Page 15 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
Liv handed her the phone.
“Thank you, dear.” Gran glanced at the screen and then pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello, Marge? Thank you for calling.” She waited, her eyes fixed on Liv as Marge said something. “Yes, she’s still here.”
“Hi, Marge,” Liv called.
“Yes, it’s really something I think I should probably try to talk to you and Tobias about at the same time. Can you come see me? Oh, of course. I should’ve realized that.” She sighed. “If only I could speak to you both at the same time.”
“I could set up a three-way call, if you like,” Liv offered.
Gran’s eyes lit. “You can do that?”
“Of course.”
Gran communicated that to Marge, and it took a few moments, but then Tobias was on the phone too.
“Thank you, Olivia.” Her grandmother smiled, as if in dismissal.
“You want me to go?”
“I’m sure you have lots to do.”
Not really. But a rainy Sunday afternoon meant a chance to read a book and drink tea and relax for the first time in days. She kissed her grandmother goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Come the next day, when I’m due to be released.”
“Okay.” That meant she’d better get stuck into clearing the garden tomorrow. “I’ll leave you to your important conversation.”
Her grandmother nodded but was clearly more interested in the two people on the phone.
So Liv collected her things and exited, feeling a disquieting sense of loss. Her grandmother was entitled to private conversations with her friends, but she didn’t like the feeling of being excluded, like she wasn’t trusted. And what was with all the questions? Clearly her grandmother was planning something, but what?
What a strange few hours the past two had proved.
Whoever thought owning a grand English estate meant one was living the good life clearly had no real clue. Liam shoved wet hair from his face and gritted his teeth as he pressed against the glass panes overhead. Rain continued to sheet through, pouring waterfall-like onto his face.
“For heaven’s sake!” He flicked his hair like a wet dog.
If only Trinny’s family could see him now, perhaps they might spare a drop of pity.
His jaw clenched, and he carefully adjusted the roof lantern’s panels so they sat as they ought, but they still lacked the lead seal that would stop the water flow. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to wave the white flag of surrender.
He gripped the sides of the metal ladder and descended, one careful step at a time. The only employee of the estate could not afford to have an accident and be out of action; otherwise, the place would descend into greater ruin. Although, could he be called an employee when there was no income to pay wages? Perhaps it was a good thing he was the only one left.
Once two feet were firmly on the stone-flagged floor, he shifted a large bucket under the greatest leak. It would not be long until this bucket filled. He should probably find a wheelbarrow. Or visit the Duck Inn and see if he could borrow a spare keg. Or a barrel. He glanced up. At least adjusting the glass had helped a little. The space might now be empty of the tropical plants that had once been housed behind these stone walls and glass windows, which meant there was little to be damaged, save a few large stone vases too heavy to move. The largest of these, a copy of the Medici Vase, was said to have sat in the exact same space for over two hundred years. A little bit of water was unlikely to send it anywhere. He would have to pray the great glass lamps hanging from his grandfather’s time stayed the course too.
What a day. His shoulders slumped. How his father would hate the legacy of his son. Good thing he was not around to see the mess he’d made of everything.
With a final glance around the empty room, he departed. There was no point locking the door or even keeping it closed. The water would need to escape sooner or later.
He returned to the main house, entering via the back door that few people knew about, and into the private quarters. Why he still stayed here he barely knew. Well, he knew. It was cheaper than losing the rents on the farmhouses and cottages the estate owned, the rents of which he needed every single pound to pay the land taxes enforced by His Majesty’s government. And complain as his accountant, Timothy Grant, might, there was no way he’d increase the rents of the pensioners and those living in what he privately termed the “poor cousin flats.” People like his second cousin, whose parents had died in a house fire, leaving her an orphan. He understood, better than most, that people who had experienced such trauma in their short life often simply needed a place to stay and grieve and learn to get better. Not that he’d succeeded in the latter. But what little he could do he would do. Gifting a cottage in Sussex to a second cousin to live in rent-free for a year or two was easy. Even if nearly everything else in his life was not.
CeeCee stirred from her cushion near the fire, offering a short bark as if she didn’t recognize his appearance. After glimpsing himself in the mantelpiece mirror, he understood.
“I know, I know. I look like a drenched rat, don’t I?”
She barked again, as if in agreement.
“It’s all well and good for you to say that, lying there all warm and comfortable like you’re a queen.”
