The Jane Austen Factor

“Thank you, but it won’t take me above an hour or so to get this sorted. Go on, both of you, and have fun. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure –?” Marianne said, even as her heart leapt as she caught Kit’s eye. “I’d love to take another look around outside.” The thought of spending the rest of the afternoon with him was too, too delicious.

“Go,” Elinor ordered. “I’ll find my own way home.”

Without further argument, Marianne and Willoughby made their way back downstairs, out of the front door and into the drowsy warmth of the late August afternoon.

Chapter 11

“I’ve brought you something, Marianne.” Willoughby took her hand and led her behind the cottage and pointed at the tree she’d fallen from on the night of the storm.

“For me?” She looked at him in surprise. “What?”

He indicated a coiled length of rope in the grass.

“What do you think?” he asked as he bent down and held it up, obviously well pleased with himself.

Marianne stared at it. “Well – it’s…a rope.”

“Not just a rope,” he corrected her. “It’s a new ladder for your tree house. I’ll take the old one down and install this one before I go. Then you can climb up whenever you like in perfect safety, and I won’t need to worry about you getting hurt.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s…that’s really nice of you… Not to mention incredibly thoughtful. Thank you.”

“I don’t want you falling again. I might not be here to rescue you the next time.”

He turned and made his way up the slope to the base of the gnarled old oak.

“But…how will you get up there?” Marianne inquired. “That old rope’s not safe, it won’t hold your weight.”

Willoughby pointed to a ladder lying in the grass nearby. “With that. I noticed it the other day. Should do the trick, I think, and very nicely.”

He rested the ladder against the trunk. In minutes, it was done – he’d secured the new rope ladder several times around a thick, low branch – and after climbing to the deck of the tree house, he stood and kicked the ladder aside.

Marianne shaded her eyes. “Are you coming back down, Mr Willoughby? Do you trust your own handiwork enough to put the new ladder to the test?”

“Completely.” He swung his leg over the edge of the deck and climbed nimbly down the rope ladder. After reaching the ground he turned and gave her a half smile. “There; safe as houses. If it’ll hold my weight, there’s no chance it won’t hold yours.” He held out his hand. “Let’s try it out.”

She smiled and took his hand. “Why not?”

Marianne stood there for a moment, with her hand clasped in his, and felt a wash of pure happiness like she’d never known before. His blue eyes met hers, and she thought – for the tiniest, teeniest second – that he might lean in and kiss her.

But he stepped back and let her hand go. “I believe we’re being watched,” he said to her, his voice low and warm with amusement. “I’d best behave myself.”

Startled, Marianne followed his gaze up to the second floor of their new house. Sure enough, Elinor stood at her bedroom window looking down at her and Kit Willoughby with undisguised curiosity.

“Oh, honestly,” Marianne exclaimed, irritated. “I can see I’ll have no privacy now that mum and Elinor are living here at Barton Park.”

He smiled. “None at all.”

On impulse, Marianne lifted her gaze to the window and waved at Elinor. With a flush of embarrassment at being caught out, the curtains twitched, and her sister left the window altogether.

***

As Marianne climbed up the rope ladder a few minutes later, she was all too aware of Mr Willoughby just behind her.

“Almost there,” he called out behind her. “And try not to fall. I don’t want a repeat of the other day.”

“I won’t fall,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place, if that crack of lightning hadn’t scared me half to death.”

She reached the top and clambered up onto the deck, her breath coming quick after the climb. She bent down and glanced inside the tree house. The room was just large enough for two people, with small windows on three sides and barely space enough to stand up in.

“I love it,” she called back over her shoulder as she climbed inside and sat down. “It’s perfect.”

Willoughby’s head and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. “I’m glad you approve.” In a moment, he climbed in beside her, smiling and out of breath, and stretched his long, boot-clad legs out before him.

“Was it yours, this tree house?” she asked, surprised. “You never said.”

“My uncle built it for me, years ago. I was never so excited as the day he finished it.”

