Sara Craven - Outsider

Natalie forced a smile, as she poured herself a drink. ‘I suppose voluptuous blondes are going to become part of the scenery from now on.’ She tried to speak lightly, but the words sounded stilted, but fortunately Beattie seemed unaware.

‘One thing’s certain,’ she said. ‘Nothing will ever be the same round here.’

To Natalie, the words sounded like a prophecy of doom.

That night, as she was brushing her hair, she found she was studying herself in the mirror, almost clinically. Her face, naturally pale under the cloud of copper hair, was like a small cat’s with its green eyes and high cheekbones. Not the face of a woman at peace with herself, but there was little wonder about that. For the rest of her—medium height with a figure on the thin side of slender.

About as far removed from a Page Three girl as it was possible to get, she told herself in bitter self-derision. And as that was where Eliot’s tastes lay, that would seem to guarantee her immunity in the future as long as she behaved herself.

He had things to settle in Lambourn, so he wouldn’t be returning to Yorkshire immediately, which would give her a breathing space to come to terms with the change at Wintersgarth.

He had commissioned Beattie to engage a local decorating firm to repaint the flat, and would be sending up a list of the exact colours he wanted on the walls. The quiet neutrals she had chosen were being banished for ever, it seemed.

Over dinner, listening to Grantham and Beattie discussing their immediate plans, Natalie had broken in abruptly.

‘Did you know he might be bringing some extra staff with him?’

‘He mentioned it, yes,’ Grantham nodded.

‘You didn’t mention we were up to strength?’

He smiled broadly, ‘At the moment, lass, maybe. But an extra pair of hands won’t hurt—and there’ll be more horses to see to.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said, heavily sarcastic. ‘We’re going to be deluged with owners wanting us to take their horses now that the great Eliot Lang is coming amongst us. No doubt he told you so himself.’

‘He’s had a couple of approaches from people he’s ridden for,’ Grantham said mildly. ‘What’s odd about that?’

She bit her lip. ‘Approaches are one thing, firm offers are another.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘Dad, don’t go overboard, will you?’

He shook his head. ‘I had a heart attack, my girl, not a brain seizure!’

Natalie wasn’t particularly reassured. She said, ‘If—and I mean if—these extra horses come, where the hell are we going to put them?’

‘In the new extension.’

‘But that’s only at the outline planning stage,’ she protested.

‘Not any more.’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘I set the architect on preparing detailed drawings last week. Permission’ll be a formality.’

‘And financing?’ she asked huskily. ‘We’re still paying off the accommodation block and …’

‘And I’ve got a partner now. A partner with money.’ He gave her a genial wink. ‘This is going to be his pigeon, not mine, so stop panicking.’

The conversation had only served to bring home to Natalie with increasing emphasis how potent a force Eliot Lang was going to be at Wintersgarth.

Oh God, she thought savagely as she got into bed, why can’t there be some sort of time slip? Why can’t we go back to the time before Grantham had his heart attack, when everything was normal—and safe?

She switched off her light and settled herself for sleep, but it proved elusive. She found she was being tormented by vivid mental images of Eliot Lang locked together with his voluptuous blonde in some Harrogate hotel room.

When she did at last fall asleep, for the first time in many months she dreamed of Tony, and woke in the morning to find tears on her face.

The internal phone in the office rang and Natalie answered it, her mind still fixed on the farrier’s bill in front of her. ‘Yes, Beattie?’

‘The removal van’s arrived,’ her stepmother announced triumphantly. ‘Do you want to join me in a good pry?’

Natalie stifled a sigh. ‘I—I haven’t really got time.’

‘Well, never mind.’ Beattie sounded disappointed but cheerful. ‘He’s going to ask us to dinner when he’s sorted himself out a bit, so we can see everything then.’

Hurrah, Natalie thought bleakly, as she replaced her receiver. The date on the calendar had been circled in red for quite some time now. There was no way she could forget that today was the day Eliot finally moved into Wintersgarth.

He’d been up several times in the intervening period, staying at the pub in the village. He had attended the planning hearing when permission for the stabling extension had been given, without problems as Grantham had predicted. He had checked on the progress of the decorators, and the firm he’d employed to install a new kitchen.

‘I’ve seen the drawings,’ Beattie had disclosed, awed. ‘It looks more like the deck of a space ship than a kitchen!’ She’d given the Aga an affectionate pat. ‘I’d be afraid of pressing the wrong button!’

Natalie wasn’t the world’s greatest cook, and the culinary arrangements at the flat had been basic to say the least, but it still galled her that he was making such sweeping changes. But then everything he did seemed to find some raw spot, she thought ruefully, particularly as so far he hadn’t seemed to put a foot wrong. She was ashamed to acknowledge that she’d harboured a secret hope that Wes and the lads would resent him, had looked forward to seeing him cut down to size in some subtle way. But it hadn’t happened. He seemed to have hit the right note with them, as with everyone. Except herself.

She went back to the farrier’s bill, but she couldn’t concentrate. All she could think of was that the flying visits were over. Eliot was moving in, for good. And she would have to start thinking seriously about moving out.

She had dreaded having to face him again, after those few searing minutes in the tack room. She’d expected some pointed reminder, a look, a drawled remark. She’d been on edge waiting for it. But it hadn’t happened—yet.

Perhaps Eliot had also had time to come to terms with a few things too. His attitude to her was polite, but briskly businesslike. He still, to her father’s amusement, addressed her as Mrs Drummond.

‘You’re very formal, the pair of you,’ he’d chided jovially. But it hadn’t changed a thing. Natalie was as much a thorn in his flesh as he was in hers. But she wasn’t driving him out of the only home he’d ever known, she thought bitterly.

At half past twelve, she closed the office and started up towards the house for lunch. The furniture van had gone, she saw, and Eliot’s Porsche was parked outside the flat.

As she approached, a girl got out of the passenger seat and stood obviously waiting to speak to her. A mass of curling blonde hair hung to her shoulders, framing a full-lipped smiling face. She wore a ribbed wool dress, tightly cinched at the waist with a leather belt, thus drawing attention to well-shaped breasts and rounded hips. Her long legs were encased in high-heeled patent leather boots.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Sharon Endicott. Do you think you could show me where my things are to go? Eliot was going to, but he went up to the house to speak to Mr Slater, and he hasn’t come back.’

Natalie swallowed. She said feebly, ‘How do you do. I’m Natalie Drummond.’

The other girl nodded. ‘I thought you would be.’ She looked around. ‘It’s nice here.’

‘Thank you,’ Natalie managed feebly. She still couldn’t assimilate that Eliot had actually brought his mistress with him. It seemed so—so blatant, somehow. And it would go down like a lead balloon with the locals, who were a pretty staid lot.