Margaret Way - Six Australian Heroes

She’d learnt that Cliff sold most of his fruit and vegetables locally since there was rarely anyone in residence nowadays, although that looked set to change.

And she’d learnt that Cliff had been widowed when his daughter, Christy, was a baby—she was now eleven going on eighteen, he told Rhiannon, and they lived on the property.

It was impossible to miss the fact that Cliff Reinhardt was devoted to the Richardson family.

They were carrying all the bounty to the kitchen through the stable yard—the stables were also sandstone, two wings with a shingle roof and marvellous gold and black wrought-iron weather vane—when the clatter of hooves alerted Rhiannon to the fact that someone had gone for an early-morning ride.

It proved to be Lee Richardson on a large, spirited bay and Christy, Cliff’s daughter, on a smaller almost white pony called Poppy.

They reined in and dismounted and a lad emerged from the stables to take Lee’s horse and call the dogs to order.

Both horses were steaming, both riders looked invigorated and glowing and Christy brought Poppy over to be introduced.

Rhiannon patted the pony and scratched her nose. ‘I tell you what, Poppy,’ she murmured, as she eyed the arrival expertly, ‘you may look as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth but I wouldn’t be surprised if you could talk.’

Christy laughed delightedly, and Poppy, still looking angelic, went to nip Rhiannon on the wrist.

She pulled her arm away in time and Christy scolded the pony in such loving tones, she probably thought she was being praised. Then again it was obvious that the motherless Christy adored her pony.

Rhiannon grimaced; she knew what it was like to be motherless—although not at such a young age. She found herself looking into Lee Richardson’s amused eyes.

‘You’re up and about early,’ he said.

He wore jeans, short boots and a navy pullover with military patches. He’d taken off his hard hat and ruffled his dark hair and she’d been right about designer stubble. The blue shadows on his jaw added a definitely sexy aura to his overall aura that was intensely masculine and powerful but marvellously streamlined.

He was the kind of man who took your breath away whether you liked it or not. The kind of man who, through those lazy but all-seeing blue eyes, was probably perfectly aware of the effect he had on you.

Even to the battle you were waging with your better judgement. Not to mention some wayward purely physical responses your body—quite without your permission!—was experiencing.

Rhiannon set her teeth and concentrated for a moment on banishing the insidious little ripples of sensation that the pure appreciation of the fineness of Lee Richardson had produced.

Then she said wryly, ‘Got a big two days ahead!’ She turned to Cliff. ‘Thanks so much for all this. I promise I’ll put it to good use.’

‘My pleasure. I’ll have some more roses for you tomorrow but I’ll help you carry—’

‘It’s OK, Cliff,’ Lee broke in. ‘I’ll do it.’ And he hefted the fruit and vegetable baskets leaving Rhiannon to bring the roses.

The spacious kitchen had windows overlooking the garden.

It was not only a good place to work, Rhiannon thought, with its leafy outlook and its pot plants, but it was also truly pleasant.

They put everything on the box pine table—there was still no sign of anyone—and Lee went to put the kettle on.

‘What time does the staff start?’ she asked with a frown.

‘Eight o’clock or thereabouts.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Not for another hour. Sharon—she’s chief cook and bottle-washer—has a school-age kid, which accounts for her late start, and the variety of cleaners she is responsible for,’ he tipped his hand, ‘appear to please themselves.’

He made himself a cup of instant coffee and came back to the table to sit down. ‘You don’t approve?’

One thing she always guarded against was being too critical so she said only, ‘Maybe we could work out a better system.’ She eyed the colourful mounds on the table. ‘But first things first. I need to get these roses into water. Would you know where the vases are?’

He rubbed his jaw. ‘Sadly, no.’

‘Oh, well, they must be somewhere.’ She started opening cupboards but none held vases.

‘Perhaps the cabinets in the dining room?’ he suggested. ‘You seem to know a bit about horses.’

‘I had a couple of cunning, bad-tempered ponies myself.’ She smiled and walked through to the dining room, where the cabinets he’d mentioned yielded gold. She brought back four vases, two of them heavy crystal, one of them silver and the last a porcelain urn decorated with birds of paradise.

‘I must say,’ she commented as she traced the birds with her fingertips, ‘your home is literally stuffed with the most glorious array of fine old things.’ She looked around for a chopping block and she found a meat mallet and started to crush the stems of the roses and arrange them in the vases. ‘I feel,’ she looked up and smiled at him, ‘like a little girl let loose in a candy store.’

He watched her for a while, how she stood back to study the effect she was achieving, how she blended the colours—pink, yellow, salmon, crimson and cream; how, when she was concentrating, she looped the long side of her hair behind her ear, although it never stayed there. And how expertly she was arranging the roses.

A little different, he reflected, from the swiftly passing but obvious confusion she seemed to have experienced when he’d first spoken to her earlier.

Not such an iron maiden when it comes to men maybe, Ms Fairfax, if you ever were? he thought ironically. But, of course, the irony touches me as well, doesn’t it? I put her down as just another woman on the make then I made a resolution not to allow myself to be intrigued, but I seem to be growing more interested by the minute.

‘My mother and my grandmother were great collectors,’ he said at last. ‘Did you always have an appreciation of fine old things?’

‘I guess so. There.’ She moved the vases to a counter. ‘I’ll work out where to put them shortly. In the meantime I should concentrate on the menu for tomorrow, but,’ she looked across at him, ‘are you a breakfast person?’

He nodded.

‘So am I. I’m starving. How about a herb omelette?’ Her fingers hovered over the array of Cliff’s fresh herbs.

‘That sounds—terrific,’ he said gravely.

‘And some fresh, proper coffee.’ She looked at his mug with disfavour.

‘Miss Fairfax, will you marry me?’

She laughed. ‘Thank you, sir, but I must respectfully decline.’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Rhiannon said half an hour later when they’d consumed her delicious omelette and she was pouring real perked coffee, ‘what I mean to say is—um—great wealth is associated with the Richardson family so.’

‘So why do I put up with this state of affairs?’ Lee Richardson said with a trace of humour. ‘I don’t. I don’t spend much time here at all these days. The place hasn’t really been lived in since my father moved to the south of France. But things have changed now. It seemed sad for it to stand empty with a skeleton staff when Matt and Mary could make it their home.’

Rhiannon nodded without comment.

‘I think she does want to learn,’ he murmured.

‘I’ll do my best. Now I really should get busy, Mr Richardson.’ She stood up.

‘Just a moment.’ He frowned. ‘What’s your background, Rhiannon?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing much.’

‘So where did you learn all your—expertise?’

‘Here and there.’ It was her turn to frown. ‘I’m sure your very correct PA checked my business record and my references in case you’re wondering whether I’m likely to nick the silver.’