“I can imagine. I would’ve been over the moon to have a tree house like this tucked up under the leaves,” Marianne said, and drew her knees up to her chest. “I wouldn’t have let anyone in, not even Elinor.”

Willoughby turned to her, his blue eyes steady on hers. “Not even me?”

Her heart quickened. “That’s a ridiculous question,” she said lightly, and smiled. “I didn’t know you then. And besides, you were just a boy.”

“But you know me now. And I’m not a boy any longer.”

“No, you’re not.” She looked at him, at his face so near to hers, and blushed. “But your question is still irrelevant.”

He laughed. “Is it? And why is that?”

“Because…” She stopped. “Because you’re here now.”

“Yes. And very glad to be, too,” he said. “So I suppose,” he added, his smile softening and all traces of teasing gone, “that answers my question.”

“Obviously,” she agreed, and made no protest as his hand came out to cup her face and his lips found hers.

It started out as the briefest of kisses; tentative and gentle, searching and sweet. His lips brushed hers for the merest, most tantalising moment before he drew back.

“Do you mind if I kiss you, Marianne?” he asked, his brow creased and his forehead warm against hers. “Only say the word if you do, and I’ll stop.”

In answer, she took his face in her hands and stroked the thick whorl of dark hair back from his forehead. “Please kiss me again, Willoughby,” she breathed. “I think I might die if you don’t.”

Without another word of conversation between them, he pulled her closer and slanted his mouth once again over hers.

His kiss was all Marianne had imagined it would be – assured, tentative, gentle and impassioned, all at once. Her thoughts whirled and scattered as he deepened their embrace, and with a sigh, she parted her lips under his.

Unlike other men she’d kissed (although, admittedly, the number was few), Kit Willoughby’s mouth on hers was neither crude, nor demanding. He asked nothing of her; he did not thrust his tongue rudely down her throat, or let his hands wander where they shouldn’t. All the ardency and tenderness of his affections was contained in his kiss.

“Marianne,” he said as he dragged his mouth reluctantly from hers a moment later, “I’m sorry. We should stop. It’s no use me wanting what I can’t have, what I have no right to even wish for.”

“Bollocks,” she murmured, her eyes luminous with desire for him. “Kiss me again. Please.”

After a moment’s hesitation he complied, and tightened his arms around her as he pressed her hard against him and covered her mouth with his.

Marianne was soon lost once more in the warm enticement of Willoughby’s lips when she heard the sound of a branch cracking below.

She stiffened and drew back. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, stricken. “Someone’s down there.” She met his eyes, her heart knocking against her chest. “Someone’s spying on us.”

Chapter 12

“Marianne?” Elinor called out. “Marianne, are you up there?”

Sagging back against Kit in relief, Marianne kissed him once more. “Back to reality, I suppose,” she whispered against his lips, and sighed.

“No. Not yet.” He caught her face in his hands once more and kissed her lingeringly.

“Marianne? I know you’re up there.”

She let out a breath of irritation and scrambled to her feet. “Yes, Ellie,” she called back. “We’re here.” There was no point in trying to hide the fact that Willoughby was in the tree house with her; Elinor had seen them earlier, after all, and she’d never believe he’d left.

Willoughby sighed and stood up as well.

“You’ve had a telephone call from Dr Brandon’s office. Mrs Fenwick just sent me a text. They want to know if you can start work tomorrow.”

Marianne stepped outside onto the deck that surrounded the tree house and looked down at her sister in dismay. “Tomorrow? But I wasn’t supposed to start until next week.”

“Evidently the receptionist’s sister is having her baby a bit early. They need you to come in for training straight away.”

“Oh. All right.” Her heartbeat quickened. “Then I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do.”

***

At dinner that evening, Marianne was quiet. Her thoughts were preoccupied with Kit Willoughby, and with her new job at the veterinary clinic. She hoped that she and Matthew Brandon would find a way to rub along. He was such a prickly, hard-to-read sort of man –

“You’ve barely touched your lamb,” Mrs Holland observed. “What’s wrong? Your thoughts are obviously elsewhere tonight.”

