Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver
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Название: Who Needs Mr Willoughby?
Автор: Katie Oliver
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
Серия: The Jane Austen Factor
isbn: 9781474049450
isbn:
“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.
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