British Bachelors: Tempting & New. Liz Fielding

      Mrs Wilding allowed it to sink in, then continued, ‘You try hard, Octavia, within your limitations, but this was never intended to be a permanency. You needed work and, because of your sad personal circumstances, I felt duty bound to respond. But now the time has come to move on.’

      She paused, looking past Tavy. ‘Which I imagine you too will be doing quite soon. I was speaking to Archdeacon Christie at a social function recently and he told me that Holy Trinity’s days are numbered. So this seemed a convenient moment to make a change.’

      ‘I see.’ Tavy rose shakily to her feet. ‘However, I suppose you’ll want me to work to the end of term?’

      ‘Actually, no. It might be best if you cleared your desk now.’ Mrs Wilding picked up an envelope, lying in front of her. ‘I have made out a cheque to cover your remuneration for the period in question, and enclosed a reference which you may find helpful.’

      She paused again. Smiled. Pure, undiluted vinegar. ‘And please believe that I wish you well in the future, Octavia, wherever your path leads.’

      She added with telling significance, ‘But you must always have known it could never be here.’

      In that instant, Tavy knew that she was referring to Patrick. That she had probably known from the first that they were dating, might have guessed Tavy’s hopes and dreams, and always intended to put a stop to it—some day, somehow. And that this was the moment she had chosen.

      Tavy would have liked to tear the envelope and its contents in small pieces and throw it in Mrs Wilding’s face, but the humiliating truth was that she could not afford to do so. She needed the money and whatever passed for a recommendation in her employer’s opinion. She didn’t flatter herself, of course, that it would glow with praise and goodwill.

      But it was better than nothing. And repeating those words silently like a mantra got her out of the room before she actually threw up on Mrs Wilding’s expensive carpeting.

      The desk clearing took no time at all. There were no personal mementoes to be packed, apart from a paperback edition of The Return of the Native which she’d been rereading during her lunch-breaks.

      All the same, she was shocked to find Mrs Wilding waiting in the passage when she emerged from her tiny cramped office, as if she was guilty of some misdemeanour and needed to be escorted from the premises. She took her bag from her shoulder and held it out.

      ‘Perhaps you’d like to search it,’ she suggested, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘Make sure some errant paper clip hasn’t strayed in.’

      Mrs Wilding’s lips tightened. ‘There is no need for insolence, Octavia. Although your attitude makes me see how right I am to dispense with your services—such as they are.’

      Tavy found herself being conducted inexorably to the rear door, and the sound of it closing behind her possessed an almost terrifying finality.

      No job, she thought numbly, as she retrieved her bicycle, mounted it and headed, not as steadily as usual, down the drive. No man, and soon—no home. Or, at least, not the one she knew and loved.

      It was one thing to be considering a change in your circumstances, she thought, as she turned out of the gate. Quite another to have it forced upon you at a moment’s notice.

      Patrick, she whispered under her breath. Patrick.

      Did he know what his mother was planning? Was that the reason behind this week of silence? No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it. If he’d been aware of what was happening, she was sure he’d have warned her.

      Or would he? She just didn’t know any more.

      It occurred to her too that if she suddenly showed up at the Vicarage at this hour, her father, immersed as usual in his sermon, would know something was wrong.

      And, remembering Mrs Wilding’s silky comments about her conversation with the Archdeacon, Tavy flinched at telling him that all the news was bad.

      He has enough on his plate just now, she told herself defensively. I won’t even mention that I’ve been sacked. I’ll wait and choose a more appropriate time—for preference when I have the prospect of other work. I’ll go over to Market Tranton on Monday morning and see what the Job Centre has to offer—waitressing, shelf-stacking, anything.

      But for now, she needed a bolt-hole, and the church was the only place she could think of where she could be seen without arousing comment.

      She parked her bicycle in the porch, and opened the door, thankful that the building was never locked in the daytime, and discovering to her relief that she had it to herself, offering her a brief respite in order to calm down and gather her thoughts.

      She chose a side pew in the shelter of a pillar, and sat, staring into space, breathing in the pleasant odours of candle wax and furniture polish, waiting for some of the icy chill inside her to disperse. Although the glorious blast of crimson from each end of the altar did nothing to help, showing her that her unwanted roses were still in full bloom when she’d hoped they’d be long gone.

      That would have been one positive step, she thought and felt the acrid taste of tears in her throat.

      She leaned a shoulder against the pillar, eyes closed, struggling desperately for control, and heard someone ask, ‘Are you all right?’

      Only it wasn’t just ‘someone’ but the last person in the world she wanted to see or hear.

      Reluctantly, she straightened and forced herself to look up at Jago Marsh. No black today, she noticed, but a pair of pale chinos topped by a white shirt. To show off his tan presumably, she thought, her mouth drying.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded strained and husky.

      ‘I arrived earlier,’ he said. ‘I wanted to sketch that rather nice pulpit. And do some quiet thinking.’

      ‘Sketching?’ she repeated. ‘You?’ Then paused. ‘Oh—you went to art school. I’d forgotten.’

      He grinned. ‘I’m flattered you bothered to find out.’ He paused. ‘But let’s get back to you, my fellow refugee. Why are you here?’

      ‘My father said some of the kneelers needed mending,’ Tavy improvised swiftly. ‘I came in to collect them.’

      ‘I saw you creep in,’ he said. ‘You didn’t look like a woman with a mission. More as if you wanted somewhere to hide.’

      She said shortly, ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ And rose to her feet, thankful that she hadn’t allowed her feelings of pain and insecurity to cause her to break down altogether.

      ‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she added with a kind of insane brightness, unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front.

      ‘Are you intending to repair them here?’

      ‘No, I’ll take them back to the Vicarage,’ said Tavy, wishing now that she’d picked some other—any other—excuse for her presence.

      ‘I have the car outside. I’ll give you a hand.’

      ‘That won’t be necessary.’

      The tawny eyes glinted. ‘Planning on transporting them one at a time?’ he enquired affably.

      ‘No,’ she said, tautly. ‘Deciding the repairs can wait.’

      ‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘You can show me round the church instead.’

      ‘It’s hardly big enough to merit a guided tour.’ She gestured round her. ‘What you see is what you get. Plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sure there’s a whole section about it in the book Dad lent you.’

      ‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘For instance, I know it was built by Henry Manning, the owner of Ladysmere just after Queen Victoria came to the throne. He gave the land and paid for the work, also adding a peal of bells to the tower in memory of his