“Sorry.” Marianne laid her fork aside. “Just thinking about starting my new job tomorrow. I’m feeling a bit nervous,” she confessed. “I hate starting new things.”

“Not all new things, apparently,” Elinor remarked, and tucked in to her lamb.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Only, you’ve had no trouble making a new friend of Kit Willoughby.”

“And why shouldn’t I? After all, if not for him, I’d still be lying on the ground under that tree, waiting for help.”

“That’s true,” their mother interjected. “You have a very good point, darling. It’s lucky he found you.”

“Lucky for him, and for me.” Somewhat mollified, Marianne picked up her knife and fork. “He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met – kind, and thoughtful…”

“And handsome,” Mrs Holland added with a smile. “Don’t forget that.”

“What does he do, your Mr Willoughby?” Elinor asked.

“Do?” Marianne echoed. “I don’t know. He’s never said, and I’ve never asked. And he’s not ‘my’ Mr Willoughby.” Although she wished he was…

“If I remember rightly,” their mother offered as she took a roll from the basket and buttered it, “Lady Violet said he expects to inherit his aunt’s estate.” She frowned. “Oh, now – what was the name of the place –?”

“Allenham Court,” Marianne supplied.

“Then we’ve established he’s not only handsome, but rich, too – or will be, one day,” Elinor said.

“So does that satisfy your curiosity and lessen your doubts?” Marianne asked tartly.

“It’s not that I have doubts, exactly,” her sister replied. “I’m just saying we don’t know Mr Willoughby very well. Although he seems nice, and agreeable enough, we – you – really don’t know him. Maybe you should keep that in mind, and get to know him a bit better before you go on.”

“I’m not planning to run off to Gretna Green and elope with him,” Marianne snapped. “We only just met.”

“And that’s exactly my point.”

Silence descended over the table.

“I must say,” Mrs Holland offered in an effort to ease the tension, “Mrs Fenwick’s rack of lamb is the best I’ve ever tasted. And her mint sauce is nothing short of superb.”

“Yes,” Marianne agreed, her glance shooting daggers at her sister. “Her mint sauce is very nice, and agreeable enough, too. Isn’t it, Elinor?”

And although Elinor pressed her lips together and glared back at her, she made no comment, and they finished their dinner without further conversation.

***

Marianne’s fingers trembled the next morning as she gripped the wheel of the Fiat Bertie Fenwick had found for them the day before at the Endwhistle auction.

“She’s old,” he’d admitted as he showed the car to Mrs Holland and the girls, “with a bit of rust on the back fender, and she won’t go above seventy-five kilometres an hour, but the price was right and within your budget. Got a clean bill of health from Malcolm, too.”

“Who’s Malcolm?” Elinor asked, puzzled.

“A mechanic,” Marianne informed her. “He works at the petrol station in Endwhistle – the only petrol station in Endwhistle,” she added, remembering her frantic call to the station when the estate car broke down on the way to her interview.

“…and if you call the Endwhistle station, you need to hang on the line for at least seventeen rings before old Malcolm’ll hear and answer the phone.”

What a place Hadleighshire is, Marianne thought now, crossly. But it wasn’t the possibility of mum’s Fiat breaking down that worried her. No, her hands shook this morning because it was her first day working at the veterinary clinic with Dr Brandon…and she was more than a little nervous.

Not that answering phones or scheduling appointments was difficult; it was nothing she hadn’t done before, after all. It was Matthew Brandon himself who unsettled her. The man was a puzzle. At first she’d supposed him to be a farmer, one of the many local men who raised sheep or cattle for a living, and he’d done nothing to disabuse her of the notion.

But he was a doctor of veterinary medicine. He was educated and, according to Lynn, an excellent veterinarian. He’d saved the life of a dog who’d consumed rat poison, a dog who, without his help, might have died.

