Working With the Enemy (4 page)

‘Sounds impressive,’ she said. ‘Almost unbelievable.’

Bronte had always scored a gold star for sarcasm. She was paying him back for doubting her. And why was he even discussing something that was barely a glimmer of an idea? ‘My hobby’s building things—I’ve carried out restoration work in the past so I know what’s involved.’ And now defending it?

He got what he deserved.

‘Get real, Heath,’ Bronte flashed. ‘This isn’t cyberspace. You can’t conjure up an idyllic country scene on your screen complete with a fully restored castle, click your mouse and wipe out years of under-investment.’

‘No, but I can try. I might not be the countryside’s biggest fan, but I’m not known for running out.’

‘And neither am I,’ she shot back.

‘Are we agreed on something?’

She huffed.

‘The only way Hebers Ghyll can survive is for people like you to get involved, Bronte.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘People like me do all the hard work while you direct us from your city desk? Unless you’re going to live here, Heath, which I doubt.’

‘Do you want Hebers Ghyll to have a future or not? Yes or no, Bronte? If you’re serious about trying to get people to come back here there has to be something for them to come back to.’

‘So now you’re a visionary?’

‘No. I’m a realist.’ And he liked a challenge —especially when there was a woman involved.

‘This is nothing like the city, Heath.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he fired back. ‘The air might be polluted with pollen instead of smoke, but, like you said, jobs are just as hard to find. So you go right ahead and walk away, Bronte. Let Hebers Ghyll slide into a hole. Or you can stay and fight.’

‘With you? What changed your mind, Heath?’

Heath’s face closed off. Why didn’t she know when to keep quiet? She could only guess how he must have felt coming back here. She returned to the fray to divert him. ‘You can’t just plonk down a couple of computers in the village hall, maintain a cyber presence and think that’s enough, Heath. People need proper work—and a proper leader on site to direct them.’

‘Are you saying you wouldn’t be up to that?’

‘I’d do whatever was expected of me, and more, if I were lucky enough to get the job,’ Bronte countered, rejoicing in Heath’s attack. The way he was talking could only mean he was seriously interested in keeping the estate.

‘Judging by your enthusiasm you’d work happily alongside anyone who does get the job?’

He’d got her. Damn it. Heath had always been a master tactician. She threw him a thunderous look.

He was all logic while Bronte was the flip side of the coin—all that passion with so little curb on it made it so easy to outmanoeuvre her, it was hardly fair. He hadn’t made a final decision yet. The problems at Hebers Ghyll were nothing new for him. There had been no work in his old neighbourhood, but he had known that if there was enough money for tools and equipment there would be more than enough jobs for everyone. ‘There’s only one problem,’ he said, reeling her in.

‘Which is?’ she demanded on cue.

‘You.’ He stared directly at her. ‘You’re the problem, Bronte. If I consider you for the job I have to bear in mind you took off once and went travelling. How do I know you won’t do that again?’

‘Because my travels had a purpose and now I’m home to put what I’ve learned into practice.’

‘That’s good,’ he agreed, ‘but if I take this on there will be nothing but hard work ahead, and a lot of difficult decisions to be made. I need to be sure that whoever I employ as estate manager has both the staying power and the backbone for what needs to be done.’

‘What are you implying, Heath?’

He lifted the latch on the wooden gate that led through to her parents’ garden. ‘I’m saying I don’t know you, Bronte. I only know what you’re telling me. It’s been a long time.’

‘For both of us,’ she reminded him tensely.

He propped her rucksack against the front door.

‘Hey,’ she said when he turned to leave. ‘Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a conversation.’

‘We’ll continue it another time. I have to get back now.’

‘Can’t we talk first? What’s the hurry?’

Strangely, it pleased him that she wanted to keep him back. ‘I have appointments I can’t break. My work is in London, remember? It’s where I make the money that might just keep this place alive.’ He stopped at the gate and turned to face her. ‘Just promise me one thing before I go.’

‘What?’

‘Parts of Hebers Ghyll aren’t safe, Bronte, so please stay away.’

