Mia's Men

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Mia saw off another of the mourners, still wearing the polite smile she’d had pasted on to her face for most of the day. She was actually beginning to worry it had stuck. Allowing herself a heartfelt sigh in the relative privacy of the empty hallway, she then headed back into the reception room which was hosting her father’s wake.

As requested, the day had been a small affair—or small for a man that knew so many people, anyway. The remaining family members had been in attendance, of course, but had mercifully headed off straight after taking advantage of the free food and drink on offer, citing a long journey home as their excuse. Mia hadn’t argued—they were family in name only, and although he and everyone else were currently ignorant of the contents of Edward’s will, Quinn’s presence made her blood boil. The very thought of that vacant, idiotic womaniser getting his greedy paws on her father’s legacy and then pissing it away… well, it was just intolerable. And it was never going to happen.

Those still hanging around the house included a few of her father’s closest friends and their wives, who were currently sequestered in the corner, reminiscing about past times. Mia smiled indulgently in their direction. They’d been more like family to her than those that shared her DNA. They’d actually been around throughout her father’s illness, visiting him at the house often, telephoning even more often to check on Edward and also on Mia. They’d constantly offered support, both physical and moral and, although she hadn’t needed any physical help with anything, the moral and emotional support, and just knowing they were there had been a great comfort. It had given her much-needed strength, especially as it became painfully obvious that her father’s remaining time was dwindling into weeks, then days.

She shifted her gaze to take in the stragglers. A couple of villagers who helped the vicar look after the church, the vicar himself, and three members of her staff—the butler, James, the housekeeper-c*m-cook, Betty, and the gardener, Thomas. It still felt weird to think of them as her staff, rather than her father’s, but that’s what they were now. Thanks to the insane curveball her father had thrown, she hadn’t officially inherited anything, but she was the estate custodian and manager and, as far as everyone else was concerned—the solicitors notwithstanding—she was now in charge.

As she loitered in the doorway, she felt suddenly adrift. Alone. She stood in her own house, on her own land, and yet had the terrible sense she didn’t belong. There were people right in front of her, people she knew—and some of them she even liked—and yet she had no wish to talk to them. No idea what to even talk to them about.

Her friends had been wonderful, naturally. However, since they were spread around the country—some even around the world—it had been more difficult for them to be physically present during her father’s illness and death. They had jobs of their own, families of their own, responsibilities of their own. But she’d known perfectly well that they’d have dropped everything and come if she’d asked. Like with her father’s friends, that knowledge of their having her back had bolstered her. She’d insisted they not come to the funeral, suggesting instead that they have a meet up in London when the dust had settled a little, so they could celebrate her father’s life, rather than mourning the loss of it. He’d have liked that.

At least the apartment in London was officially hers. Yes, her father had gifted her some money to put down an incredibly hefty deposit, but the mortgage payments came from the salary she earned from her role running the estate, so no matter what happened, she had that. Providing, if the worst came to the worst, she could find a job quickly in order to keep up the mortgage payments and the bills, that was. If not, she supposed she’d have to sell up and find somewhere cheaper.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Then another. It was the grief, she reminded herself. She’d lost the person that meant the most to her in the world, and it would take time—a considerable amount, she suspected—to find her new normal. But she’d get there. In the meantime, she’d keep busy—something that was easy at the moment as she dealt with her father’s affairs, on top of the usual day-to-day running of the estate.

A hand gently touched her arm, startling her out of her melancholy thoughts. She jumped, and her eyes shot open.

“Sorry,” Thomas said with a wry smile, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just glanced over and saw you standing here and you looked… lost, I suppose. I just wanted to come and make sure you were all right. Well,” he shrugged, “as all right as you can be in the circumstances, anyway.”

Mia returned his smile, then put her hand on top of his and squeezed it. His skin was warm against her chilly fingers. “It’s all right, Tom. I was just thinking, that’s all. I’m all right. Or, to use your words, as all right as I can be in the circumstances. I’ll just be,” she lowered her voice, “glad when this is all over. I know some people find wakes comforting or whatever, but to me it’s a get-together with a crowd of people which would normally contain my father. But he’s not here. And that hurts.”

Thomas’s mouth turned down at the corners and his blue eyes regarded her seriously. “I get it. Trust me, I get it.” He took her hand and held it between both of his, and at his words she was reminded that she and Thomas, as well as being the same age, now had something else in common. They were both orphans. Christ, she was a f*****g orphan! Twenty-seven years old, and an orphan.

