Part 3 (1/2)
”No, I didn't.”
”It's only when the plant growing in the ground becomes strong enough to produce seeds that mushrooms appear.”
”Really?” She tried to sound interested. This wasn't going quite as well as she had thought.
”There are a lot of edible toadstools but most people don't know that. They eat only mushrooms. Mrs. Underwood cooks a good toadstool soup. She knows which ones to eat and which ones not to eat.” Miranda noticed Mr. Underwood's large belly. He was clearly well fed. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
”This is a large property, Mr. Underwood.”
”Mrs. Lightly did it all on her own,” he said, nodding slowly with admiration.
”Didn't she have anyone to help her?”
”Only Hector. It was her pa.s.sion.”
”Well, it's been left to go wild for a year at least. There's a lot of work to be done. I'm not sure that you're strong enough to do it on your own.”
He looked affronted. ”Not strong enough!” he gasped, insulted. He jumped up, took off his jacket and stood, flexing his muscles in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves. ”Look at this. Hard as rock it is. Hard as solid rock.”
”Thank you, Mr. Underwood.”
”You're as old as you feel, m'lady. Inside here I'm a strapping lad.”
”I'm sure you are, Mr. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood is very lucky to have you. Tell me, how well does she cook?”
He rubbed his belly. ”The little wife? She's a good woman. No one can cook like Mrs. Underwood.”
Miranda decided to take a gamble. Desperation compelled her to be impulsive. ”We're looking for a cook,” she said. Mr. Underwood's weathered face widened into a smile and his round cheeks shone pink.
”Look no further, m'lady. Mrs. Underwood will feed you all up good and proper. Used to cook for Mrs. Lightly when she had visitors.”
”So she knows the place?”
”Aye, she does.”
”Would she have the time?”
He nodded eagerly. ”Aye, she's got time all right. Little nippers are grown up now with nippers of their own.” Miranda's mind was racing.
”I'd like to meet Mrs. Underwood,” she said firmly. ”Perhaps she could come up tomorrow and cook Sunday lunch for the four of us. As for you, Mr. Underwood, let me speak plainly. This place is a mess and you clearly know a thing or two about gardens. Perhaps you could start sweeping leaves and chopping logs so we can light our fires and I'll keep looking for someone”-she hesitated, anxious to find the right word so as not to offend him-”to work with you on the landscaping side. I think this place requires two pairs of hands, don't you?”
Mr. Underwood nodded slowly. He didn't quite understand what she meant by landscaping. However, he loved chopping logs and lighting fires, and was already envisaging vast mountains of leaves.
”I'll pay you eight pounds hour and you do as much as you're able.”
”That's as good to me as plum pudding, m'lady,” he replied, clearly pleased.
”Call me Mrs. Claybourne,” she added.
”Mrs. Claybourne, m'lady.”
She sighed and let it go. ”You can start on Monday and don't forget to tell Mrs. Underwood to come up tomorrow, if she can-perhaps she could call me to discuss details.”
David returned from Cate's Cake Shop in a good mood. He strode into the kitchen where Miranda was roasting a chicken and grabbed her around the waist, kissing her neck behind her ponytail. ”You were right about that coffee. It's given me a real buzz. Charming people, too. I can't think why we never explored before. It's a quaint place.”
”Do you like it?” She turned to face him, leaning back against the Aga.
”I had a little chat with the locals, gave them a bit of advice about their businesses.” He smiled mischievously.
”Oh, David, you didn't?”
”Of course I didn't. What do you take me for, a pompous a.s.s?”
”I should hope not!”
”I chatted to Cate, who's definitely hot for me. Colonel Pike-asked him a bit about the war. They all knew who I was. Of course, I can't remember them all by name, but they were suitably deferential. I think I'm going to enjoy being lord of the manor. Should spend a little more time down here. It's like living fifty years ago. Can't think why we didn't move out sooner.”
”That Cate's a snake in the gra.s.s. Watch out for her.”
”Saw your notice up on the board. Sweet!”
”It's not sweet. It's practical. You'll see, it'll do the trick.”
”Let's hope so. The lady of the manor shouldn't be getting her fingers dirty in the garden and cleaning the house. I want my wife to have the smooth hands of a d.u.c.h.ess.”
”Lucky my work is all at the computer then, isn't it?”
”How did your meeting with Mr. Underwood go?”
”He'll do, for the moment. We still need a proper gardener. He can do odd jobs, raking leaves, mowing, logs, that sort of thing. His wife is coming to cook lunch tomorrow. She used to cook for the previous owners.”
”I'm impressed, darling.” He lifted her chin. ”I never thought you'd pull it all together.”
”I've been so busy...” He silenced her with a kiss.
”Shhh. Don't forget your biggest client!”
IV.
The crab-apple tree laden with fruit.
Miranda awoke in the middle of the night. David lay on his stomach, fast asleep. She watched him for a moment, his back rising and falling in the silvery light of the moon that entered through the gap in the curtains. Lying there beside her he looked like a stranger, remote and out of reach. She could almost feel the heat of his body and yet he was so very far away. They seemed not to connect anymore, as if the miles that separated them had distanced them spiritually, too. She listened to the wind whistling over the roof of the house and felt an ache of loneliness, an ache she usually suppressed by being busy. After a while she climbed out of bed, slipped into her dressing gown and padded into her walk-in closet. She closed the door and turned on the light. Decorated like a boutique with shelves and drawers in mahogany, it was the room she had particularly looked forward to: an entire room dedicated to her clothes. Now the dresses and suits which hung neatly on wooden hangers divided by season and occasion seemed redundant. She laughed bitterly. What occasion? She had nothing to go to down here. She had no friends. Even her friends in London were beginning to forget she existed.
One by one she pulled the dresses out, gazing at them longingly. She was talking to herself. You, darling little Dolce number. With the Celine handbag and Jimmy Choo shoes, you cut a dash at the charity ball at the Dorchester and at David's fortieth birthday party. Together we turned every head in the room. And you, Tulah trouser suit with your pretty shoulders and long trousers, with those Louboutin heels and Anya Hindmarch handbag, you carried me through those girls' lunches in Knightsbridge and committee meetings for Haven Breast Cancer. And you, little black Prada dress, a must-have for any woman worth her fas.h.i.+on credentials, now you sit like a ghost from my old life with boxes and boxes of exquisite shoes and barely used handbags. In London I always felt glamorous. I always had confidence. But down here, in Hartington, I'm disappearing. I don't know who I am anymore. I'm losing my sense of self.
With increasing regret she opened each shoe box and took out the shoes, holding them up and turning them around in her hands as a jewelry expert might look at diamonds in the light. She was only thirty-three and yet she felt life was over. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror she was struck by how stringy she looked. She didn't have the youthful bloom she was once envied for; there were blue-gray shadows under her eyes and her skin was pale and sallow. She had to get a grip. Sort herself out. Go running, meet people, invite friends for the weekend. She couldn't allow herself to wallow in self-pity, that wouldn't keep David interested. The thought of hitting Ralph Lauren for a stylish country wardrobe made her spirits rise before she realized she had no one to leave the children with. If only she could get away for a day, Bond Street would surely resuscitate her. Those who think money doesn't buy happiness just don't know where to shop, she remembered with a wry smile, turning off the light and returning to bed. David slept on, oblivious of his wife's unhappiness.