The Courtyard by Marcia Willett Page B

always stood on the terrace and Gussie’s heart filled and overflowed with love and gratitude.
    â€˜Oh, I think it is, Henry, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and help her carry.’
    Henry strolled to the balustrade and he, too, looked down at Mr Ridley and beyond him to the Courtyard. It was doing very well and Henry allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. It had been a quite terrifying project for one of his temperament and yet, despite the recession and the slump in the housing market, the Courtyard development was gradually working, the cottages selling. Henry blew out his lips in grateful recognition of what a disaster it might so easily have been. The Beresfords, who had bought the very first conversion, had spent Easter in their cottage and the new young man in his midtwenties who had bought the smallest cottage was settling in happily. Henry frowned a little, cudgelling his memory. Guy. That was it. Guy Webster. He ran a yacht brokerage in Dartmouth and was often away, moving boats to and fro. He wanted somewhere in the country, he told Henry, but where there would be somebody around to keep an eye on things during his absences. The Courtyard was perfect, he said, although Henry suspected that Guy had a reservation that it might be a little too friendly. He looked like someone who kept himself to himself. Henry had bent to stroke the golden retriever which was always at Guy’s heels.
    â€˜Nice dog,’ he said. ‘Bertie, is it?’
    â€˜That’s right.’ They both looked at Bertie who looked back, unused to this concentrated interest. He wagged his tail a little and looked at Guy. ‘My mother breeds them,’ he said, almost reluctantly, and Henry knew that he was right and that this was a very reticent
young man who resented parting with any information about his private life.
    â€˜Well, you know where we are,’ he said lightly. ‘Don’t be lonely. You’re all on your own down there at the moment. The Beresfords only use their cottage for holidays. Let us know if you’ve got a problem. When you’ve settled in you must come up for a drink and meet my wife and my cousin. And Mr and Mrs Ridley.’
    They parted and although a week or two had passed, Guy had not yet been up for his drink.
    Plenty of time, thought Henry. And now there was another prospective buyer coming to look at one of the two remaining cottages. Usually his agent showed people round but this morning there had been a hitch and Henry agreed to meet the client at eleven thirty down in the Courtyard. As he heard the coffee arriving behind him, he had an idea.
    â€˜Got a woman coming to view,’ he told Gussie, strolling over to the table where she was assembling cups and saucers. ‘Mr Ellison can’t make it. Like to show her round?’
    Gussie stared at him, arrested in the act of pouring. ‘I?’ she said, round-eyed. ‘Oh …’
    â€˜Why not?’ Henry sat down. ‘You know the setup as well as I do now. You’ll do it much better. Get myself tied up in knots.’
    â€˜Oh, Henry!’ Gussie passed him his cup, a spot of colour burning in each cheek. ‘I should love to, of course …’
    â€˜That’s settled then,’ said Henry comfortably. ‘It’s a Mrs Henderson. Now I can have my coffee in peace and get back up to Higher Nethercombe. I don’t think this weather will hold much longer.’
    He stole a glance at the silent Gussie who was now sitting bolt upright in her chair, gazing in front of her. Her lips moved silently and he wondered if she was having one of her frequent conversations with the Almighty or rehearsing the details of the cottage.
    Henry smiled to himself and sipped his coffee. It had been a good day when Nell telephoned from Bristol and he’d decided to offer
Gussie a home. Nell. At the thought of her the smile softened on his lips and his eyes grew dreamy. How