Outbid by the Boss (14 page)

A shaft of sunlight carved a path across the kitchen table. Maybe a dose of fresh air and sunshine was what she needed. “Evelyn,” said Sam. “May I ask you a question…about the rose garden?”

“Now that’s a sad story,” said the housekeeper. She untied her apron and hung it up on a peg by the back door. “Why don’t we take our tea outside?” she suggested. With Sam’s help they set the tray and carried it outside to the terrace, settling at one of the wrought iron tables that overlooked the gardens. “When I first came to the Hall,” the housekeeper continued over tea, “it was magnificent out here. I used to go along this terrace whenever I could just to smell the roses. Mrs. Porter, that would be Sylvia, Chas’ mother, oversaw the gardens. She wasn’t that interested in gardening, but she did like to entertain. Weekend parties and the like. And everything had to be perfect.” The housekeeper set her cup down. “It was Eugenie Porter, Chas’ grandmother, who designed the beds and raised roses. Visitors used to come just to tour the gardens and look at the roses. A few were quite rare – she collected them from old gardens as the cities sprawled out and ate them up. Not so much is left of the gardens now, but John cares for the roses for the old lady’s sake. And because I do love the scent.” She smiled.

“Could we take a turn about the gardens?” asked Sam, her own tea finished.

“You go ahead, dear. I’ll take in the tea tray.”

A few minutes later, the housekeeper was back with a basket over her arm. “Care to join me in a bit of weeding?” she asked Sam. She held up a pair of gloves and a trowel. “It helps out John and we can chat while we work.”

Sam joined in with enthusiasm. “This is a perfect way to end the afternoon.” They worked their way along the beds lining the flagstone terrace. When she reached a mounded shrub, Sam paused to admire the greyish-green leaves and tight buds emerging from its thorny stems. All of a sudden, the hair at the nape of her neck began to prickle.

“This is a York and Lancaster damask, isn’t it?”

“Now how on earth would you know that?” asked Evelyn pausing in mid-snip to gape at Sam. “Very few gardeners take the time for the old roses like this one. And I didn’t take you for a muck-in-the-mud type.”

“My grandmother,” Sam stammered. As she leaned over to touch the rose’s soft leaves, the poignancy of the fragrance to come filled her eyes with tears. “On Sundays,” she paused to clear her throat, “we would take the streetcar to whichever rose garden was open to the public.” Memories of her grandmother walking up and down the gravel paths clouded her thoughts. “Gran would stop to name the variety of every rose we passed and tell me its history until I could recite it back to her. Including….this one.”

“This rose thrived. In Toronto?” The housekeeper frowned skeptically.

Sam laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re wrapped in burlap overcoats every winter.”

“And did she have her own garden, your grandmother?” Evelyn pulled up another dandelion from the soft earth and added it to their pile.

“Just a vegetable patch,” said Sam, resting on her knees, “with six hardy rose bushes, one at the end of each row so she could see them from the window. It was a little house,” she added, “cozy and full of love.”

“Just goes to show you,” said the housekeeper, back to snipping unwanted stems, “it’s about the people.” She sniffed. “If my years at the Hall have taught me anything, it’s love what makes a home, and there’s not been much of that here at Porter Hall since the old lady died.”

The two women worked in companionable silence, loosening the soil around the plants and tugging out the ubiquitous weeds, the garden’s earthy perfume tugging at Sam’s memory. Grace Quinn, always respectful of other people’s property, would never have picked a rose, but if a petal happened to drop, she would snap it up, name it, smell it and fold it into her handkerchief. When they got home, she would add it the others she collected. “Roses are like family,” she would say, “even dried, their scent lives on in your heart.” And Sam knew her grandmother was thinking of her own daughter, Sam’s mother, who had been at her side when she was a girl, learning the different names and collecting the petals just like Sam.

“Are you okay, dear?” asked the housekeeper.

Hearing her speak, Sam suddenly realized why she was so comfortable around Evelyn Weekes. It was her accent. Grace’s voice had been softer, her accent less distinct, but the same clipped vowels that peppered Evelyn Weekes’ speech had stayed with Grace until the day she died.

The rose, the candlestick, the Irish groom and now this.

She had to ask.