‘The Great Hall’s safe,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘Uncle Harry was living there up to a few months ago.’

‘And I’m telling you not to go near it until I get back.’

‘So you are coming back?’

As her eyes fired he propped a hip against the garden wall. ‘You’ll be telling me how much you’ll miss me next.’

‘Ha! Don’t hold your breath.’

‘If you need me you’ve got my number.’

‘What use is that when your PA won’t put me through?’

‘You give up too easily, Bronte.’ Raising his hand in a farewell salute, he thought himself lucky to be out of range of any missiles she might have to hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

W
HEN
Heath left her Bronte was still high on adrenalin hours later. She needed action. Lots of it. She went back to Hebers Ghyll and broke in. Maybe this was the craziest idea she’d had yet, but she wasn’t prepared to be run off a property she had always thought of as her second home. The moment Heath’s car roared away she made some calls to girls in the village—girls who’d been friends for life. The chance to do a little exploring was right up their street.

How dangerous could the Great Hall be? It had only stood empty for a couple of months. She wouldn’t take any chances, Bronte determined as she led her troops beneath a moody sky down the long overgrown drive. Everyone knew the castle was ready to fall down, but the hall where her mother had been housekeeper, and the rooms where Uncle Harry had used to live, they were safe. Heath was overreacting—or, more likely, trying to keep her away. She had explained to her friends, Maisie and Colleen, that there were no-go areas and that they mustn’t go off exploring on their own.

‘This is spooky,’ Colleen said, echoing Bronte’s thoughts as they all flashed an anxious glance into the impenetrable undergrowth.

They could speed-walk to international standards by the time they reached the open space where a dried-up moat circled the ruined castle. The castle was a heap of blackened stone, lowering and forbidding beneath boiling storm clouds, and the ugly gash around it was full of brambles and leaves. ‘Nice,’ Colleen murmured.

It needed clearing—needed filling—needed ducks, Bronte thought. She wouldn’t have trusted the drawbridge—most of the planks were missing, and a glance at the rusty portcullis hanging over it confirmed that Heath was right to warn her to stay away. But even the old castle could be transformed like one she’d seen in France. The fortress of Carcassonne had been faithfully restored and was now a World Heritage site. But that was for another day. ‘We’ll go straight to the Great Hall,’ she told the girls, leading them swiftly past the danger zone.

Excitement started to bubble inside Bronte the moment she stood in front of the old hall. The sun had made a welcome return, burning through the clouds, and the warmth and light changed everything. It raised her spirits and softened the blackened stone, turning it rosy. This could all be so romantic, if it weren’t so run-down. Her plan had been to bring the girls along to enthuse them, but she clearly had a long way to go. They had gone quiet, which was a bad sign. ‘Come on,’ she said in an attempt to lift their spirits. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got round the back.’

More decay. Dried-up fountains. Tangled weeds. Crumbling stone.

For a moment she felt overwhelmed, defeated, but then she determined that she would find a way. Scrambling through an upstairs window, she brushed herself down. The echoing landing smelled musty and dust hung like a curtain in the shadowy air. She could hardly expect Heath to feel enthusiastic about this, Bronte mused as she walked slowly down the stairs, let alone spend his hard-earned money putting it right.

She could only hope the girls would stick with her, Bronte concluded as she picked her way across the broken floor tiles in the hall. How depressing to see how quickly everything had deteriorated. It didn’t help to know she had only added to the destruction. She’d tried her mother’s door key, only to discover that the one useful thing the previous estate manager had done before Heath sacked him was to change the locks. Adapting her plans accordingly, she had shinned up a drainpipe, forced a window and climbed in. And this was not the testimony to Uncle Harry’s generosity that he deserved. Plants had withered and died, while chairs had mysteriously fallen over, and plaster was falling off the walls faster than the mice could eat it.

Shouldn’t Heath be here doing something about this?

And why was she thinking about Heath when she could just as easily do something about it? She had already established that Heath’s interest in his inheritance was mild at most. Heath only cared about the profit he could make when he sold it on. He’d made that clear enough. He could barely spare the time for this weekend’s flying visit. Heath’s life was all about making money in London now.

