flinched at telling him that all the news was bad.
He has enough on his plate just now, she told herself defensively. I won’t even mention that I’ve been sacked. I’ll wait and choose a more appropriate time—for preference when I have the prospect of other work. I’ll go over to Market Tranton on Monday morning and see what the Job Centre has to offer—waitressing, shelf-stacking, anything.
But for now, she needed a bolt-hole, and the church was the only place she could think of where she could be seen without arousing comment.
She parked her bicycle in the porch, and opened the door, thankful that the building was never locked in the daytime, and discovering to her relief that she had it to herself, offering her a brief respite in order to calm down and gather her thoughts.
She chose a side pew in the shelter of a pillar, and sat, staring into space, breathing in the pleasant odours of candle wax and furniture polish, waiting for some of the icy chill inside her to disperse. Although the glorious blast of crimson from each end of the altar did nothing to help, showing her that her unwanted roses were still in full bloom when she’d hoped they’d be long gone.
That would have been one positive step, she thought and felt the acrid taste of tears in her throat.
She leaned a shoulder against the pillar, eyes closed, struggling desperately for control, and heard someone ask, ‘Are you all right?’
Only it wasn’t just ‘someone’ but the last person in the world she wanted to see or hear.
Reluctantly, she straightened and forced herself to look up at Jago Marsh. No black today, she noticed, but a pair of pale chinos topped by a white shirt. To show off his tan presumably, she thought, her mouth drying.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded strained and husky.
‘I arrived earlier,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sketch that rather nice pulpit. And do some quiet thinking.’
‘Sketching?’ she repeated. ‘You?’ Then paused. ‘Oh—you went to art school. I’d forgotten.’
He grinned. ‘I’m flattered you bothered to find out.’ He paused. ‘But let’s get back to you, my fellow refugee. Why are you here?’
‘My father said some of the kneelers needed mending,’ Tavy improvised swiftly. ‘I came in to collect them.’
‘I saw you creep in,’ he said. ‘You didn’t look like a woman with a mission. More as if you wanted somewhere to hide.’
She said shortly, ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ And rose to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t allowed her feelings of pain and insecurity to cause her to break down altogether.
‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she added with a kind of insane brightness, unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front.
‘Are you intending to repair them here?’
‘No, I’ll take them back to the Vicarage,’ said Tavy, wishing now that she’d picked some other—any other—excuse for her presence.
‘I have the car outside. I’ll give you a hand.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
The tawny eyes glinted. ‘Planning on transporting them one at a time?’ he enquired affably.
‘No,’ she said, tautly. ‘Deciding the repairs can wait.’
‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘You can show me round the church instead.’
‘It’s hardly big enough to merit a guided tour.’ She gestured round her. ‘What you see is what you get. Plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sure there’s a whole section about it in the book Dad lent you.’
‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘For instance, I know it was built by Henry Manning, the owner of Ladysmere just after Queen Victoria came to the throne. He gave the land and paid for the work, also adding a peal of bells to the tower in memory of his eldest son who was killed at Balaclava.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘William Manning. There’s a plaque on the wall over there. But now there’s only one bell, rung before services. The others were removed several years ago.’
‘People objected to
He has enough on his plate just now, she told herself defensively. I won’t even mention that I’ve been sacked. I’ll wait and choose a more appropriate time—for preference when I have the prospect of other work. I’ll go over to Market Tranton on Monday morning and see what the Job Centre has to offer—waitressing, shelf-stacking, anything.
But for now, she needed a bolt-hole, and the church was the only place she could think of where she could be seen without arousing comment.
She parked her bicycle in the porch, and opened the door, thankful that the building was never locked in the daytime, and discovering to her relief that she had it to herself, offering her a brief respite in order to calm down and gather her thoughts.
She chose a side pew in the shelter of a pillar, and sat, staring into space, breathing in the pleasant odours of candle wax and furniture polish, waiting for some of the icy chill inside her to disperse. Although the glorious blast of crimson from each end of the altar did nothing to help, showing her that her unwanted roses were still in full bloom when she’d hoped they’d be long gone.
That would have been one positive step, she thought and felt the acrid taste of tears in her throat.
She leaned a shoulder against the pillar, eyes closed, struggling desperately for control, and heard someone ask, ‘Are you all right?’
Only it wasn’t just ‘someone’ but the last person in the world she wanted to see or hear.
Reluctantly, she straightened and forced herself to look up at Jago Marsh. No black today, she noticed, but a pair of pale chinos topped by a white shirt. To show off his tan presumably, she thought, her mouth drying.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded strained and husky.
‘I arrived earlier,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sketch that rather nice pulpit. And do some quiet thinking.’
‘Sketching?’ she repeated. ‘You?’ Then paused. ‘Oh—you went to art school. I’d forgotten.’
He grinned. ‘I’m flattered you bothered to find out.’ He paused. ‘But let’s get back to you, my fellow refugee. Why are you here?’
‘My father said some of the kneelers needed mending,’ Tavy improvised swiftly. ‘I came in to collect them.’
‘I saw you creep in,’ he said. ‘You didn’t look like a woman with a mission. More as if you wanted somewhere to hide.’
She said shortly, ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ And rose to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t allowed her feelings of pain and insecurity to cause her to break down altogether.
‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she added with a kind of insane brightness, unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front.
‘Are you intending to repair them here?’
‘No, I’ll take them back to the Vicarage,’ said Tavy, wishing now that she’d picked some other—any other—excuse for her presence.
‘I have the car outside. I’ll give you a hand.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
The tawny eyes glinted. ‘Planning on transporting them one at a time?’ he enquired affably.
‘No,’ she said, tautly. ‘Deciding the repairs can wait.’
‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘You can show me round the church instead.’
‘It’s hardly big enough to merit a guided tour.’ She gestured round her. ‘What you see is what you get. Plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sure there’s a whole section about it in the book Dad lent you.’
‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘For instance, I know it was built by Henry Manning, the owner of Ladysmere just after Queen Victoria came to the throne. He gave the land and paid for the work, also adding a peal of bells to the tower in memory of his eldest son who was killed at Balaclava.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘William Manning. There’s a plaque on the wall over there. But now there’s only one bell, rung before services. The others were removed several years ago.’
‘People objected to
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