Beyond Compare. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
the other girls often rebelled against her strictness, but Holly, educated at an old-fashioned local school with firm ideas about discipline and authority and fully backed up by local parents, found nothing to cavil at in her employer’s attitude.
It was a pity that her own parents were in New Zealand. She could have stayed at home with them, and been cosseted by her mother’s spoiling. She hadn’t seen them since they had emigrated, and that had been over a year ago. Perhaps she ought to think about saving up and visiting them next year.
The thought brightened her mood a little, her spirits lifting a little further when she found that the motorway was relatively free of heavy traffic.
She made good time, not bothering to stop for lunch until she was off the motorway, stopping her car on a leafy back road which curled its way from Nantwich to Chester, tucking the neat little Escort carefully off the road on a convenient patch of gravel.
The car belonged to the company and was provided for her exclusive use. She kept it immaculate both inside and out, polishing it lovingly each week, and having it regularly serviced, unlike the other girls.
She had visited the garage the previous evening, filling up with petrol and having her tyres checked. One of the garage staff had done that for her, and, surprised by his thoughtfulness, she had given him a tip.
The crusty bread and fresh cheese she had brought with her tasted heavenly eaten in the warmth of the late October sun. Beyond the hedge stretched fields in varying shades of dun gold and soft green until they merged into the violet grey of the Welsh hills.
The fields closest to her, empty of their crops, looked stubbly and bare; as she ate, a rabbit emerged from a small stand of trees and sat up on its hind legs looking round, until the sound of a tractor in the distance made it scuttle for the safety of its burrow.
The air, free of petrol fumes, tasted clear and fresh, and Holly felt the familiar calm that being in her childhood habitat always brought.
She loved London: its vitality, its busyness, its unique blend of ancient and modern, its frantic pace that never seemed to slow down. But she loved this as well: this peacefulness and tranquillity, this sense of time moving at a much more relaxed pace. Close her eyes and it was easy to imagine the dull tramp of Roman legions on their way to Chester.
Reluctantly packing away the remains of her lunch, she got back in the car. Home was less than half an hour away now.
The village had remained surprisingly unchanged, perhaps because it wasn’t close enough to any of the industrial centres to attract commuters.
Her own father had made a comfortable living for himself as a solicitor in the nearby town of Nantwich, and, although her parents had never aimed to be in the same wealthy bracket as Rosamund’s, her childhood had been a comfortable one with a happy blending of firmness and indulgence that had left her with an appreciation of the merits of being financially independent.
Holly didn’t look for wealth from life; to be rich held no appeal for her. What she wanted was marriage to a man she loved and who loved her; a man who would understand and appreciate her need to keep her independence and fulfil herself through her career.
When and if they had a family, that career would take second place, but would never be totally abandoned. A woman these days needed something of her own, and Holly liked the feeling of pride that came with her work.
Of course, when she had visualised this future, she had fully expected that Howard would be that husband.
But Howard was engaged to someone else.
It was a mistake. It had to be. Howard would come to his senses and realise that she was the one for him; and when he did, she would be waiting for him.
She restarted the car and pulled out into the lane. Fifteen minutes later she was approaching the outskirts of the village, the familiar pattern of the countryside of her childhood and teenage years taking shape around her. Those fields to her right belonged to Drew Hammond, Rosamund’s exboy-friend. How was he feeling right now? Much the same as she was herself, Holly guessed.
Deep in thought, she didn’t see the sprinkling of glass in the road until it was too late, grabbing hold of the wheel of her small car as she desperately tried to steer it, despite its punctured tyre.
Her actions were automatic and instinctive, but even so she couldn’t help expelling a sigh of relief when her car actually slid to a halt.
Not one, but two tyres were punctured, she discovered. The most sensible thing to do would be to walk to the village and ask the garage to collect her car for her. The safety triangle was in the boot underneath all her luggage, but conscientiously she opened it and rummaged for it.
Totally engrossed in what she was doing, and still suffering slightly from shock, she was deaf to the sound of the approaching vehicle, and didn’t even realise she was no longer alone until she heard a calm male voice asking, ‘Need any help?’
‘Drew!’ She looked at him in astonishment.
‘Holly!’
Both of them smiled, tentative, wry smiles that acknowledged their mutual surprise and recognition.
‘You’ve come up for the party, of course,’ Drew commented matter-of-factly. ‘Looks like you’ve run into a bit of trouble, though.’
‘Over it, actually,’ Holly told him with a sigh. ‘I was miles away and never even saw the glass.’
‘Mmm… I noticed it earlier. That’s why I’m here. I thought I’d drive down and clear it up. Looks as if I’m a bit too late.’
Thoughtful, kind Drew—he hadn’t changed at all. Well, not much, Holly amended, looking at him. He was certainly a lot larger than she remembered: taller and broader, although it was difficult to be too sure with the ancient Barbour and baggy cords he was wearing. Typical farmers’ gear with which she was quite familiar, but oh, so very different from Howard’s immaculate suits and crisply laundered shirts. She heaved a faint sigh. No wonder Rosamund had preferred Howard to Drew.
Drew was all very well in his way. He had a strong male face, well shaped with good bones, and an aquiline nose that could in profile give him an oddly autocratic look. Oddly, because everyone knew that Drew was the least autocratic person there was. As a teenager, he had unworriedly allowed the other boys to put him down, accepting their sometimes jeering comments about his clothes and lifestyle.
Drew’s parents had never been well off, and when his father died when Drew himself was barely sixteen, he had been forced to leave school and take over the running of the farm.
There had never been money to spare for the kind of things enjoyed by his peers, and Holly had always felt rather sorry for him, especially when the others teased him.
His dark brown hair looked thick and untidy, ruffled into slightly curling strands by the breeze. She contrasted it mentally with Howard’s expensive Knightsbridge haircut and sighed again.
Drew’s face and hands were brown; not the brown of a Mediterranean tan, but the ruddy brown of a countryman. Poor Drew! He wouldn’t have stood a chance against Howard…
What was she thinking? Rosamund had been the one to pursue Howard, not the other way round. She must have been, otherwise Howard would never have left her.
‘Both offside tyres are punctured, are they?’ Drew commented, squatting on his haunches to examine the damage. ‘Not much point in changing to the spare, then.’
‘No. I was going to walk to the village and ask them to come and pick it up at the garage.’
‘No need for that. I’ll run you back to the farm. You can call them from there. Get them to bring out another spare and fix it. Is this your only luggage?’ he asked, reaching into the boot and removing her case before Holly could make any objection.
Rather stunned, she followed him docilely to his Land Rover.
The Drew she remembered had surely never been as commanding as