Mistaken Adversary

When she opened the door the cool words of greeting and introduction hovering on her lips fled in disordered confusion as she recognised the man standing there.

As he stepped forward, Georgia recognised that, infuriatingly, she had somehow or other by her silence lost control of the situation—because it was he who broke the silence, extending his hand towards her and saying, ‘Miss Barnes? Mitchell Fletcher. I understand from Louise Mather that you have a room you’d be prepared to let. I think she’s explained the position to you: I’m looking for somewhere temporary to stay while I’m working in the area.’

As he spoke, he came forward, and Georgia discovered that she was stepping back almost automatically, allowing him to walk into the hallway.

Until he suddenly stopped, she hadn’t realised that the shadows in her small hallway had cloaked her features from him, and that he had not, like her, had the benefit of that instant recognition.

Now, as he focused on her, she saw from his lightning change of expression that he had recognised her from their unfortunate encounter earlier in the day and, moreover, that he was not exactly pleased to be seeing her again.

His reaction to her brought all her earlier guilt and discomfort flooding back. Before, when she had so rudely ignored the brief moment of shared amusement he had offered her, she had comforted herself with the knowledge that they were not likely to meet again and that his awareness of her bad temper and unpleasantness was something that was unlikely to be reinforced by another encounter. But she had been wrong and, as she felt her skin flushing as the coolness in his eyes reminded her of just how unpleasant she had been, she had to subdue an extremely childish impulse to close the door between them and shut him out so that she wouldn’t have to face that extremely uncomfortable scrutiny.

It seemed that he was waiting for her to speak and, since he had now stepped into her hall, she had no option but to at least go through the motions of pretending that this morning simply had not happened, and that neither of them had already made up their minds that there was simply no way they could ever share a roof...

‘Yes, Louise has explained the situation to me,’ Georgia agreed. ‘If you’d like to come into the kitchen we can discuss everything.’

She had deliberately asked Louise not to mention her aunt or the latter’s illness to Mitch Fletcher, not wanting it to seem as though she was inviting his pity.

Late afternoon sunshine flooded the comfortable kitchen. It was her aunt’s favourite room, reminiscent, so she had told Georgia the first time they viewed the cottage, of the home she had known as a girl. On hearing that, Georgia had ruthlessly changed her mind about replacing the kitchen’s ancient Aga with something more modern and getting rid of its heavy free-standing kitchen cupboards and dresser. Instead, she had done everything she could to reinforce Aunt May’s pleasure in the room’s homeliness—even if she did sometimes find that scouring the porous stone sink had a disastrous effect on her nails, and that the Aga, while giving off a delicious warmth, was not always as efficient as the modern electric oven she had had in her London flat. Maybe it was just that she was not accustomed to using it... Whatever, there had been several expensive mistakes before she had begun to appreciate its charms.

Once inside the kitchen, she waited, expecting to see distaste and scorn darkening Mitchell Fletcher’s astonishingly masculine golden eyes as he compared the kitchen to the marvels of modern technology to which he was no doubt accustomed. To her surprise he seemed to approve of the room, stroking the surface of the dresser and commenting, ‘Mid-nineteenth century, isn’t it? A very nice piece too... Solid and well made. A good, plain, unpretentious piece of furniture without any unnecessary frills and fuss about it. Good design is one of my hobby horses,’ he enlightened her. ‘That’s why—’ He broke off. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear my views on modern furniture,’ he told her drily, adding in a more ironic tone, ‘And I know you won’t want me to waste too much of your time.’

She thought he was referring to her behaviour earlier in the day and could feel her face growing warm until he added, ‘Louise did warn me that you would want to keep this interview short. In fact she stressed that you were looking for a lodger who made as few demands on your time as possible.’ He was eyeing her in an odd way, with a mingling of cynicism and curiosity, as he asked her, ‘If it isn’t too personal a question, why exactly do you want a lodger?’

Georgia was too tired to lie and, besides, what did it matter what he thought? They both knew that he was not going to want to stay here. ‘I need the money,’ she told him shortly.

