âWanda dislikes hearing about illness, but I think that you are interested.â
She had told him fervently that she was and, being a sensible girl, never hesitated to stop him so that he might explain something she hadnât understood.
She could have stayed there all night listening to him talking, but remembered in time that she was the cook, however pleasant he was being. So she made rather a muddled retreat in a flurry of good-nights and amusement. He had made the muddle worse by bending to kiss her as she reached the door, so that just for a moment she forgot that she was the cook.
THE hot June sunshine of a late afternoon bathed the narrow country road in warmth, and the only traveller on it dawdled along, pedalling slowly, partly from tiredness after a dayâs work, and partly from a reluctance to arrive at her home.
The village came in sight round the next curve: the bridge over the river, leading to the road which would eventually join the high road to Salisbury, and then the cottages on either side of the lane. They were charming, tiled or thatched, their red bricks glowing in the sunshine, their porches wreathed with clematis and roses. The cyclist came to a halt before one of these, and at the same time a silver-grey Bentley swam to a soundless halt beside her.
The girl got off her bike. She was small and thin, with gingery hair plaited into a thick rope over one shoulder, green eyes transforming an ordinary face into something which, while not pretty, certainly lifted it from the ordinary.
The car driver got out: a very large man, towering over her. Not so young, she decided, studying him calmly, but very good-looking, with dark hair sprinkled with grey, a formidable nose and heavy-lidded blue eyes. He smiled down at her, studying her in his turn, and then dismissing her from his thoughts. None the less, he smiled at her and his deep voice was pleasant.
âI wonder if you could help us? We wanted to stay the night in the village, but the Trout and Feathers canât put us up and we would rather not drive back to Wilton or Salisbury.â He glanced over his shoulder to where a small girlâs face was thrust through the open window of the car. âJust bed and breakfastâwe can get a meal at the pub.â
He held out a hand. âThe name is SedleyâWilliam Sedley.â
The girl offered a small brown hand and had it engulfed. âFlorina Payne, and yes, if you go on as far as the bridge, there is a farmhouse facing it; they havenât got a board up, but Iâm sure they would put you up.â She wrinkled her ginger brows. âThere isnât anybody else in the village, Iâm afraid. You would have to go back to Burford St Martin on the main road.â
She was thanked politely, and the child in the front seat waved to her as they drove off. She wheeled her bike along the brick path at the side of the cottage and went in through the kitchen door, thinking about the driver of the car, to have her thoughts rudely shattered by her fatherâs voice.
âSo there you areâtook your time coming home, didnât you? And then wasted more of it talking to that fellow. What did he want, anyway?â
The speaker came into the kitchen, a middle-aged man with an ill-tempered face. âYou might at least get home punctually; you know I canât do anything much for myself, and here I am, alone all day and you crawling back when it suits youâ¦â
He paused for breath and Florina said gently, âFather, I came just as soon as I could get off. The hotel is very busy with the tourist season, you know, and that man only wanted to know where he could get a room for the night.â
Her father snorted. âPah, he could afford a hotel in Wilton, driving a Bentley!â He added spitefully, âWasting your time and his for that matterâwhoâd want to look twice at a ginger-headed plain Jane like you?â
Florina was laying the table and, although colour stole into her cheeks, she answered in a matter-of-fact voice. âWell, it wonât be a waste of time if he gets a room at the farm. Sit down, Father, tea wonât be long.â