A Man For All Seasons by Jenny Brigalow Read Free Book Online Page B

“Thank you.”
    “No worries.”
    Not another word was spoken as they made their way back to the house, for which she was grateful. They walked side-by-side, not quite touching. As they walked, Seraphim forced herself to think. She would go to London, she decided, but not with Bloody Barry. And white dresses were definitely no longer part of the equation.
    Her body shivered at her own temerity. But her sculpted jaw set in a line of steely determination.

Seven
    It was an action-packed day for Chad. Wally took him on a whirlwind tour of the local racing fraternity, half of whom seemed to reside in the snug depths of various pubs. Too polite to refuse, he drank three or four pints of warm, pale beer. Not an experience he was keen to repeat.
    After a lunch of crusty bread, cheese and pickles, locally known as a ploughman's, in a pub that sported dangerously low, black overhead beams, Wally whisked him off to view the local lock. Chad had to admit that the lock was a fascinating concept. From its tiny neat brick cottage and immaculate garden to the rushing waters of the weir, it was bursting with old-world charm.
    Then followed a dizzying parade of racing yards, umpteen cups of tea, and a visit to a local beef producer with a magnificent Belgium Blue bull standing at stud.
    The sun had sunk below the horizon when they finally returned home. Chad had developed a healthy respect for the bladders of the Englishmen he had encountered, along with a deepening aversion to their warm beer.
    Finally, in the welcomed, if temporary, solitude of his guest room, Chad finally had time to dwell upon the mornings events without interruption. He stood at the window and looked out onto the barn. No light filtered beneath the doors, it was quite deserted. He wondered where Seraphim was, and what she'd been doing all day; forcing himself to realise the fact that in all likelihood she'd gone with her fiancé to London and spent the day focused on wedding dresses and such like.
    He felt a wave of anger as he recalled Barry's earlier performance. What an insensitive bastard. It had been all he could do to refrain from decking the pasty-faced moron. He relived the feel of Seraphim as she had clung to him. So soft and fragrant. Of course, he had to acknowledge it'd just been an instinctive need for reassurance during a time of crisis on her behalf. But still… She'd been terrified. The incidence had awoken memories, long buried. For the first time in years he allowed himself to look back. To his surprise the accustomed waves of grief and loss, failed to arise. Instead he was left with a subdued sadness, bitter sweet.
    A soft knock on his door startled him. Somehow he knew who it was, even as he crossed the carpeted expanse of room. Glancing at the clock he saw it was six-thirty. Probably come to tell him dinner was imminent.
    But she still wore a pair of dark blue jeans, a white shirt and a fat, padded jacket. Not appropriate for dinner dress. She smiled, and he noticed a small dimple playing in the hollow of one arched cheekbone.
    “Hi,” she said.
    “Hi,” he replied, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.
    “There's a phone call for you, downstairs in the lounge.”
    Alarm bells rang. “Who is it, do you know?”
    She shook her head; her hair shimmied softly around her shoulders. Even in his heightened state of agitation he found himself tuned in to every nuance of her being.
    “I'll show you the way.”
    Without further ado she turned and set off, Chad right behind. His brain went ballistic as a dozen possible disasters popped up at once. Quite frankly, back home fire, flood, plague and pestilence were all definite possibilities. Possibly all at once.
    He took the phone from Barry and held it to his ear. A voice blasted him like a scud missile.
    “CHAD?”
    Holding the receiver further away, he couldn't help a small prickle of amusement. It had to be Frank, who obviously felt that extra volume was necessary over greater distances.