Your mother’s made her choices, Em. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to let her go.
He would say that, because his motto had been to let people go, including Emily herself. And yet she knew that wasn’t entirely fair; her father had tried. Sort of.
With a sigh Emily decided to leave it for now. She’d call Fiona again after this dreaded supper, and again in the morning if necessary. Not for the first time she wished her mother possessed a mobile, but as with many things, Naomi didn’t hold with them.
With only twenty minutes until she was meant to be up at the manor, Emily hurried to change out of her now-dusty clothes. A quick shower just to feel properly clean, and then she pulled on a silk blouse and tailored trousers; she didn’t do casual. She pulled her chestnut-brown hair into a neat ponytail, and slicked on some eyeliner and lipstick, because she always liked to look professional. Polished. A glance at her reflection made her nod in satisfaction; she was ready.
As Emily stepped outside the cottage, the last of the afternoon’s light was trickling from the sky like golden syrup, puddling on the lane that wound its way up to Willoughby Manor, and touching the bright heads of the daffodils with gold.
It was all so very lovely, Emily thought with something close to reluctance. Who wouldn’t want to live in such a beautiful place? Who wouldn’t enjoy wandering through the narrow paths she could see twisting through the wood, or along the gently rolling meadows that bordered the Lea River?
Of course, she knew the answer to that question. She wouldn’t. And just like with the convertible Henry had thought she’d enjoy tootling about in, Emily almost wished she could be the sort of person who could happily frolic through a meadow, or wander in a wood. Who could welcome the new neighbours of Willoughby Close with friendly enthusiasm instead of a caution bordering on dread. Who could live life to the full instead of cagily dipping a toe in here or there.
Unfortunately, she knew she wasn’t that kind of person. And she didn’t think she ever could be. It hadn’t actually bothered her that much until now; it hadn’t bothered her at all. Yet suddenly, when she was faced with the stark differences, she felt her own lack in a way she hadn’t let herself before.
Well, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she headed up the sweeping drive to the manor, she was who she was and she didn’t intend on changing. Willoughby Close would just have to get used to her.
Chapter Two
“Come in, come in!”
Henry was even more effusive than Alice had been earlier, seizing Emily by the elbows as he planted a most uncharacteristic smacking kiss on her cheek. Where on earth was all this bonhomie coming from? And when would it stop?
Instead of his usual three-piece pinstripe suit, Henry was wearing a pair of battered cords and a jumper that had actual holes in the elbows. Emily did not know what to make of him. She’d never seen her boss like this. He was usually like her—without a hair out of place, any smile one of briskness rather than bonhomie, moving and speaking quickly, wanting to get things done.
Yet now, as he led her down the hallway, still holding her by the arm, he seemed full of relaxed geniality in a way that made Emily feel rather alarmed. She didn’t know what to do with this man as her boss, how to be with him.
“I can’t tell you,” he said as he led her through the ubiquitous green baize door to the servants’ quarters of the manor house, “how free I feel, now that I’ve left Ellis Investments and London behind. I feel as if I’ve shed a skin. I’m like a new man!” He grinned at her, surprising her yet again.
Yes, she’d noticed that Henry had relaxed somewhat since marrying Alice. A stiff, stern man, he’d most certainly softened a bit since falling in love. But he’d still been Henry: somewhat terse, often taciturn, with comforting protocols in place, and always wearing a suit.
When Emily had started working at Ellis Investments, he hadn’t called her by her first name for over a year. She’d liked that.
This Henry, who kissed her cheek and was practically gambolling down the hall, was a new and unwelcome species. It was as if in leaving Ellis Investments, he’d shed the last of his own self, and she didn’t know what to make of the man who remained.
“You certainly seem so,” Emily remarked cautiously as she followed him towards the kitchen of Willoughby Manor. So far what she’d seen of the place had seemed elegantly dreary—dark wood-panelled walls, lots of muddy oil paintings and blank-faced statuary. She knew Henry and Alice were transforming the place into a retreat and holiday centre for foster kids as part of their charitable foundation, but it hadn’t seemed particularly inviting so far.
Then Henry pushed open the door to the kitchen.
“Oh…” The single syllable escaped her in a sigh of surprise as she gazed around the wide, rectangular room. Latticed windows climbing with ivy let in the last of the evening’s light, and the wide stone sills beneath were crammed with colourful hand-painted flowerpots that held a variety of houseplants. A large rectangular table took up the centre of the room, set for three, along with a jug of pink tulips.
An enormous Welsh dresser ran the length of one wall, filled with an odd assortment of china and crockery. The pride of the room had to be the huge bright red Aga that rumbled away cheerfully; Alice was standing by it, her face flushed and happy. A grey cat, looking as soft as cashmere, lay curled up on an armchair in the corner of the room, its purr competing with the