“Evelyn…?” Sam began…“Do you remember the house when it was fully staffed?”

“Before my time, dear…” The housekeeper sat back on her haunches. “Is there something specific you want to ask?”

“Not yet,” said Sam.

“Well then, when you do, you might want to pay old George a visit down at the home farm. You’ve met George, have you?” At Sam’s nod, the housekeeper continued, “his mother used to
come up to the Hall when they had extra guests. That would be in the old lady’s time. Whatever might still be known about those days, George would be the one to ask.”

“Then I’ll ride over to visit,” Sam smiled.

“I’ll make extra scones in the morning. You can take them for his tea,” Evelyn said.

Sam nodded and returned to the weeding. She would ask him about his mother’s days at the Hall and see where the conversation took them. At the very least, she would get out with Max. But she’d ride across the meadow – the path by the stream held too many memories.

With the staff gone for the day, Chas thought he’d be able to relax yet he couldn’t seem to settle into his regular routine. The problem was obvious. He’d far rather be duking it out with Sam in Derbyshire than strutting around London in a suit and tie.

What was it about women; no, rephrase that, what was it about Sam? Her lush figure, her unexpectedly fiery temper, or her flashing green eyes that so captivated and beckoned him to step beyond his normal boundaries.

He loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair.

If the repairs to his car had been finished on time, he could have rescheduled his morning meetings and driven home tonight. But that was not to be. His eyes slid to the phone sitting on his desk. Perhaps, he should call Sam now and apologize.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

She would be alone in the house.

Maybe nervous.

On the other hand, she might resent his call and misinterpret it as checking up on her. As if she’d run off with the silver. He grinned. Maybe she had. She’d been angry enough when she realized he’d been holding out on her.

His indecision was laughable, and made him think that his teenage years hadn’t been so bad after all. He had never suffered from this ridiculous false bravado. Or the awkward hemming and hawing stage that seemed to plague other boys. He’d simply avoided the pain of dating. And then, once he’d become head of Burton-Porter & Sons, it had become so much easier; most women gravitated to money, power and prestige. Knowing that had allowed him to keep his distance. A stance he was finding harder and harder to maintain. Especially with Sam. She
didn’t give a hoot how much money he had, she would judge him by his behaviour, and already had on more than one occasion. Nor was she shy in pointing it out. Look at the way she had stood her ground at the auction hall and then again in the restaurant. It had been their first encounter away from Burton-Porter or any related function, and it made him realize how much of life he was missing.

He wondered what she was doing now. Was she still hard at work on the estate? Or had she turned off the computer and relaxed with a book? He pictured her curled up in one of the armchairs in the library, her porcelain skin radiant in the soft spill of light from the setting sun. Groaning audibly, Chas flicked his wrist to check the time, forgetting that in his haste to leave the Hall, he’d left his watch behind. Hopefully, it was in its usual spot in his room.

From there, it wasn’t hard to envision Sam moving about his bedchamber, belonging there with him, responding to his touch as they shared their lives together. Her hair would be down, he decided, loose and luxurious, and glowing with health.

His fingers twitched with need.

Decision made, he practically snatched the phone from its cradle and dialed the Hall. Ten seconds later, he heard the answering burr. After five rings, Chas began to get concerned, after seven, he was worried.

Finally, Sam answered. “Hello?” She sounded out of breath.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Yes, it is.” He could hear the laughter in her voice, and the knot in his stomach unclenched for the first time since he’d left the Hall.

“Are you busy?”

“As a matter of fact, I was up the ladder in the library trying to find a first edition of Gulliver’s Travels. You don’t happen to know where it is, do you?”

“Try the study.” Chas put his feet up on his desk. “Under the atlas.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that?”

And so he found himself grinning down the line, like a fool in love, which, of course, he wasn’t. Never had been, never wanted to be…

“So…how was your day? Everything go okay?” Even though he was never, ever going to be a fool in love, it seemed very important that her day had gone well. That she was content doing what she did best in his home.

