He sighed. ‘The same way you get to be an encyclopaedia salesman, I imagine. You find someone who’s a builder and you say, “Please, sir, can you teach me what you know about building?”’
‘That’s what you did.’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you build?’
‘Buildings. Did you say the fish and chips have arrived?’
‘They’re in the kitchen,’ she said with another long look at his bare chest.
‘Will you stop it?’
‘Stop what?’
‘Staring at my chest. Men aren’t supposed to look at women’s chests. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t look at mine.’
‘It’s a very nice chest.’
Whoops.
She’d been out of circulation for too long, she thought in the ensuing silence. Maybe complimenting a man on his chest wasn’t something nicely brought-up women did. He was staring at her as if he’d never experienced such a thing. ‘Sorry,’ she managed at last. ‘Don’t look at me like I’m a porriwiggle. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘It was a very nice compliment,’ he said cautiously. ‘What’s a porriwiggle?’
‘A tadpole and it’s not a compliment.’ She hesitated and then thought maybe it was. But it was also the truth. ‘Anyway, it’s not what I should be saying. I should be saying thank you for the food.’
‘Why are you destitute?’ He smiled. ‘Tadpoles don’t have money?’
She tugged the door open to the rest of the house, trying frantically to pull herself back into line. ‘We’re not destitute,’ she managed. ‘Just momentarily tight, and if we don’t hurry there’ll be no chips left.’
‘I can always buy more.’
‘Then you’ll get wet all over again. That’s the very last garment in this house that you might just possibly almost fit into, so let’s stop playing in the rain and go eat.’
He sat by the fire in Pippa’s gym pants, eating fish and chips, drinking hot chocolate, staying silent while the life of the farm went on around him.
It was almost as if Pippa didn’t know where to start with the questions, he thought, and that was okay as he was having trouble with the answers. Any minute now he’d have to tell them why he was here, but for now it just seemed too hard.
Pippa had taken one look at the meat and the pile of vegetables he’d brought and said, ‘Pies.’ So now a concoction on the stove was already smelling fantastic. Meanwhile she was rolling pastry and Sophie and Claire were helping.
Marc was hanging wet clothes round the kitchen, on the backs of chairs, over something the kids called a clothes horse, over every available surface.
‘You can’t hang that over me,’ Max said as Marc approached him with a damp windcheater and Marc smiled shyly but proceeded to hang it over the arm of his chair.
‘The fire’s hot. Pippa says the clothes dryer costs money to run.’
‘I’ll pay,’ Max growled and Pippa looked up from her pastry-making and grimaced.
‘That’s enough. You’ve been very generous but there are limits. We’re very grateful for the dryer and we will use it, but only when we must.’
He stared at her, bemused. She had a streak of flour across her face. The girls were making plaits of pastry to put on the pies. They were surrounded by a sea of flour and she didn’t seem to mind. Had he ever met a woman who worried how much it cost to dry clothes? Had he ever met a woman who looked like she did and was just… unaware?
She was knocking him sideways, he thought, dazed. Which was dumb. He’d had girlfriends in his life-of course he had. He was thirty-five. He’d grown pretty damned selective over the years, and the last woman he’d dated had almost rated a ring. Not quite though. She’d been maybe a bit too interested in the royal connection.
So what was he thinking? He hated the royal connection, so any attraction to Pippa would be disastrous. It was only this weird domesticity that was making him feel like this, he decided. Here were echoes of his childhood at his grandparents’ farm. Time out from royalty. Family…
A boy who looked like Thierry. Cute-as-a-button twins. A snoring old dog.
Pippa.
Pippa had flour on her nose. He had the weirdest desire to kiss…
‘Will you stay for dinner?’ Marc asked, and he thought no, he needed to say what needed to be said and go. Fast. But he just wanted to…
He bit back his stupid wants. What was he thinking? Launching himself across the kitchen past kids and dog and kissing her? You’re losing your mind, boyo.
‘I…Pippa, I need to talk to you.’
But she was focused on pies. ‘These are ready to put together as soon as I come in from the dairy.’ She wiped her hands on her windcheater and smiled ruefully at her floury fingerprints. ‘What a mess. No matter. The cows won’t mind. But they’ll be waiting. I need to start milking.’
‘I’ll bring the cows in for you,’ Marc said, but Pippa shook her head.
‘I’ll do them myself. Marc, can you look after the girls?’ Then she turned to Max, worry behind her eyes. ‘I need to go,’ she said. ‘I assume you’ll be leaving as soon as your clothes dry? I…I’ll leave Dolores here.’
She was torn, he thought. She needed to milk, but she didn’t want to leave the children alone with him. And she couldn’t kick him out until his clothes dried. He looked down at Dolores, who was sleeping off one steak and dreaming of another.
‘She’s a great watchdog.’
Pippa flushed. ‘I didn’t mean…’
‘I know you didn’t,’ he said gently. ‘Do you always milk alone?’
‘Marc helps me a bit. We have a place in the shed where the girls can play and I can watch them. But Marc’s just got over bronchitis and I don’t want him wet again.’
‘I can help,’ Marc protested, but Pippa shook her head.
‘I know you can but I don’t want you to. I want you and the girls to stay dry.’
‘Are they safe here alone?’ Max asked, and then as he saw Marc’s look of indignation he thought maybe it was an inappropriate question.
‘Marc’s more than capable,’ Pippa said, hurriedly before Marc could protest. ‘He’s had to be. But I do have an intercom. I listen in and Marc calls me if there’s a problem.’
‘There’s never a problem,’ Marc said stolidly and Max smiled at him. The more he saw of this kid, the more he liked him.
‘How long does milking take?’
‘About three hours,’ Pippa said and Max blinked.
‘How many cows?’
‘A hundred and twenty.’
‘I thought your vats were contaminated.’
‘Cows dry out. If you let cows dry off for a week, then there’s no more milk until next calving. Which is in six months.’
‘So you milk every night and throw the milk away?’
‘Twice a day,’ Marc corrected him, and turned his big brown eyes straight on Max. ‘It’s much faster than three hours with two people working,’ he said, innocently. ‘And these pies will be yummy. We’ll have tea much earlier if you help.’
‘He’s not invited for tea,’ Pippa said.
‘Yes, he is,’ Marc said. ‘If he helps you milk.’
‘He won’t know how to milk.’
‘Excuse me,’ Max said faintly. ‘I can milk.’
They both looked at him as if he’d sprouted wings.
‘Cows?’ Marc queried and Max grinned.
‘Cows.’
