Last Orders at the Star and Sixpence Read online

  ‘You can’t compare Nick with Gabe,’ she said to Nessie with an impatient shake of her head.

  ‘Why not?’ Nessie replied, staring at her. ‘Let’s face it, they’re both pretty easy to look at – is it any wonder the village ladies are keen?’

  And Sam couldn’t argue with that either. In fact, she’d banked on the star quality of both when she’d sought out their involvement at the pub. What she hadn’t banked on was joining the ranks of Gabe’s admirers herself. But she wasn’t about to admit that to her sister. ‘Nick is an A-list celebrity,’ she said haughtily. ‘And Gabe – well, I’m sure he’d prefer to be judged on the food he creates rather than his looks.’

  A momentary hush fell over the bar, followed by the buzz of many hurriedly resumed conversations. Sam didn’t need to look at Nessie’s wide frantic eyes to know Gabe was standing behind her. Had he overheard her scornful pronouncement? She had no idea.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned. ‘Gabe. I hope you’re all settled in?’

  ‘I am, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I tend to travel light, apart from the tools of my trade.’

  His eyes sparked with some secret entertainment that Sam suspected was at her expense. ‘Good,’ she said stiffly.

  He glanced past her to smile at Nessie. ‘Your tour was very thorough – I feel as though I know Little Monkham and her villagers already.’

  Another peal of laughter rang out from Martha, causing Sam to grit her teeth.

  Nessie cleared her throat. ‘Speaking of the villagers, it would be great to do some introductions, if you’re feeling up to it?’

  Gabe inclined his head graciously. ‘Of course.’

  Nessie’s gaze flickered towards Sam. ‘Do you want to—’

  ‘No,’ Sam said, lightning fast. ‘You can have that privilege. I’ll help out behind the bar.’

  She busied herself checking the stock levels in the fridges, even though Connor had topped them all up before his shift had finished. By the time she’d worked her way along the bar, Nessie and Gabe were on the far side of the pub, chatting to Father Goodluck from the parish church. Sam straightened the last row of Pinot Grigio and frowned. Now what else could she find to do that would keep her out of Gabe’s way? Could she justify a trip down to the cellar?

  ‘If you straighten those bottles any more, you’ll wear the labels off,’ an amused voice drawled.

  Sam looked up to see Ruby Cabernet staring down at her, one perfect eyebrow arched in curiosity. ‘Just checking we’ve got everything we might need,’ she said.

  ‘I think twelve bottles of Pinot is enough for a Wednesday evening in Little Monkham, don’t you?’ Ruby’s gaze was shrewd. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hiding.’

  ‘Hiding?’ Sam got to her feet and forced a carefree smile. ‘What on earth would I be hiding from?’

  The older woman winked. ‘Not what, darling. Who. As in that delicious new chef you’ve treated us all to.’

  ‘Gabe?’ Sam said, wondering whether her actions were so transparently obvious to everyone. ‘Why would I be hiding from him?’

  ‘That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,’ Ruby replied solemnly. She glanced across to where Gabe stood chatting to white-haired Henry Fitzsimmons and lowered her voice so that only Sam could hear. ‘I’d quite like to eat him for breakfast and perhaps again for lunch, so why wouldn’t you? Or is that the problem?’

  Sam sighed. Ruby’s relationship with Sam and Nessie’s late father meant she took a particular interest in their lives. And before her retirement to Little Monkham, she’d spent years working as a stage actress – not much got past her, especially now she’d stopped drinking.

  ‘He’ll be great for the pub,’ Sam said, reaffirming the mantra she’d repeated to herself all afternoon.

  Ruby tilted her head. ‘But less so for you. Is the attraction mutual?’

  Sam’s cheeks burned as she glanced around to make sure no one was listening. ‘No! And it’s hardly an attraction – more an inconvenient crush.’ She folded her arms. ‘It’ll pass and then everything will be fine.’

  Ruby patted her red hair, which was tucked into an elegant chignon, and smiled. ‘Of course, he might prefer a more mature lady. I’d be happy to keep him busy.’

