A Time to Dream Page 3

  She gave another, deeper shiver, wrapping her arms around her slim body as though trying to ward off the danger her mind warned her was waiting for her.

  This was ridiculous, she told herself irritably. So Luke Chalmers had kissed her. So what?

  So what? She knew quite well what, her mind jeered, while her heart trembled and her body was flooded with the echoes of the sensations he had made her feel.

  It was almost as though, like the heroine of a fairytale, she was the victim of a powerful spell.

  Nonsense, her brain denied acidly. Just because she had reacted sexually to the man, that was no reason to go investing him with magical powers.

  Sex. A sad smile curled her mouth. Paul had accused her of being almost completely lacking in sexuality. She was cold and frigid, he had complained when she had refused to go away with him. Didn’t she realise how much he wanted her? Well, now she knew the true depth of that wanting, and it had been a very shallow need indeed. A need which, she suspected, would have been quickly quenched if she had given way to him.

  Hopefully her response to Luke Chalmers was the same; something which would quickly fade if she ignored it and refused to give in to its insidious demand. A fire which would die down as quickly as it had arisen if she smothered it with common sense and hard reality.

  And if she didn’t? She stood still, gazing blindly towards the empty fireplace, her heart thudding erratically, her whole body suddenly bathed in a fierce heat.

  This was all nonsense, she told herself firmly. She would probably not even see the man again.

  When he only lived less than half a mile away at the end of the lane?

  He was here to work…just as she was herself. There was no real need for their paths to cross again, and, after all, wouldn’t it be better if they did not? The last thing she needed right now was the kind of highly charged sexual affair she was pretty sure was all he had to offer her.

  The most sensible thing she could do was to forget she had ever met him and concentrate on all the work that lay in front of her, beginning right now by returning to those gardening books.

  Louise had expressed doubt when Melanie had told her that she intended to tackle the wilderness that was the garden by herself, demurring that she felt that Melanie ought to ask around to see if there wasn’t someone in the village who could give her some help

  ‘The lawn will have to be scythed,’ she had warned Melanie, ‘and that’s no job for an amateur. And if you do intend to try and grow some salad stuff and soft fruits you’ll need someone to dig over the vegetable beds for you.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can afford to employ someone to do that.’ Melanie had hesitated, not wanting to explain to Louise her reluctance to touch a penny of the capital she had inherited, wanting to donate it in its entirety to some deserving charity, which was why she had insisted on paying for her small car out of her own savings.

  She wasn’t too worried about finding a new job once the summer was over. Without being vain, she knew she was a good secretary with excellent qualifications, and if the worst came to the worst she could always do some temping for a few months until the right job turned up.

  In the meantime…in the meantime… She took a deep breath. In the meantime she had better get down to reading her way through that very large pile of books.

  * * *

  MELANIE DIDN’T go to bed until very late, determined to exorcise the memory of Luke Chalmers by forcing herself to concentrate on her reading. Eventually it had worked, after a fashion, although unfortunately it hadn’t been the chapters on vegetable growing which had caught her attention, but those on the flower borders traditional to cottage gardens, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from daydreaming about how her own garden might look, transformed into such a vision of delight, its lawns smooth and green, its borders filled with silky-petalled poppies, the tall spires of dark blue delphiniums, the sturdiness of lupins and monkshood and the delicacy of the old-fashioned single-coloured ‘granny’s bonnets’ growing against a background of climbing roses and everlasting sweet peas. There would be a lavender hedge edging the path down to the front gate, mingling their scent with the rich clove-like perfume of the pinks that grew between them.

  Dizzy with the headiness of her thoughts and plans, she went upstairs, and yet ironically, instead of dreaming of the perfection of the garden she wanted to create, she dreamed instead of Luke Chalmers.

  * * *

  SHE WOKE UP LATE, heavy-eyed with an aching head and a dull sense of bewilderment and confusion. Her dreams had disturbed her, leaving her feeling edgy and insecure.

  Her bout of flu had robbed her of her appetite, making her lose weight so that Louise had clucked her tongue and warned her that she needed to eat more.

  Melanie knew it was true, but she had no appetite for the toast she had made for herself, pushing the plate away with the bread barely touched. She was just sipping her coffee when the phone rang.

  Her heart jolted to a standstill and then started to race so much that she was actually trembling as she went to answer it.

  Why on earth she should think it might be Luke Chalmers she had no idea, but when she recognised that the male voice on the other end of the line belonged to a stranger, it wasn’t relief she felt, but something paralysingly close to disappointment.

  ‘Miss Foden?’ the caller enquired a second time, causing her to swallow hard and reply in the affirmative. ‘You don’t know me. My name is Hewitson, David Hewitson. Shortly before his death, John Burrows and I were having discussions about the sale of the cottage and the land to me. John had, in actual fact, accepted my offer, sensibly realising that he had reached an age at which it was no longer wise for him to live in such isolation. In fact, if it hadn’t been for his death, the sale would have gone through.’