There was a brief pause and then he said wryly, ‘Well, that’s honest at least. You need the money, but I suspect that you most certainly do not want the company...’

For some reason his perception made her shift uncomfortably, almost as though a burr had physically attached itself to her skin and was irritating her, making her want to shrug off his allegation. ‘As Louise told you, I don’t have time to waste, Mr Fletcher. I’m sorry you’ve had an unnecessary journey out here, but in the circumstances I don’t think—’

‘Hang on a minute!’ he interrupted her. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you’ve changed your mind, that you don’t now want a lodger?’

Georgia stared at him. ‘Well, you can hardly want to lodge here...’

‘Why not?’ he demanded, watching her piercingly.

Georgia didn’t know what to say. She could feel the heat scorching her skin, turning her face poppy-red. ‘Well, the cottage is out of the way...and very small, and I expect...at least I assume—’

‘It never does to make assumptions,’ he interrupted her smoothly. Too smoothly, Georgia recognised uncomfortably. ‘And if you think that I’m the kind of man to be deterred by what happened this morning... You don’t have to like me, Miss Barnes—in fact to be honest with you the one thing that did tend to put me off was the fact that you are a young, single woman.’ He ignored her outraged gasp, continuing silkily, ‘I don’t mean to condemn your whole sex for the silliness of a very small minority, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate that, until meeting you, I was concerned that you might well be a member of that small minority—’

Georgia couldn’t listen to any more. ‘If you think that I’m looking for a lodger for any reason other than the fact that I need the money—’ she began.

Without seeming to raise his voice, he cut through her angry demand to say coolly, ‘Certainly not—now that I’ve met you. I’d like to see the room if I may, please...’

He wanted to see the room! Georgia stared at him. She had been so sure that he would not want to stay. She was still so sure that he wouldn’t want to stay!

Angrily she led the way upstairs, opening the door into the spare bedroom. ‘The cottage only has one bathroom,’ she warned him curtly.

He had been looking out of the window at the garden. Now he turned round, looking very tall against the low slope of the dormer windows. He had been looking out at the garden and now, as he studied her, Georgia felt an uncomfortable frisson of sensation prickle warningly over her skin. This man would, she recognised with a small shock of unease, make a very formidable adversary.

An adversary? Why should she think of him in those terms? All she had to say was that she had changed her mind and that the room was no longer available, and he would be gone—safely out of her life.

‘That’s all right. I’m an early riser and likely to be gone by seven-thirty most mornings. Louise tells me you work from home?’

The question, so neatly slipped in under her guard, had her focusing on his face in surprised bewilderment, as though she were not quite sure where it had come from or why.

‘Rather unusual in this day and age, to find a woman of your age and skills, living in such a remote spot and working from home...’

Something about the cynical way his mouth twisted while he spoke made her reply defensively, almost aggressively, ‘I have my reasons.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do,’ he agreed suavely.

Another shock skittered down her spine. He knew about her aunt, but how? Why? Surely—

‘He’s married, of course.’

Above her shock she was aware of the disgust, the anger almost in his voice, the condemnation held in the short flat statement that fell so shockingly against her ears.

‘What?’ Georgia focused disbelievingly on him.

‘He’s married. Your lover,’ Mitch Fletcher repeated grimly, apparently misreading her reaction. ‘It isn’t so hard to work it out, you know: you live alone, you’re obviously tense, anxious, on edge. You’re out most evenings, so Louise tells me.’

He thought she was having an affair with a married man! Georgia was stunned. How on earth...?

‘He obviously isn’t wealthy otherwise you wouldn’t need to consider taking in a lodger. Don’t you ever stop to think of the consequences of what you’re doing—not just to his wife and family, but to yourself as well? The chances are he’ll never leave her for you. They rarely do. And what satisfaction any woman can get from having to share a man with another woman...’

Georgia couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and yet, to her astonishment, instead of denying his allegations, she heard herself responding bitingly, ‘Well, since you so obviously don’t approve, it’s obvious that you won’t be wanting to stay here.’

