Page 9 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
The greying head nodded. “I’ll get you another one.”
“Thanks.”
When Marge returned, she didn’t leave straightaway. “About before, when you mentioned the man and dog at the Hall. I wouldn’t take it too personally if I were you.”
Liv’s brows rose. “How personally should I take it?”
Marge fiddled with her apron ruffles. “Liam’s had a hard time in recent years.”
So that was his name. “A hard time keeping up with the garden, it seems.”
Marge shot her another look.
Remorse twisted within. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. The garden is beautiful, it just needs more hands on deck.”
“Things haven’t been easy for Liam these past years,” Marge reiterated, eyeing her.
Wow. Okay. What was with all the protectiveness for Mr. Surly? Was he related to Marge or something?
“Look, I just think if the gardens are open then he needs to work on his customer relations.” Liv held up a hand. “I’ve led groups around Hooper’s Manor for years, and I know some visitors aren’t easy. But nobody can afford to be mean to people. That always backfires, and then visitors post reviews on social media and you lose potential tourists, and it becomes a never-ending cycle of pain.” Another wince. “Sorry if I’m stating the obvious here.”
Half shrug. “It’s true.”
Marge’s agreement drew courage to continue. “I’ll just finish by saying if the gardens are open to visitors then he’ll need to do something about that dog of his. It hardly makes a person feel welcome.”
“George’s,” Marge murmured absently.
Who was George?
“Hey, Marge,” an elderly customer said from the bar, a fringe of white hair circling his pate, “are you serving all the customers here, or just the pretty ones?” He sent Liv a wink which drew her smile.
Marge sighed and departed, assuring Liv today’s meal was on the house. Business was picking up—unsurprising for the end of week—and Liv soon finished and moved outside, where she was greeted by a man in a clerical collar who introduced himself as Tobias Gifford. After chatting with him for a while, she promised to attend church on Sunday and that she’d pass on his good wishes to her grandmother on the morrow. Where maybe she’d also ask about the mystery at Hartbury Hall.
“There’s no mystery,” Gran said bluntly the next day, after Joe’s flowers had been handed over, admired, and placed in a hospital vase. “It’s just something the village doesn’t like talking about with outsiders.”
“I’m hardly an outsider, Gran,” she protested, settling back in the room’s hard plastic chair. Gran had picked up an infection, the doctor had informed her earlier, necessitating Gran’s continued stay for a few more days until she was deemed well enough to return.
Her grandmother’s nose wrinkled. “I know.” She sighed. “But I just feel—we all feel—a sense of loyalty to his family.”
“What? I thought the guy was a gardener. Are you telling me his family is royalty or something?” Liv’s jest earned her a look of scorn. Okay, so not that. But, “You know that not talking about something makes people wonder even more, right?”
Gran sniffed. “I know that most people should mind their own business.”
Ouch. So maybe doing a Google search last night wasn’t what Jesus would do. Not that she’d discovered much—certainly nothing about this Liam person. About the best she’d discovered was a Wikipedia mention of Hartbury Hall, and an ancient website about the Hall’s opening hours. She’d had a quick peek and found it as much depressing as it was fascinating. Clearly someone once upon a time had thought the Hall’s treasures worthy of public awareness via this site. Equally clear was the fact that the photos had not been taken by someone with Elinor’s savvy social media skills, the website looking like something put together from last century. Even Hooper’s Manor had a better site, and Liv (with Elinor and EJ’s help) had put that together.
“Now there’s no need to look put out,” Gran said.
Apparently Liv would need to work on her resting pout face. Add that to the long line of things to fix.
“It’s just we in the village feel a mite protective of him.”
Yes, but he was a grown man. “I’m hardly the sort of person to cause a problem.”
“I know that. But we’re a trifle cautious, especially after all the reporters.”
Reporters? Her ears pricked. Now shereallywanted to do a more thorough search in Google land. She eyed her grandmother as a long-ago memory flickered back into consciousness. “Wait, didn’t you used to work there?”
“I was a steward at the Hall, yes.”