  Listening to him, Melanie frowned. For some reason, despite his calm, almost gentle voice, she felt as though David Hewitson was almost issuing a subtle threat against her; perhaps even suggesting that by rights he ought to be the owner of the cottage. Her frown deepened. The solicitors had said nothing to her about any such sale, which surely they would have done had it been so advanced that the actual paying over of the money was virtually only a final formality.

  What they had said was that there had been several offers of purchase, which might or might not have been motivated by the fact that a proposed new motorway, if approved, could add dramatically to the cottage’s land value.

  ‘What I should like to do,’ David Hewitson was continuing smoothly, ‘is to call round to see you. I’m sure a girl such as yourself would much rather have a few hundred thousand in the bank than a decaying old cottage.’

  It was said carelessly, arrogantly, contemptuously almost, so that Melanie felt an atavistic reaction to his suggestion so sharp and intense that it was almost as though she already knew and disliked the man. And yet she had never met him; knew nothing whatsoever about him, and for all she knew her benefactor might genuinely have come to some kind of gentleman’s agreement with him concerning the sale of the cottage prior to his death. In which case, surely she ought to honour it?

  ‘Yes, with that kind of capital behind you, a girl as clever as you could go a long way.’ There was a brief soft laugh. ‘After all, a girl clever enough to get an old skinflint like Burrows to leave her every penny he possessed must surely be wasting her talents in an out of the way village like Charnford.’

  Melanie froze, unable to believe what she was hearing, what he was implying. Her body went cold and then hot as her skin crawled with revulsion and disgust. Her hand started to shake as she wondered sickly how many other people had jumped to that same horrible conclusion.

  Summoning up every ounce of self-control she could, she said shakily, ‘I don’t think there’s any point whatsoever in your calling, Mr Hewitson. You see, I have no intention of selling either the cottage or the land.’

  ‘But Burrows and I had an agreement—’

  ‘Which, being merely verba
l, is not legally binding,’ Melanie told him with what she hoped was conviction. Not for the world was she going to lower herself to deny the horrible untrue allegations he had made about her relationship with John Burrows, who had been only a few days short of his eightieth birthday when he died. Instead she said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Mr Hewitson.’

  She was just on the point of replacing the receiver when the mask of cordiality was stripped from his voice to reveal its true acid venom as he told her savagely, ‘You think you’re being very clever, don’t you, trying to push up the price? Well, let me tell you, you’re playing a very dangerous game, little lady. A very dangerous game.’

  She slammed down the receiver again without speaking to him again. She was shaking all over, as much with revulsion as anything else. His threat had barely sunk into her awareness. She was far too sickened by his earlier imputation about the reason why she had inherited John Burrows’s estate to be aware of anything else.

  It was well over an hour before she felt calm enough to pick up the receiver and dial the number of the solicitors.

  When she got through to the partner who had dealt with John Burrows’s affairs, she asked him without ceremony, almost brusquely, if he knew anything about an agreement John Burrows might have made to sell the cottage to David Hewitson.

  When the solicitor confirmed that he had no knowledge of any such agreement, she discovered that she had actually been holding her breath. Had his reply been the opposite, she would have felt that she had no alternative but to allow the sale to go through, since it would have been what her benefactor had intended.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ the solicitor enquired.

  Briefly she told him, leaving out David Hewitson’s imputations about her relationship with John Burrows.

  ‘Mm. David Hewitson is a very well-known local builder with a somewhat unsavoury reputation for the methods his company sometimes uses to acquire building land. It hasn’t been unknown for the company to buy property with a preservation order on it and for that property to be accidentally destroyed, thus freeing the land for redevelopment.

  ‘From what I know of Mr Burrows, he would not have taken kindly to a man of David Hewitson’s stamp, but of course if you decide to sell out to him…’

  ‘No; no, I won’t,’ Melanie assured him, adding fiercely, ‘I’d rather keep the cottage myself than do that.’

  ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t advise you to rush into any hasty decision to sell,’ the solicitor warned her. ‘Should this proposed new motorway be approved, the value of your land will rise dramatically which is, no doubt, why David Hewitson is so eager to acquire it now.’

  After she had replaced the receiver, Melanie stared out into the garden, shivering as she realised that where she had envisaged her green lawns and colourful borders David Hewitson probably planned destruction.

  She had become ridiculously attached to the cottage, protective of it almost. It was as though they were kindred spirits in their need for love and care, and as she looked round the dirty cream walls of her sitting-room she had a mental vision of how the room could look, its walls repainted, its beams cleaned and polished, its floor covered, not in the grimy oilcloth that covered it now, but in a rough-textured plain cream carpet, its plainness broken up by the richness of warm oriental rugs, its shabby furniture recovered, crisp curtains hanging at the windows and perhaps a pretty antique table set in front of the window seat, with a large jug of flowers on it…flowers from her garden.

  A faint sigh escaped her lips. What she was imagining was a daydream, nothing more. She was not here to turn the cottage into her dream home—the kind of home that cried out for a family, her family—but simply to make it saleable as a home for someone else.

  She had walked across to the window, and now she touched one of the heavy glass panes, rubbing the dirt away from it as she tried to banish the sore place in her heart.

