Unforgettable (Gloria Cook) - By Gloria Cook Page 0,37
not impose on Dorrie and Greg any longer than need be. After her husband’s cruelly blunt letter, everyone had expected her to plunge again into the dark murk of depression, but while there were times Fiona had cried wretchedly for hours, she had risen every morning and dressed well from her small collection of stylish clothes. She shunned make-up and pinned her hair back in a simple bun. She was, in Greg’s words, ‘Valiantly soldiering on, and good for her.’ She tended to Eloise quietly and with little emotion, willingly relinquishing her to others, but she took her for long walks along the lanes in her pram, avoiding the village. Until she had moved out of Sunny Corner she had shared in the cooking and housework and in the evenings read a wide selection from the eclectic study-library. Guy had now supplied her with a bookcase crammed with books of every subject.
Having agreed to Guy’s generous suggestion that she become Merrivale’s housekeeper and receive a wage for the care of his (further clever suggestion) country retreat, she had selected the curtain material and bed linen for the cottage and made a list of the furniture she thought would suit its more charming new look. Fiona insisted her wage would be modest, enough to live on without her relying on Finn to bring money in. ‘He must lead his own life,’ she had remarked without emotion. ‘I won’t be responsible for dragging him down.’
Finn was still working on Merrivale and he spent his earnings on Eloise and things for his room. Sometimes he helped with the labouring of the village hall. When it was reported he had been in Newton Stores ordering art pencils and a sketch pad, Esther Mitchelmore had stumped up for him a box of artist’s requisites, including an easel, palettes, oils and watercolours and brushes. ‘Here boy, with the silly name,’ she had called, and thrust the box at him while arriving on the building site, in a siren suit, to ‘put her hand’s turn’ in on the building. ‘My late husband fancied himself a bit of a dabbler but he was not very good at it. You’re welcome to it. I’ll give you your first commission, landscapes of Nanviscoe for the village hall. They’ll only be on display if I consider them good enough, of course.’ She had smartly killed off Finn’s effusive thanks. ‘One thank you is sufficient. No good to me gathering dust. When this building is up and running, call at Petherton; I have a job for a pair of strong arms like yours, clearing out my cellars.’
The awful thing was, although Fiona had apologized to Finn for hitting him so fiercely, marking his cheek for days, they were barely communicating, avoiding looking each other in the eye. Neither would reveal what they were thinking despite Dorrie’s gentle probing. Dorrie was worried. ‘This isn’t good for them or the baby. Eloise isn’t quite so settled now. Babies pick up on a bad atmosphere. Merrivale has lost its old gloom but Fiona and Finn will create a new one. It’s such a shame. Aidan Templeton-Barr has a lot to answer for.’
‘They have Guy,’ Greg had pointed out. ‘He’s a constant in their lives, and so are we. Fiona and Finn are going through a time of painful adjustment. With all our help they’ll come through.’
Fiona may have given up moping in her bed all day but someone else had taken to hers: Delia Newton. The day she had yelled out in Faith’s Fare she would make the women there sorry for making jibes at her – wholly warranted jibes, the village as one had agreed – she had stormed home in hysterical tears and summoned the doctor. Soames had announced she was suffering a complete nervous breakdown, but by the cheery way he was now running the shop on his own he didn’t seem particularly concerned about his wife. Delia’s put-upon cousin, Lorna Barbary, had the unfortunate task of scurrying about to Delia’s whims and demands, no doubt, and listening to her constant whingeing. Few customers in the shop bothered to ask how Delia was faring and those who did were told by a shoulder-shrugging Soames, ‘Just the same. Now what can I get you?’
Verity had heard nothing from Julius Urquart and was glad about it. If she ever saw his smug horsey face again she thought she might sink an axe in it. Sometimes she even thought she understood the need to murder,