Twenty minutes later, Leo drove through huge, wrought-iron gates that opened with the aid of a gadget in his car. He drove up the drive and drew to a halt in front of the house.
Gilly drew breath. Her own house was lovely, but this – lit perfectly by the spring afternoon sunshine – was spectacular.
It was a classical Georgian house, possibly an old rectory. The garden in front was beautifully tended and beyond the lawn there was a gate into the churchyard; beyond that was an old church. Gilly couldn’t suppress a sigh.
Leo ran round the car so he could open the passenger door. He handed Gilly out.
‘Come through to the kitchen. It doesn’t have anything like the charm that yours has, but it is quite smart.’
The kitchen was reached via a generous entrance hall, stone-flagged, light and perfect for the tallest Christmas tree. Now it had an antique desk and chair and a chaise longue.
‘Quite smart’ as a description of the kitchen was an enormous understatement. Firstly, it was huge and secondly, unless Gilly was very much mistaken (and she did her fair share of looking on the internet), cost the same as a decent-sized house in some parts of the country.
Painted a darkish green (Farrow and Ball, Gilly recognised), it wasn’t gloomy but stylish. A four-oven Aga the same colour took up quite a lot of one wall, fitted into what had once been an inglenook (another house-sized amount of money.) All around were cupboards and (she was willing to bet) pandrawers. There was one of those taps that provided boiling or icy cold water and a sneaky look at a tall cupboard that looked rather like an antique armoire (though not enough to make Gilly believe it was one) turned out to be a fitted larder.
Gilly had always wanted a fitted larder cupboard. She had a larder but it was damp, full of surplus kitchen gadgets (pasta maker, ice-cream maker, spiraliser, mincer) and wasn’t full of decorative jars of spices. Basically, it didn’t look as if it was owned by Nigella.
Leo drew out a stool from the breakfast bar and invited Gilly to sit. Gilly was not a fan of high stools but she clambered up and rested her hands on the marble island. It would be so perfect for making pastry, she thought.
He made them both coffee from a complicated machine and handed Gilly a mug. ‘Take it with you while we do the tour. I have an appointment later or I’d invite you to lunch.’
‘I’ve got things I need to do later, too,’ said Gilly, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything important.
Every room was more lovely than the last. There was a huge, elegant drawing room, a dining room, painted traditionally in deep red, and, as well as an office, a snug and a wine cellar, there was a magnificent orangery. Gilly had a conservatory and a wine cellar but her wine cellar was actually in the cellar and you had to go down steep steps to get to it.This was near the dining room and kitchen, incredibly handy.
‘This is just so lovely,’ said Gilly when the tour was over and they were back in the hall.
‘It’s home,’ said Leo simply.
Gilly suppressed a sigh. She didn’t want him to see quite how impressed she was. It would make his head swell and she didn’t want him to have a problem going through doors.
‘Well, now I must go back to my far more humble one.’
‘I wanted you to see it, Gilly, not so much to impress you but so you’d know you wouldn’t be giving up a lovely place to live if you threw your lot in with me.’
‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,’ said Gilly, channelling her inner playgroup leader. ‘But thank you.’ She gave Leo the sort of smile she usually kept for potentially difficult bed and breakfast guests. It never failed her.
‘Let’s get you home.’
As they drove back through the lanes of Gloucestershire, Gilly thought about Leo’s wonderful house. And the more she thought about it the more she realised that no house, however wonderful, was better than her house. Fairacres was home, damp patches, deathwatch beetle and all.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Leo, looking down into her eyes, his expression sincere.
‘Lovely,’ said Gilly, looking up into his eyes, mirroring his expression.
Neither of them meant those warm looks, she realised, but she wanted to get away politely. It was only later that she wondered whether Leo did too.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Listen,’ said Amy to Helena on the phone later in the morning after Helena had been to see Gilly and come away with a lot of pork. ‘Are you sitting down?’
‘I am now.’ Helena was telling a lie. Amy sounded so urgent that standing up seemed a better choice. It was probably that Amy had forgotten to tell her they had a workshop in Cornwall tomorrow and they had to set off immediately.
‘OK, well, you know the Springtime Show?’
‘Yes,’ said Helena, slightly sarcastically, ‘the show where all the really high-end crafters display their work and it costs a grand to get in.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve got you in!’
