The Secret Life of Lady Gabriella

Having done her research, she now knew that the courtesy title of ‘Lady’ was one given to the daughter of a peer-hence ‘Lady Gabriella March’as opposed to ‘Lady March’.

She just hoped Mrs Cochrane had better things to do with her time than waste it scouring Debrett’s in a hunt for any peer with a daughter called Gabriella.

She picked up the envelope, along with the rest of the mail and took it through to the kitchen, where she’d dumped the shopping. She flipped on the kettle, and while it was boiling she sorted the envelopes into piles.

There was one large square white envelope-very stiff, obviously an invitation-addressed to Dr Benedict Faulkner. It clearly hadn’t taken long for word to get around that he was back. He was a very eligible bachelor; she had no doubt that he’d be much in demand. She put that to one side to leave on his desk, then dealt with the stuff addressed to her.

Once she’d sorted through the usual junk mail begging her to borrow money, promising her dirt-cheap car insurance, offering her credit cards at nought per cent interest if only she would transfer her business to them and tossed it into the bin, all that remained, apart from the Milady envelope, was a reminder from her dentist that it was time for a check-up and a large brown envelope that she had addressed to herself several weeks earlier but had hoped never to see again.

No doubt about what this one contained: the first three chapters of her novel and a ‘thanks-but-no-thanks’ letter from yet another agent.

It wasn’t that she was pessimistic by nature. No pessimist ever wrote an entire novel hoping a publisher would be sufficiently impressed to invest in its publication. Ellie had, however, sold enough small pieces of writing to have learned that when someone wanted to buy your work they didn’t send it back; they phoned, or e-mailed, or sent a letter inviting you for a ‘chat’.

She wasn’t being pessimistic, just realistic, but she still needed to get used to the idea before she opened the envelope.

Some rejections were completely impersonal-preprinted on a tiny slip of paper with no comment. Some came in the form of an encouraging letter-the ‘this is good, but not for us’ rejection.

Some agents were actually kind enough to offer to read anything else she wrote, although on bad days she suspected they had their fingers crossed that she would be too discouraged to bother.

She needed to be prepared, with a mug of tea and a full biscuit tin, before she found out which category this one fell into, so, ignoring it, she ripped open the padded envelope from Milady. It contained a sheaf of letters, held together with a large clip.

What on earth…? It couldn’t be! Not fan mail.

It wasn’t.

It was, instead, a bunch of letters from readers wanting details of the ferns she’d planted in the stone trough. Wanting to know how she managed to make cherry cake without the cherries sinking to the bottom-duh! Easy, when all you had to do was write about it and then draw a picture of one like her mother made. Asking where they could buy the fabric playhouse-a stripy big-top made by one of her clients that hung from the branch of a tree-that she’d sketched for her last column. Asking her advice on a suitable wedding gift for someone who’d been married before and didn’t need anything for her home. Good grief, had the woman no imagination?

There was a note from Mrs Cochrane.

Well done! I’ve ordered some notepaper for you with the Milady address. It should arrive in a day or two, with a supply of stamps for your replies-keep a record, please. I’ve cleared some space in the next issue to publish the answers to the most asked questions, and have marked the ones I plan to use.

Can you also let me have a list of the ferns you recommend for planting in a container by Monday lunchtime at the latest. Since there was so much interest, I’m arranging a special ‘reader offer’in conjunction with a specialist nursery-something you should mention in your replies.

You can send me the replies for publication with your copy for the next issue.

Forget Gabriella March, bestselling novelist. Meet ‘Lady Gabriella’, the lifestyle guru who was about to become homeless, she thought, as she stuffed the letters back into the envelope.

She’d just dropped a teabag into a mug when the back door opened and Ben Faulkner walked in.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ she said, quickly covering the Milady envelope with her returned manuscript. ‘I’m just putting away my shopping.’ Then, forcing herself not to leap to do it herself, she said, ‘Drop a teabag into a mug, if you like. The kettle’s nearly boiled.’ And carried on sorting through the vegetables and putting them in the chiller drawer of the fridge. ‘Your post is on the table.’

He picked up the envelope addressed to him, his gaze lingering for a moment on the large brown envelope as he flipped it open. It might as well have had ‘rejected’ stamped across it in letters six inches high.

‘Okay. I’m done,’ she said quickly, before he could make some sarcastic comment and provoke her into an injudicious response.

He tossed the gold-edged card-an invitation to a wedding-on the table and reached for a mug, standing shoulder to shoulder with her at the counter as he spooned coffee into a cafetiere while she made her tea. Too close. Much too close.

She barely waited for the teabag to colour the water before she dumped it in the bin, scooped up her mail and, clutching it protectively to her chest, headed for the door. Then, remembering something, she put the cup down again while she searched through her bag.

‘Ellie…’

‘Hold on.’ He was going to ask her if she’d done anything about flat-hunting-or, worse, say that he’d changed his mind, that she had to leave straight away. Before he could actually say the words, she took a small soft sleeve of bubble wrap from her bag and placed it on the table. ‘Your glasses,’ she said.

He looked at them, then at her. ‘You had them repaired?’ He sounded irritated rather than grateful.

‘What did you think I was going to do with them?’ she asked. Then shook her head. Obviously he thought this was another ploy to gain his sympathy, show him what a fool he’d be to let her go. ‘I do the occasional stint at the optician in the High Street,’ she explained. ‘When his regular cleaner is away. He put them back together for me. No charge.’ Then, because she was going to have to face it sooner or later, and while later was preferable, sooner was probably wiser, ‘You were saying?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Only that you don’t have to rush off on my account.’

‘I’ve got things to do. Calls to make. Flats to look at,’ she couldn’t help adding.

The kitchen stilled. From somewhere in the house a clock began to chime.

Despite Kitty’s intercession on Ellie’s behalf, Ben had no intention of reversing his decision. It had been made, the words said. She’d accepted it without a fuss. No problem.

In theory.

The reality was that if she’d given him hell he’d have felt less like someone kicking a puppy. But if she was the kind of woman Kitty believed her to be she wouldn’t do that. She’d behave like a thoroughly decent person and accept that the situation had changed. That his house no longer needed a ‘sitter’.

But even a thoroughly decent person was entitled to show her feelings.

‘You’re very direct, Ellie,’ he said.

A shadow seemed to cross her bright face and she shook her head, just once, before she lifted her chin and said, ‘You didn’t think that last night.’

‘Last night you appeared to be offering just about everything but the kitchen sink in return for a roof over your head.’

‘I did nothing of the sort!’ she exclaimed, her furious blush leaving him in no doubt that she’d understood his meaning.

‘No. My mistake. For which I apologise. Adele’s secretary explained why you had to leave your last flat. In fact she gave you a very fine character reference.’

‘You checked up on me?’

‘In my shoes, wouldn’t you have done the same? You might have simply spotted an empty house and moved in for all I knew.’

‘Well, at least you’ve been able to set your mind at rest,’ she said stiffly. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else-?’

‘Will you stand still for a moment and let me finish?’ he demanded as she swept towards the door. She froze, her back to him. ‘When I said you need not rush off…’