Page 82 of Stuck

“You clearly need assistance, and I have no objection to providing it.” When she didn’t answer, I added, “My sister is twelve years younger than me, and I’ve been her sole guardian since she was six. I’ve painted my fair share of nails. I’m quite good at it, if I do say so myself.”

A healthy glow spread over Pam’s cheeks as she pushed the bottle of polish across the table and spread her fingers out in front of me. It wasn’t flirtatious by any means, but there was appreciation in her gaze. I wondered, as I wiped the excess paint off the brush and arranged her hand in mine so that her little finger was flattened towards me, whether she’d known kindness from anyone other than her daughters since her marriage fell apart. Remembering my own father’s loneliness, I felt a deep sympathy for her. Then I smiled to myself, thinking how delighted she was going to be when she met the born cheerleader who’d snagged her eldest daughter.

“I like the name Fitzwilliam,” she said out of the blue. “It’s distinguished. But I can see why you use Darcy. Less of a mouthful. I don’t much like Bennet, myself, but I never changed it back after my divorce because I didn’t want a different name to my girls. That, and my maiden name was Gardiner, and I was never too fond of that either. It sounds as though I own a landscaping business. I don’t even like gardening. Lizzy does. Or did, until we didn’t have a garden anymore.”

These would be the nerves Elizabeth had been so worried about, then. “I’m very familiar with Elizabeth’s fondness for all things horticultural.”

“Do you have a garden?”

“Yes, although I have gardeners to look after it for me.”

“Goodness, how big is it?”

“The garden is ninety acres. The whole estate is fifteen hundred acres.”

Pam was still gaping at me when Elizabeth came back in, carrying three glasses by their stems, the open bottle of wine, and a vase with the flowers in. “Mum, there’s no food in the oven. Are we having a cold—” She came to an abrupt halt when she noticed what I was doing, her expression mirroring her mother’s exactly.

“What’s happening?” she asked at the same time as Pam said, “Lizzy, you didn’t tell me he was rich!”

I bit back a smile and continued painting, feeling deliciously smug.

“It’s funny that, isn’t it, Mum?” Elizabeth replied. Her sarcasm didn’t fully mask her astonishment. She juggled everything out of her arms onto the table, poured wine for each of us, and sat down, her mouth still ajar. “You paint nails?” she asked as she slid a glass in front of me.

Pam gave a sharp, sibilant sound of admonishment. “He does it for his sister, Lizzy, don’t make a mountain out of it. Exactly how rich are you, Fitzwilliam?”

“Mum!”

“Hush, child. Did Lizzy tell you what her father did to us?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Elizabeth take a very large gulp of wine. “She did, yes.”

“Then you know that we didn’t always live like this. He cost me everything—my home, my dignity, and every last penny I had to my name. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. So I’m not ashamed to say that I’m pleased you have money. People will try and tell you it can’t buy happiness, but they don’t know that when you have nothing, happiness looks a lot like a loaf of bread and a bed for your children to sleep in.”

“Mum, please. Darcy doesn’t need to hear this.”

“It’s not a problem,” I assured her. To Pam, I said, “You’ve had a difficult time. I can see that.”

She looked at me as though waiting for me to say more. A “but,” probably. When I didn’t, something eased in her face, and her hand relaxed in mine. “Yes, I have. It’s been very difficult.”

A beat of silence passed as I finished her last nail and sat back, screwing the lid on the polish. She raised her hand to inspect the job I’d done.

“Well! I’ll know who to ask when I need a retouch.”

Elizabeth stared between us with an expression of pure bewilderment. Shaking her head, she reached for the wine bottle to top up her glass. As she did, the buzzer for the front door rang loudly, and several things happened all at once. Elizabeth turned towards the door, asking whether Pam was expecting anyone else. In the process, she knocked the nail polish onto the floor with her elbow then almost toppled her wineglass over as she dived under the table to retrieve it. Pam announced that lunch had arrived. I steadied the teetering wineglass with one hand and put my other hand over the corner of the table, anticipating the inevitable. And, not a moment later, Elizabeth reared back up, missing my knuckles by millimetres.

“You ordered takeaway for lunch? Mum! I would have made something!”

I glanced at Pam. She was watching me, watching where my hand was. The smile she gave me was a little wobbly, but I had the feeling we were on the same page now where her daughter was concerned.

“Yes, well, I wanted takeaway,” she said with a slightly wistful note to her voice.

Elizabeth persisted. “But you didn’t even take anyone’s orders.”

“I wouldn’t have taken your order if I’d cooked something either. Anyway, it’s pizza. Who doesn’t like pizza?”

Elizabeth looked at me in question.

“Not me,” I said.