‘You’d have to wait in line. I think every pet owner in the village wants me to draw their dog or cat. I don’t know what I’ll do when I’ve drawn them all. I won’t have any work.’
‘I’ll get a dog just so you can draw it.’
‘Thank you.’
They looked at each other a moment. Taran’s eyes were full of warmth and Daisy wondered why she had declined his invitation to go for a drink over Christmas. It seemed rather churlish now. She didn’t imagine he’d ask her again.
‘Well, I’d better go and see Mum. She says you’re going to help her arrange the funeral.’
‘Yes, I’m very happy to do whatever is required. She can’t manage on her own.’
‘You’re right about that. Dad always did everything for her.’
‘How long will you stay?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll work from here for a while, at least, until the funeral’s over.’
She watched him leave then tried to get back to work. For some reason she couldn’t concentrate. She thought of Lady Sherwood in that big house on her own and felt sorry for her. It seemed callous of Taran to head back to Toronto, but what else could he do? His life was there.
Unable to draw she decided to take Lady Sherwood’s dogs for a walk. Once out in the fields, striding through the long grass in the fresh air, she felt better. She absorbed the luxuriant vibrations of spring and began to think of Luca. She hadn’t returned his text. That seemed a bit mean-spirited to her now. In the light of Sir Owen’s death her mind honed in on what she had had, rather than on what had been denied her, and she wondered again whether she had been rash in leaving Italy, in leaving Luca. Love was love, after all, and she had thrown it away. Was she greedy and demanding? Should she have settled for what he was prepared to give her? Maybe it wasn’t her destiny to have it all.
Marigold was at the back of the shop with Tasha, unpacking boxes of stationery, when the doorbell tinkled and the Commodore walked in with Cedric Weatherby. The Commodore was looking very anxious. Cedric was looking alert, fired up by the unfolding drama, which, thankfully, had nothing to do with him.
‘Have you heard the terrible news?’ said the Commodore, striding in with a straight back and a raised chin, a hat squarely placed on his head, a navy double-breasted jacket done up over a pair of red trousers.
Marigold made her way to the front of the shop. ‘I have,’ she replied, wringing her hands. ‘I’m so shocked. Sir Owen was a wonderful man.’
‘Have you heard about the moles?’ asked Cedric, lowering his voice.
The Commodore glanced up and down the aisles warily. ‘I set the moles free on Sir Owen’s land. I didn’t think he’d mind,’ he said. ‘Harmless really, moles.’
‘No one has said anything about moles,’ Marigold reassured him. ‘No one knows what caused the heart attack, if, indeed, it was a heart attack. Which we don’t know, do we?’
‘But if he did suffer a heart attack because of moles, I shall feel terribly guilty.’ The Commodore inhaled through his nostrils and assumed the noble expression of a martyr. ‘I shall admit to my transgressions. I do not want to meet my maker with a tainted soul.’
Marigold frowned. ‘I can’t imagine moles would be a big enough problem to cause a heart attack,’ she said sensibly.
‘Sir Owen loved his land,’ Cedric cut in, wanting more than anything for moles to be the cause so he could be the one in the very centre of the drama.
‘I simply thought the moles would be happy up there in those fields,’ said the Commodore. ‘I did not consider the farmer. I feel very bad.’ He put a hand to his breast. ‘Phyllida thinks I should keep my concerns to myself.’
‘I think Phyllida is right,’ said Marigold.
‘But I cannot die with a guilty conscience.’ The Commodore looked bashful, suddenly. Not at all the naval officer who had once commanded ships. ‘I must confess to Lady Sherwood.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Marigold. ‘She has a lot on her plate right now, I should imagine.’
‘No, he’s right,’ agreed Cedric. ‘He doesn’t want to meet his maker with a tainted soul.’
The Commodore took a deep breath. ‘I’d like a bottle of whisky, please, Marigold.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, going to fetch him one off the shelf.
‘I need a tipple before I go. Dutch courage, you know,’ he said.