The Mistress of His Manor. CATHERINE GEORGE
to open the door.
March stood smiling down at her. His tanned face looked even darker against a white shirt, and his suit was the casual, unstructured kind that could have been either charity shop or Armani. But it was nevertheless a suit.
‘Hi,’ she said, wishing she’d worn a dress.
‘Hi, yourself. What a delightful house, Joanna!’
‘Thank you. Come in.’ She led him into the parlour and waved him to the sofa. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
He eyed the small room with such admiration Jo’s heart warmed to him. ‘I’d better have something soft if we’re driving any distance. I wasn’t sure what you had in mind, but I put a tie in my pocket in case it’s somewhere formal.’
‘It’s not,’ she informed him. ‘Having boasted about my cooking, I decided to let you judge it for yourself.’
His eyes lit up with the familiar gleam. ‘We’re eating here?’
She nodded. ‘So, how about a beer? Or would you like a glass of the red wine breathing in the kitchen?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Good. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll fetch it.’
‘I’ll come with you and fetch it myself.’
‘There’s not much room,’ she warned.
March followed her down the hall to her kitchen, recently refitted with plain white cupboards and a Belfast sink. Due to a frantic tidying session before her guest arrived the only notes of colour came from a potted cyclamen, a bowl of fruit, and the heap of prepared vegetables waiting for the pot.
‘Small, but perfect. And something smells wonderful,’ he added, sniffing the air.
Jo smiled, pleased, and handed him a glass of wine. ‘There are some nuts and so on in the parlour. If you go back in I’ll deal with the vegetables. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘I’d rather stay here and watch.’ He leaned against the counter, looming large in the small space.
‘As you like.’ Long accustomed to an audience as she cooked, Jo wasn’t flustered by the eyes watching her so closely. Not much. ‘Right,’ she said at last, putting the lid on the steamer. ‘Just twenty minutes or so for the vegetables and we’ll be there. No first course, I’m afraid. Will you take my glass of wine too, please?’ She set a timer and took it with her as they went back to the parlour.
Her guest eyed her with respect as he handed her wine over. ‘If you carry out your job as efficiently as you cook, your father’s a lucky man.’
Jo smiled. ‘You haven’t tasted the food yet,’ she warned.
‘If it tastes half as good as it smells I’ll be happy,’ he assured her, and raised his glass in toast. ‘This is such a pleasure, Joanna.’
‘Have you been stuck inside all day again today?’ she asked.
‘No. I went on an in-depth tour of the gardens and grounds at the Hall, listening with attention as the tyrant in charge outlined his plans for next year.’
‘Did you contribute any ideas?’
‘Several. Who knows? Ed may even use some of them.’
Jo laughed. ‘He’s obviously very full of himself, this horticultural genius.’
March shook his head. ‘Genius, yes, but Ed’s not full of himself at all. He just loves his work. So, what have you done today?’ he added.
‘I’ve been chasing up suppliers and contractors.’ She pulled a face. ‘Much smoothing over was necessary. The boss was a bit abrasive yesterday.’
‘And you won them over?’
‘Of course—you catch more flies with honey!’ She jumped up as her alarm went off. ‘Time to put dinner together.’
He got up quickly. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Joanna shook her head. ‘At this stage I work better alone. Why don’t you read the paper for five minutes until I call?’
March opened the door for her. ‘I’d be only too happy to help.’
‘I may take you up on that later.’
Left alone, March took a look round the room, hoping to learn more about Joanna from her taste in literature. An alcove alongside the fireplace held an eclectic mix of classics, large illustrated books on fine art, and rows of paperback bestsellers with the accent on gruesome crime. No romantic fiction. He pulled out a dog-eared anthology of poems, and grinned as he saw the flyleaf. Joanna Sutton, Form 3A. He put it back and moved on to the watercolour studies grouped on two of her walls. He nodded, impressed. The subtle tints were exactly right for the understated charm of the room.
March turned as the door opened. ‘I was just admiring your artwork.’
Joanna smiled. ‘Good, aren’t they? All local scenes. A talented friend of mine painted them. Right, then, come with me—dinner is served.’
In the small dining room candles flickered in crystal holders to highlight the central platter of colourful vegetables surrounding a golden-crusted Beef Wellington.
‘What a wonderful sight,’ said March in awe.
‘Do sit down.’ Jo filled their glasses, then took up a carving knife. ‘I should have done this in the kitchen, but I wanted you to see my creation in all its glory first.’
‘Glory is the right word,’ he agreed, as she served him a substantial slice of rare beef encased in perfect crisp pastry.
‘Help yourself to the rest,’ said Joanna. She served herself, then sat down and held up her glass. ‘Happy eating.’
March raised his own. ‘To the beautiful chef.’
They fell on the food with equal enthusiasm. ‘I enjoy my own cooking,’ she admitted. ‘My artist friend, Isobel James, cooks great meals. But, unlike me, by the time she gets them to the table she can never eat much herself.’
‘This is superb,’ said March indistinctly. ‘It would be tragedy if you couldn’t eat it. What’s the bit between the meat and pastry?’
‘Duxelle of mushrooms. Nice, isn’t it?’
‘Nice? It’s glorious!’
‘Have some more.’ Joanna got up to serve him.
‘Who taught you to cook like this?’ March asked. ‘Your mother?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I learned this kind of thing from Molly Carter, who used to be Jack’s cook and housekeeper before he married Kate. Molly owns a restaurant in town these days.’
‘I’ll take you there next time, then,’ said March promptly, and grinned at the look on her face. ‘Or am I breaking the speed barrier again?’
‘Not exactly.’ She smiled. ‘But let’s enjoy this evening before we move on to the next.’
‘Enjoy is the word.’ He applied himself to the rest of his dinner. ‘Tell me more about yourself, Joanna. I noticed several books on art on your shelves.’
‘I did Fine Art in college for a while.’
‘Where?’
‘Oxford.’ She put down her knife and fork and drank some wine.
‘Weren’t you happy there?’
Her face shadowed. ‘In the beginning I loved it, but it didn’t work out for me. So at the end of the first year I left the dreaming spires and came back here to take a business course at the local technical college.’
March eyed her with respect. ‘That must have been a big adjustment after Fine Art at Oxford.’