry Talbot appeared in the entrance to the coach house, wiping oily hands on a rag.
‘Maisie wanted to say hello to Fudge.’ Why did she have to sound so defensive? ‘Her pony?’ she added when he didn’t appear to know what she was talking about.
‘That’s what he’s called?’ His expression suggested that never had pony and name been more aptly matched. ‘All right. Just don’t go wandering off in this mist. It’s easy to get disorientated.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you getting lost, is there?’
She knew she shouldn’t have said that even before he stilled. Said, coldly, ‘Is that your idea of a joke?’
If it was—and she wasn’t prepared to examine exactly what her comment was meant to be—it had fallen distinctly flat, because he certainly wasn’t laughing.
‘Yes…No…I’m sorry.’ And she was. ‘Really.’
He used his head to indicate the far end of the yard. ‘The pony’s in the end stall. Don’t give her sugar; she’s old and her teeth can’t take any more abuse. You’ll find some carrots in a net on the wall.’
Maisie ran on, but Jacqui stayed put. Nothing could wipe out what, in retrospect, seemed a deeply callous remark that was completely alien to her nature, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of running away.
‘What’s the verdict on the car?’
‘I’m no mechanic but I’d say your exhaust has taken its last journey. I’m just going to give the garage a call. Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my account.’
‘Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘I think you’ve probably suffered enough at the hands of the Talbot family for one day.’ Then, ‘Hadn’t you better go and make sure that Maisie doesn’t get trampled by her pony?’
‘It wouldn’t dare,’ she said.
And finally got what might just have been a smile from the man.
For a moment neither of them moved.
‘I’d better go and give the garage—’
‘I should go and keep an eye—’
He moved first, peeling away and striding back to the house without another word. She watched him for a moment, then, jerking her hormones back into line—they had no taste—she went after Maisie.
‘Did you find something? For Maisie’s tea?’
Jacqui looked up from the sauce she was gently stirring on the stove. She hadn’t seen Harry Talbot since he’d left her standing by the coach house. Hadn’t been much relishing their next encounter, but he didn’t look as if he was about to do anything particularly ogre-like.
If she could just stop herself from saying something stupid long enough to get him on her side…
‘Yes, thank you. I’m making spaghetti carbonara for both of us.’ Then, ‘Well, penne carbonara. It’s easier for little ones to manage.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Nursery tea has certainly improved since my day. The best I could hope for was macaroni cheese.’
‘Nannies move with the times, just like everyone else, Mr Talbot. And so do children. Apparently it’s one of her favourites and since all the ingredients were to hand…’ Then, ‘But I do a mean fish finger when I put my mind to it. Not the frozen variety, of course. I make my own.’
‘I didn’t know you could.’
The temptation to respond with some smart-alecky remark was strong, but she restrained herself. Maisie wanted to stay here and making him angry wasn’t helping her cause.
‘You probably call them goujons. And pay an exorbitant price for them in restaurants.’ Not that he looked as if he was in the habit of frequenting expensive restaurants. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, concentrating on the sauce, so that she didn’t have to look at him. ‘I’ve made more of this than we can eat.’ And, since she didn’t want him to refuse, she gave him an escape route. ‘I’ll leave a dish in the fridge for you to heat up when we’re out of your way if you prefer.’
She sensed that he was hesitating. Caught between the desire to eat something he hadn’t poured out of a tin—and since the pantry was full of tins, she was pretty sure that was what he’d been doing—and telling her to get lost.
But all he said was, ‘Thank you.’
It wasn’t exactly disappointment that made her heart sink. But she had, for just a moment, hoped that he might pull out a chair, sit down at the table and join them. Imagined a little bonding between Maisie and Harry over the comfort food, with her playing the good fairy.
Pathetic.
Maisie was the only one around here with wings.
Although he was still in the kitchen. She was giving her entire attention to the sauce, but she could feel him behind her.
‘You’ll find ice cream in the pantry freezer, if Maisie