Page 34 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
Sure about her? Or about this madcap scheme? If he was honest, he’d have to admit he wasn’t sure at all. About either.
Yet something surged up, demanding he live again. To risk, to dream, to trust, tohope. “Yes.”
Her smile was quick and seemed to illuminate his heart, just as the first rays of sunset gilded the room. “Then I’d love to. When do I start?”
Chapter 8
Liv barely slept Friday night. Dozens of ideas, already percolating away during the house tour, only seemed to grow in intensity in the hours that followed. Her mind was awhirl with what she’d agreed to. Take on all that was needed to see this grand old place find life again? She might have had some experience in such things, but she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d bitten off far more than she could chew. She’d tried to express that to Gran, who’d only replied, “Well, how does one eat an elephant?”
“I beg your pardon?” What kind of question was that? “How?”
“By swallowing one mouthful at a time.”
But even that wasn’t much comfort, and the fact that she’d agreed to do this—in an impulsive rush of adrenaline—terrified her. What mouthful was the first to tackle? Cleaning the house? Tending the garden? Establishing a website or posting on social media? It all felt overwhelming. This girl needed far more custard than what she’d downed last night.
Saturday dawned, and when she went downstairs it was to find Gran pottering in the kitchen.
“Ah, Olivia, you’re up. Sleep well?”
“Not really.”
Her grandmother smiled. “Still worrying?”
“There’s just so much to think about.”
“And who are we supposed to commit our worries to?”
God. That’s right. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and prayed for wisdom and strength.
When she opened her eyes, it was to see a freshly brewed cup of tea in front of her.
“Now, drink that up, and I’ll make you some nice toast I got from Joe. He dropped off a fresh loaf of raisin bread this morning.”
“That was nice of him.” She sipped her tea. Ahh. Her grandmother had always known how to prepare the perfect cuppa. Soon the scent of cooking toast filled the room. She savoured this quiet moment of domesticity.
“Now, I want you to enjoy this.” Gran slid a plate of buttered fruit toast before her and then sat across the kitchen table.
The next five minutes passed in appreciation of simple things. Tasty food. Birds twittering. Admiring the contrast between the yellow vase and the indigo delphiniums Liv had purchased at the flower confetti farm two days ago. How had so much happened in such a short space of time? How strange to have formed such an instant connection with George, which had led to this most surprising of offers. But somehow, despite the speed at which things had happened, it felt like God was in it. That—just as Gran had said last night on their drive home from the Hall—a series of events had occurred in recent months which had culminated in this pivotal moment. Which meant if God was in it, then she wasn’t doing this alone.
Another long sip of tea. Another moment of closed eyes and prayer. Then she opened them to see her grandmother smiling at her.
“Feeling better?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Then get your bag, a water bottle, and perhaps a hat. Today will be a big day.”
Upon arrival at Hartbury Hall they drove around to the back courtyard, where George was waiting for them. “Marge rang to say she’s running late. Liam will be here shortly. He just wanted to check a few things.”
Liv nodded. It was a fine Saturday, so he probably was going to open the gardens. “Are the gardens open today?”
George’s nose wrinkled. “No. It’s not the second or fourth Saturday. Although seeing it’s such a nice day, they probably should be, right?”
Liv nodded. “I know it’s more work, but I think it will help train people to expect Hartbury Hall’s gardens to be open regularly, rather than closed. It’s a lot to ask people to remember whether it’s a second or a fourth Saturday.”
“I agree,” Gran said. She nudged Liv. “You should write this down.”
She pulled out the brand-new notebook that Gran had given her last night. “Your ideas book,” she’d called it.
