Outbid by the Boss (16 page)

Pausing to grab a handful of carrots, Sam thought about her own journey as she walked, from a Toronto childhood filled with joy, to the hustle of the New York auction world and then on to the country her grandparents had left behind. It felt natural to be here, even if she was part interloper, possibly an outcome of Porter Hall’s troubled past.

By the time she’d reached the courtyard, John Weekes was on the far side of the drive heading towards the back of the house, his arms laden with groceries.

Sam glanced towards the paddock.

Max and Damien were lazily nibbling at the grass, but at the sound of her approach, they were at the fence in a shot. “Okay, okay,” she laughed holding a carrot in each hand. The carrots disappeared in a blur of twitching lips and chomping teeth. Sam repeated the process three times. Talk about unconditional love, she thought, as the two chestnuts nuzzled her in appreciation.

“Later,” she cooed to Max. “We’ll take a little ride, shall we?” She rubbed Damien’s strong neck. “No sulking,” she scolded, “you’re too much for me to handle…besides you're already spoken for,” she added squirming under the animal’s baleful reproach. “Don’t worry your big brown eyes, Damien. Chas will be home tonight.”

As if on cue, the two chestnuts perked up their ears. Damien swung his massive head to where the gravel driveway wound its way up from the main road. A flash of metal through the trees caught Sam’s attention and set her heart racing. A vehicle was coming up the drive. It was way too early for Chas to be coming home! She wasn’t ready. She needed to absorb what she’d just learned and ride down to see George. Her forehead creasing, Sam peered into the distance. Then relaxed. The engine was wrong and just to prove it, a delivery van emerged from the shadows and continued towards the house.

“Who could that be?” she said aloud.

“That be the courier from Buxton,” said a deep voice at her elbow. Sam yelped and spun around, hand over her heart, to see John Weekes. “Sorry, lass,” he said, “didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sam gave out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t hear you. I was too busy watching the van and spoiling these unruly beasts.”

Damien tossed his head as if to say he deserved her attention.

But Sam swung back to the driveway, holding her hand over her eyes to shield it from the sun. John began to retrace his steps. “Are you expecting anything?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No,” said Sam jogging to catch up. You?”

John shook his head as the van roared to a stop. The uniformed driver jumped out, clipboard in hand. “Afternoon,” he called. He slid back the panel door and removed three large boxes, stacking one atop the other. “Miss Redfern?” he asked approaching Sam.

“Yes?”

He held out his clipboard. “Sign here, please.”

Puzzled, Sam scanned the paperwork. The delivery was definitely for her. She scrawled her signature across the bottom and exchanged the clipboard for the boxes. “Here, let me,” said John Weekes, holding out his arms.

Then his wife appeared and the three of them stood stock still watching the delivery truck zoom back down the driveway. “Oh, look,” said Evelyn breaking the spell as she pointed to the label on the parcels. “They’re from the saddlery near Buxton. Very posh, that is.” She nodded for emphasis.

Sam blinked. Then gaped, then reached for the boxes. They were large, rectangular and identical in size. And suddenly, she knew what they were and who they were from. So must Evelyn, Sam thought as she looked up and saw the housekeeper’s eyes shining with smug pleasure.

Flushing from the attention, Sam headed for the terrace, the Weekes following her like ducklings before Evelyn took charge and shooed her husband along, leaving Sam alone.

Heart thumping, Sam set the boxes on the garden table and slowly lifted the first lid. Inside, beneath the tissue paper was a beautiful pair of tall riding boots made of the most supple brown leather imaginable. She gasped with delight, and then eased the lids off the other two boxes. One held a pair of Wellington boots for mucking out the stalls, and the other contained leather paddock boots. Sam choked back a sob as she pulled them from their tissue and tried each one on in turn. She marveled at their elegance, prancing around the terrace like a modern-day Cinderella. How on earth had the man done it? Not only were the boots incredibly beautiful, they were a perfect fit.

Sam tugged her mobile from her pocket.

She called Chas’ direct line, but no answer. He must have already left.

