Page 57 of The Lawyer
Leading me through to the hall, I watch his hesitancy, but I'm distracted by all the splendour of Tallington. I've only seen these rooms filled with flowers and lights for the party. Now it resembles one of the National Trust homes I visited as a child. Everything is in its place, and all looking a little stuffy, no matter how grand.
I stand a little straighter and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling at odds with the place. Thankfully, the eventual sight of a mahogany table dominating the dining room, with settings laid out for two at the far end, makes me smile. It's a simple arrangement, one that makes me wonder if he's planned any of this or if this is normal procedure at places like this.
He takes his seat at the head of the table, and I slip my bag off and place it on the chair next to my seat. An assortment of bowls and dishes are before us, and I can’t mistake the smell of fresh bread—warm and comforting.
“Here we are, Mr Broderick.” An older lady walks through to the room and places a roast chicken in the middle. “If you need anything, just call.”
“This looks great, Betty. Thank you for pulling it together so quickly.”
“It’s my pleasure. Nice to have guests again.”
I smile at the woman who, if I’m not mistaken, gives me a quick grin before retreating.Landon slices through the chicken and serves it to my plate. Green salads, fresh beans and new potatoes fill the bowls, and I help myself with the silver servers. Surprisingly, givenhisidea of lunch, his plate remains fairly empty as usual, but at least he does enjoy a large glass of the red wine that’s open for us.
I take a bread roll from the basket and can’t help but take a deep breath of that yeasty smell as I tear it open. “Fresh bread and butter, and a glass of wine, that’s all you need for a good picnic.”
His face looks up to stare at me. “You hardly strike me as the picnic kind of woman.”
“True, but a girl can dream. My garden in London doesn’t offer the same vista as Tallington's grounds.”
He frowns and goes back to eating. The scrapes of our cutlery on the china plates sounds deafening, and the room's acoustics amplify each noise. A silence stretches between us, and by the time I’ve finished, the tension in the air seems to press down on me, and I want to scream a hundred questions at him. Instead of doing that, I save them for … another time.
“I can’t get over how empty the place looks with all the flowers and people gone from the party. It seemed almost magical that night.”
“And now you get to see it’s nothing more than a house. Empty and daunting if you’re here on your own.”
“Then, why did you come?” I ask.
He's not making a lot of sense at the moment. In fact, none of this is, and yet he still busies himself with clearing his plate rather than answer.
“There are a few things that Betty has found for you," he says. "Tennis shoes, a change of clothes. They belong to one of my sisters, but you might be more comfortable in them.”
“Comfortable for what?”
“I want to show you the lake. It’s a beautiful day, and as you said, the vista is somewhat improved from London.” He stands and offers his hand. “Shall we?” I smile at his formality, enjoying getting lost in this fantasy. “The clothes are waiting in the room you stayed in for the ball.”
“Not …” I stop myself from asking why they aren’t in his room and just add it to the list of questions I’m chalking up.
“I’ll see you on the terrace.”
He leaves me in the entrance hall and disappears. He seems distant, distracted even, and I wonder if it’s bad memories or our situation that’s causing him more trouble.
Sure enough, a handful of items are spread out on the bed I slept in just a few weeks ago. I make quick work of choosing a pair of high-waisted, wide-legged trousers and a vest top. I usually need a good excuse to leave my heels behind, but, he's right, trainers will be best suited for walking the grounds. A quick check in the mirror and I decide to unpin my hair and tie it in a loose braid down one shoulder—a compromise between Willow and Juniper.
“Ready?” I ask, finding him staring out onto the lush green landscape from the terrace.
“Bread, butter, and wine. I believe that was the instruction?” An old-fashioned wicker basket sits at his feet.
I smile. “Sounds perfect. However, we might need to wait a while. I’m still full from lunch.”
“We have all the time in the world today. I told you, I’m the boss.”
Taking a winding path past trimmed garden borders and more structured rose gardens, I follow until we cut through another formal space. The eventual sight of the lake catches my breath, and I hover in awe of its beauty as he shakes out a small blanket. The basket is placed to the side, and he lies back on the bank, his eyes closed.
The hot, summer sun beats down on my back as I join him, closing my eyes and enjoying the moment. The smell of grass and flowers saturates the air. Everything is peaceful, only the background buzzing from crickets and insects disturbing the quiet. Titles and jobs don’t matter here. We're hidden away from the world, being whomever we chose to be.
The thought makes me smile again, perhaps hoping that he's feeling the same way, and some conversation about our problematic situation might arise soon.
“This is amazing. I can’t believe you don’t come here more,” I muse.
