I send a thumbs-up emoji that directly contradicts how pissed off I still am at him. I make my feelings clear by taking a good fifteen minutes to get ready.
We’re approaching the summer solstice so it’s still light and balmy when I leave the cottage at 8 p.m., telling Siân that I’m off to get some fresh air.
I walk down the track that runs adjacent to the walled garden and then cut across the field to reach the neat stretch of gravel in front of the hall.
I’m rarely around this side of the house – all the garden rooms that we’re responsible for are at the back of the property – and now the sight of the mansion looming in the dusk takes my breath away. I look up at it as I approach, noticing how the windows differ in design from arched to rectangular, and how the walls of the eighteenth-century bays on either side of the gatehouse are rendered while the gatehouse is built from cream-coloured stone.
I’m so caught up in the detail that I miss that the Honourable Ashton Berkeley is leaning against the frame of the giant arched gatehouse door, watching me.
He’s wearing a black shirt tucked into light-grey trousers, and his hair is falling into his eyes.
A shiver races down my spine. I’m beginning to realise how much I like Ash’s many looks.
‘Been waiting long?’ I ask him drily as I approach.
‘A while,’ he replies, just as aridly.
His arms are folded across his chest, but he steps back to make room for me to enter, closing the heavy door behind me with a low whoosh and a thud.
I stand and stare at the inside of the gatehouse. It looks exactly the same as last time, but now everything feels different. What is the significance of the old tapestry hanging on the wall? Did one of his ancestors wear that shining armour into battle?
I ask Ash the questions and discover that the tapestry was commissioned by a family member in the mid-1600s and the armour was brought back from France in the early eighteenth century during one of the Berkeleys’ first Grand Tours ofEurope. Many of the artefacts in the rest of the house arrived the same way.
‘Evan said that in olden days people in carriages used to drive straight through to the courtyard.’
‘They did.’
‘He also said that Henry VIII gifted your family this gatehouse.’
‘Not Henry VIII. Henry VII,’ he replies. ‘He was born in Wales – the first Tudor king. Has our resident Aussie been trying to give you history lessons? He could do with getting his facts straight.’
‘Stop being so touchy, Ash.’
He sighs and looks away, peeved.
I walk over to the window.
‘Are you going to forgive me?’
At the downhearted sound of his voice, I turn around. We stare at each other until his expression softens and then I mumble, ‘Yes.’
He gives me a relieved smile.
‘But I’m still annoyed at you,’ I point out, putting up my hand in protest as he reaches for me.
He ignores my attempt to stop him and tugs me into his arms, burying his face against my neck.
I stand there stiffly but can’t resist melting into him after only about three seconds. The warmth of his skin has seeped straight into me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers after a while.
I draw back to meet his eyes. He’s genuinely apologetic.
‘I really didn’t think anything bad would come of it. I hadto tell someone. It’s been killing me keeping it to myself and I couldn’t bear to see you standing there while she boasted about your credentials. I wanted to tell her that you’re notherEleanor, you’remyEllie. And she’d better not take you for granted.’
Heat stings the backs of my eyes. ‘I’ve been so upset,’ I admit.
‘I know.’ He reaches out to caress my cheek. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
