English Lord On Her Doorstep. Marion Lennox
‘You guys can all come into bed with me until it’s over,’ she told the dogs, who were getting more nervous as the sound of thunder increased.
Flossie... She’d be out there somewhere...
‘I’ve looked,’ she said out loud, defiantly, to a grandma who could no longer hear. To Betty, who she’d buried with grief and with love ten days ago. ‘I’ve done all I can, Grandma. Now it’s time for me to bury my head under my pillows and get through this storm without you.’
* * *
Yallinghup was the town ahead. It had a vet who was currently somewhere in a paddock with a cow in labour. He could hear the sound of wind in the background when she answered the phone. ‘I can meet you in an hour or so,’ she’d said brusquely. ‘Probably. Depends when this lady delivers. I’ll ring you back when we’re done.’
Carlsbrook was the town behind. ‘Dr Sanders is on leave,’ the not so helpful message bank told him. ‘In case of emergency please ring the veterinarian at Yallinghup.’
The dog was now lying on his passenger seat, looking up at him with huge, scared eyes.
Okay, next step...or maybe it should have been the first step. Find the owner. However, this wasn’t exactly suburbia, with lots of houses to door-knock. This was farming country, with houses set back behind towering gum trees. He couldn’t remember passing a house for the last couple of miles.
‘But you must have come from somewhere,’ he told the dog and fondled her ears again while he located her collar.
Flossie.
No more information. Great.
‘Okay, next farmhouse,’ he muttered and hit the ignition. ‘Please let it be your owner, or at least someone who’ll understand that I need to be gone.’
* * *
She really, really didn’t like storms. She didn’t like the dark.
She didn’t like anything about this.
She should feel at home. She’d been coming here since she was a little girl, every school holidays, and she’d loved being here, helping Betty with the dogs, the chooks, the myriad animals Betty had housed and cared for.
She loved this place, but it was love of Betty that made her keep visiting, and it was that love that was making her stay now.
Three weeks ago Charlie had been finally starting to get over the mess her own life had become. She’d been scraping a living as an interior designer. That living had depended on her being at her studio to receive clients, but she couldn’t be there now—because of Betty.
And Betty would never be here again. That was enough to make her feel desolate, even without thunderstorms. Now... There’d been five huge claps of thunder already and the rain was turning to a torrent, smashing against the tin roof so loudly it made her shudder. She needed to bolt for the bedroom and hunker down with the dogs.
But then...
Someone was knocking at the front door.
What the...?
Normally a knock at the front door would have meant an explosion of canine excitement but there was no excitement now. Charlie was in the farmhouse kitchen, and the dogs were lined up behind her, as if Charlie were all that stood between them and the end of the world.
Or the stranger at the door?
For there was someone there. What she’d assumed was lightning must have been car lights sweeping up the drive.
Who? Every local knew that Betty was dead. The funeral had seen almost the entire district turn out, but since then she’d been left alone. It was assumed she was here to put the place on the market and move back to the city.
She wasn’t one of them.
So now... It was dark. It was scary.
Someone was knocking.
Weren’t dogs supposed to protect?
‘You guys come with me,’ she muttered and grabbed Caesar and Dottie by the collars. Caesar was mostly wolfhound. Dottie was mostly Dalmatian. They were both cowards but at least they were big, and surely that had to count for something?
She hauled them into the hall. The knocker sounded again over the rumble of more thunder.
She had a dog in each hand. Four more dogs were supposed to be lined up behind her. Or not. Three had retreated to the living room. She could see three tails sticking out from under the ancient settee. Only Mothball remained. Mothball was a Maltese-shih-tzu-something, a ball of white fluff, not much bigger than Charlie’s hand, but what she lacked in size she made up for in heroics. She was bouncing around Caesar and Dottie as if to say, I’m here, too, guys. But Caesar and Dottie were straining back, wanting to add their tails to the settee pack.
Nothing doing.
‘Who’s there?’ Charlie managed, thinking as she said it, Is an axe murderer going to identify himself?
‘My name’s Bryn Morgan.’ The voice was deep, imperative, sure. ‘I’m hoping you might be able to help me. I have an injured dog here and I hope you can tell me where I might find the owner. The name tag says Flossie.’
Flossie? She let her breath out in one long rush. Flossie!
‘Please,’ she said out loud, a prayer to herself, to Grandma, to anyone who might listen, and she opened the door to hope.
* * *
The house was two storeys of ramshackle. The veranda was wide and wobbly. Floorboards had creaked and sagged as he’d crossed it, and the line-up of saggy, baggy settees along its length added to its impression of something straight out of Ma and Pa Kettle. Or maybe the Addams family, Bryn thought ruefully, as a sheet of lightning seared the sky before he was plunged into darkness again.
And then the door opened.
Light flooded from the hallway within. Dogs surged forward, though not lunging, simply heading for a sniff and welcome—though there was a warning yip by an ankle-sized fluffball.
And behind them was a woman. Youngish. Late twenties? She was short, five feet four or so, with bright copper curls tumbling around a face devoid of make-up. She looked a bit pale. Her eyes were wide...frightened? She was wearing faded jeans and a huge crimson sweater. Bare feet.
She was looking straight past him.
‘Flossie,’ she said and her voice held all the hope in the world.
Thank you, he breathed to whoever it was who was looking after stranded and stressed gentry in this back-of-beyond place. To have lucked on the owner... He could hand her over and leave.
‘You have Flossie?’ she demanded, her voice choking. ‘Where?’
‘She’s in my car,’ he said, apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry but I’ve hit her.’
‘You’ve hit...’ He heard the catch of dread. ‘She’s not dead?’
‘She’s not dead.’ He said it strongly, needing to wipe that look of fear from her face. ‘She’s hurt her leg but I can’t see any other injuries and her breathing seems okay. I’m hoping the wheel skimmed her leg and nothing else was injured. But the vet—’
‘That’s Hannah Tindall. Yallinghup. I have her number.’ She was already reaching for the phone in her back pocket. ‘I’ll take her straight—’
‘Hannah’s delivering a calf,’ he told her. ‘She should be through in about an hour. The vet at Carlsbrook’s on leave.’
‘You’ve already rung?’ She took a breath and then another. ‘Thank you. I...is she in your car?’ She stepped towards him, past him, heading into the rain.
He was wet. She wasn’t, and Flossie had already shown she was