  Sam smiled. Ruby had been a great beauty in her youth and although that beauty had dimmed a little with age, she was still an eye-catching woman. ‘And what would Micky think about that?’ she teased, referring to the will-they-won’t-they dalliance Ruby had been conducting with silver-fox rock star Micky Holiday.

  ‘I doubt he’d bat an eyelid,’ Ruby said, with a delicate snort. ‘I’ve known Micky for a long time and he’s never been one for monogamy.’

  Sam knew Micky too; she’d seen him turn on the charm with women half his age and get away with at least their phone numbers. But she’d also noticed the way he acted around Ruby during his increasingly frequent visits to Little Monkham; the soft admiration in his eyes when he knew she wasn’t watching him, his refusal to drink a drop of alcohol even though he was a famous party animal. He was still as roguish and rude as ever, but Sam thought he scaled things back around Ruby.

  ‘He might surprise you,’ she said.

  Ruby shook her head wryly. ‘Micky stopped surprising me a long time ago. Now, it looks very much as though your sister and Gabriel are moving this way. Why don’t I head them off so you can make your getaway?’

  ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ Sam said, warm with gratitude.

  But the other woman was already moving away. ‘Not at all,’ she murmured, her tone distracted. ‘It will be my pleasure to help.’

  Just as Sam was about to bolt for the cellar, she saw the pub door open and Franny Forster, the chair of the Little Monkham Preservation Society, walked in. Sam almost groaned aloud. If Franny spotted her there would be no chance of escaping to the cellar or anywhere else; as the widely acknowledged ruler of the village, she would demand that both sisters were there as she cast her eye over their latest employee.

  ‘Sorry, Ness,’ Sam mumbled, making hurriedly for the door that led downstairs. ‘You’re on your own this time.’

  And she fled into cool darkness with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday was Nessie’s day off.

  She awoke just after seven o’clock, unsurprised to see Owen’s side of the bed was already empty; he was an early riser, born of many years of getting up to look after Luke. Normally, Nessie got up to help make breakfast, but after a busy evening in the pub, she was under strict instructions to stay in bed. She propped herself up against the pillows, listening to the thud of Luke’s feet as he tore around the cottage, gathering up everything he would need for the day. Occasionally, she heard the rumble of Owen’s voice and that made her smile. She loved the way the lilt of his accent made everything sound like poetry. And then the rumble became a roar and Nessie winced; there was nothing poetic about bellowing at Luke to move his dirty trainers.

  Minutes later, Owen poked his head around the door, a cup of tea in one hand. ‘I thought we might have woken you,’ he said, his expression sheepish. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I was already awake,’ Nessie replied, smiling.

  He placed the cup of tea on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What are your plans today?’

  Nessie stretched as she gave the question some thought. ‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually. ‘I thought maybe we could take a walk by the river later, if you’re not too busy? There were some blackberry bushes there that had a few unripened berries last week – I thought Gabe might be able to use them in the kitchen.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘I’ll be slaving over a hot fire all day, I’m afraid. I’ve got an order for some bespoke ironwork that needs to be delivered tomorrow.’

  Nessie hid a smile; she’d half expected as much. Owen took his craft very seriously and it showed in the work he produced, so much so that his reputation was growing. He was working harder than
ever and often kept the forge fires blazing until late in the evening. It was one of the things his sister, Kathryn, had warned Nessie about when she’d first agreed to move in to Snowdrop Cottage. ‘Lay down the law,’ Kathryn had said, with a knowing look. ‘No working past seven-thirty in the evening. He won’t work on a Sunday, but make sure you insist Saturdays are family days too, or you’ll end up a blacksmith’s widow.’

  Nessie had been far too shy to take her advice, but there were times she wished she had. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said to Owen now. ‘But maybe we could go at the weekend – we could take Luke.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Owen said. ‘We’ll pack a picnic, make an afternoon of it.’ He stood up and moved to the door. ‘You could join me for a sandwich at lunchtime, if you’re around?’