‘I may not want to, but I don’t seem to have much option. Finding lodgings around here is like prospecting for gold in the North Sea! I’d like to move in tomorrow if that’s OK with you. I’m prepared to pay the full three months’ rent in advance.’

Georgia had been on the verge of telling him that she had changed her mind, but now abruptly she stopped. Three months’ rent in advance! She did a quick calculation and was astounded to discover how much money that actually was. Enough to cover the cost of her aunt’s expenses and to help with the mortgage... She wanted to refuse—ached to do so in fact—but she couldn’t let her pride stand in the way of providing Aunt May with all the comfort and care she could give her.

Swallowing hard on the impulse to tell him that his money was something she neither wanted nor needed in her life, she forced herself to say flatly, ‘Very well, then, if you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ His voice sounded equally flat, hard and cold, unlike the warmth she had heard in it earlier in the day. He was walking towards her, and for some reason his easy cat-like tread made her retreat nervously on to the landing...

She was being ridiculous, she told herself as she headed for the kitchen. Just because he had jumped to a totally erroneous and unfounded assumption about her...an assumption she had deliberately chosen not to correct... Why hadn’t she corrected him? Because she had been too shocked to do so? Had her behaviour been governed more by self-defence and shock than by a deliberate need to foster the antagonism between them?

Tiredly, she put a hand to her forehead, disconcerted by her own thoughts, guiltily aware that for virtually the first time since they had moved to the cottage she had allowed someone else other than her aunt to dominate her mind.

As she walked into the kitchen, he was right behind her, and yet when she tensed and turned round, he stepped back from her, as though he had sensed her feeling of uncertainty and being somehow overpowered by him—as though he was deliberately allowing her space, cooling down the heat of mutual antipathy which she had quite distinctly felt. As he stepped back he reached inside the jacket of his suit and removed a cheque-book.

Nervously Georgia licked her lips, a habit left over from her childhood which she had thought she had long ago brought under control. Once he had written that cheque—once she had accepted it from him—it would be too late to say that she had changed her mind. Yet, as she watched him, she could not bring herself to utter the words which would have banished him from her life...

When he had written the cheque he straightened up. Georgia left it where it was lying between them on the kitchen table. As she turned her head, she saw the time and immediately realised she was going to be late for seeing her aunt. Instantly everything else was forgotten, a strained, hunted expression tensing her face as she said quickly, ‘I have to go out. I...’

‘Such a devoted lover!’ he mocked her sardonically. ‘Is he equally devoted? I wonder... Do you ever think about the woman—the family—he steals the time from that he spends with you? Do you ever put yourself in her shoes? Do you?’

The cheque was still on the table. Angrily Georgia picked it up, her voice shaking as she held it out to him and said, ‘You don’t have to stay here.’

‘Unfortunately I do,’ he told her curtly. ‘As I said, lodgings aren’t easy to come by round here.’ Ignoring her outstretched hand and the cheque, he turned towards the door. ‘Until tomorrow evening, then... Would seven o’clock suit you?’

Seven was the beginning of visiting time. Shaking her head, she said quickly, ‘Six would be better, or later—say about ten?’

Raising his eyebrows, he commented acidly, ‘He spends as much time with you as that, does he? His wife must be a saint—or a fool...’

Too concerned about being late to see her aunt, Georgia didn’t waste time on any response, simply going to the back door and opening it for him. As he came towards her she felt herself pulling in her stomach muscles, instinctively avoiding any kind of physical contact not just with him but with his very clothes. He paused as he drew level with her, looking thoughtfully at her for a moment so that it was impossible for her to avoid the deep scrutiny of his narrowed gaze.

‘His wife isn’t suffering alone either, is she?’ he said quietly. ‘You know, I can never understand women like you; to waste so much emotional energy and in such a worthless cause...’

‘What would you know about it?’ Georgia challenged him, driven to give in to the impulse to defend herself even while her mind screamed at her that she must get rid of him and get on her way to the hospice.