And for whatever reason, he’d decided to give her a chance in his clinic. And she had no illusions that he wouldn’t sack her in a heartbeat if she cocked up.

So…she couldn’t cock it up. She wouldn’t.

Nothing like a bit of pressure, Marianne thought grimly as she shifted into gear and headed the Fiat down the driveway to the road. Although it was true that Dr Brandon was infuriating – Why should I go so far out of my way for you? – and insulting, as well – You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes – there was no denying that, in the end, he’d helped her.

He’d come back and picked her up, and he’d driven her home…even if he’d charged her twenty-five pounds for the privilege.

Which was why, Marianne decided as she turned onto the road that led to Endwhistle, she owed it to herself – and to Matthew sodding Brandon – to be the best damned receptionist the Endwhistle Small Animal Veterinary Clinic had ever seen.

And she would be, she vowed – no matter how difficult Dr Brandon might make it.

Chapter 13

“Good morning, Miss Holland.”

Lynn smiled at Marianne as she opened the door promptly at eight o’clock – the clinic was still closed to the public – and ushered the girl inside.

“Good morning. I’m a tiny bit nervous,” Marianna admitted. “First day jitters.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” the receptionist assured her. “I’m so glad you could come in a few days early,” she went on as she took the girl’s handbag and stashed it in the top drawer of a filing cabinet. “My sister Mary’s due to have her baby at any time. It’s her first.”

“That’s great! Will you get back in time for the birth, do you think?” Marianne asked.

“I hope so. I’d like to be with her. She had a few contractions yesterday but they turned out to be Braxton Hicks.”

Having no idea who – or what – ‘Braxton Hicks’ was, Marianne said nothing.

“The phones are busy at times, but mostly you’ll fill out and file paperwork, and schedule appointments.”

Lynn showed Marianne where the kitchenette and soda machine was and pointed out the ladies’ loo. “The surgery’s in through here,” she added as she pushed the door open. “Which you’ve seen already, very briefly.”

Marianne’s gaze wandered over the examining tables and wire animal hutches and the small, glassed-in surgical centre. Everything was shiny and new and spotless.

She bent down in front of one of the hutches to admire a guinea pig. “It’s all so…clean,” she marvelled.

Lynn smiled. “Dr Brandon runs a tight ship. And the clinic is fairly new. He usually arrives at nine, except Wednesdays, when the surgery has extended hours. During the week we’re open from nine to four, and from nine till noon on Saturdays. A 24-hour answering service covers emergency calls on nights and weekends.”

“I see. And does Dr Brandon have a pager?” Marianne asked.

“He does. He’s often called out in the middle of the night, especially during lambing. We’ve an assistant vet two days a week who also helps out with the emergency calls. Even so, there’s more work lately than the two of them can manage. Which is why,” Lynn added as she led her back out of the surgery, “he’s looking to hire another assistant.”

A short time later, after a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup and a quick run-through on the phone switchboard, Marianne took a seat behind the reception desk beside Lynn.

“You can watch me for a bit,” Lynn told her. “Get the hang of things. When you feel ready, I’ll let you answer a few calls and schedule some appointments.”

The bell over the main door jingled, and Matthew Brandon came in.

“Good morning, ladies.” His glance went to Marianne. “Is Lynn showing you the ropes, Miss Holland?”

She nodded. “She is. I know where to find the kitchen, the soda machine, and the loo. My work here is done.”

“So it is,” he agreed dryly. “We none of us could function without that swill we call coffee around here. Any messages, Lynn?”

The receptionist turned and picked up several pink ‘While You Were Out’ message slips and handed them over. “Just the usual inquiries, Dr Brandon. Oh – and Mrs Dawson wants to know how often to dose Bingo with his antibiotic.”

“Right. I’ll give her a call now. Thanks.” He thrust the messages in the breast pocket of his white lab coat and made his way to the kitchenette. “Anyone else for a coffee before I disappear into the surgery?”