  It was better than nothing, Nessie supposed. ‘Sure. Around one o’clock?’

  Owen smiled. ‘Perfect.’ He cocked his head and listened. ‘It’s awfully quiet down there. I’d better go and see if Luke’s gone through with his threat to run away from home.’

  *

  In the end, Nessie spent her morning catching up with things she hadn’t had time to tackle earlier in the week. Running a pub wasn’t a nine-to-five job; there was always something to keep her busy, even though she and Sam now had a reliable team to help. Nessie tried hard to keep away from the Star and Sixpence business on her day off, but it wasn’t always possible. And Sam’s reluctance to have much to do with Gabe was already causing problems; Nessie had spent the best part of an hour with him that morning, working through a list of preliminary supplies for his recipe testing. Then she’d headed home to place an advert for a sous-chef to help in the kitchens once they opened – the Star and Sixpence would only be offering food three days a week to start with, but both Sam and Nessie suspected demand would be high enough to merit additional days in time. They might as well get a strong team together now and start as they meant to go on.

  Her stomach began rumbling around midday, and she half considered popping over to the pub to see whether Gabe had whipped up anything tasty. But it made more sense to keep out of the way, at least for today; Nessie understood Sam’s reason for wanting to keep her distance from Gabe, but he was going to be impossible to avoid – there would be a lot of occasions when it was just the two of them. The sooner Sam got over her current awkwardness, the better.

  Instead, Nessie walked down to the bakery to pick up a fresh loaf. The sun continued to shine, bathing the still-parched village green in golden warmth and causing Nessie to smile. It wouldn’t be long before the grass was emerald green and tinged with silvery frost, she thought. And then Christmas would be just around the corner. The thought made her excited and anxious at the same time: it would be her first Christmas with Owen and Luke – the first in Snowdrop Cottage – but it was also one of the busiest times at the pub. She was going to have more than ever to juggle . . .

  The smell of freshly baked bread helped to soothe some of her anxiety away. Martha wasn’t behind the counter; instead, Nessie was greeted with a cheerful smile by her apprentice, Isabelle, and she couldn’t help feeling grateful for having avoided Martha’s inevitable cross-examination about Gabe. They chatted politely for a few moments, then Nessie made her excuses and left. By the time she’d called into the butcher’s for some ham and discussed Gabe’s request for some top-quality sirloin steak, it was twelve-thirty.

  She tapped on the door of the forge just before one o’clock. A few seconds ticked by before Owen’s voice rang out, letting her know it was safe to enter. Pushing back the door, Nessie braced herself for the wave of heat that she knew would envelop her the moment she entered the forge. She often wondered how Owen bore it, especially during the long blistering summer they’d just had, but he told her he was used to it. He’d dampened the gas level so that the coke embers would cool down while he wasn’t using the fire, but, even so, Nessie wasn’t surprised to see sweat beaded on his forehead as she approached him; smithing was hard work even when the temperature outside was autumnal.

  ‘You cooked,’ he said, nodding at the laden tray in her hands.

  ‘Hardly,’ she replied, smiling. ‘But I did go and grab some fresh bread and ham. Where shall I put the tray?’

  Owen reached for the towel that lay on a workbench and wiped his face. ‘It’s too hot in here. Shall we go into the office?’

  He meant the small room off to one side, which had windows that opened wide onto the yard outside the cottage. It was cluttered and cosy, but Nessie knew it would be much cooler than the forge itself. ‘Okay. I brought some iced water too – I thought you might be in need of a drink.’

  Owen grinned. ‘I half hoped you might have brought me a pint of Thirsty Bishop, but I suppose water will do.’

  ‘It most certainly will,’ Nessie said, with mock-severity. ‘The last thing we need is for you to be drunk in charge of an anvil.’

  ‘You’re as wise as ever,’ Owen agreed. ‘Come on, then. Let’s eat.’

  Nessie filled him in on her morning as they ate, taking care not to mention Sam’s aversion to Gabe. Owen grumbled about the intricacies of the ironwork he’d been working on.

