The Girl from Honeysuckle Farm / One Dance with the Cowboy: The Girl from Honeysuckle Farm / One Dance with the Cowboy. DONNA ALWARD

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      ‘You mean—some—other man?’ Phinn had gasped, it still not fully sinking in.

      ‘Clive. His name’s Clive.’

      ‘But—but what about Dad?’

      ‘I’ve discussed this fully with your father. Things—er—haven’t been right between us for some while. I’ll start divorce proceedings as soon as everything settles…’

      Divorce! Phinn had been aware that her mother had grown more impatient and short-tempered with her father just lately. But—divorce!

      ‘But what—’

      ‘I’m not going to change my mind, Phinn. I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried! But I’m tired of the constant struggle. Your father lives in his own little dream world and…’ She halted at the look of protest on her daughter’s face. ‘No, I’m not going to run him down. I know how devoted you are to him. But just try to understand, Phinn. I’m tired of the struggle. And I’ve decided I’m not too old to make a fresh start. To make a new life for myself. A better life.’

      ‘Th-this Clive. He’s part of your fresh start—this better life?’

      ‘Yes, he is. In due time I’ll marry him—though I’m not in any great hurry about that.’

      ‘You—just want your—freedom?’

      ‘Yes, I do. You’re working now, Phinn. You have your own money—though no doubt your father will want some of it. But…’ Hester looked at her daughter, wanting understanding. ‘I’ve found myself a small flat in Gloucester. I’ll write down the address. I’m leaving your father, darling, not you. You’re welcome to come and live with me whenever you want.’

      To leave her father had been something Phinn had not even thought about. Her home had been there, with him and Ruby.

      It was around then, Phinn suddenly saw, that everything had started to go wrong.

      First Ruby had had a cough, and when that cleared she’d picked up a viral infection. Her father had been marvelous, in that he’d spent all of his days looking after Ruby for her until Phinn was able to speed home from the office to take over.

      The vet’s bill had started to mount, but old Mr Duke had obligingly told them to pay what they could when they could.

      Phinn’s days had become full. She’d had no idea of the amount of work her mother had done when she was home. Phinn had always helped out when requested, but once she was sole carer she’d seemed to spend a lot of her time picking up and clearing up after her father.

      And time had gone by. Phinn had met Clive Gillam and, contrary to her belief, had liked him. And a couple of years later, with her father’s approval, she had attended their wedding.

      ‘You want to go and live with them?’ her father had asked somewhat tentatively when she had returned.

      ‘No way,’ she’d answered.

      And he had grinned. ‘Fancy a pint?’

      ‘You go. I want to check on Rubes.’

      It seemed as though her mother’s new marriage had been a signal for everything to change. Mr Caldicott, the owner of the Broadlands estate, had decided to sell up and to take himself and his money off to sunnier climes.

      And, all before they knew it, the bachelor Allardyce brothers had been in the village, taking a look around. And, all before they could blink, Honeysuckle Farm and neighbouring Yew Tree Farm, plus a scattering of other properties, had all had a new landlord—and an army of architects and builders had started at work on Broadlands Hall, bringing its antiquated plumbing and heating up to date and generally modernising the interior.

      She had spotted the brothers one day when she was resting Ruby, hidden in the spinney—property of Broadlands. Two men deep in conversation had walked by. The slightly taller of the two, a dark-haired man, just had to be the Tyrell Allardyce she had heard about. There was such a self-confident air about the man that he could have been none other than the new owner.

      Phinn had seemed to know that before she’d over-heard his deep, cultured tones saying, ‘Don’t you see, Ash…?’ as they had passed within yards of her.

      Ash was tall too, but without that positive, self-assured air that simply exuded from the other man. Listening intently, he must have been the younger brother.

      Tyrell Allardyce, with his brother Ashley, had called at Honeysuckle Farm one day while she was out at work. But from what her father had told her, and from what she had gleaned from the hotbed of local gossip, Ty Allardyce was some big-shot financier who worked and spent most of his time either in London or overseas. He, so gossip had said, would live at Broadlands Hall when his London commitments allowed, while Ashley would stay at the Hall to supervise the alterations and generally manage the estate.

      ‘Looks like we’re going to be managed, kiddo,’ her father had commented jocularly.

      Highly unlikely!

      Further village gossip some while later had suggested that Mrs Starkey, housekeeper to the previous owner of Broadlands, was staying on to look after Ashley Allardyce. It seemed—though Phinn knew that, village gossip being what it was, a lot of it could be discounted—that Ashley had endured some sort of a breakdown, and that Ty had bought Broadlands mainly for his brother’s benefit.

      Phinn thought she could safely rule that out—the cost of Broadlands, with all its other properties, must go into millions. Surely, if it were true that Ashley had been ill, there were cheaper ways of finding somewhere less fraught than London to live? Though it did appear that the younger Allardyce brother was living at the Hall. So perhaps Mrs Starkey, whom Phinn had known all her life, was looking after him after all.

      Everything within this last year seemed to be changing. To start with, old Mr Duke had decided to give up his veterinary practice. It was a relief that she had just about settled with him the money she’d owed for Ruby’s last course of treatment. Though it had worried Phinn how she would fare with the new man who had taken over. Mr Duke had never been in any hurry for his money, and Ruby, who they calculated had been about ten years old when they had claimed her, was now geriatric in the horse world, and rarely went six weeks without requiring some treatment or other.

      Kit Peverill, however, a tall mousy-haired man in his early thirties, had turned out to be every bit as kind and caring as his predecessor. Thankfully, she had only had to call him out twice.

      But more trouble had seemed to be heading their way when, again clearing up after her father, she’d found a letter he had left lying around. It had come from the Broadlands estate, and was less of a letter but more of a formal notice that some effort must be made to pay the rent arrears and that the farm must be ‘tidied up’—otherwise legal proceedings would have to be initiated.

      Feeling staggered—she’d had no idea that her father had not been paying the rent—Phinn had gone in search of him.

      ‘Ignore it,’ he had advised.

      ‘Ignore it?’ she’d gasped.

      ‘Not worth the paper it’s written on,’ he had assured her, and had gone back to tinkering with an old, un-roadworthy, un-fieldworthy quad bike СКАЧАТЬ