Restoring Grace (16 page)

Her fingers continued to perspire and her heart
to
pound, however hard her brain told them
it was no
longer necessary. The house
wasn't haunted; it wasn't
the wraith of a long-lost soul behind the
curtain; it was only a picture.

How could she not have
known it was there? she asked
herself as she crossed the room to
the door, to turn on
the light, hoping that
would banish her fright. To think
it
had been lurking behind the curtain all these years, and
she'd never known. She felt quite guilty as she
flicked
the switch.

But the only illumination
in the dining room came from a central bulb, covered by a heavy shade which
conspired
to keep all the light to itself. It didn't so
much add light as emphasise how dark the room was.

In spite of this, Grace went back to the
window, deter
mined to have a good look at
what had given her such
a shock. It was almost impossible to see
properly, but it looked like something out of one of Edward's art books.
She peered closer, but realised that didn't help
and
decided to get a torch. There was one in the tea chest in the hall.

She had just removed the
cloth (which gave the impres
sion that the
tea chest was actually a table) and found the
torch
when the doorbell rang. She jumped at the noise, her nerves already jangled,
then took a breath, ordered
herself to calm
down, and looked out of the window to
see if it was a Headless Horseman.
It was Flynn. She opened the door reluctantly.

‘
Why is it I always get the impression that
you're not
pleased to see me?' he asked,
with a slightly crooked grin.
'Possibly because I'm not?’

The fact
that she'd answered so acerbically shocked
Grace
almost as much as thinking she'd seen a ghost. It was so out of character for
her. The conversation with Hermia must have somehow disconnected her good-manners
gene. She tried to smile, but it didn't feel very convincing.

It obviously didn't look
convincing, either. 'I hope
you're not
planning to hit me on the head with that blunt
instrument.'
He indicated the torch. 'I have come to give you something, you know.'

‘Fear the Greeks, even when they come bearing
gifts,' she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. She tried to
put down the torch but it missed the cloth and fell
through into the chest with a crash,
making Grace give
a little moan of
fright. Her nerves were all over the place.

‘
Are you
always this agitated? You're like a two-year-
old
going into its first race. That would be a horse, by the
way.'

‘I'm not remotely agitated! I just had a bit of
a shock, that's all. You came at a bad time.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘
It's all
right. I know you didn't do it on purpose.' It
was just that every time
he turned up he unsettled her, and she was unsettled enough already.

He stood there as if
expecting some sort of explanation.
Well, she had no
intention of telling him about the
painting; she
had to get used to the idea of it being there
herself.

‘I thought I saw something move on the stairs
and it made me jump.'

‘
I see. The house isn't
haunted or anything, is it?’

‘
No, of course not! And even if it were, I don't believe
in ghosts.'

‘
That's all right, they won't appear to you then.' He
paused. 'Is there somewhere we can put the
Rayburn for
now? An outhouse or something?'

‘
Yes, of course.' She felt on home ground now.
The supernatural was beyond her, but she knew her stable yard well. 'Where are
you parked?'

‘We came in
via the back drive.'

‘
There's a stable you could use. I'll come.’

He put a hand on her arm. 'No, don't. We'll
find it.
You're in no state to go wandering
about in the dark. You
may not
believe in ghosts, but you still look a little pale.'
She smiled, mildly
relieved. 'Don't you want a hand?' He shook his head. 'We have a special
trolley and moving Rayburns is man's work.'

‘Or strong women's work?’

He shook his head. 'No
woman is that strong, and you
certainly aren't.' He glanced down
at her slender form.
'I'm thin, but I'm
tough,' said Grace, wondering why
on
earth she was trying to convince him that she wanted
to help hump a
cast-iron stove about.

‘
No, you're
not. Why don't you put the kettle on? Or
do something else that'll make
you feel useful and keep you out of our way?'

‘
That's not very polite!'
Honestly, this man was beyond
the pale, or whatever it was they said in
Ireland.
'I'm sure the
hot water will come in useful.’

He was definitely teasing her, but she refused to
respond. 'That's hardly the point!'

‘
You're very argumentative,' he said, amused.

‘No, I'm not!' Grace scowled at him, determined
not to let him have the last word, and then realised what she'd said and tried
not to laugh.

Flynn didn't try quite hard enough and she
could see
the corner of his mouth
twitching. 'Go and busy yourself
in
the kitchen and let the men get on with the hard work.’

This time she had to
respond to his ironic twinkle and
as she had no
real desire to heft a cast-iron cooker around
in the dark and cold she said, 'OK,' and fled towards the
kitchen, biting her lip, half wanting to hit him and half
to
indulge in her suppressed laughter.

As she found the switch for the outside lights
at the back of the house she realised that while she had been
with Flynn, she hadn't thought of Edward once,
although
Edward had been the
background of all her thoughts for
so long. It was a step forward. It
was nothing to do with Flynn, of course, but it was a sign of her recovery.

