“Good.” Lord M nodded as if he was in conspiracy with the doctor to make her do this. “I’d like you to go into the village and spend as many hours as you can going through all the books they have on ancient folk customs.”
“All?” Reluctantly she came back to where Lord M sat in his winged armchair.
He couldn't seriously be asking for this research when the wedding was just five weeks away. Besides, the village library was in fact a large collection of excellent books funded by Lord M himself. There were probably hundreds of books.
“La Canette has old influences.” He ignored her question. “English, French, Norman, and Viking. I want you to pick one tradition at a time. Start with marriages and catalogue all the different information we have about that. Then move on to something else. You don’t have much time.”
Why didn’t she have time? “Am I going to be sacked?”
“You will if you don’t hurry up.”
“But what—”
Adam met and held her eyes with a silent warning. He’d made it very clear last night: no one was to upset Lord M or argue with him. Not anyone, not about anything.
Was that why Cook had been pushing her to think about leaving? Because she knew Pierre’s days were numbered here?
“OK. You can reach me on my mobile if you need me.” She left and made her way back to her room for a coat and umbrella. She didn’t normally mind getting wet, but she’d just spent half-an-hour blow-drying her hair.
Down in the kitchen, she searched for something to eat before going out.
“I’ve baked some Garibaldis if you want.” Cook pointed to a rack where a load of biscuits were cooling.
“Yay, squashed-fly biscuits!” Despite her worry, she couldn’t help a wide grin. Cook was an excellent baker.
“If you keep calling them that, you won’t get any.” Cook wagged a finger at her.
Only Liam was left at the table finishing his breakfast. The physiotherapist always started his day by giving Lord M a massage before breakfast, so he was usually late down to the kitchen. Two patties of fried bubble and squeak were still on his plate, together with grilled tomatoes and mushrooms.
“You missed our new arrival,” he now said, stabbing a grilled mushroom with his fork. “Emmet, the photographer.”
“I saw him from the window.” She poured herself another coffee.
“Where’s the mug you took up to your room earlier, Missy?” Cook glared at her.
“I promise I’ll bring them all down tonight, but Lord M is sending me out on an errand and if I don’t go soon, I might lose my job.”
She grabbed a Garibaldi biscuit and took a bite. “They’re like heaven,” she told Cook.
“You can’t get around me that way.”
“So, what’s the photographer like?” She ducked out of the other woman’s reach.
“He’s a nice lad,” Cook said, taking the coffee from her and pouring it into a travel mug. “I can’t go round the countryside looking for stray crockery.”
“‘Nice lad’ how, exactly?” Despite herself, Pierre was curious about this man who was going to marry Nicole.
“Knows his stuff,” Liam said. “He went out with his camera, so you’re bound to run into him on the way. He wanted to check out the aviary.”
“Oh great. Another David Attenborough wanna-be going round taking pics of birds.”
“I thought him a lovely young man.” Cook stacked biscuits and a couple of pastries on a cloth napkin and folded it. “He came and had breakfast with us. A healthy appetite too.”
“Clearly, he knows how to get on your good side.”
“Less lip from you, Missy.” Cook handed her a basket with the pastries, a couple of apples and the travel coffee cup. “If you’re going to leave without eating, take this.”
Pierre went out through the kitchen door to the vegetable garden, but then on impulse she doubled back to the kitchen.