  ‘I like the challenge of the fancy stuff,’ he said, pushing his empty plate away, ‘but you know how it is. You only have so much time to get the metal into the right shape before the temperature drops and then it needs to be heated again.’

  Nessie smiled. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Owen said. ‘Except that it’s all so fiddly. I’ll be glad when it’s done and I can get back to the simpler stuff.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘In the forge?’

  She’d often seen him work before, but it had only ever been in passing, fleeting glimpses of sparks and deep concentration. And, suddenly, she was curious about the way he spent his days. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘At the very least I could keep you supplied with tea. Unless I’d be in the way?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘No, you wouldn’t be in the way. But I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me swear at a lump of iron.’

  Nessie laughed; she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him swear. ‘Probably, but I’d like to see what you do.’

  ‘I can’t promise it’ll be exciting,’ he warned. ‘But I’d never say no to your company.’

  They walked back through and Owen found her a worn leather apron like the one he wore. He pointed to a stool tucked underneath the high bench along the wall furthest away from the silver-hooded fire. ‘You’ll be safe enough over there, although you will have to wear plastic goggles, I’m afraid. Forge policy.’

  Once she was settled, he turned up the gas to bring the fire up to temperature.

  ‘That’ll take a few minutes,’ he said. ‘I can show you the section I made this morning, if you like? To give you an idea what I’m aiming for.’

  Nessie could see immediately why it was painstaking work. The client had requested two wrought-iron gates with swirling loops covered in delicate leaves that wove around the frame like Sleeping Beauty’s thorn forest. Each leaf had to be hammered thin and shaped before being embossed with a pattern. Once they were all complete, Owen needed to attach them to the frame of the gate and twist tendrils of iron around them like vines. It was going to look magical when it was finished.

  ‘Wow,’ Nessie breathed, reaching out a finger to trace the lines on one perfect oak leaf. ‘It’s amazing. Really beautiful. You’re so clever.’

  A ruddy tinge crept into Owen’s cheeks, but Nessie thought he looked pleased. ‘It’s easy when you know how.’

  ‘I bet it’s not,’ Nessie said firmly. ‘You’re an artist, Owen. This is a work of art.’

  He shook his head stubbornly. ‘Blacksmiths aren’t artists. It’s mostly brute strength and understanding how metal and heat work together. You could do it if you wanted to.’

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘I could not.’

  ‘You could
. Look, I’ll show you.’

  He handed her a pair of thick leather gloves. ‘Put these on.’

  Nessie gazed at the gloves; they looked as though they would come up to her armpits. Doubtfully, she pulled them on and flexed the fingers. ‘They’re so stiff. How do you work with them?’

  ‘You get used to them,’ he said, shrugging easily. ‘And they’ve saved me from a nasty burn on more than one occasion. Now, here’s your hammer. It has to be heavy, I’m afraid, or it won’t do the job.’

  She hefted the hammer in one hand. No wonder Owen’s muscles were so well-developed; her arm hurt just holding it. She placed it on the anvil as Owen held up a thin iron rod.

  ‘You’re going to turn this into a leaf.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Totally possible,’ he said, smiling. ‘The first thing you need to do is heat the iron.’

  He led her over to the fire and showed her how to grip the rod with a pair of tongs and bury it in the hottest part of the glowing embers. She watched in fascination as the black metal changed colour; red, orange, yellow and then almost white.

  ‘Carefully draw it out and carry it over to the anvil,’ Owen said, just behind her shoulder. ‘Don’t rush, take your time.’

  Concentrating, Nessie did as he instructed. Her hands shook as she squeezed hard on the tongs, determined not to drop the hot iron. ‘What now?’ she asked, as she rested the rod on the cool anvil.

  ‘Now we need to flatten it out,’ Owen said, holding out the hammer. ‘Take this in your strongest hand and use the other to grip the tongs. Then, when you’re ready, hit the tip of the iron as hard as you can.’