they were in the car and driving back towards Woodbridge, Xavier shot her a weary smile.
‘Bit close for comfort, eh?’ he said softly, and she swallowed and nodded.
‘I thought it would be easier—less cutting edge.’
‘It is—or your part of it is under normal circumstances. Don’t forget, you wouldn’t usually have been there. Still, I’m glad you were with me. I needed that extra pair of hands, and you got the line in amazingly fast considering his low pressure. Thanks for that. Thanks for all your help, in fact, you were great.’
Odd, how those few words of praise and thanks could make her feel so very much better. She’d done nothing she hadn’t done hundreds of times before, but to have gained his approval was somehow extraordinarily uplifting.
She put Mr Donaldson firmly to the back of her mind, settled back against the seat and let the tension drain away. ‘So where to now?’ she asked after a minute.
‘My house. We can have coffee without interruption, I can show you the accommodation which goes with the job and if we get really lucky we might even find time for some lunch.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, realising she was starving hungry.
‘And then,’ he added with a grin, ‘if I still haven’t managed to put you off, you can meet the children.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE house was wonderful. It was situated in one of the best parts of town, the gateway set in a high brick wall, and as Xavier swung in off the road, Fran’s breath caught in her throat.
The house was Georgian, built of old Suffolk White bricks that had mellowed to a soft greyish cream, and with a typically Georgian observance of symmetry it had a porticoed front door in the centre and tall windows each side. Across the upper floor, just like a child’s drawing, were three more windows nestled under the broad eaves of the pitched and hipped roof, but unlike a child’s drawing the proportions were perfect.
Despite the elegance of the house, it wasn’t so grand that it was intimidating. It looked homely and welcoming, the garden a little on the wild side, and the fanlight over the front door was echoed in the sweep of gravel in front of the house on which he came to rest.
One thing was sure, she realised. It might not be intimidatingly grand, but he hadn’t bought this house on a doctor’s salary, not unless he had a thriving and possibly illegal private practice!
He ushered her through the door into a light and gracious entrance hall, and Fran tried to keep her mouth shut so her chin didn’t trail on the ground. It was gorgeous.
The floor was laid in a diamond chequer-pattern of black and white tiles, and on the far side the staircase rose in a graceful curve across a huge window that soared up to the ceiling on the upper floor.
The simple beauty of the staircase was marred by the presence of a stairlift, but apart from that and the ramp by the steps to the front door, it was just as it had been built, she imagined.
The doorways were wide, the rooms large enough to accommodate a wheelchair with ease, and as she followed him through to the kitchen at the back, she felt a pang of envy. She’d always loved houses like this, always dreamed of living in one, and here he was owning it, the lucky man.
Then she caught sight of another photograph of his wife amidst all the clutter on the old pine dresser in the kitchen, and the envy left her, washed away by guilt and sympathy.
Lucky? No, she had no reason to envy him. The house was just bricks and mortar, and living in it were three people whose lives had been devastated by their loss. How could she possibly have envied them that?
Xavier was patting the dogs, two clearly devoted and rather soppy Labradors, and when he’d done his duty he turned to her.
‘Are you OK with dogs? I forgot to mention them.’
‘I’m fine. I grew up with Labs. Come on, then, come and make friends.’
They did, tongues lolling, leaning on her legs and grinning up at her like black bookends, one each side. ‘You soppy things,’ she said to them, and their tails thumped in unison.
‘The thin one’s Kate, the fatter one with the grey muzzle is Martha, her mother. Just tell them to go and lie down when you’ve had enough. Shall I put the kettle on?’
Fran straightened up and grinned at him. ‘That sounds like the best thing I’ve heard in hours. I could kill a cup of tea.’
He chuckled. ‘Ditto. And while it boils, I’ll put the dogs out for a minute and then show you the flat.’
He went through a door at the back of the kitchen into a lobby and opened the outside door to let the dogs out, then turned back to her with a smile. ‘Right, you need to be careful, the stairs are a little steep.’
She followed him through a door in the corner of the lobby that led to the narrow, winding back stairs, and at the top they came out onto a little landing in what must have been the servants’ quarters. To the left, its ceilings atticky and low, was a small but comfortable sitting room overlooking the garden; to the right was a bedroom with a double bed under a quilted bedspread, all whites and creams and pretty pastels.
Fran looked around her in slight disbelief and felt a lump in her throat.
‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ she murmured.
‘There’s a bathroom there, and a tiny kitchen so you can be independent if you want. And through here is the rest of the house.’
He opened a door at the end of the landing and went through it onto the much larger landing at the head of the main stairs. There was a wheelchair parked by the stairlift, in readiness, Fran imagined, for his daughter’s return, and she could see through the open doors into their bedrooms.
One was immaculate, one reasonably tidy, the last chaos.
‘That’s Nick’s room,’ Xavier said with a wry smile, indicating the messy one. ‘This one’s Chrissie’s.’
He pushed open the door of the reasonable one, and she looked around it, at all the pictures of horses and boy bands and other images dear to the heart of a young teenager, and she wondered what Chrissie was like and what had really happened.
‘Tell me about her,’ she said softly, and he sighed and tunnelled his fingers through his hair.
‘She’s…complicated,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s in a wheelchair, and she doesn’t speak, but they can’t find anything wrong with her. They’ve done a million tests and can’t detect anything, and she moves and talks in her sleep, but when she’s awake, she just won’t communicate—well, not a great deal. She has a little hand-held computer that she uses for important stuff, but mostly she doesn’t bother. And it’s not that she can’t, because she’s doing fine at school, even without speaking. There’s nothing wrong with her academically. It’s bizarre.’
‘Was she badly hurt in the accident?’
‘No. Nick had a broken arm, and Sara was killed instantly, but Chrissie was untouched. That’s the odd thing about it. She’s seen therapists and psychiatrists and every other sort of “ist”, but nobody’s found the key. She’s locked in there, and I can’t let her out, and I’m a doctor, for God’s sake!’
He broke off and turned away, his voice choked, and Fran lifted her hand to touch him, to reach out to him. She didn’t, though. She let it fall to her side, because there was nothing she could say to make it right, nothing she could do to make it better.
Well, only one thing.
‘If you were hoping to put me off, you’ve failed,’ she said softly.
Xavier turned, a flicker of hope in his anguished eyes, and his mouth kicked up in a crooked smile. ‘Well, so far, so good. Of course, you haven’t met them yet.’