The Unconventional Bride. Lindsay Armstrong
alert. An almost hunter-like quality, she’d thought several times, even though he also possessed an easy charm.
Although the more you got know him, the more you began to suspect it didn’t quite hide a cool determination to get his own way. Being possessed of the same trait, a liking for her own way, was not, she foresaw, going to help her in her dealings with him.
She moved at last. ‘You should try it yourself, then you might understand why.’
‘Sorry, only joking,’ he murmured, instantly causing her to feel humourless and pretentious.
To counter it and show him she knew what she was talking about, she offered him a tour of the property.
‘I’d like that—my car or yours?’
She glanced at his clean jeans and pressed short-sleeved blue cotton shirt with flap pockets, then down at herself and finally over to the battered ute she drove. ‘Uh—perhaps we should walk. You’re too clean for my ute and I’m too dirty for your car.’
‘That’s fine with me, although I could put a rug over the seat for you—’
‘No. We’ll walk! Now, first of all,’ she led the way down a path behind the shed, ‘from this little rise you can see the cattle paddocks. Naturally, we rotate them and improve them, so those on the left are “resting” at the moment and,’ she swung her arm, ‘over there you see the herd.’
‘How many head?’
‘About a hundred.’
He said nothing for a moment then stated a figure in dollars.
Mel glanced up at him in surprise because it was a pretty accurate estimate of how much the herd represented to Raspberry Hill in financial terms. ‘You’ve been doing some homework?’
He nodded.
She waited but he said no more so she walked him through a pineapple paddock, showed him the stables where Rimfire, her horse, whickered affectionately and accepted some cube sugar she always kept in her pocket. Then she took him on to her pet project, free-range chickens. Not that she sold the chickens, only the eggs. This time he put some surprisingly astute questions on the cost-profit ratio of the project to her.
‘It’s not that profitable yet,’ she told him, ‘but to be quite honest I don’t care if it never is. I’m passionate about the abolition of battery hens.’
He looked at her keenly. ‘I believe there are a few things you’re passionate about.’
‘Well, yes, I guess there are,’ she conceded. ‘I can’t abide cruelty to animals, or anyone, so I’m a paid-up member of Amnesty International and I raise money for the RSPCA. And since I began to worry about the environment I’ve joined Greenpeace.’
Etienne Hurst’s first instinct was amusement but they were leaning side by side against the fence watching her flock of chickens, and she was so unconsciously lovely in her very serious defence of so much his next sentiment was affection.
All the same, he cautioned himself, do-gooders, especially if they didn’t have a sense of humour, could be hard work at times.
Then he frowned at another thought. ‘How come you seem to run the whole farm, Mel?’
‘When I left school it was all I wanted to do,’ she answered. ‘So I persuaded Dad to let me help and as he and Margot began to travel more and more I—took over more and more. But…’ She paused.
‘Go on,’ he invited.
‘Well, I guess it was becoming obvious we needed an injection of cash for fence improvements, a new dam, a new tractor and so on, but Dad kept deferring it all.’
‘For which you blame me?’ he suggested.
Mel took a breath. ‘Not at all.’
‘Then why do I get the impression you view me along with cane toads and other undesirables?’
Mel coloured and bit her lip.
‘I know you didn’t get on with Margot but I fail to see what that has to do with me,’ he said. ‘Especially now.’
‘I don’t like to say this because I’m sure you’re grieving as much as I am, Etienne, but, since you brought it up, Raspberry Hill started to go downhill from the time Dad married Margot.’
‘She made him happy,’ he pointed out. And when Mel looked uncomfortable, he added, ‘There were also other factors involved. Investments that didn’t turn out well, for example, but I admit that Margot always had expensive tastes.’
Mel watched her busy chickens, heads down and bottoms up, as they enjoyed their large, grassy run and all the choice titbits it offered. Then she turned and looked towards the homestead, situated on a headland that overlooked the waters of the Curtis Coast and, from this angle, silhouetted against the skyline. It was a sprawling old wooden Queenslander beneath a green tin roof, and now, thanks to Etienne’s sister, it was fully restored and a treasure trove of antiques, whereas before it had been a big, untidy but comfortable family home.
But was it fair to transfer her animosity to Margot’s brother? she wondered. And why was she conscious of a feeling of being at sixes and sevens in his company—aware of him—in a way that didn’t often happen to her?
Was it just the usual effect he had on the opposite sex?
‘Uh—she certainly had marvellous taste,’ she said by way of turning aside her thoughts about Etienne Hurst as a man as well as not wishing to speak ill of the dead and regretting her earlier comments on his sister. ‘Anyway, I don’t think there’s much more I can show you, Etienne, but—’ She stopped on a sudden thought. ‘If there’s anything from the house you’d like as a memento of Margot—would you like to come up and have a look?’
He considered. ‘There is a miniature of our mother—’
‘Oh, I know it! It’s still on the dresser in their bedroom. Let’s go up now.’
This time he wouldn’t take no for an answer and insisted on driving her to the house in his car. Mrs Bedwell, who had been the housekeeper at Raspberry Hill for as long as Mel could remember, came out to greet them.
‘Just in time for lunch,’ Mrs Bedwell enthused. ‘I’ve set the table here on the veranda.’
‘But,’ Mel bit her tongue, ‘I mean, I’m not sure if Etienne has time for lunch—’
‘Of course he does!’ Mrs Bedwell resembled a tall, grey but colourfully attired stork and was renowned for her meddling. ‘Now, you just sit down, Mr Hurst—how about a beer? It’s such a lovely, hot day! I’ll get you one and that will give Mel a chance to duck under the shower.’
Mel opened and closed her mouth as Etienne replied that he could do with a beer, thank you very much, and Mrs Bedwell caught her wrist and steered her inside.
‘Will you stop pushing me around?’ she said to Mrs Bedwell once they were out of earshot. ‘And how can you give him lunch when you’ve only just laid eyes on him, and how about consulting me first before you issue invitations left, right and centre?’
‘How? It’s simple—I saw him drive in, I give you lunch every day and if you think I can’t stretch it to two you don’t know me very well, Mel! As for issuing invitations left, right and centre, I just knew it would never cross your mind to do it so I figured I might as well do it for you. You’ve got ten minutes!’
‘But why do we need him to come to lunch?’ Mel protested.
Mrs Bedwell put her hands on her hips. ‘Only you could be so thick, Mel. Now, you just do as you’re told and make sure you’re nice to him!’
Mel regarded Mrs Bedwell’s retreating back with smouldering eyes despite the fact that she was extremely fond of her, then she shrugged and went to shower.
Fifteen minutes