She didn’t realise she’d said the last sentence aloud until she met Thomas’s eyes and saw her own pain reflected right back at her. He blinked, then cleared his throat. “Do you want me to get rid of everyone? Under the circumstances, Mia, nobody is going to think you rude. You’ve carried out your father’s wishes. He’s at rest now, with your mother. Now the funeral is over, you should be allowed to grieve in private.”

Her first instinct was to disagree. People might think she was rude—kicking them out of the house before they were ready to go. After all, they were grieving for her father, too. But then she looked around again at the assembled figures and came to the conclusion that they would understand. And if they didn’t, well then they were no friends to her, were they?

Mia nodded and whispered, “Yes, please. I’d really appreciate that.”

“Consider it done.” He squeezed her hand again, then stepped away, letting it fall from his grasp.

The sudden loss of his body heat made her clutch her hand to her chest protectively. Was it her hand she was protecting, though, or her broken heart? Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she forced herself not to let them fall. She’d allowed them during the church service, and again at the burial, but had remained dry-eyed—barely—since returning to the house. She wasn’t kidding herself, though—she knew she’d cry again, and had no problem with that. She just didn’t particularly want an audience when it happened. As soon as the doors were closed and she was alone, then they would come, she was sure of it.

“Everyone, can I have your attention, please?” came Thomas’s raised voice.

She looked over at where he stood in front of the buffet table and, to her surprise, noted just how well he scrubbed up. During the five years Thomas Walker had worked for her father, she’d only ever seen him in his gardening gear, usually decorated with globs of mud and smears of green from plants, trees, and grass. Now, in his well-cut suit, spotless shirt, black tie, and shiny shoes, he looked incredibly smart. And hot, actually.

Since everyone else’s attention was on him, she could safely get a good look at him, for what felt like the first time. He was an incredibly attractive man, with blue eyes, light brown hair, and the naturally fit figure of someone with a physical job. She pressed her lips together. How the hell had she never noticed before? Was there a works-for-my-father zone, similar to the friend zone, meaning she could easily be very fond of the man without it even occurring to her how gorgeous he was? Apparently so.

“Thank you,” Thomas continued. “I’m, er, speaking on behalf of Mia. She would like to thank you all very much for coming, but hopes you will understand her need for privacy after what has been a very difficult and tiring day.”

Sympathetic eyes turned in her direction, and Mia froze her face into a neutral expression, when what she really wanted to do was smile at Thomas’s impeccably polite way of telling everyone to bugger off and leave her alone. Bloody hell, with language skills like that, he should be a politician, not a gardener.

Thankfully, everyone took the hint. James, despite being off-duty, hurried ahead to see people out. The vicar and his cronies left first, followed by her father’s friends and their wives. Superficial pleasantries were exchanged with the former, and warm, genuine hugs and words with the latter. That left James, Thomas, and Betty.

Mia walked over to the table of food, her heels clacking on the wooden floor—sounding loud in the sudden quiet of the room. Stepping up next to the housekeeper, she said, “You did brilliantly here, Betty, especially on your own. I told you I would have happily hired caterers.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, waving a pudgy hand. The sweet, middle-aged woman had been working for Mia’s family for a very long time—a couple of decades, if Mia remembered correctly—and had always been very good to Mia, especially following her mother’s death, when she’d become a bit of a mother figure. “I wouldn’t hear of it—especially not for such a small gathering. Throwing a few plates of food together is nothing—and it was nice to be busy. You’ve not exactly been running me off my feet of late, have you, missy?” She gave Mia a mock-stern look.

Mia wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Betty, but I just haven’t been feeling particularly hungry. I’m sure now the funeral is done with and I start getting back into the swing of things, re-establishing a routine, I’ll have more of an appetite.”

Betty swiped a lonely mini-quiche from a plate. “I’ll tell you what you need,” she waved the snack in front of Mia’s face, “you need to get yourself a nice young man. Someone to take you out, have some fun with, make you laugh. That will help get your appetite back. Well, that and a nice bit of—”

“Need me to help you clear everything away?” Thomas interrupted. A glance at his face told Mia it had been a deliberate interruption, too, just when Betty had no doubt been about to suggest “a nice bit of rumpy pumpy”.

