‘It sounds as if you had a tough time. I’m so sorry you went through that.’
Juliet dragged her eyes up to meet Léo’s, wondering if she would find more mockery there, but all she saw was kindness. It was more than she could bear. Grabbing the bottle and her glass, she stood up.
‘Thanks. I’m going to bed now. I’ll start work on the website in the morning.’
And with that, she hurried back to the sanctuary of her little hayloft.
EIGHT
Léo reached for the discarded brownie and ate it thoughtfully as he watched Juliet march away across the lawn, that wildly incongruous pink shawl flapping around her otherwise impeccable silhouette. She was certainly beautiful, and chic, but he also felt drawn to her rage and sadness, emotions he realised she usually suppressed fiercely but which tonight had spilt over into what he suspected were rare tears. He had wanted to reach out to her, hold her, let her sob out all that pain and frustration, but she hadn’t wanted to be supported or even seen with her guard down. He let out a small ‘tsk’ as he finished off the brownie and picked up his glass to go back inside. He knew he was attracted to complicated women, but now that he was settled at Feywood, he didn’t want another drama and certainly not a second scandal that would see him have to leave this life behind him and move on again.
The next morning saw Léo in the kitchen early, pummelling bread and marinating hake in a delicious-smelling concoction of olive oil, lemon and four different fresh herbs, picked from the garden on his way in. He hadn’t spent much longer last night with the family; once he had reassured them that Juliet was all right and had returned to the stable block, he went up to hisroom. Gladly distracted by work, as ever, he had played around with some recipe ideas for a book he was considering and after a couple of hours felt more clear-headed. However attracted he felt to her, he would approach Juliet as a friend only, which would surely be most beneficial to them both.
He was just laying a tea towel over his dough and placing it in the sun on the windowsill when Sylvia came in.
‘Good morning, Léo, you’ve made an early start today.’
‘Bonjour, yes, I wanted to try this bread. I think my final tweaks might just set it apart. We’re nearly ready for the weekend.’
‘I know. I do hope they like it all. Is that the hake? It smells wonderful. I’m going to work on the finishing touches to the passionfruit mousse this morning. Shall we go over to breakfast first, or have you eaten?’
‘No, I haven’t had anything yet – let’s go. My dough should be ready by the time we return.’
They were just leaving when they heard a tread on the stairs, and Juliet appeared.She looks different,thought Léo,softer somehow. There’s power, perhaps, in crying in front of someone else, no matter how reluctantly…
Sylvia went to hug her.
‘Good morning, darling, how are you feeling today? I must say, you look very well rested. Are you coming over to breakfast?’
‘Yes, I will. I slept so well, Aunt Sylvia, it’s so quiet here. I’m sorry about the upset last night, I shouldn’t have walked out like that. I’ll sort it out with everyone this morning.’
If Sylvia was surprised at this apology, she didn’t show it, just patted her niece warmly on the arm. Juliet continued, ‘Morning, Léo. Thanks for looking out for me last night.’
He smiled broadly.
‘You are most welcome, Juliet. Come, let us go and see what your father has prepared for breakfast.’
It was a long-running routine at Feywood that Rousseau prepared breakfast most mornings for everyone staying or living at the house. Sylvia had only stepped in on the day of Juliet’s birthday because Rousseau had been so agitated about the family meeting. He was always up with the lark, no matter how late he had worked or caroused the night before, and enjoyed pottering around the large kitchen making steaming pots of coffee and tea and assembling treats that he thought people would like. And they did. Every day they came in to a sideboard heaving with food. The basics were always there – cereal, toast, fruit and yoghurt – but beyond that you never knew what you would find. Sometimes, Rousseau would be feeling continental and there would be croissants and pain au chocolat, sometimes it was pancakes, sometimes a savoury feast with eggs, tomatoes, golden hash browns and vegetarian sausages. Now and again, he would have been reading P.G. Wodehouse and you would be in for kedgeree, and on one memorable occasion, he came over all Japanese and produced a spread of hot, tightly packed triangles of sticky rice wrapped in seaweed, with octopus on the side. Today, as Juliet, Sylvia and Léo stepped in, they saw a vat of creamy porridge and a rainbow of pick-your-own toppings, ranging from dried fruit to granola to a tempting heap of tiny multicoloured chocolate sweets.
‘I do wish Rousseau would teach a session at the cookery school,’ sighed Léo as he filled a bowl with the porridge and added some of every topping. ‘He is so creative, an artist in everything he does. I’m sure he would inspire our students.’
‘Don’t forget he will continue providing breakfasts on the days our guests are here,’ said Sylvia, balancing a plate of toast on top of her bowl. ‘Just sharing in his wonderful breakfasts will give them ideas, and knowing Rousseau, he’ll pull out all the stops for them.’
‘Like he doesn’t already,’ said Juliet, smiling slightly. ‘No wonder there’s no money for the roof; these breakfasts must cost a fortune. Not that I’m complaining,’ she added hastily. ‘I’m all for Smarties on porridge, although the octopus was going a bit far.’
Léo grinned to himself. Already she was showing a different side, more…mellow, and a sense of humour starting to show through.Intriguing.He pulled himself up quickly, remembering his resolution to be friendly, nothing more. As the three of them sat down, in came Martha and Frankie, who served themselves porridge and joined them at the table without more than a murmured ‘good morning’. A few moments passed, and then Juliet cleared her throat.
‘Look, I’m sorry about yesterday evening. I…I understand why you want to do a memorial for Mum.’
A voice came from behind her.
‘And will you contribute an artwork, my darling?’
Rousseau had come into the room and now moved to serve himself some breakfast. Léo could see how uncomfortable Juliet was and he longed to reach out to her in some way. He could see her wrestling with what to say in reply and guessed that she didn’t know whether to keep her head down and agree, as she had as a child and adolescent, or whether to speak her mind, as the adult she was now. She glanced over at him, and he smiled at her encouragingly, nodding.
‘No, Dad, I don’t think I will.’
Faces turned to Juliet in surprise, but she kept her gaze steadily on her father, who had paused, porridge spoon in hand. She continued, ‘Look, since Mum died, I have battled with how I feel about her and about me. I’m not going to go into it all now, and I don’t want to spoil the memorial for all of you. But I don’t want to promise something I’m not sure I can deliver. Mum didn’t appreciate what I do anyway, so it doesn’t feel rightto create a cartoon for her. What I will promise is that I will think about it, see if I can come up with something else that I am comfortable with.’
