Then she set off for the house, calling over her shoulder. “Come and have tea. Cook made biscuits.”
Work friendwas, of course, the most accurate description of their relationship and not remotely one which Poppy could be upset at. But she couldn’t make herself look at Roscoe as she turned to follow his aunt into the house.
“Poppy…”
“It’s fine.” Then she hurried to catch up with the old lady, using her frail figure between them as a deflective shield. Like the coward she was.
But she couldn’t have this conversation now. TheI’m not your boyfriend and you’re not my girlfriend and we can’t ever really be thatconversation. Not when her sense of self-worth was already suffocating under the weight of Malperton House. The reality of Roscoe’s life. Who he really was.
Anyway, there was no need to have that conversation, because just look around… It was obvious. All Roscoe’s fastidious care in reminding her that he was her boss, her landlord, it was all a polite way of saying this: there was an uncrossable gulf between them. He was out of reach.
Mabel led them to what must be the back of the house—Poppy had glimpsed the front from the drive: a square lawn with topiaried trees and a stone path leading to a large pillared porch. The back was hardly less imposing. They went into a large kitchen, the dark flagstones on the floor as old and polished asa church. A blue Aga occupied most of a cavernous old fireplace, wood stacked in the gap at one side.
“Sit,” said Mabel, and Poppy hesitated, wondering if she was talking to them or the three dogs that had appeared from nowhere and now clustered around, shoving wet noses into hands and knees and groins. But Roscoe sat at the big wooden table, and so did she.
Then Roscoe sprung up again and took the kettle from Mabel’s gnarled hands. She relinquished it with a tut and a roll of her eyes, then sat down stiffly and promptly took to staring at Poppy while Roscoe made them tea.
“Where are these promised biscuits?” he asked, looking in a cupboard, apparently without any luck.
“In the tin, obviously.”
“Ah,” said Roscoe dryly, spying it on the counter. “The one that saysCoffee. Of course.”
“Boy’s a monster for biscuits,” Mabel confided in Poppy while Roscoe rolled his eyes—his protest ruined somewhat by the fact he had already shoved a whole biscuit in his mouth and had another in his hand. “Always have to hide them.”
Roscoe placed the tin on the table. Stole another.
“Thank you for letting me stay here,” said Poppy with all the ease of a terrified seven-year-old in the dentist’s chair. “It’s so beautiful.”
“I’m sure Roscoe will give you the tour in a bit. Do you ride?”
“Erm, horses?” Poppy had never been near a horse in her life. “No. Sorry.”
“Pity. No one does these days. Best way to see the countryside, though.”
Poppy just nodded, gingerly patting the head of a big brownish dog that had come to sit near her, looking expectant, pink tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. She jumped when the kettlestarted whistling—literally whistling, steam gushing from the spout. Roscoe poured the tea.
“Bag in the mug?” Mabel sniffed. “You savage.”
He dunked his biscuit in it and winked.
His aunt shook her head. “No one rides. No one has any manners. But there are plenty of queers on TV, so I suppose that’s progress.”
Roscoe nearly choked on his biscuit, then hid it with a cough. Poppy just nodded again.
“Even on the adverts now,” Mabel continued. “Have you seen them? Marvellous stuff. I wish Sarah had lived to see it.”
“Me, too,” said Roscoe with such heartfelt warmth it made Poppy’s chest ache.
The old woman looked between them. “But itisprogress,” she said seriously. “A better world. Not so many silly barriers as there used to be, hey? No barriers to love.”
And then she started talking about chickens.
Roscoe led Poppy from the kitchen and started showing her through the house to her room. He nearly took hold of her hand—wantedto take hold of her hand—because she was quiet and nervous and tense, but something held him back. The stiffness between them. The swirling confusion that brought the familiar tension rushing to his chest whenever he thought of everything that lay between them, the tangle of trenches and tripwires and barbed reproofs…
He was wrong to want her. He wanted her so badly he couldn’t breathe. His mind kept bouncing between those thoughts, blinding fast and deafening, and the anxiety in his chest unsheathed its claws.
Poppy stared around as they crossed another gallery, heading for the stairs. “Should I be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs so I can find my way back?”