‘A good deal. My father had a succession of mistresses before he finally divorced my mother to marry one of them. I saw the hell he put her through, and us. I grew up hating those other women for taking him away from us, until I realised that my father was the one I should really hate, and that they were just as much his victims as we were.’

His quiet admission left Georgia too astounded to make any kind of response—and then he was gone, walking round the corner of the cottage, heading for the front gate and his car.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU’RE very quiet, Georgy. You’re not still worrying about me, are you?’

Georgia focused on her aunt’s pale face, forcing herself to try to smile. She had in fact been thinking about Mitch Fletcher and his extraordinarily intimate disclosure just as he was leaving the cottage. She really would have to tell him that he was mistaken about her, to explain—if not everything, then at least enough for him to understand that it was her aunt who took up so much of her time and not some non-existent married lover.

She frowned a little, acknowledging how hard it must have been for him to witness the disintegration of his parents’ relationship, to have his own love for and trust in his father destroyed, as it obviously had been destroyed. Poor little boy... She caught herself up, shaking her head angrily. What on earth was she doing, feeling sympathy for someone who had suggested that she...? She bit her lip in vexation, unwillingly acknowledging that if he had misjudged her it was at least partly her own fault.

She wasn’t really sure why she was so reluctant for him—for anyone—to know the truth. Was it because in facing their concern and sympathy she would be forced to make herself confront the reality of how seriously ill her aunt was? No...no! Her thoughts scattered, frantically fleeing from what she could still not bring herself to face—fleeing from the enormity of that realisation... Her aunt was getting better... Only this morning she herself had said how well she felt, and yet as Georgia looked at the tiny figure in the bed, her fear was like cold, cold fingers tightening around her heart.

Unwillingly she looked into her aunt’s face and saw the tiredness there. She was holding her hand and it felt so frail, so cold.

‘Georgy—’ her aunt smiled at her through her tiredness ‘—you mustn’t...you mustn’t—’

She stopped speaking and, before her aunt could finish what she had been about to say, Georgia began to tell her about the garden, describing for her the new flowers that were opening, her voice high with denial of her terrible fear. ‘But you’ll be seeing them for yourself soon. Just as soon as you get well enough to come home...’ She thought she heard her aunt sigh. Certainly the pressure of those frail fingers holding her own tightened a little. She could feel herself starting to tremble, as fear and love rolled through her.

As always, the precious time she was allowed to spend at her aunt’s bedside was gone all too quickly, and it was time for her to leave. The sister in charge came towards her as she was going. Georgia smiled at her, saying eagerly, ‘Aunt May seems so much better since she came here. I’ve been telling her about the garden. She’s always wanted a proper garden of her own. The roses will be out soon. We bought them last year—scented ones. Perhaps she’ll be home in time to enjoy them and—’

‘Georgia, your aunt is doing very well,’ the sister interrupted her. ‘But you must realise—’ She had to break off as one of the nurses came quickly towards her, excusing herself to Georgia as she turned aside to listen to what she had to say. ‘Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, but...’

As she watched her hurry away, Georgia fought to ignore the tension and fear she was feeling. Sometimes when she talked to her aunt about the garden, about the future, Aunt May looked at her with such a compassionate, concerned expression that Georgia felt as though... As though what? As though Aunt May knew and accepted something which she herself did not know—or did not want to know?

She was trembling when she got into her car, cold with fear.

* * *

As always when she suffered like this, Georgia found the only way to hold the terror and the pressure of her own despairing thoughts at bay was to work as hard as she could, so that all her mental energy was exhausted, making it impossible for her to dwell on the truth that her intelligence told her existed but which her heart refused to acknowledge.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning before she admitted that she was so tired that if she didn’t stop working she would probably fall asleep where she was.

