Page 17 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
He put it on speaker. “Sorry.”
She sighed. “Liam, are you quite all right?”
Some days he felt quite all wrong, but admit as much to his baby sister he would not do. “Nothing to worry about,” he assured her.
“Hmm. I guess I’ll be the judge of that when I see you on Wednesday. Is it still steak and cider night at the pub?”
“Last I checked.”
“Good. I want a proper meal, not one of your curries that you have cooking for goodness knows how long.”
“Hey!”
She laughed, and something about her laughter reminded him of the dryad woman before. He blinked. He really should stop thinking about her.
As Georgina kept talking, he rubbed his eyes, gazing out at the forlorn fountain that might be wet but not from a working pump. The Italian marble showpiece hadn’t worked since two months after the film crew left in 2015. The grand water fountain might be what Hartbury Hall was known for, but with little money in the coffers, what they possessed had needed to be spent on roof restoration rather than less important features. In an ideal world, he’d have the means to draw in tourists, but as he had zero energy or motivation, he could not see any way to progress. Which left him in a state of going through the motions, in a holding pattern of helplessness, while he waited for something to change. Anything to change. Like the trustees to finally grant him the money he needed. Or God to reveal a secret money tree in some far-flung corner of the estate. Or God to finally answer any one of the many, many prayers he’d prayed over the years for an answer to go forward.
He glanced at the time and hurried into the next room, the cluttered, once-grand library which held thousands of leather-bound books he’d never read, and he suspected most of his ancestors hadn’t either. He had his own well-worn paperback collection on a bookshelf in his bedroom, reading one of those pursuits he enjoyed but rarely got time to do. Still, if he finished checking the house, perhaps that would be a good way to unwind after a long, frustrating day.
“Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday, then,” Georgina chirped. “Love you.”
“Love you,” he echoed, to the only woman he’d said that to since Toni had left.
He was finishing his rounds, thankful to see little evidence of water damage, when his phone rang again.
He stared at the number, one he’d never deleted from his phone. Pressed ANSWER. Then heard a familiar voice. “Liam? It’s Veronica Hastings. Remember me?”
“I remember.” How could he forget?
“Now I want you to listen, for I have a proposal for you …”
Chapter 5
Liv tore at the ivy, thankful for the recent rain, which had loosened stubborn roots and enabled the weeding of Gran’s front garden to be easier than first imagined. She tugged at a particularly obstinate tendril and then collapsed back onto her rear, right into mud. Wonderful. Add another brown stain to match those marking her knees. Still, a garden didn’t weed itself, and if her grandmother was returning tomorrow as the doctor had indicated, then it was best to deal with this now. So she continued to pull and dig and drag and pray that God would make her life’s path plain, just as this garden was taking shape, after being neglected for far too long.
Her arms were aching by the time she finally paused for a spot of morning tea. Oh, how quaintly English that sounded. All the phrases she’d grown up with just made so much sense when in a proper English village, rather than the sunburnt country town she’d grown up in, half a world away in the antipodes. Just think, if she were at home, she’d be shivering in bleak midwinter rather than enjoying the pastel blooms of English roses and delphiniums.
She boiled the kettle then dunked water over a tea bag, something she’d only do away from the eyes of tea-leaves-loving Mum and Gran. Tom still judged her, squinting at her like she was a criminal, his glare reminiscent of someone else. Not that she was thinking about him. Not that she wanted to knowanythingabout him. She’d be very happy to put him out of mind, even if his house—she’d forever regard it as Pemberley, despite being in quite the wrong county for a true Austen aficionado—was rather lovely.
And so what if she’d taken the longer way home yesterday after the hospital, which just so happened to take her past a rather sad-and-soggy-looking Hartbury Hall again? It was only because she wanted to see the house, not the man. And definitely not the dog. If it were a sweet-natured thing, she might imagine CeeCee stood for Cupcake, or Chupa Chup. But as it was most definitely not, it probably stood for Crafty Cur or Cross Companion.
She laughed at her silliness, then pushed to her feet. “Ugh.” Her back was so sore. No wonder Gran hadn’t done any weeding in forever.
A cleared throat drew her attention to the closed front gate. Tobias stood behind it, under the rose-smothered archway, surveying her handiwork. “Good morning.”
She stretched and cracked her back. “G’day.”
He grinned, and she realized the Australianism that had popped out.
“I guess it’s been a while since you’ve heard one of those, hey?”
“You’re like a breath of fresh air, Olivia.”
She was? She’d take it. “Thank you.”
His grin widened, so much that he resembled a teddy bear. The man might be in his fifties, balding, and slightly tubby, but he owned a warmth and geniality that made her feel safe.
He gestured to the garden. “You’ve been hard at work, I see.”
