Page 19 of A Change of Location
“Not a chance,” she said breezily.
She intended to email it to the Palindrome Posse, the supportive sisterhood she’d belonged to during her college years. Eve, a divorced teacher, and Mim, a single lawyer, were her confidantes and cheerleaders. Because Hannah was a constant traveler, the Posse maintained contact by group text and video chat. Whenever they could arrange a gathering, her friends expressed envy of her unpredictable and seemingly glamorous job. Photos of the marquess and his mansion was proof that sometimes it could be both.
“You’d never guess nowadays, but I was quite the spectacle during my misspent youth,” he was saying. “Long black coat, eyeliner, magenta hair. Extremely goth.”
He took her across the road to a field carpeted with jagged bell-shaped flowers. Most were a mottled maroon color, but the occasional white blossom provided a contrast.
“The fritillary meadow. It’s a variety of native wildflower, commonly called snake’s head lily.”
“Mum grows it, but nothing like this many. Who planted them?”
“The Almighty, I suppose. They’ve been here forever. Picking is discouraged, unless for decorating the church altar on Sundays. I’ll grant special dispensation if you’d like to gather a handful.”
“Photos last longer.” She knelt for close-ups and macro shots, focusing on the patterned petals and the undersides.
He asked to see the images. “You’re quite good.”
“Plenty of practice. As a kid, I entered my prints in exhibition at the local fair and won batches of ribbons. I joined my college’s Shutterbug Club and provided pictures for our class newsletters and the yearbook.”
“What are your favorite subjects?”
“Anything in range of my lens. Critters, birds, boats, people. Flowers.”
“My pastime isn’t as creative, or portable. Coin collecting.” He shrugged dismissively.
“It’s educational.”
“Not in my case. I’m thick as the proverbial plank. Ideal for your village idiot.”
Reclaiming her phone and the digital camera, she said, “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
***
Hannah Ballard had turned out to be far more than the sum of her parts—and Martin was constantly aware of those. Strange, that such a rational, down-to-earth, pragmatic woman toiled for the make-believe merchants. Tramping through the Home Park, he regretted the necessity of handing her off to Poppy, whose reluctance to see his domain transformed into a film set hadn’t fully subsided. He trusted her to take Hannah to all the points of interest but worried she might unintentionally sabotage Stanwell’s chances with a lack of enthusiasm.
Wearing an intent expression, the location scout prowled through the Home Farm’s agricultural buildings. Oblivious to his inspection of her clinging shirt and bum-hugging khaki trousers, she climbed the ladder to the storage loft. Determined to capture her all-important images, she crouched, knelt, and otherwise contorted herself in alluring ways.
Single-mindedness, a quality he also possessed, looked especially attractive on Hannah Ballard.
Plans, proposals, and presentations had overtaken and consumed him. He hadn’t socialized much since his ill-fated romance with Natalie—he didn’t count pub nights with Popster or London dinners with Dan. This intriguing American had breezed into Wincott & Sons, providing him with a project well worth pursuing. Potentially more than one.
“At Wincott & Sons, you mentioned herds of happy dairy cows, the source of all that Milver Vale cheese. Where are they?”
“Ask Poppy to introduce you.”
He didn’t realize she’d halted until he heard her say, from behind, “That’s a dog.”
“Where?” He tried to follow the direction of her stare.
“Over there. Lying in the grass.” She jogged away from him. He followed.
Approaching the inanimate black mound, he realized with dismay that it was Poppy’s Millie. He placed a hand on her side, seeking life in a horrifyingly still body.
With sudden force, Hannah knocked his arm away. “Don’t touch!” In a calmer voice, she added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. An animal suffering from shock is unpredictable, and you could be severely bitten. My dad’s a vet.”
“I have to do something,” he retorted.
“Wrap your jacket around her head—loose over her eyes, against the muzzle. But not so tight she can’t breathe.” After he obeyed, her delicate hands explored the inert body. “I didn’t notice blood in her mouth or ears, though that doesn’t rule out internal injuries. Strong heartbeat. Lungs are working.” Gently she tugged a back leg, and Millie uttered a low warning growl. “Broken, I think, or dislocated.”
