But then he lifted his massive shoulders in something that might have been a shrug, and said, ‘No, Miss Moore. I’m simply suggesting a truce for the night.’
So that was all right, then. No damage done. He was just the same as ever.
She might be trapped on a fog-bound hill with the little princess and the big bad giant, but this wasn’t a fairy tale. And while her coffee was good, it was going to take a lot more than one cup of the stuff to transform Harry Talbot into Prince Charming.
But then a kiss was the traditional cure…
‘In that case,’ she said, quickly, ‘until the resumption of hostilities at dawn, goodnight. Harry.’
He looked, for a moment, as if he was about to respond and she waited, her hand on the edge of the door, hoping for some indication that he was relenting. Offering something more.
But all he said was, ‘Goodnight, Jacqui.’
After that, she had no choice but to close the door and walk away, but she climbed the stairs to the second floor with a hollow feeling of regret. There was nothing that she could put her finger on, just the niggling certainty that she’d come close to something important but had been too busy defending her own position to see it properly.
She looked in on Maisie, straightened her tumbled covers, watched her for a while before going to her own room.
Harry did not move for a long time. The coffee cooled in his mug. In the pot. And still he waited for the air to still, settle, return to the way it had been until Jacqui Moore had stirred everything up.
After a while, a cat stretched and moved to the door, a dark shadow heading out for the night’s hunt. The scruffy hound rose on long legs and padded across to nose at his hand, politely suggesting it was time for a walk.
The animals seemed unaware of the eddies created by her presence still spinning through the air, disturbing the atmosphere, disturbing the emptiness, disturbing him.
He moved swiftly, rounded up the rest of the dogs, not stopping to put on the coat he grabbed from the peg as he set off across the hill. The old Labradors turned back after a while, but the hound stayed with him as he covered the miles in his determination to dislodge her from his mind. From his heart.
Jacqui left Maisie deciding between pink taffeta and yellow silk and went downstairs determined to find something rather more practical for her to wear.
She glanced in the small office, but there was no sign of Harry Talbot. No sign that he’d even been in the room, since the bag of mail she’d left on the desk was exactly how she’d left it.
She had better luck in the kitchen, which was occupied by a motherly woman busy emptying the dishwasher.
‘Are you Susan?’ she asked, cheered by the sight of a possible ally. ‘I’m Jacqui. Maisie’s nanny. Temporarily.’ There seemed little point in confusing matters by trying to explain exactly what the situation was. ‘Did Mr Talbot explain about the misunderstanding?’
‘Mr Harry? No. But then I stay out of his way as much as I can,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I only come up here every day because the missus refused to go until I promised her I’d keep an eye on everything. Make sure he’s got something to eat.’ Then, with a shrug, ‘Of course, I did hear that someone turned up with Miss Maisie yesterday afternoon.’
Since it was undoubtedly the hot item of gossip in the village shop, Jacqui wasn’t exactly surprised to hear that. They were, no doubt, panting for an update from their woman on the inside.
‘I was expecting to find Mrs Talbot here. The plan was for Maisie to stay with her while her mother’s away.’
‘Really? It’s news to me. She went to New Zealand, you know. To stay with her sister.’
‘Mr Talbot told me she was away.’
‘Paid for everything, he did. She went first class.’
‘That was generous of him.’
‘Possibly,’ she said, not committing herself one way or the other, although what doubt there could be, escaped Jacqui.
‘She didn’t say anything about Maisie coming to stay?’
‘Well, no. Miss Sally doesn’t make arrangements that far ahead.’
Jacqui frowned. Far ahead? ‘When did Mrs Talbot go to New Zealand?’
‘Last November.’
‘But that’s five months ago.’
‘That’s right. She took her time. Went by boat for part of the way. She got there in time for Christmas though.’
‘Oh.’
‘No point going all that way for five minutes, is there?’
‘Er—no. Is she due back soon?’
‘Not that I heard. In her last letter she said that as long as Mr Harry is happy to stay and keep an eye on things, she’ll stay on for a bit.’
‘And Mr Ha…Mr Talbot’s happy, is he?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say happy, exactly, but he’s in no hurry to leave. It’s the nearest thing he’s got to a home.’
It was?
She bit back the question hovering on her lips. One step further down that path would be gossip.
‘I don’t understand why Miss Talbot sent Maisie here. She must have known her mother wasn’t here to look after her.’
‘Lives in a world of her own, that one. Always has.’
‘Even so, it’s hard to see how anyone could have made such a mistake,’ she prompted, putting on the kettle. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’
‘Not now, thank you. I’m just going to give the chickens a bit of do. But I’ll have one when I come back if you like. It’s perishing out there this morning.’ She gave Jacqui a look that suggested she was two jumpers and a pair of long johns short of dressed and headed for the door.
Disappointed—she didn’t approve of gossip, but she had been hoping for a cosy chat around the teapot and some answers to any number of questions that had kept her awake half the night—she said, ‘No problem.’ Then, ‘Before you disappear, could I ask you something?’
‘You can ask,’ she replied, warily. ‘I can’t promise you an answer.’
‘It’s just that Maisie hasn’t brought any outdoor clothes with her. There are none in her room and Mr Talbot doesn’t seem to know whether she keeps spares here.’
‘Well, why would he?’
Jacqui was beginning to understand why a thwarted two-year-old might throw a tantrum. It was the same inability to communicate. Obviously there was an answer out there…she just couldn’t seem to frame the right question.
Old enough to know that throwing herself on the floor and drumming her heels—no matter how tempting—was not a constructive response to frustration, she tried again.
‘Actually, I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’
Maybe humility was the answer, because Susan said, ‘Well, he’s always off gallivanting to some foreign place or other, isn’t he? Never a word for months, years even, then he just turns up.’
Just her luck that their visits happened to coincide…
Much as she’d have liked to pursue this further, Susan was already heading for the mud room. ‘Do you know?’ she asked, a touch desperately.
The woman thought about it for a minute, then shook her head, reinforcing the message with a simple, ‘No.’
Blunt,