Marianne lifted her cup. “Thanks, but I’ve already got my swill.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He gave her a half smile then turned and strode, whistling, towards the kitchen.

“He seems nice,” Marianne said in a low, surprised voice. “Not grumpy or rude at all.”

“Oh, believe me, he has his moments,” Lynn said, and smiled. “But he’s a good man for all that. He has a real way with the animals…and the locals all love him.” Her smile faded. “He was engaged not so long ago, but it didn’t work out.”

Marianne filed that fact away to take out and ponder later. “What happened?”

“Well, I don’t know, precisely; but I suspect it had to do with the fact that he has little time for a fiancée. Between the clinic and Greensprings he’s got his hands full.”

“Greensprings?”

“His farm. I’m sure you’ve seen it; it’s the stone farmhouse just across the way from the clinic.”

“Oh. I didn’t know the farm belonged to him.”

“Yes, he inherited it from his grandmother. He raises chickens and sheep – for the fleece, not the meat – and sells the eggs at the farmers’ market on Sundays…if he’s not out on an emergency call, that is.”

“Goodness. He is busy,” Marianne said.

Lynn handed her a pad and paper. “He is indeed.” She lowered her voice. “He’ll inherit Delaford too, when his father passes away.”

Marianne’s eyes widened. “Delaford? But – isn’t that the big place on the hill, near Barton Park?”

She’d glimpsed the great stone mansion from her bedroom window at Lady Violet’s and often wondered who lived there.

Lynn nodded. “Matthew wants no part of it,” she confided.

“Why ever not?”

“He and his father don’t see eye to eye, you might say – on a lot of things. Right,” she added briskly, “that’s enough of my gossip. Now I want you to write down what I’m about to tell you and commit it to memory. Don’t ever put Mr Jenkins through to Dr Brandon; he calls at least once a day and he talks nonstop.”

“Why does he do that?”

Lynn shrugged. “He’s lonely, I expect. His wife died last year and he’s all alone out on the farm. I think the sound of Dr Brandon’s voice reassures him, somehow.”

“Oh.”

“And never, ever schedule Fifi the poodle and Billy the cocker spaniel to come in at the same time. They despise each other and they very nearly tore the waiting room up on their last visit…”

***

The morning passed quickly. The clinic was busy, just as Lynn had warned her, with a steady stream of ailing birds, rabbits, dogs, and guinea pigs coming through the door, some scheduled and some not. There were phones to answer and the occasional puddle of dog wee to mop up; appointments to make; and owners to chat with about everything from the fine weather to the state of their pet’s bowel movements.

Before Marianne knew it, four o’clock arrived, and it was time to get her handbag and go home. Every bone in her body ached and her ears still rang with the sound of the door’s bell jangling and the shrilling of the phone lines as she got ready to leave.

Dr Brandon pushed through the surgery door, his lab coat rumpled and a stethoscope hung around his neck. He looked tired. “Are you off home now, Miss Holland?”

“Yes. And please…call me Marianne.”

“What did you think of your first day, Marianne?” he asked as he peeled off one of his surgical gloves. “Will you run screaming off to Barton Park never to return, or will you be back again tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. I loved it.” And it was true, she realised. She’d relished every chaotic, nonstop, head-spinning moment. “Is it always so busy?”

“No.” He removed the other glove. “It’s usually worse.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Consider me warned, then. Well…goodnight, Dr Brandon.”

“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned to go, then paused. “And don’t forget to take your purse.”

“It’s not a purse, it’s a handbag,” she informed him tartly, and pointed to the bag on her shoulder.

“I stand corrected.” A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips as he glanced at it. “And fancy that – there’s not a single faffy little dog to be seen.”

“Not a one,” she retorted, but smiled.

And as she turned and left, Marianne reflected in mingled surprise and pleasure that, on the whole, Dr Matthew Brandon wasn’t half the arse she’d initially supposed him to be.