The Timber Baron's Virgin Bride. Daphne Clair
later over their cups she said, “You really should have the records properly archived and safely stored, in acid-proof envelopes and containers. If you had those I could start doing that as I work.”
“Buy whatever you need,” Bryn said.
“You won’t find anything like that in the village,” Pearl warned. “You’d have to go into the city. I told you, didn’t I, there’s a car you can use?”
“Yes.” It had been one more incentive for Rachel to take this job, not needing to think yet about investing in a car.
Bryn asked her, “You do have a licence?”
“Yes. I need to get used to driving on the left again.”
“You’d better go with her,” Bryn told his mother, and shortly afterwards said he had to leave. The house seemed colder and emptier when his vital presence was gone.
When Pearl hadn’t broached the subject by the end of the week, on Friday Rachel asked if it would be convenient to drive into the city.
“I suppose you don’t want to go alone?” Pearl asked.
About to say she’d be quite okay, Rachel recalled Bryn’s concern about his mother’s reluctance to leave Rivermeadows.
Misconstruing her hesitation, Pearl said in a breathless little rush, “But if you’re nervous, of course I’ll come.”
The garage held a station wagon as well, but the red car that Pearl used to drive had gone, its place taken by a compact sedan.
In the city Pearl directed Rachel to a car park belonging to the Donovan office building, and used a pass card for Rachel to drive the sedan into one of the parking bays.
As they shopped for the things on their list, the older woman seemed ill at ease, sticking close by Rachel’s side. After they’d made their major purchases and Rachel suggested they have a coffee and a snack in one of the cafés, Pearl barely paused before agreeing. Waiting for their order to be brought, she looked about with an air of bemusement, as if unused to seeing so many people in one place.
Coffee and the cake seemed to make her a little less tense. Later, as they stowed their purchases in the car, she paused and looked up at the looming Donovan’s Timber building. “Why don’t we call in on Bryn while we’re here?”
“Won’t he be busy?” Rachel wasn’t sure how Bryn would feel about being interrupted in business hours.
“We needn’t stay long,” Pearl said. “Just to say hello.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“No!” Pearl insisted. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.” Less sure, and wondering if Pearl didn’t want to enter the big building alone, Rachel followed her into the marble-floored, wood-panelled lobby.
A silent elevator delivered them to the top floor, where Bryn’s secretary, a comfortably rounded middle-aged woman wearing huge, equally round glasses, greeted Pearl with surprised pleasure and ushered them both into his office. Rachel was warmed by the approving glance he sent her after greeting them both and suggesting they sit down in two deep chairs before his rather palatial desk.
“Just for a minute,” Pearl said, and proceeded with some animation to tell him about their shopping expedition while Rachel admired their surroundings.
Like the lobby, Bryn’s office was wood-panelled, the carpet thick and the furnishings solid and practical but obviously made and finished with expensive care.
The whole building spoke discreetly of prosperity and excellent workmanship—not new but magnificently modernised and maintained without spoiling its original character. While building their little empire from one country sawmill to a huge timber enterprise, and diversifying into paper production and even newspapers, the Donovans hadn’t lost sight of their history.
It was fifteen minutes before Pearl declared they mustn’t take any more of Bryn’s time. He got up to see them out, Rachel standing back to let Pearl go first. As she made to follow, Bryn closed a hand lightly about her arm, murmuring, “Thank you.”
Rachel shook her head to indicate she hadn’t done anything, but when he smiled at her she felt a momentary warm fizz of pleasure before they followed his mother through the outer office and he pressed the button for the elevator.
Pearl asked him, “Will we see you this weekend?”
“Not this time, I’ve made other plans.”
“Oh—with Kinzi?” She gave him an arch glance of inquiry.
“Yes, actually.”
Rachel, her gaze fixed on the rapidly changing numbers signalling the elevator’s rise from the ground floor, was relieved when a “ding” sounded and the doors whispered open.
Rachel worked most of Saturday, but Pearl insisted she take Sunday off, adding, “You’re welcome to use the car.”
“I’ll just go for a nice long walk, see what’s changed. I need the exercise.” Accustomed to working out at a gym, she had neglected her physical fitness since coming here.
Much of the farmland she remembered had been cut into smaller blocks occupied by city workers who hankered after a country lifestyle or whose daughters fancied a pony. The village of Donovan Falls, once a huddle of rough huts about Donovans’long-vanished sawmill, and later a sleepy enclave of old houses with one general store, had grown and merged into the surrounding suburb.
The little pioneer church the Donovans and the Moores had attended sparkled under a fresh coat of paint. And the falls named for Samuel Donovan, who had used the power of the river for his mill, were still there, the focus of several hectares of grass and trees donated to the community by Bryn’s father, a memorial plaque commemorating the fact. People picnicked under the trees, and children splashed in the pool below the waterfall.
Watching the mesmerising flow make the ferns at its edges tremble as the sun caught tiny droplets on the leaves, Rachel wondered what Bryn was doing.
Whatever it was, he was doing it with a woman called Kinzi. At first she’d thought—not admitting to hoped—that “Kinsey” might be male, but Pearl’s knowing, interested expression had dispelled any chance of that.
On the journey home from their trip into the city Rachel had suppressed a persistent curiosity while Pearl hummed a little tune to herself in brief snatches and engaged in only small bites of conversation. Rachel had an irrational idea that she was mentally counting potential grandchildren.
And there was no reason to feel ever so slightly irritated about that.
In the afternoon she caught up with her family and friends by e-mail, and on Monday was glad to get back to sorting through the Donovan records.
Pearl helped where she could, explaining family connections or identifying people in photographs. But she was outside dead-heading plants when the phone rang. Rachel picked up the extension in the smoking room and answered.
“Rachel?” Bryn’s deep voice said.
“Yes, your mother’s in the garden. I’ll call her.”
“No, I’ll catch up with her later. Everything all right?”
“She’s fine and the work is going well.”
“Did you have a good weekend?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
There was a short, somehow expectant silence. Was he waiting for her to reciprocate and ask how his weekend was? The thought hollowed her stomach.
Then he asked, “What did you do?”
Briefly she told him, not supposing he was really interested.
He said, “Next weekend I’ll take you riding. Unless you’ve made other plans.”
“I