With a frustrated growl, she scraped her hair back into a band ready for work—only to be rewarded by an image of Heath in her mind, standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall looking like a conquering hero as he fixed her with his mocking stare. Why did it always have to come back to Heath?

Because Heath was blessed with such an overdose of darkly brooding charisma it was impossible not to think about him, Bronte concluded. But a man like Heath could hardly be expected to hang around when there were so many people waiting to admire him—and she was hardly the swooning type. So, who needed him? There was nothing here she couldn’t handle.

Having convinced herself that she had ejected Heath from her thoughts, she now had to confront all the other impressions crowding in. ‘I’m going to change this,’ she murmured, staring round.

‘Talking to yourself, Lady Muck?’ Colleen called down to her from the upstairs landing.

Bronte’s heart leapt. So the girls had decided to join her. ‘You made it,’ she called back. ‘Come and join me. We’ve got the place to ourselves.’

‘No boarders to repel?’ Maisie demanded, sounding disappointed as she clattered down the stairs in a cloud of cheap scent and good humour. ‘I thought there’d be at least one hunky ghost for me to deal with.’

Or Heath in full battle armour with a demolition ball at his command, Bronte mused—that was one boarder she wouldn’t have minded repelling. Or, better still—half-naked Heath, muscles bulging, on his knees in front of her. Much better. She’d keep that one—as well as the quiver of awareness that accompanied it. Enough! she told herself firmly as a puff of plaster dust landed on her shoulder. Heath had gone back to London, and there was work to be done here. ‘There should be life at Hebers Ghyll,’ she announced to the girls. ‘We can’t let it crumble to dust and do nothing about it.’

‘Aye aye, Captain.’

The girls delivered a mock-salute as Bronte warmed to her theme. ‘There should be life and warmth and music—and there will be again.’

The girls whooped and cheered. ‘How about we help you after work and at weekends?’ Colleen suggested when they’d all calmed down.

Bronte was moved by the offer. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘Why not?’ Maisie demanded. ‘It could be fun.’

‘Spiders are fun?’ Bronte seemed doubtful.

‘Well, we can’t leave you here on your own, can we?’ Colleen pointed out. ‘If you’re going to be battling ghosts and spiders, we want to be part of it, don’t we, Maisie?’

‘I’ll trade you my most excellent work with a broom and a ghost-busters kit, for a drink at the pub,’ Maisie suggested. ‘How about that?’

‘Deal,’ Bronte agreed. ‘Let’s get to it,’ she announced, leading the way to the storeroom where the cleaning equipment was kept.

‘Working party present and correct,’ Colleen confirmed once they were armed with brushes and bin liners. ‘Where would you like us to start?’

‘Not with mouse droppings or spiders’ webs,’ Maisie protested, wielding her dustpan. ‘The only thing I’m prepared to scream for is a man.’

I wish, Bronte thought, imagining she was in a clinch with Heath. ‘The best I can offer you is a good scrumping in the apple orchard.’

‘I think Maisie had something more hands on in mind than that,’ Colleen suggested dryly.

‘You do surprise me. Why don’t we clear up as much as we can in here and then reward ourselves with a swim in the lake?’

‘Skinny-dipping?’ Her friends shrieked, hugging themselves in anticipation.

‘Well, as we haven’t moved in with our fourteen wardrobes of clothes yet—seems skinny-dipping is our only option.’

‘Could you arrange for the lake to be heated before we dive in?’ Colleen demanded.

‘You’ll soon get warm,’ Bronte promised as visions of childhood’s endless summer days spent swimming or rowing on the lake filled her head with slightly rose-tinted images—swiftly followed by red-hot thoughts of Heath rising like a wet-shirted Mr Darcy dripping water from his muscular frame—

‘Bronte?’ the girls prompted.

‘Sorry.’ Tearing her thoughts away from Heath, Bronte focused on the here and now. It would be lonely at the hall without the girls and working together promised to be fun.

And if Heath never came back?

