Marion Lennox: A Millionaire For Molly

‘We’re not a family.’ Molly spoke swiftly and Jackson felt an irrational pang of disappointment. Misconception or not, it had felt good-for a moment. Which was irrational. Wasn’t it?

But of course Molly was right. If he was seriously interested in this property then he had to get off on the right foot from the start.

‘Miss Farr’s acting as realtor for Miss Copeland,’ he told them. ‘I’m Jackson Baird, the potential buyer.’ He smiled at Sam, half hidden behind Molly. ‘And this is Sam, Molly’s nephew. He and his pet frog, Lionel, have come along for the ride.’

The elderly woman took a deep breath and made a recovery. ‘Then, family or not, we’re very pleased to meet you,’ she told them. ‘I’m Doreen Gray, Miss Copeland’s housekeeper, and this is my husband, Gregor. Come on in. I’ll make us a cup of tea and we can get to know each other.’

And that set the tone for the weekend. Doreen and Gregor had no concept of formality. Jackson, Molly and Sam were treated as very special guests. Indeed, they might have been family for the welcome they received.

‘You don’t see many people?’ Molly ventured over her third scone, and she knew straight away that she’d hit the nail on the head.

‘No, dear, we don’t,’ Doreen told her. ‘Time was when the Copelands used to have every important family in Australia staying here. We have nineteen bedrooms, would you believe? And we filled them all. But Mr and Mrs Copeland passed away almost thirty years back and Miss Copeland never was one for socialising. She moved to Sydney ten years ago and the place has been almost abandoned.’

‘Is it run down?’ Jackson’s brows creased, but Doreen’s face stiffened and she offered him another scone as if to say-Does this look like the product of a farm let go?

‘It most certainly isn’t. Miss Copeland would never stand for that. We run over three thousand head of cattle. At mustering we have over a dozen men. And once a month I have a girl in from town to do the house from stem to stern. If you wanted to fill those bedrooms tomorrow you’d find nothing amiss.’

‘I’m sure I wouldn’t.’ Jackson looked appreciatively about him. The kitchen was just as farm kitchens ought to be-big and warm and welcoming, with a vast firestove that stretched almost from wall to wall. It gleamed with cleanliness-no mean feat, he guessed, when the house was well over a century old.

Cara would like this kitchen.

No, she wouldn’t. He gave a rueful inward grimace. What was he thinking of? Cara wouldn’t step foot in a kitchen unless she was dragged.

But she’d love the rest of the place. The house was fabulous. Vast bluestone walls were ringed by a wide veranda that ran the full perimeter of the house. Every room seemed to have French windows. The curtains wafting outwards in the breeze looked fresh and new, and the whole place had instant appeal.

He looked across the table and found Molly’s eyes on him, assessing, and he guessed she was right in business mode.

‘It’s great, isn’t it? You know, you’re the first person we’ve shown it to.’

‘I know that.’

‘You won’t be the last.’ She turned to Mrs Gray and smiled. ‘I hope you bake scones every time I bring prospective buyers down here. These are delicious.’

It was a tactful way of saying Jackson was first in a queue and there were others who’d be interested if he wasn’t. He smiled, acknowledging she had a point but refusing to be hurried. ‘But I have first option, right?’

‘I believe you have first option until Monday.’

‘Very generous.’

‘We aim to please.’ She smiled across the table at him, and he found himself staring. She was charming. Intelligent. Organised. Beautiful…

He found himself looking down at the ring finger on her bandaged left hand-just in case-and felt a ridiculous twinge of pleasure when he discovered it was bare. And then he had to jolt himself back to hear what she was saying.

‘Mr Jackson would like to see over the farm,’ she told Gregor. ‘Can you show him around?’

‘Oh, my dear…’ The elderly farmer’s face fell.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘I can’t do it,’ Gregor said heavily. ‘My legs won’t take me.’

‘I didn’t mean walk,’ Molly told him. ‘I assume there’s a vehicle?’

‘The Jeep’s in for a service. If we’d known you were coming… But Miss Copeland only rang last night to tell us you were on your way.’

‘There’s the farm bike,’ Doreen said. ‘But it only holds one. Then there’s the horses, but Gregor’s hip can’t take it.’

It nearly killed them, Molly saw, to admit that they were getting old and needed help. Gregor’s face was anguished.

‘I can go by myself,’ Jackson said gently, reacting to the old man’s distress. ‘Miss Farr…’ He cast Molly a sideways look and decided on informality. ‘ Molly’s given me excellent maps, and if you have a horse then I can ride.’

‘But you could fall off.’ Doreen was practically wringing her hands. ‘There’s rabbit holes and heaven knows what else. You’ll want to see everything, and the only way to see it properly is by horse, but…’

‘You can’t go alone,’ her husband added. He turned to Molly and she could see what an effort it cost him to ask. ‘Unless you ride, miss?’

‘I ride,’ she said briefly, and received another look of astonishment from Jackson. One surprise after another… City realtors, it seemed, were not expected to ride.

She hesitated. Sam was right beside her, pressing close. His insecurity was almost tangible. ‘But Sam can’t.’

‘We’ll look after Sam.’ Doreen beamed at this easy solution to the problem. ‘It would be our pleasure.’ Then she addressed Sam, adult to adult. ‘I’m making a pavlova for supper,’ she told him. ‘Have you ever made one?’

Sam hesitated. ‘No, I…’

‘Would you like to learn? I need help to pick the strawberries for the top.’

‘And we’re hand-rearing a calf,’ Gregor added, seeing where Doreen was headed and putting in his two bobs’ worth. ‘She needs bottle-feeding. Seems to me you’re just the sort of lad who’d be able to do that.’

‘And did you say you have a frog in that box?’ Doreen asked. ‘After we’ve done our jobs, Gregor and I will walk you to where there are a thousand frogs. And tadpoles to match.’

It was too much. Sam gave a shy nod and the tension in the room eased like magic.

Molly let her breath out in a rush. Darn, everywhere she looked there were conflicting demands, but these two lovely old people had given her time off. Wonderful…

‘Can you really ride?’ Jackson demanded. ‘Or do you mean you can sit on a riding school hack?’

The toad! ‘Try me,’ she retorted, and turned to Gregor, excluding Jackson nicely. He deserved to be excluded. ‘According to my livestock lists you have some fine horses.’

‘They’ll be frisky,’ Gregor warned. ‘They haven’t been ridden since muster.’

‘The friskier the better,’ she told him. ‘I can’t wait.’

And the thing was settled.

‘It’ll take you the best part of the day to get around,’ Doreen added. ‘I’ll put together a picnic for your saddlebags. You have a lovely day for it.’ She beamed. ‘There. That’s settled. You have a lovely ride and see the property and Sam will have fun with us. Isn’t that lovely?’

What was her story?

Jackson watched as Molly helped catch and saddle the horses, and by the time they were mounted he knew she hadn’t spoken lightly when she’d said she could ride. She looked as if she’d been born in the saddle. Her roan mare was skittish as be damned, but she held her as steadily as Jackson held his bay. Then, as Gregor let them go and the mare skittered sideways, she turned a laughing face towards him.