For want of something better to do, Grace did
indeed put the kettle on, and then inspected the wooden crate that was her wine
rack. It was nearly six o'clock and maybe Flynn's mate might like a glass of
wine when he
came in. She would certainly
appreciate one herself - she
was still
shaken up by the quasi-ghost she had discovered
behind the curtain. She
pulled out a bottle, examined it for a few moments and then extracted the cork.

How soon was it reasonable to expect Ellie and
Demi back? It was ridiculous, a week ago she'd been living in
this house on her own - if not happily, at least
serenely
- and now she was feeling
lonely because her new house-
mates had gone out for a couple of hours.

There was a knock at the back door and Grace
went
down the passage to open it,
determined to be polite and
sociable
and not to let Flynn Cormack make her do or
say anything out of character. She smiled determinedly.

‘
This is
Pete,' said Flynn. 'This is Grace, who doesn't live up to her name.’

Grace ignored this and directed her smile
entirely towards Pete.

Pete was wearing a boiler
suit. Flynn was wearing very
dirty jeans and a fisherman's
sweater which was fraying
at the cuffs.
Grace tried hard to think what Edward would
wear if he were moving a
stove about but couldn't. He
would either
have some specialist garments, or not do it,
just direct operations from
a distance.

‘
I boiled
the kettle,' she said, 'as instructed.' She glared
at Flynn. 'And there are some biscuits. But I
wondered if
Pete' - she smiled at him again, to point up the fact that
she was not smiling at Flynn - 'would like a glass
of wine?’

‘
What
about me?' asked Flynn indignantly.

‘
You're driving!'

‘No, I'm
not. Pete is. I'd love a glass of wine.’

‘What about
you, Pete?'

‘I'm more of
a tea man, myself. And I'd love a biscuit.'
She
made the tea, and poured a glass of wine for herself
and Flynn.

‘
Not exactly
chambre,
if I may say so,' he said, having held his
glass up to the light and taken a sip.

‘People don't realise that "room
temperature" was the room temperature of the eighteenth century, not of
the
centrally heated house of today,' she
said, aware she was
sounding incredibly pompous.

‘
Ooh! Get
you!' Flynn directed his glass towards her in
a toast.

Grace bit her lip, determined not to smile.
'Have a
biscuit, Pete,' she said and he extracted
a biscuit from the
bottom of the packet.

Flynn was looking at her
in a way she found unnerving.
There was nothing improper in it,
but feeling his eyes
upon her in that
quizzical, speculative fashion was unset
tling. She wondered what on earth she could say to make
him stop
doing it.

To her enormous relief, the bell's
attention-seeking jangle indicated that the girls were back. The relief! She
rushed to open the door.

‘
How did you
get on?' she asked as she opened the
door.

‘
Really well!
Come and help us!' said Demi, who
seemed
excited and looked particularly pretty. 'We've got
loads of stuff!'

‘
Flynn's here. And Pete. They're in the kitchen.’

‘Who's
Pete?' asked Demi. Ellie had filled her in on Flynn.

‘Friend of
Flynn's, I think,' said Grace.

‘
I must say, I'm dying
of thirst,' said Ellie, sensing that Grace wanted company in the kitchen. 'I
could murder a
cup of peppermint.'

‘
We must buy
peppermint tea bags,' said Grace. 'In fact,
now that Demi's come, we'll
probably have to get lots of things. We must make a list so we can go
shopping.' As
they walked down the corridor
to the kitchen, she added,
'Once we've got these bloody men out of the
way.’

Ellie, anxious lest Grace
should banish the men before
she'd taken
advantage of them, said, 'Would you mind
if I asked them to help with the futon? It's not really
heavy,
but it's awkward.'

‘Of course. Have your tea and we'll set them to
work. You shouldn't be carrying things if you're pregnant.'

‘
Great. I'll
go and ask them,' said Ellie, going ahead
into the kitchen.

She found Flynn and Pete
regarding the fireplace
behind the
cooker as if it contained the answer to all life's
most
taxing questions.

‘
Hi, Flynn!
I'm Ellie,' she said to Pete. 'Would you mind
giving us a hand with some
furniture? It's just that I'm pregnant and I shouldn't really lift things.'

‘What is it you need shifting?' asked Flynn.

‘A futon.'

‘Should be able to manage that all right,' said
Pete,
rising to his feet. As their big feet
pounded along the flags
behind her, Ellie reflected that she liked men
like Pete
and Flynn. They had an honesty
about them which Rick,
who was so good-looking he was practically a
danger to traffic, would never have.

Grace and Demi had got lots of the smaller
items out
of the car: black plastic sacks;
cardboard boxes; and a pile
of
saucepans. Ellie regarded the saucepans a little guiltily.