Liz Fielding - British Bachelors - Tempting & New

He’s playing some unpleasant game with us, she told herself restively. He has to be, only Dad can’t see it.

Although she suspected it was that faith in the basic goodness of human nature that made her father so popular in the parish, even if his adherence to the traditional forms of worship did not always find favour with the hierarchy in the diocese.

But that was quite another problem.

Whereas—sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, she thought. Which, in this case, was Jago Marsh.

And she sighed again but this time rather more deeply.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS ONE of the most difficult lunches she had ever sat through.

And, to her annoyance, the macaroni cheese was one of her best ever, and Jago Marsh praised it lavishly and had two helpings.

To her utter astonishment, her father had gone down to the dark, cobwebby space which was the Vicarage cellar and produced a bottle of light, dry Italian wine which complemented the food perfectly.

She had turned to him, her eyebrows lifting questioningly. ‘Should Mr Marsh be drinking if he’s driving?’

‘Mr Marsh walked from the Manor,’ Jago had responded, affably. ‘And will return there in the same way.’

Did he mean he’d moved in already? Surely not. The formalities couldn’t have been completed. And how could he possibly be living there anyway with no gas, electricity or water and not a stick of furniture in the place?

Somehow she couldn’t see him camping there with a sleeping bag and portable stove.

If he’d indeed been the traveller she’d first assumed, she knew now that he’d have had the biggest and best trailer on the site with every mod con and then some.

Just as that cheap metal watch, on covert examination, had proved to be a Rolex, and probably platinum.

What she found most disturbing was how genuinely the Vicar seemed to enjoy his company, listening with interest to his stories of the band’s early touring days, carefully cleaned up, she suspected, for the purpose.

While she served the food and sat, taking the occasional sip of wine, and listening, watching, and waiting.

Let people talk and eventually they will betray themselves. Hadn’t she read that somewhere?

But all that their guest seemed to be betraying was charm and self-deprecating humour. Just as if the good opinion of an obscure country clergyman could possibly matter to him.

He’s my father, you bastard, and I love him, she addressed Jago silently and fiercely. And if you hurt him, I’ll find some way to damage you in return. Even if it takes the rest of my life.

‘So, Jago,’ the Vicar said thoughtfully. ‘An interesting name and a derivative of James I believe.’

Jago nodded. ‘My grandmother was Spanish,’ he said. ‘And she wanted me to be christened Iago, as in Santiago de Compostela, but my parents felt that Shakespeare had knocked that name permanently on the head so they compromised with the English version.’

Iago, thought Tavy, who’d studied Othello for her ‘A’ level English exam. One of literature’s most appalling villains. The apparently loyal second in command, turned liar, betrayer and murderer by association. The personification of darkness, if ever there was one.

It felt almost like a warning, and made her even less inclined to trust him.

After the meal, she served coffee in the sitting room. But when she went in with the tray, she found Jago alone, looking at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece.

He said abruptly, not looking round, ‘Your mother was very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘In every way.’

‘Your father must be very lonely without her.’

‘He’s not alone,’ she said, defensively. ‘He has his work and he has me. Also he plays chess with a retired schoolmaster in the village. And...’ She hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘And he has God.’ She said it reluctantly, expecting some jeering response.

‘I’m sure he does,’ he said. ‘But none of that is what I meant.’

She decided not to pursue that, asking instead, ‘Where is he, anyway?’ as she set the tray down on the coffee table between the two shabby sofas that flanked the fireplace.

‘He went to his study to find a book he’s going to lend me on the history of the Manor.’

‘The past is safe enough,’ she said. ‘It’s what you may do to its future that worries most people.’

‘I met two of my new neighbours on my way here,’ he said. ‘A man on horseback and a woman with a dog. Both of them smiled and said hello, and the dog didn’t bite me, so I wasn’t aware of any tsunami of anxiety heading towards me.’

‘It may seem amusing to you,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to live with the inevitable upheaval of your celebrity presence—’ she edged the words with distaste ‘—and deal with the aftermath when you get bored and move on.’

‘You haven’t been listening, sweetheart.’ His tone was crisp. ‘The Manor is going to be my home. The only one. And I intend to make it work. Now shall we call a truce before your father comes back? And I take my coffee black without sugar,’ he added. ‘For future reference.’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ said Tavy. ‘As this will be the first and last time I have to serve it to you.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘One can always dream.’

Lloyd Denison came striding in, holding a slim book with faded green covers. ‘Things are never where you expect them to be,’ he said, shaking his head.

That, Tavy thought affectionately, was because he never put things where they were supposed to go. And she hadn’t inherited her mother’s knack of guiding him straight to the missing item.

‘Thank you.’ Jago took the book from him, handling it gently. ‘I promise I’ll look after it.’

Their coffee drunk, he stood up. ‘Now I’ll leave you to enjoy your afternoon in peace. But I must thank you again for a delicious lunch. And as home-cooking is currently out of the question for me, I was wondering if you could recommend a good local restaurant.’

‘I dine out very rarely, but I’m sure Tavy could suggest somewhere.’ Her father turned to her. ‘What do you think? There’s that French place in Market Tranton.’

Which is our place—Patrick’s and mine—thought Tavy, so I’m not sending him there.

She said coolly, ‘The pub in the village does food.’

‘Yes, but it’s very basic,’ Mr Denison objected. ‘You must know lots of better places.’

She turned reluctantly to Jago. ‘In that case, you could try Barkland Grange. It’s a hotel and quite a trek from here, but I believe its dining room won an award recently.’

‘It sounds ideal.’ That smile again. As if he was reaching out to touch her. ‘And as I’ve ruined your supper plans, maybe I can persuade you to join me there for dinner tonight.’ He looked at her father. ‘And you, sir, of course.’

‘That’s very kind,’ said the Vicar. ‘But I have some finishing touches to put to my sermon, plus a double helping of chicken to enjoy. However I’m sure Tavy would be delighted to accompany you.’ He looked at her blandly. ‘Wouldn’t you, darling?’

Tavy reflected she would rather be roasted over a slow fire. But as it had already been established that, thanks to her would-be host, she had no prior date, she was unable to think of a feasible excuse. Her only alternative was a bald refusal which would be ill-mannered and therefore cause distress to her father. Although she suspected Jago himself would be amused.

Accordingly, she murmured an unwilling acquiescence, and agreed that she could be ready at seven-thirty.

Unless mown down in the meantime by a runaway steamroller. And if she knew where one was operating, she’d lie down in front of it.