She had, she confessed to Louise Mather, been lucky to find an agency with enough work to enable her to temp from home, but Louise had corrected her, telling her frankly, ‘No, I’m the one who’s lucky to have such a highly qualified and hard-working person on my books, and if you ever do want something more permanent, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

Louise knew what had prompted her move from London, but she was one of the very small circle of people who did. The doctor was another, plus the staff at the hospice, and the farmer’s wife—who was their closest neighbour and who, in the days before Aunt May had gone into the hospice, had been a regular visitor, bringing them fresh eggs and vegetables, and shared with Aunt May her own countrywoman’s lore. Aunt May was a very private person, and she had brought Georgia herself up the same way, and besides... Georgia leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes to relieve the strain of staring at the screen, and acknowledged that one of the reasons she was so reluctant to discuss her aunt’s illness with others was because somehow in doing so it was as though she was physically holding it at bay, refusing to allow it to tighten its grip on their lives. It was as though, by refusing to admit its existence, she could somehow pretend that it did not exist. Was that what she was doing? she asked herself. Was that why she preferred to allow someone like Mitch Fletcher to believe that she was having an affair with a married man rather than admit the truth?

Mind you, if she had a psychological problem, then so too did he. How on earth had he managed to leap to the conclusions he had about her on such flimsy evidence? It hadn’t been so much a leap as an impossible connecting together of facts which surely even a fool could see could not possibly amount to what he had seen in them. It was obvious that the trauma of his childhood had left a very deep impression on him—just as hers had left her with a fear of being alone, without someone she could call her own. Was that why she was so desperately afraid of losing her aunt? Not so much for her aunt’s sake, but more selfishly for her own?

Georgia shivered, hugging her arms around her body as though trying physically to ward off the darkness of the thoughts passing through her mind. It was because it was so late...because she was so tired...because she was alone... Because she was still even now suffering the after-effects of the emotions churned up by Mitch Fletcher...

Mitch Fletcher. She stood up unsteadily, smothering a yawn. She should never have allowed him to give her that cheque. She should have stood her ground and told him that she had changed her mind, that she no longer wanted a lodger. But then that would not have been true: she did not want a lodger, but she needed a lodger because she desperately needed the income having one would bring in. What she did not want was a lodger in the form of Mitch Fletcher, and what was more she suspected he was perfectly well aware of her feelings. Despite the easy charm, the warmth she had seen so clearly exhibited earlier in the day when he had responded with humour to their small confrontation, there was quite obviously another man beneath that easygoing surface, a tough, determined man whose relaxed outward pose cloaked a will of steel. She shivered, acknowledging that it wasn’t the cool night air coming in through her bedroom which was responsible for the lifting of the tiny hairs on her skin.

It was only when she was finally sliding gratefully into an exhausted sleep that she remembered that she hadn’t told her aunt about Mitch Fletcher. Tomorrow, she would tell her tomorrow. No, it would be today now, she recognised in a confused manner, impatiently blaming Mitch Fletcher for the fact that, infuriatingly, although she was both mentally and physically exhausted, as soon as he had slipped into her thoughts all desire to sleep had somehow evaded her.

* * *

As she was discovering more and more often these days, her sleep was brief and not very relaxing, and her first thoughts when she opened her eyes were, as always, for her aunt. Perhaps her inability to sleep properly lately was a legacy of those weeks when her aunt had herself been unable to sleep and when she, Georgia, had—ignoring the protests—sat up with her, talking to her and trying to help her to overcome the intensity of her pain. Now her aunt was receiving the benefit of the hospice’s care and experience in helping people to control and live with such pain, but Georgia herself could not get back into the habit of sleeping deeply and well.

Long before seven o’clock she was up and had eaten her breakfast—or rather had attempted to eat her breakfast, pushing away her cereal barely touched. Now, as she wandered through the garden, ignoring the discomfort of the early-morning dew soaking into her trainers, she paused to study the buds on one of the rose bushes she and her aunt had ordered the previous autumn. These were special roses, old varieties which they were growing for their scent rather than for the perfection of their blooms. As she looked at them, carefully examining them for any signs of greenfly, her throat ached with the pressure of the tears she dared not allow herself to cry.