‘You really don’t have to. Hattie told me how busy you are with your business,’ I mumbled, making no sense due to staring at Hattie while speaking to him. ‘I don’t mind exploring by myself.’
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow, I’m not working. I’ll meet you here at ten.’
‘Perfect!’ Hattie said, winking unashamedly at Lizzie and Agnes.
Oh, dear.
5
I slept the fitful sleep of the horribly infatuated, finally giving up and watching the sunrise with a mug of tea, curled in the tartan chair with Muffin on my lap. After another foolish hour or so getting ready for a guided tour with a man I vehemently didn’t want to like me, swapping my jeans for practically identical jeans more times than any woman should stoop to, it was nearly eight-thirty, which I decided was a not-too-unsociable time for a guest to be up and about.
I was eating raisin toast with butter and distracting myself with a local newspaper I’d found on the worktop when Hattie appeared an hour later. She wore skinnier, less scruffy jeans today, along with a plain white T-shirt and patterned headscarf to hold back her grey curls. She looked effortlessly stylish.
‘Morning!’ After jabbing impatiently at the button on the coffee machine, she began dolloping yoghurt into a bowl while waiting for the liquid to appear. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but my Zoom started five minutes ago. I’m allowed to be a little late, given my artistic temperament, but keep this big-headed twonk of an account manager waiting too long and he’ll become extra contrary. I wouldn’t care, except that everything he says makes me want to jab a paintbrush up his hairy nostril and I want this over with as soon as possible.’
She sighed, deftly sprinkling raspberries on the yogurt. ‘I hate it when Lizzie schedules in meetings on the weekend. She did it on purpose because she loathes the twonk even more than I do. Anyway, enjoy your guided tour. Let’s meet back here for lunch, and after that, we can venture to the top floor.’
Hattie whirled out of the room with her breakfast.
At ten to ten, the front door opened and a moment later, Gideon walked in.
‘Hey.’ He broke into a grin when he saw me fidgeting at the table. ‘Have you been waiting for me?’
‘Enjoying a leisurely breakfast while I catch up on the Sherwood Forest gossip.’
‘A perfect start to the weekend. Are you all caught up, or should I get a drink while you finish off?’
‘No.’ I got up, clearing away my empty pots. ‘Reading about those stolen goats is more than enough drama for one day. Let’s go.’
We started by heading to the kitchen garden I’d walked past the day before. It was overcast today, with wisps of early morning mist still lingering, the shimmering droplets clinging to our hair. Gideon paused to open the iron gate.
‘This is one of my favourite places in Riverbend. It’s not much to look at in February, but if you’re still here in the summer, it’s more colourful than Hattie’s studio.’
We wandered up and down the raised beds, past clusters of pots and patches of peaty earth. Gideon pointed out the different plants, and the bare spaces where bulbs and seeds slept beneath the soil. There were leeks and cauliflower, and he slipped a handful of herbs into a paper bag then tucked them into his rucksack. A greenhouse stood in one corner, although the anaemic sunshine barely made any difference to the temperature inside. In here were salad leaves, rows of baby seedlings and a shelf containing seed packets.
‘You know a lot about these plants. Do you spend much time here?’ I asked as Gideon added a sprinkle of water to a tray of tiny shoots.
‘Well, yes.’ He stuck both hands in his jeans pockets and scanned the greenhouse like a king surveying his kingdom. ‘I work here.’ He squinted. ‘That’s why Hattie asked me to show you around.’
Ah. Okay. Of course that’s why.
‘You’re a gardener?’
He nodded. ‘I take care of the whole estate, and a few other gardens in the village. Do some landscaping from time to time, too.’
‘When did you move to Riverbend?’
We left the greenhouse and made our way to another gate, on the opposite side of the garden to where we’d entered.
‘About six years ago. We were in Lancaster before that. I worked for a landscaping firm, but didn’t get much pleasure from short-term projects. I always wanted to be a farmer. Tending the same patch of earth for decades. Seeing the seasons come and go, and working on plans that take time, and patience, but yield the most satisfying results when they come to fruition.’ He pulled a wry smile. ‘I had this dream that I’d create a place I could leave to my kids one day. That they could live and work and raise families on the same land, surrounded by the trees I’d planted and fields I’d farmed.’
‘That’s incredible.’ I had to turn away as we crossed a scraggly meadow, startled by the tears in my eyes.
‘Yeah, well. The dream ended with a spectacularly bad break-up, so when Hattie offered us the boathouse, given Mum’s health, it seemed like the next best thing. I still get to tend family land, even if it’s only family through marriage. Hattie gives me pretty much free rein, for fear of “quenching my creative gardening spirit”. It’s pretty special, helping things thrive and flourish.’ He ran a hand over his head, as if embarrassed. ‘Anyway. I’ve clearly spent too much time with an art therapist. I like growing food, the end.’
‘I understand completely. Planting a seed, watching it sprout and shoot and then, one day, become something beautiful. Or tasty.’ My words grew softer, as I remembered. ‘I used to love that, too.’
‘Used to?’ He looked at me, waiting for me to elaborate, but my throat was too clogged up with grief to say any more. All I could do was shrug and dab at my eyes, offering a watery smile so he didn’t think I was completely pathetic.
