Sheila was impressed. ‘Oh, I say …’
He pulled out her chair. ‘If Madam would care to park herself here, I’ll fetch the first course.’
‘Silver service, no less,’ she murmured.
‘Of course.’ Bernie inclined his head. ‘To match my hair,’ he replied, and they grinned at each other.
The meal was delicious, a dish of cold partridge with stewed veg, and a pudding of rich, sweet lemon meringue pie, and she savoured every mouthful.
‘You certainly know the way to a woman’s heart, my lad,’ Sheila told him as they sat relaxing after lunch with a small glass of sherry each. ‘That was sumptuous.’
‘I had a little help from my housekeeper’s brother in obtaining the partridge,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘But the lemon meringue pie was my own creation.’
‘And very tasty it was too.’ Sheila raised her glass in a salute.
They talked of weather and politics for a while, and the parish fund. Then he asked how Christmas Day had gone at Postbridge Farm, and she gladly told him, leaning back on the sofa with a smile as she regaled him with tales of Sarah Jane’s excitement on Christmas Eve, waiting up to listen for Santa Claus until she fell asleep on the stairs …
‘Christmas is for the kiddies, I always say. But we grown-ups are allowed a little fun too. Talking of which, I nearly forgot …’ Sheila fished his present out of her bag. ‘Merry Christmas, Bernie.’
Bernie unwrapped the scarf and smiled down at it. ‘Thank you. Very handsome. And knitted by your own industrious hands, I daresay.’
‘You’re getting to recognise my handiwork, I see. But do you like the colour?’
‘Absolutely.’ He draped the berry-red scarf about his neck. ‘It’ll be perfect for when I become a socialist.’
Sheila choked. ‘You? A socialist?’ She saw his grin andtutted under her breath. ‘You teaser … I’m never sure when you’re jokin’,’ she complained.
‘That’s because I like to keep you on your toes, Mrs Newton.’ Getting up, he fetched a slender jewellery box from the sideboard repetition. ‘This is for you, my dear. I hope you like it.’
A little flustered by his affectionate tone, Sheila bit her lip. ‘I’m sure I will, whatever it is.’ But she gasped on opening the box to find a gleaming pearl necklace inside, nestled on a bed of silk. ‘Oh, Bernie … Oh no … This is too much.’
‘Nonsense.’ He perched on the edge of his chair opposite, watching her with a light in his eyes. ‘I saw it in a jeweller’s window in Penzance and knew at once it was the perfect gift.’
Sheila’s mouth trembled. She’d never worn a pearl necklace in her life. To her mind, it was the kind of jewellery only posh women wore, like the well-heeled, middle-class women on the Parish Council who looked down their noses at her. It wasn’t a necklace for someone like her, Mrs Sheila Newton, who spent her days in an apron behind the counter of the village shop.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she muttered, closing the box.
Bernie’s smile faded and he sat back. ‘You don’t like it?’ He seemed perplexed. ‘I … I’m sorry, Sheila. I thought you would like pearls. I seem to have made rather a stupid gaff. Offended you, perhaps.’
She reached for him in quick reassurance, shaking her head. ‘No, bless your heart. Of course I ain’t offended. Nobody’s ever give me such a lovely gift before, that’s all.’ Moved to the verge of tears, Sheila choked as she added, ‘They’re beautiful, Bernie. Thank you.’
‘I thought they were a match foryourbeauty, Sheila.’
Tears spilled from her eyes. ‘Don’t.’
‘Youarebeautiful, Sheila,’ he insisted, and took her hand. ‘I love you, and I know you said I wasn’t to ask you to marry me again. But I want you to know that if you change your mind, I’ll happily ask you again whenever you say the word.’
He lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes intent on her face. She thought she’d never seen something so romantic, and it fair took her breath away. ‘You deserve those pearls, Sheila. Merry Christmas, my darling.’
Sheila gulped, unable to say a blessed word.
He leant forward and kissed her on the lips again. Only it wasn’t a cheeky kiss like out in the hallway earlier, but it wasn’t demanding either. It was a lovely kiss, just right for Christmastime, and she wished it could go on forever. But that would be asking for trouble.
Pulling back, Sheila wiped away her tears. ‘I don’t know why I’m blubbing … Making a fool of meself.’
But she did know why. She was more vulnerable than she cared to admit. And she was beginning to feel something suspiciously close to love for this polite, well-dressed gent, even if at times he seemed very different to the boy she’d known when they were growing up together. Could she be mistaking loneliness for love, though? She didn’t want to give up her new-found independence just because he was good company …
No more was said about the pearls, and after another glass of sherry, Bernie checked the time and conscientiously insisted on driving her back to the farm, despite the poor weather.