Mia suppressed a smile—both at Betty’s antics, and Thomas’s trying to protect her from them. But Thomas needn’t have worried—Betty had been lamenting Mia’s single status for years. This conversation was nothing new—it was just the circumstances that had brought them about which were different.

Maybe now her father wasn’t around to overhear, she could shock Betty by telling her the truth—she wasn’t exactly the Virgin Mary. Yes, it had been a very long time since Mia had deigned to bring a boyfriend—or even just a male friend—home, but the last time had been when her mother had been alive, and she and Mia’s father had made such a fuss that the boyfriend in question had never called her again after that. She’d decided then only to introduce a man to her parents much, much further into their relationship. Only she hadn’t gotten that far. She’d had flings, one-nighters, short-lived relationships with no real substance, and so on, but no one she was even remotely serious enough about to bring home to her parents.

And now she had no parents to bring anyone home to. No mother to comment on his extraordinary good looks, ask how many children he wanted, and so on. And no father to poke into his finances and family history, ask probing and sometimes embarrassing questions, and threaten him if he didn’t look after Mia.

At that incredibly depressing thought, something occurred to her. Something that might go some way to answering the question that could never be truly answered, only guessed at. Perhaps that was why her father had put the ridiculous caveat in his will. He’d often made mutterings about her finding herself a nice husband, and those mutterings had increased in frequency and intensity as his illness had progressed.

Then, just a few days before his death, he’d taken her hand—a fairly unusual action for a man who undoubtedly loved her, but didn’t often express it with physical contact—and said on a sigh, “Mia, all I want for you, my darling, is to be happy. For someone to look after you, support you. Love you.”

She’d rolled her eyes good-naturedly and squeezed his hand. “Dad, this is the twenty-first century, remember. I can look after myself. And I can look after the house, and the estate, and everything. I’ve been doing a good job while you’ve been poorly, haven’t I? I haven’t let you down?”

An intensity had burned in Edward Harrington’s eyes then, and he’d said, “Mia, you couldn’t let me down if you tried. You are an incredibly capable young woman. You’ve helped me ever since your mother died, and you’ve stepped up to the plate admirably now. I just wish that you didn’t have to bear so much responsibility by yourself. Your mother and I never intended for you to remain an only child, you know. We desperately wanted more children, but it just never happened for us. But we never really felt sad about it, because we loved you so much.”

“And I loved you. I love you. Besides,” she patted her father’s hand, “look on the bright side. Being an only child meant no one to bicker with; I didn’t have to compete for yours or Mum’s attention; I didn’t have to share my toys; and, even better, it means I won’t have to share my inheritance!”

For most people, that would have been an utterly insensitive thing to say in the circumstances, but her father had retained his quirky, often wildly inappropriate sense of humour until the very end, and he let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, Mia, my girl, you are a tonic!” He sobered then, but kept a hold of her hand. “Speaking of inheritance, darling, there is something I must tell you.”

But before he’d had chance to elaborate, the butler, James, had knocked on the bedroom door and announced a visitor.

In the chaos that was her life at that time, Mia had forgotten all about the conversation, so they’d never revisited it, and now it was too late.

But now the memory had occurred to her, the more she believed she was right. Her father had been eager for her to find someone to look after her, support her, and love her. So eager, apparently, that he was willing to force her hand to ensure it happened.

It was misguided, sure. Draconian, even. But Mia had decided to take it in the spirit in which it was intended—one of concern for his daughter, love for his only child.

James had now reappeared at the buffet table, and with the presence of him and Thomas, there was no way Mia was going to open up to Betty about her relationship status—or lack of it. Maybe some other time.

“Thank you, Tom,” she said, before Betty could be her usual martyr-like self and insist on carrying out the task alone, “that would be great. James, would you mind? If we all muck in, it’ll be done in no time, and we can get out of these dreary black clothes.” She aimed a look at James, who was in his early sixties and had also worked for the family for many years. The only difference from his day-to-day uniform was the style of the suit and the presence of a regular tie, rather than a bow tie. She smiled. “Well, us three can. Black seems to be your colour of choice, James. But you are far from dreary.”

“I’m jolly glad to hear it,” he shot back, mirroring her smile. “And yes, I’d be happy to help. It’s been a hard day for all of us. I’ll be glad of a nice cup of tea and a sit down.”

“Quite right. I think we’ve all earned it.”