  What was she doing, allowing herself to fall into such foolish daydreams? Daydreams which not only included the cottage, but also a man and his children; and not just any man. Her whole body trembled as she tried to deny her mental vision of Luke Chalmers…of the two children which were miniature replicas of the man.

  Beyond the leaded windows fitful beams of spring sunshine highlighted the tangled overgrown garden. Louise was right; she could never tackle that wilderness outside on her own. She would have to make enquiries in the village to see if she could find someone to help her. And as for the cost…

  She had always been thrifty with her money, a habit instilled in her during her days in the children’s home. With no one to depend on other than herself, she had soon learned to be sensible with her money.

  Her small savings were her only precious security, and yet she felt within her, far more powerful and strong than her desire to protect that security, a deep-seated need to give the cottage every chance she could to prove to the world that it was worthy of being loved…of being cared for…of being preserved.

  There was a small dull ache in Melanie’s heart. Wasn’t she really trying to prove to the world that she was worthy of being loved…of being wanted?

  She pushed the thought away. It was pointless, giving in to that kind of introspection. She had work to do; but as she walked upstairs she paused, her heart suddenly sinking as she wondered how many other people shared David Hewitson’s view of her…how many of the villagers who had outwardly been so pleasant to her were actually inwardly thinking…

  Stop that, she warned herself. Stop it at once.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, she surveyed the wall and its two strips of wallpaper. Something was definitely wrong—even she could see that—but what? She needed a plumb-line as Luke Chalmers had said. She frowned a little, trying to remember what exactly he had said to her. She had done the best she could, scrupulously and meticulously fitting her first piece of paper into the exact angle of the wall, but even she could see that in doing so she had made a mistake.

  The wallpaper would have to come off. It was just as well that she had bought a couple of extra rolls to allow for mistakes.

  She had just started work when she heard the doorbell. Frowning, she stood still. What if David Hewitson had ignored her rejection and had after all come round in an attempt to persuade her to sell out to him?

  Well, if he had, he would very soon learn his mistake, she decided angrily as she marched downstairs.

  But when she opened the front door the man standing there was instantly recognisable, her heart rocketing about inside her chest as he smiled down at her and said softly, ‘Hello, again. Can I come in?’

  Luke. Luke was here. Her heart was ricocheting around inside her chest like a rubber ball; she felt sick and giddy, light-headed and ridiculously, impossibly happy.

  ‘Er—yes… Is it the phone again?’ she asked him breathlessly as she turned back into the hallway and he followed her.

  ‘Actually, no. I’m at a bit of a loose end this morning, and I thought I’d come over and give you a hand with that decorating.’

  Melanie gaped at him. ‘But that’s—’

  ‘Very neighbourly of me,’ he supplied for her.

  She had been about to say that it was totally unnecessary, but now she stared uncertainly at him and said hesitantly, ‘It’s very kind of you, but there’s really no need—’

  ‘Oh, yes, there is,’ he contradicted her, adding teasingly, ‘I can see you aren’t used to decorating. The way you were doing it, anyone sleeping in that room would wake up seasick. Always lived at home up until now, have you?’ he suggested casually, heading for the stairs. ‘I’m surprised your family has let you come and live in such an isolated spot all on your own.’

  Her heart was thumping frantically. As always she felt a mixture of panic and shame fill her at the thought of having to admit that she had no family. A feeling of guilt, as though she were somehow to blame…as though her lack of family somehow made her a second-class citizen.

  The years of institutionalised living had left their ma
rk, and a very deep sense of loss and pain that no amount of mature logic could entirely overcome.

  ‘There really is no need for you to do this,’ she repeated huskily, ignoring his question about her family.

  If he was aware that her avoidance was deliberate he gave no sign of it, telling her cheerfully, ‘None at all, other than the fact that it gives me the opportunity to be with you.’

  Before she could react to such a blatant piece of flattery he added thoughtfully, ‘In fact, I’d have thought you’d have preferred to hire a decorator.’

  ‘I wanted to do it myself,’ Melanie told him, unwilling to admit that it was necessity as much as anything else that forced her to tackle the redecoration herself.

  ‘Really? Personally I’ve always found that when it comes to wallpapering two pairs of hands are always better than one.’

  He had reached the top of her stairs and, even though he had only been in the house once before and then only briefly, he seemed to know instinctively which door to open.

  But, then, in his job Melanie imagined that he must need to have a good eye for details and the memory to go with it. She wondered what had made him choose such a career. A private detective. She had always imagined such men as small, anonymous characters who could slip unnoticed about their business. He was anything but unnoticeable.

  ‘Mm,’ was all he said as he surveyed her attempts to remove the crooked pieces of wallpaper. ‘If I could make a suggestion?’

  Melanie waited, realising that he was going to do so whether or not she gave him her permission.

  ‘Because of the slope of the ceiling and the dormer windows, it might be an idea to take the paper right up over the wall, along the ceiling and down the other side. A room like this would probably at one time have had a dado rail at chair height. We could, if you like, break up the busyness of the floral paper by fixing a new rail and taking the patterned paper down to that level, and then putting a toning plain paper on the lower half of the walls.’