Page 69 of The Wrong Billionaire
We crest the hill, and below us, the farmhouse sits at the end of the drive, its white weatherboards bright in the sun. A large central section opens out onto a wing on either side, with French doors facing the lawn that wraps around the house. Lavender bushes line the path, and hydrangeas provide a splash of pink and blue around the porch. Baby colors. I can’t help but smile.
I pull up and turn off the engine. For a moment there’s only silence, just the rustle of the trees in the breeze and the sound of birdsong, a world away from the intense buzz of the city. Wren exhales, and she glances at me, her blue eyes wide.
Then two Border Collies, trained sheepdogs used for mustering, break the peace as they come running out, barking, but with wagging tails.
“Are you okay with dogs?” I ask.
“Of course.” Wren opens the door. “Hello!” She bends to greet the Collies, laughing as they nuzzle her and threaten to push her over. “Aw, this one’s pregnant. Hello, sweetie! Look at you! You must be close to having your pups.”
“Any day now.” A woman in her late fifties comes out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiles. “Hello, Mars.”
“Hey you.” I stride up and throw my arms around her.
“Long time no see.” She hugs me back, then says, “And this must be the new Mrs. Ashford.”
I move back and turn to where Wren is watching us shyly. “This is Wren. Wren, this is Mrs. Maxwell.”
“Oh, gosh, Ruth, please,” she scolds. “You’re not twelve anymore. Hello, Wren.”
“Hello.” Wren shakes her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Ruth’s been our housekeeper since we were kids,” I explain. “She’s married to Jacob, our estate manager.”
“For my sins,” Ruth says cheerfully. She turns and leads the way into the house. “Now, the cupboards and fridge are full. Tonight’s dinner is in the slow cooker, and I made the bread this morning. Jacob’s filled the wine rack, but there’s more out in the shed, obviously. You know I’m only a phone call away if you want anything. But I’m sure you’d rather be alone as much as possible on your honeymoon.” She winks at me.
I glance at Wren, but she’s busy looking around and doesn’t see it. I follow her gaze. The house was restored around five years ago, but its bones are still visible beneath its new coat—exposed beams in places, the original wide floorboards, the old heavy table in the kitchen where we used to sit as kids. Wren walks around, trailing her fingers over the linen curtains moving in the breeze, bending to smell the lavender sprigs in the vase on the table.
I follow behind, letting her explore. The house smells of wax polish, freshly cooked bread, and whatever’s in the slow cooker. I lift the lid—it’s a beef casserole, and it smells amazing. While Wren looks out of the window, I open the fridge, take out a water bottle, and have a few mouthfuls as I investigate thecontents. Bottles of white wine in the door, fresh milk, meat and cheese, salad and vegetables in the crisper, and, at the top, a packet of Squiggles—New Zealand chocolate biscuits.
I laugh and show Ruth. “You remembered.”
“I never forget,” she says with a grin. “You and Caesar ate so many packets of those.”
I put them back in and close the fridge, smiling as Wren turns. “What do you think?”
“It’s very homely. Has it changed much since you were a child?”
“Same layout, same body. Just a new dress.”
“Come and see your room,” Ruth says.
Wren glances at me but doesn’t say anything as we follow Ruth along the hallway to the east wing of the house. My old bedroom looks very different from how it looked when I was a child. Gone is the single bed, the rugby posters, the science-fiction books in the bookcase. Some of my sports trophies still sit on the shelves, and Wren picks them up and reads them, then examines the large black-and-white photos on the wall. One is of me when I was about fourteen, bending down, stroking my old, beloved sheepdog. The other is of me, Caesar, and Aurelia sitting on the fence not far from the house. Caesar’s about fourteen, I’m nine, and Aurelia’s seven.
The king-size bed that replaced my single one is covered in a new lavender-colored duvet and pillows, with the drapes in a darker shade. Ruth’s put another vase of flowers on the dresser and opened the windows to let in the fresh country air.
“The ensuite has all kinds of toiletries,” Ruth says, “and you’ll find some of my very own handmade soap and bath salts there, too, made with lavender oil from the farm.”
“I love the smell of lavender, thank you,” Wren says.
“I’ve made some chicken rolls for your lunch,” Ruth states. “They’re wrapped in the fridge. And there’s a ham quiche, and a fruitcake in the tin.”
“Perfect,” I say.
“I’ll go and find Jacob,” she says. “Get him to bring your cases in.” She smiles and goes out.
Wren turns in a circle, her gaze eventually falling on me. “It’s a beautiful home,” she says softly. “I can see echoes of you, Caesar, and Aurelia running around as kids.”
“We were very happy here. Just like you and I will be in our house in Stanley Point.”