They’d get by somehow. But because she was stubborn she was going to make that call to London to check if he would be holding interviews for jobs at the hall.

‘Daydreaming about Heath
again?’
Colleen teased her.

‘I’ve got bigger things on my mind than Heath,’ Bronte replied, trying to look serious.

‘Bigger than Heath?’ Colleen exclaimed, exchanging a knowing look with Maisie.

‘You’re disgusting.’ Bronte smothered a smile.

The business trip he had left Hebers Ghyll to make had been a resounding success. He was back in town within the week, brooding in his office with Bronte on his mind. She was too inquisitive to quietly settle back into life at the cottage, which worried him. She wouldn’t be able to resist taking another look round Hebers Ghyll, which was dangerous. She could be down there now with a bundle of energy and good intentions. He’d made sure everything was locked up securely before he left, but he didn’t trust her—and good intentions wouldn’t stop those walls falling on her head. He had no option. He had to go back.

He called Quentin from the car to make arrangements to cover his absence at the board meeting, and then he made a few more calls. There was no point in his going to Hebers Ghyll on a day trip—or just to yell at Bronte. He might as well start moving things forward. Whether or not he decided to keep the estate it could only benefit from a refit. And he could only benefit either way.

The two girls were as good as their word and came to the hall every night after work to help Bronte sort things out. One week of back-breaking work was nearly over and there was still no sign of Heath.

Still no answer on his phone either. Perhaps he’d given her the wrong number on purpose—or perhaps Heath’s PA was even more efficient than she’d thought him, which was entirely possible. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed that Heath had just disappeared again as if that visit had never happened, but she hid her feelings from the girls, and stubbornly refused to let it get her down. She distracted herself by working as hard as she could until all she could think about at night was a soft pillow and a long, dreamless sleep.

By the end of the week the three girls had systematically cleared, cleaned, and de-spidered the Great Hall, and had returned the kitchen to its former pristine state. They had weeded the formal gardens as well as the kitchen garden with its wealth of vegetables, and cheered when Bronte, whose hands and face seemed to be permanently covered in sticky black oil for most of the time, finally managed to get the sit-on lawnmower to work. Having tamed the grass and cleared the rubbish, a small part of the Hebers Ghyll estate, if not exactly restored to its former glory, was at least clean and tidy, and as a bonus they were all suntanned and healthy thanks to a timely Indian summer. And they were definitely well fed, thanks to Bronte’s frequent raids on the vegetable patch. There was only one fly in this late-summer ointment as far as Bronte was concerned, and that was Heath. You’d think he’d want to know the place was still standing …

One hazy late afternoon when even the bees could hardly be bothered to hum, Bronte was down at the lakeside with Colleen and Maisie.

‘What are you doing?’ Colleen demanded grumpily when Bronte reached for her phone. ‘You can’t be ringing
him
again?’

‘Yes,
him
again,’ Bronte confirmed, firming her jaw. ‘Heath gave me this number, and some time or other I’m bound to get through to him.’

‘Dreamer,’ Maisie commented. ‘When he takes his phone off call divert,’ Colleen added.

‘Well, I’m not going to give up.’

‘What a surprise,’ Maisie murmured, brushing a harmless hover-fly away.

The phone droned. Bronte waited. And then sprang to attention. But it was only Heath’s PA, who put her off in the same weary tone. Colleen and Maisie were right. Heath had no intention of speaking to her ever again.

‘When are you going to get it through your head—’ Colleen began as Bronte snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the ground.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Just … don’t.’

Bronte’s friends fell silent as she flung herself down on the grass. Lying flat on her back, she gazed up through a lace of leaves to the hint of blue sky beyond. What if Heath sold the estate? What if he’d already sold it and they were all ejected? She should spare the girls that. They could be arrested. This was so unfair. They were seeing progress. They had a routine going. And a goal—Christmas in the Great Hall, recreating one of Uncle Harry’s famous Christmas parties. Bronte imagined inviting everyone in the village. How could she disappoint Colleen and Maisie now when they’d worked so hard to achieve that?