Marion Lennox - Summer Of Love

She couldn’t. The fire was lit. The thing was done.

‘Jo?’ Finn was suddenly beside her, his hand on her shoulder, holding her with the faintest of pressure. ‘Jo?’

She didn’t reply. She didn’t take her eyes from the fire.

‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ he asked.

‘It’s lit.’

‘I’m a man who’s into insurance,’ he said softly and she looked down and saw he was holding a hose.

A hose. To undo what she needed to do.

The teddy...

Even the evil horse...

She couldn’t do it. Dammit, she couldn’t. She choked back a stupid sob and grabbed for the hose. ‘Okay, put it out.’

‘You want the fire out?’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘You’ll wet the teddy,’ he said reproachfully. ‘He’ll get hypothermia as well as scorched feet. Trust me, if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s putting out fires.’

And he screwed the nozzle and aimed the hose. The water came out with satisfactory force. The wood under the teddy hissed and sizzled. Flames turned to smoke and then steam.

The teddy was enveloped with smoke but, before she realised what he intended, Finn stomped forward in his heavy boots, aimed the hose downward to protect his feet, then reached up and gathered the unfortunate bear.

And the giraffe.

He played the water for a moment longer until he was sure that no spark remained, then twisted the nozzle to off and turned back to her.

He handed her the teddy.

‘Yours,’ he said. ‘And I know I said I have too much stuff, but I’m thinking I might keep the giraffe. I’ll call him Noddy.’

She tried to laugh but it came out sounding a bit too much like a sob. ‘N... Noddy. Because...because of his neck?’

‘He’s lost his stuffing,’ Finn said seriously. ‘He can’t do anything but nod. And Teddy’s Loppy because he’s lopsided. He looks like he’s met the family dog. One side looks chewed.’

‘It’d be the castle dog. Not a family dog.’

‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ he said, softly now, his gaze not leaving her face. As if he knew the tumult of stupid emotions raging within her. ‘These people rejected us for all sorts of reasons but somehow they still are family. Our family. Toe-rags most of them, but some will have been decent. Some will have been weak, or vain or silly, and some cruel and thoughtless, but they were who they were. This...’ he waved to the heap of toys spared from the flames ‘...this is just detritus from their passing.’

‘Like us.’

‘We’re not detritus. We’re people who make decisions. We’re people who’ve spared a nursery full of toys and now need to think what to do with them.’ He looked doubtfully at his lopsided giraffe. ‘You did say you could sew.’

‘I...I did.’

‘Then I’ll ask you to fix him so he can sit in my toolshed and watch me do shed stuff. Maybe Loppy can sit on your handlebars and watch you ride.’

‘That’d be silly.’

‘Silly’s better than haunted.’

She stared at the pile of ancient toys, and then she turned and looked up at the castle.

‘It’s not its fault.’

‘It’s not even the horse’s,’ Finn said gently. ‘Though I bet he collaborated.’

‘He’d probably sell for heaps.’

‘He would. I didn’t like to say but there’s been one like him in the window of the antique shop in the village at home. He has a three hundred pound price tag.’

‘Three hundred... You didn’t think to mention that when I wanted to burn him?’

‘I do like a good bonfire.’

She choked on a bubble of laughter, emotion dissipating, and then she stared at the horse again. Getting sensible. ‘We could give him away. To a children’s charity or something.’

‘Or we could sell him to someone who likes arrogant horses and give the money instead,’ Finn told her. ‘Think how many bears we could donate with three hundred pounds. Kids need friends, not horses who only associate with the aristocracy.’

There was a long silence. Mrs O’Reilly had disappeared from her window, no doubt confused by the on-again off-again bonfire. The sun was warm on Jo’s face. In the shelter of the ancient outbuildings there wasn’t a breath of wind. The stone walls around her were bathed in sunshine, their grey walls softened by hundreds of years of wear, of being the birthplace of hundreds of Conaills, of whom only a few had been born with the privilege of living here.

‘I guess we can’t burn the whole castle because of one arrogant grandfather and one ditzy mother,’ she said at last, and Finn looked thoughtful. Almost regretful.

‘We could but we’ll need more kindling.’

She chuckled but it came close to being a sob. She was hugging the teddy. Stupidly. She didn’t hug teddies. She didn’t hug anything.

‘I suppose we should get rational,’ she managed. ‘We could go through, figure what could make money, sell what we can.’

‘And make a bonfire at the end?’ he asked, still hopefully, and her bubble of laughter stayed. A guy with the prospect of a truly excellent bonfire...

‘The sideboards in the main hall are riddled with woodworm,’ she told him, striving for sense. ‘Mrs O’Reilly told me. They’d burn well.’

‘Now you’re talking.’

She turned back to the pile of unburned toys and her laughter faded. ‘You must think I’m stupid.’

‘I’m thinking you’re angry,’ Finn told her. He paused and then added, ‘I’m thinking you have cause.’

‘I’m over it.’

‘Can you ever be over not being wanted?’

‘That’s just the trouble,’ she said, and she stared up at the horse again because it was easier looking at a horse than looking at Finn. He seemed to see inside her, this man, and to say it was disconcerting would be putting it mildly. ‘I was wanted. Three separate sets of foster parents wanted to adopt me but the Conaills never let it happen. But I’m a big girl now. I have myself together.’

‘And you have Loppy.’

‘I’ll lose him. I always lose stuff.’

‘You don’t have to lose stuff. With the money from here you can buy yourself a warehouse and employ a storeman to catalogue every last teddy.’ He gestured to the pile. ‘You can keep whatever you want.’

‘I don’t know...what I want.’

‘You have time to figure it out.’

‘So what about you?’ she demanded suddenly. ‘What do you want? You’re a lord now. If you could...would you stay here?’

‘As a lord...’ He sounded startled. ‘No! But if I had time with these sheep...’

‘What would you do with them?’ she asked curiously, and he shrugged and turned and looked out towards the distant hills.

‘Someone, years ago, put thought and care into these guys’ breeding. They’re tough, but this flock’s different to the sheep that run on the bogs. Their coats are finer. As well, their coats also seem repellent. You put your hand through a fleece and you’ll find barely a burr.’

‘Could you take some back to your farm? Interbreed?’

‘Why would I do that? Our sheep are perfect for the conditions there. These are bred for different conditions. Different challenges.’ And he gazed out over the land and she thought he looked...almost hungry.

‘You’d like a challenge,’ she ventured and he nodded.

‘I guess. But this is huge. And Lord of Glenconaill... I’d be ridiculous. Have you seen what the previous lords wore in their portraits?’

She grinned. ‘You could ditch the leggings.’

‘And the wigs?’

‘Hmm.’ She looked up at his gorgeous thatch of dark brown hair, the sun making the copper glints more pronounced, and she appeared to consider. ‘You realise not a single ancestor is showing coloured hair. They wore hats or wigs or waited until they’d turned a nice, dignified white.’