She said hoarsely, 'No. It-it must be vandals.'
His mouth twisted. 'If you say so. However, the paint's emulsion and still damp. If we're quick, it might scrub off the door with hot water, some household cleaner and a stiff brush. Anyway, I can try.'
He came round to her side and opened the door. 'Here, give me your hand, and your keys. I'll have a go at the paint, but I can't do much about the broken pane. Although, I could ring Ted Jackson. I bet among his friends and relations there's a glazier prepared to turn out in an emergency.'
'No,' she said quickly. 'No, I don't want him-or anybody in the village-to know about this. I'll find someone in Yellow Pages tomorrow.'
Jago took her to the door and unlocked it, steering her carefully past the scatter of broken shards in the hall and the heavy stone responsible.
He said brusquely, 'Go and sit down, while I clean up. You're as white as a sheet.' He paused. 'Does your father have any brandy?'
She nodded. 'On top of the bookcase in his study.' Her voice shook. 'He keeps it for parishioners who've had a shock, or are in some kind of trouble.'
He spoke more gently. 'Then you definitely qualify on one count, if not two.' He lifted her into his arms before she had time to protest and carried her into the sitting room, placing her on the sofa. 'Now, stay there while I attend to everything.'
She leaned back against the cushions, still hardly able to believe what had happened. Trying almost desperately to make sense of it.
When Jago came back with the brandy, she said, 'You don't believe it's hooligans. You think it's Patrick, don't you?'
He looked surprised. 'Actually, no. He might shout and bluster, but this is sheer spite.' His mouth tightened. 'No, I have another candidate in mind.'
She grimaced over the brandy, but she could feel it dissolving the cold, numb feeling inside her. 'I suppose you mean Fiona. But why?'
'Because she's just suffered a serious disappointment, and is lashing out because of it. Although she's not alone in that.'
About to take another sip, she sat up instead, her eyes widening. 'What's happened? Have she and Patrick split up?'
He said coldly, 'I neither know nor care. But would it necessarily be such a bad thing, if so?'
'Yes.'
'For God's sake,' he said wearily. 'We're not talking about some latter-day Romeo and Juliet here, but a couple of worthless cheats. If you remember.'
'In other words, they'd be better off without each other.' She took a deep breath. 'That's what people always say, isn't it. But they forget something important.'
'Which is?'
She said in a low voice, staring down at her brandy, 'That you can't help loving the wrong person. It happens, and it makes no difference to know that it's totally one-sided, or that it could never work in a million years anyway, and that you'll simply end up more lonely and more unhappy than you ever dreamed possible.'
She stopped abruptly, not daring to look up, scared that she had revealed too much. Even, heaven help her, given herself away.
There was a silence, then he said sardonically, 'I bow to your superior wisdom in matters of the heart, Octavia, although perhaps wisdom isn't the exact term. Now, excuse me please, while I attend to more practical matters.'
At the door, he paused, 'By the way, that's a good cognac you have there, so try not to treat it like medicine, but as yet another of life's pleasurable experiences that has so far passed you by.'
Leaving her clutching the glass and gasping with indignation. Which somehow turned out to be a better cure for feeling forlorn, shaky and victimised than any amount of brandy.
How dared he just-throw in a reference to her undoubted innocence like that? Because that's what he'd meant by that last remark.
Besides, what if she was still a virgin? That was no one's business but her own. And would continue to be so until some time in the future, when she'd recovered her senses, stopped crying for the moon, and met someone decent, honourable and caring. Someone who'd be glad that she'd kept herself for him.
Not, she thought wryly, that she'd had much choice in the matter so far. Patrick hadn't wanted her, and as for Jago...
He'd just been amusing himself. She'd always known that. Testing the water, no doubt, with the kisses that she was unable to forget, and the shaming sensations that their memory aroused.
What she must do now was behave as if the implication in his parting words had simply-passed her by. Be grateful for his help, but stay on the cool side of friendly. That was the safe-the only-thing to do.