Which meant, depending on the traffic, he could be back at Porter Hall in less than four hours! Her body burned with longing at the thought of being in Chas’ arms before the afternoon was out. And later, that evening…she glanced at her watch and almost freaked when she saw the time. Half the day was gone. Quickly, Sam gathered her new boots and repacked the boxes.

Thirty minutes later, she was astride Max flying across the meadow. Once Chas was home, it would be impossible for her to slip away to the home farm. And if George couldn't tell her what she needed to know, Sam wasn't sure what she'd do that evening.

She yearned for Chas more than she could say, but she wanted to meet him on equal footing without his childhood angst, her grandparents' hasty departure, or the whereabouts of the last candlestick hanging over their love like a black cloud.

The threads of the past had the power to either bind them together or tear them apart. She knew she had to tell him the truth. Otherwise, whatever was ahead of them in the future wouldn’t be strong and true.

But what exactly was
he
hiding?

Obviously, debts had had to be paid; the Burton-Porters weren't the first family to sell off their heirlooms when estate taxes were introduced, and they wouldn’t be the last. She’d seen more than enough evidence of that in the last few years.

But what was most peculiar, was that the candlestick collection had been dispersed piecemeal. If it had remained intact, it would have been worth a fortune. Obviously, Chas knew that, but why would the Burton-Porters have allowed it in the first place? Sam was more puzzled than ever.

Maybe after she spoke with George, she’d know what to do.

She saw his dog first. Robbie came racing across the farmyard, barking to announce their visit and intent on inspecting the newcomers, but a loud whistle from the house drew him up short. George appeared in the doorway of the farmhouse. Sam raised her arm and waved, as did he. It was a warm welcome. She quickly dismounted, gave Robbie her hand to sniff, and led Max through the gate, careful to secure it behind them.

“Afternoon.” George greeted her, pulling out his hankie to wipe his hands as he walked towards her. "I was just making me tea. Will you have some?" His weathered eyes fixed on hers hopefully.

"Of course," said Sam. "It would be my pleasure. Besides," she added with a mischievous grin, "I have fresh scones." She reached into the saddlebag and pulled out her parcel, “Evelyn Weekes sent them for you.”

“She looks after me, does Evelyn.”

Leaving Max to nose about the yard with his reins dangling behind him, Sam followed George to the house, ducking her head as she crossed the threshold. It was like stepping back in time. The kitchen was snug and inviting, dominated by the cast-iron stove, the kettle on the boil, and the supper vegetables washed and ready. The stone floor had been swept so clean, it shone.

While George brewed the tea, Sam soaked up her surroundings. The farmhouse was really little more than a cottage, but every nook and cranny oozed history. The great divide from the Hall to this cozy hearth hadn’t changed much, thought Sam. Her Gran would likely have grown up in a home like this. "George..." she began tentatively, "remember I told you my grandfather was Irish..."

"Aye." The old man plucked a plate from the shelf and began to arrange the scones on it. "A groom, weren't he?" He turned to face her.

"He was here,” she blurted. “At Porter Hall." Her eyes searched his frantically, looking for confirmation that she hadn’t dreamt it all.

George set the scones down on the table and drew out a chair opposite. He reached over and cupped Sam’s hand in his. "When I said you had the look of the Irish about you, I had a particular fellow in mind."

"Really?" squeaked Sam.

"You’re real natural like he was with the horses, and your hair’s the right colour,” smiled George, “temper, too, on occasion, I’d imagine.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“Aye…” said George, “…and your grandmother,” he added softly.

A huge sob burst from the depths of Sam’s very being. At long last, she’d found what she was looking for. She’d been rootless after her grandmother had died. And now here she was sitting in a cottage in Derbyshire across from someone who had known her grandparents when they were young. She mustn’t be afraid of the past or she could lose her future with Chas. She must ask the questions that had plagued her these last few years, before the opportunity was lost.

Silently, George passed her a clean handkerchief, and waited while Sam blew her nose and wiped her wet cheeks. “What was she like?” Sam asked.

“She were lovely,” George said, “kind and gentle, but feisty, too.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “We were at school together until we were old enough to work. Your grandmother, she was a keen one. Found a place at a neighbouring estate. She were a housemaid at first...”

