Farm Fatale by Wendy Holden Read Free Book Online Page A

wear it." Her friend's relaxed attitude to the fur trade had long been a cause of anguish to Rosie.
        "What, this?" Bella looked down at her coat. "When literally thousands of acrylics have died for it?" She grinned teasingly at Rosie. "Of course it's not real, silly. It's my work coat. I keep my sables for the best."
    ***

    The perfect cottage was taking some finding.
        "Poor Mr. Dibble." Rosie sighed as, some days later, the postman's hunched, resentful figure trudged back past the kitchen window after depositing yet another avalanche of envelopes through the front door of the flat. Since Mark had registered with what seemed like every estate agent in the country, they got more mail than anyone else on the street.
        Following the sound of frenzied ripping in the sitting room, Rosie, piece of toast in her hand, wandered in to find Mark sprawled amid a sea of paper.
        "Former asbestos mill with planning permission in Blackburn." Mark waved a clipped-together piece of paper at her. " Great potential."
        "Mill?" Rosie's toast fell facedown onto the carpet tiles. She picked it up, trying not to think how long it had been since she last vacuumed. Months, certainly.
        She glanced at the photograph of the vast and ruined building stapled to the agent's details. Even with a blazing sun and a suspiciously Mediterranean-blue sky, the place was obviously barely standing. Nothing could be further removed from the cottage with roses round the door she had imagined. "What would anyone do with a mill?"
        " Fix it up , obviously. You could get about twenty executive flats in there. Not to mention a swimming pool, gym, parking for forty cars, and quite possibly a helipad as well." Rosie looked at him in horror. "Not that we're going to obviously," Mark added. "It's hardly the sort of thing we'd want."
        "No," said Rosie emphatically. "We want a little cottage. With roses round the door." And a lavender-bordered path, she added silently. And a springy lawn spattered with daisies…
        "Cottages are quite expensive," Mark cut in. "We might have to settle for something we can do up." Rosie nodded. No problem. Painting was her job, wasn't it? Mark shook the pile of particulars between both hands. "Quite a few things here actually. A former butcher's shop near Derby…"
        "Ugh!" Rosie grimaced.
        "We're not looking for a manor house in the Cotswolds, you know."
        "I know. It's just—a butcher's shop?"
        Mark sighed extravagantly. "Buying something with fifty acres might be a bit beyond our budget."
        "It's not where it is," Rosie said, sighing, "but what it is. I'm vegetarian , remember?"

Chapter Four

    Samantha, perched perilously on one of the six blasted-granite disks that served as kitchen stools, looked up from her magazine and sighed. Her dissatisfied gaze lingered on the glass bricks of the walls, dazzlingly illuminated by sunken-floor uplighters. Held gingerly between her fingers was one of the thin porcelain cups Basia had decreed as the only type of china permitted in the house. As usual, it contained Japanese green tea, the only permitted beverage besides Evian.
        She resumed her reading of the magazine.
         It is here, in the rustic dream that is her thick-walled, fifteenth century manor house, that society potter Carinthia D'Arblay Sidebottom goes about her exquisite and distinctive craft. In the hall, a lavender-scented silence pervades; brilliant sunshine floods the stone flags and glances off the glittering diamond-pane windows. Presently, Carinthia brings in a hand-painted tray on which everything, from the colorful mugs of steaming coffee to the thick rounds of shortbread biscuit, is homemade…
        Suddenly, Samantha longed with all her soul for a homemade shortbread biscuit, but these did not figure on Basia's list of Ayurvedically balanced foods for Pita personalities. This list, the legendary designer had