She took another sip, felt the healing warmth spread, and decided if brandy was an acquired taste, she might just have made the acquisition.
She lay back, closing her eyes, and letting her thoughts drift. Fiona Culham, who'd once derided her as a skinny redhead, to come here, paint insults on the Vicarage door and smash one of its panes? It almost defied belief.
Almost...
Because she found herself reluctantly remembering Fiona's visit to Ladysmere, and the thinly veiled threat she'd uttered in parting.
But I haven't talked to anyone about her-or Patrick, she whispered silently. In fact I've barely given them a thought.
And she can't be suffering from a belated attack of jealousy-not when Patrick was only pretending to date me, and on her instructions.
None of it made any sense, she thought wearily. But that didn't make it any less disturbing or unpleasant.
She finished the brandy and rose to take the glass to the kitchen. The front door was shut, when she went out into the hall, but she could hear the sound of a scrubbing brush being vigorously employed outside. And there was a dustpan and brush at the side of the mat, containing fragments of glass.
In the kitchen, the doors of the cupboards under the sink had been left standing wide, just as if her father had been there rummaging for something, and the realisation took her by the throat with an almost terrifying tenderness.
She took a bottle of beer from the fridge, uncapped it, and went out of the back door, round the side of the house to where Jago was working.
He had stripped off his shirt and draped it over a bush, and the late sun made his skin look burnished. The dark shadowing of hair on his chest tapered into a thin line, which disappeared under the waistband of his pants.
He turned to smile at her. 'Ah,' he said. 'From project manager to lifesaver.' He took the beer, and she watched the muscles move in his strong throat as he took a first deep swallow.
She was thirsty too, she realised with shock. Parched for him. And starving.
Afraid of self-betrayal, she hurried into speech. 'You've done a terrific job. The paint's nearly gone.'
Jago gave his efforts a disparaging look. 'The lettering maybe, but the woodwork's still badly stained. It's going to need professional attention.'
She forced a smile. 'Well, after next Wednesday, it won't be our problem any more.'
He sat down on the step, and drank some more beer. 'Things might turn out better than you think,' he suggested.
'I'm sure the hierarchy has already made up its mind.' She looked determinedly back at the door. 'I'm so grateful for this, but I really mustn't keep you any longer. You've spent far too much time on it already.'
'If that's a pointed hint for me to leave,' Jago said cordially. 'Forget it. Because I'm going nowhere.'
Her head jerked round. 'What are you talking about?'
'I'm not letting you spend the night alone. We can stay here or we can go to Barkland Grange. I'd opt for here, because of the damage to the door, and in case your visitor should return, but it's your decision.'
She said, her voice shaking, 'You sound as if you've already decided for me. But it's quite ridiculous. You can't really believe anyone will come back.'
'Probably not,' he said. 'I only know I'm not taking the chance. And that your father wouldn't want me to.'
The killer blow, thought Tavy.
She glared at him mutinously. 'How many times do I have to tell you-both of you, for that matter-that I'm not a child?'
'Well, when I'm convinced,' he said. 'I'll let you know.' Adding unforgivably, 'And sulking does not help your cause, my sweet.'
He paused, then said more gently, 'Do you really want to spend the night with your head under the covers, Octavia, jumping at every strange noise, yet too scared to go downstairs and check them out?' His sudden grin was coaxing. 'Wouldn't it be easier just to settle for the sound of my snoring?'
'I don't know.' She bit her lip, trying not to smile back. 'Do you snore?'
'I haven't the faintest idea, but I could obtain references.'
She winced inwardly, but kept her voice light. 'Maybe I'll just put cotton wool in my ears.'
'Good thinking.' Jago finished his beer and rose. 'As regards food, there's a good Indian place in Market Tranton that delivers. I suggest that when I've finished here and showered, we order in, and spend a quiet evening watching television.'