“Perfect,” replied Sam. “Inputting my notes went faster than I expected. Evelyn left a chicken casserole in the warming oven, which was delicious, and I finished the rest of that chardonnay. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. There should be another one in the wine fridge. In case you can’t sleep or something…” his sentence faltered. Mustn’t think about sleep or imagine Sam snuggling into bed beside him. Desperately, he searched for a topic that was as far away from that particular fantasy as he could get. “I ran into your friend, Mia, this morning. Literally, I might add. Did she call?”

“Uh, huh.” A note of caution crept into their conversation. He ploughed on, anxious to dispel Sam’s concerns about his encounter with Mia and anything she might have said.

“Does she always roller blade to work…and at work?”

“Rain or shine,” Sam was sounding bubbly again. “She’s saving for a scooter.”

“Ah,” said Chas. “You’re not going to tell me I don’t pay her enough, are you?”

“Are you baiting me, Mr. Porter…?”

“Actually, I was trying to reassure you…look, Sam,” he began, “I seem to be making a bad habit of this…” he took a deep breath, “but I am truly sorry about last night. I should have told you about the other candlesticks sooner…”

“…no, not really,” replied Sam slowly. “Not after the auction. It was pretty awkward all round, as I’m sure you recall.”

Chas frowned. She was letting him off way too easily. She had been stunned to see the candlesticks last night, stunned and furious, and then she’d clammed up. He’d assumed it was because he hadn’t told her about the collection. Perhaps she’d guessed from the record’s more recent entries that he was quietly trying to recover lost pieces, but why would that send her into such a state? Something was beginning to gnaw at the back of his mind, something unsettling, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on…

Was there no end to the riddle that was Samantha Redfern?

“Does that mean you forgive me?” He injected a teasing note into his question, hoping she would not sense how ridiculously anxious he was to get back to their friendly, professional…no scratch that, their intimate, loving, and totally sensual relationship. Alone in his darkened office, he had been thinking of little else.

“Yes,” answered Sam. “But, on one condition. That you forgive my outburst.”

“If it means we’re friends again, then yes.”

“Deal,” said Sam.

Chas let out an audible sigh of relief. “In that case…may I entice you upstairs, Miss Redfern? I…um, need a favour.”

“Why, Mr. Porter…” came Sam’s coquettish reply. “Whatever do you mean?”

Chas replied with a throaty chuckle. “I would like you to check my bedroom and see if my watch is where I left it, and not languishing in some rest stop on the way to London.”

“That is the most pathetic come-on line I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, it was the best I could come up with on short notice…besides, it’s true.”

Sam laughed. “You’ll have to give me directions.” The pitch of her voice changed as she left the library and crossed the vestibule. “I don’t know exactly where your bedroom is…not having been there before…”

“Ah…” They both paused, the silence between them laden with unspoken desires. “Left at the top of the stairs.” Chas directed. “Third door on the right.” He felt his pulse quicken. His image of Sam mounting the stairs and then silently gliding along the corridor as she approached his bedroom was bordering on the erotic.

Sam talked as she walked, giving Chas an update on what was left to do before she called it a day. He heard himself make the appropriate sounds of agreement, but he was definitely having trouble concentrating. “Are you listening to me?” Sam asked with a ripple of laughter, “or are you multitasking with a file of invoices on your desk?”

“Listening to you,” Chas assured her. He heard the metallic click as she turned the handle of the door to his room. Chas’ mouth went dry. She was there. The old brass hinges creaked slightly. And, then nothing.

Warily, Sam peeked inside. Even without the lights on, she could see Chas’ imprint everywhere. She reached up and flicked the switch, illuminating the perfectly-proportioned room. Its beauty left her breathless.

“Oh, wow,” Sam said softly. “I had no idea…”

“My one big indulgence at the Hall,” she heard Chas say, “was to redecorate the master bedroom and make it my own.”

“I’m impressed,” said Sam, her shrewd eye assessing the natural look of the Belgian linens on the bed, the deep reds in the Persian rug on the floor. His palate was creamy white
complimented by a deep red in the pillows and the armchairs flanking the fireplace. Like her room, only much larger, Chas’ suite angled towards the woods, but his was sighted so that he could see the terrace below. Here, the window seat was deeper, more sumptuous, with room for two, thought Sam warming to the thought. She felt the flush in her cheeks as she pictured them together, arms entwined, sharing soft kisses as they watched the sun go down.