Sam nodded encour
agingly. She mustn’t let
George think she was anything but proud of what her grandparents had accomplished, and where they had come from.

“There were a young lady there,” George began, “took a shine to your grandmother from the beginning. Grace eventually became her maid. And went with her mistress when she married.”

“That sounds like something out of a storybook…” faltered Sam.

George harrumphed. “Might have been if Chas’ grandfather hadn’t been the bridegroom.”

“My grandmother was Eugenie Porter’s maid!” Sam half-rose from her chair and then sat back down with a thump. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. “But that means…”

George eyed her shrewdly. “That means,” he repeated carefully, “that she had to be careful.” He wasn’t going to be any more specific, Sam knew. Chas’ grandparents’ marriage hadn’t been a love match; it had been the continuation of the Burton-Porter brand.

“Your grandmother and Eugenie became fast friends in their own way,” said George continuing his tale, “but even Eugenie couldn’t help her when she got in the family way.”

“My grandmother was…” she breathed.

“Aye,” said George. “When Chas’ grandfather found out, there were a terrible row. Paddy had poached on ‘his rights’ by taking up with Grace. The arrogant fool was all set to horsewhip your grandfather, but Paddy weren’t having none of it. He stood up for himself. Knocked Chas’ grandfather out cold.”

Sam’s heart was pounding wildly. “Does Chas know?” she asked.

“Maybe he does, and maybe he don’t.”

“And my grandmother?” Sam asked in a shaky breath.

“It was Eugenie, Chas’ grandmother, who sorted it. Bundled Grace up before the old man came to,” his eyes narrowed, “That candlestick you’re itching to ask me about, that were a wedding gift. Eugenie swore Grace not to ever say where she got it, but it weren’t stolen, if that’s what you been thinking.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My mother worked at the Hall. She were there the night it happened. The old man shut himself in the study with a bottle of whiskey and it were all hushed up.”

“And the other candlesticks?” Sam prodded. “What about them?”

The old man’s jaw clenched. “Let the young lad tell you himself. I don’t want nowt to do with it.” They sat in silence for a moment. George’s eyes misted over. “Grace was a beautiful woman. I was sorry to see her go…even though I liked Paddy, well enough.”

“They were happy,” Sam said gently, giving his calloused hand a squeeze. “I wish she’d been able to tell me about her life here.”
“Don’t be letting the old days get in the way for you. And don’t be fooled into thinking Chas will either. I didn’t think I was good enough for your grandmother once she went up to the Hall. And I lost her.” The old man cleared his throat. “Be nice to have you around the place.”

“I think I’m going to cry again,” whispered Sam.

“I best get the tea then,” said George. He got to his feet and lumbered across the room, returning a moment later with two cups of well-milked tea. “It’ll all work out, lass, you’ll see.”

When tea was over, Sam planted a kiss on George’s cheek and slipped out the door. George waved her on her way. “Time to get a move on,” he told her with an experienced look at the sky. “It’s coming on to rain.”

Sam returned his goodbye and gathered up Max’s reins. Her head and her emotions churned with the history George had unfolded. And the weather was reflecting her mood, she realized. Above, the clouds raced across the sky as the blue of the afternoon became shrouded with the coming storm. Max danced a little under her and then set off at a willing trot, eager to be back in his stable.

Hoping she could make it back before the rain fell, Sam urged him to a full gallop, cresting the hill just as Chas’ car sped toward the Hall.

The afternoon light was rippling through the leaves as Chas guided the sleek vehicle up the lane leading to the Hall. What a difference a week had made in his life! He was coming home with a grin on his face, an unheard of occurrence. Over the years, he’d found so many excuses to avoid Porter Hall, he’d almost forgotten how much the estate meant to him. It had taken Sam, reluctant at first, and then full of warmth and passion, to show him what was really important in life.

Perhaps it was time to send Chas “bloody” Porter packing.

They could spend their weekdays in London and then motor down at the weekend. It would take nothing more than a phone call to have Max and Damien brought over on a regular basis and, with Sam around, the house would feel alive again.