Once at the garden door Gus slunk in, tossing Jeremy a hasty look, more of dismissal than of gratitude. “Is your mother in? I’d like to see her,” said Jeremy, lingering on the terrace.
Gus hesitated and bit his lip. He seemed to gather himself before he was able to contemplate facing his mother. “Muum!” he shouted at last.
Miranda’s hands froze over the keys of her laptop at the sound of her son’s voice. She felt a rush of relief. She hurried into the hall to find Gus, hands in pockets, feet shuffling, face grubby with mud and tears. Her heart buckled. “Darling, I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?” She kneeled to pull him into her arms but he stiffened. He was as cold as a corpse. “You can’t just run off like that. It’s not safe.” Then she noticed Jeremy hovering at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said, getting up.
“I’m Jeremy Fitzherbert, your neighbor.” He took off his glove to shake her hand. “We’ve waved at each other from a distance but never been properly introduced.”
“Oh yes, you’ve met my husband, David.” His hand was rough and warm. He noticed her manicured nails and the large sapphire and diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand. She smelled of lime. “I’m Miranda. Thank you for bringing him home. I’ve been out of my mind worrying about him.”
“He was in the woods,” said Jeremy. “No harm can come to him there, I assure you. Unless he gets caught in a fox trap.”
“Fox trap?” Her eyes widened.
Jeremy shrugged. “They eat my chickens. Even go for the odd sheep if they’re feeling particularly adventurous. I think Gus is far too astute to wind up in one of those.” Miranda turned to her son, but he had disappeared.
“I’m used to London parks, not the countryside. This is all rather new to me,” she said, an edge to her voice. Jeremy took in the long brown hair tied into a ponytail and the pale blue eyes, made of the same hard crystal as her son’s. She was a beautiful woman with high, angular cheekbones and a strong jaw, though rather too thin for his taste. “Do you have a wife, Mr. Fitzherbert?”
“Jeremy, please,” he insisted with a grin. “No, I’m a poor bachelor. In fact, I’m a charity case, Miranda. Every kindhearted female I know is intent on finding me a bride, but who wants to be a farmer’s wife these days?” He smiled diffidently, his eyes twinkling with humor.
“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. You’ve got plenty of time. No biological clock to push you into marriage before you’re ready.” She smiled. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was discontented. “The reason I ask whether you have a wife is that I’m looking for a cook. Oh, and a gardener. It’s the sort of thing a woman might know. You don’t happen to know anyone, do you? Or how I might go about it? You see, I’m extremely busy; I’m a writer. I just can’t go scouring the countryside for help.”
Jeremy nodded knowingly. She’d probably had an army of Filipinos in London. “The best thing to do is post a notice in Cate’s Cake Shop in town. She’s got a large clientele. Why don’t you offer someone that cottage by the river? It’s empty, isn’t it?”
“That pile of rubble! I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live there. It’s a ruin.”
Jeremy laughed. “Oh, it has a certain charm. It wouldn’t take too much to resurrect it. If you offer the cottage you’re more likely to find someone to work on the estate. I don’t know of anyone locally. You’ll have to bring someone in. A cottage is a good incentive.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you.” She looked at him standing outside in the cold and rashly offered him a cup of coffee, regretting it even as she spoke.
“I’ve got to take a look at Charlie,” he said, declining her offer.
“Charlie?”
“The donkey. A friendly animal. He’s cowering in the corner of the field. Not like him at all. Hope the lad’s okay. Found him crying in the woods. I have a horse, Whisper, if he’d like a ride sometime. Let me know. I’m in the book.”
“Thank you,” Miranda replied, closing the door behind him. She looked at her watch. What on earth was she going to give Gus for lunch?
She found her son sitting on the banquette in the kitchen, playing with his Game Boy. When she entered he glared at her sulkily. “Now, darling,” she said, endeavoring to sound stern. “What’s all this about biting another little boy at school? How do you think you’re going to make friends if you bite them?”