Free Every Woman for Herself by Trisha Ashley Page B

to go out and earn her living, although she does run the house like clockwork, cooks wonderfully, and makes what money she needs writing her verses … and now the book.
    OK, that’s all working, I admit.
    She also does a little magic and fortune-telling, too, when asked, but she doesn’t take money for that, just trade goods.
    ‘Off you go; Inga’s expecting you,’ she said firmly.
    ‘That Inga’s a miserable bugger,’ said Gloria, now giving the kitchen floor a sort of third-degree water torture. Frost, sighing deeply, got up from his rug and jumped onto the safety of the settle, where he sat looking resigned.
    ‘She’s Scandinavian,’ said Em excusingly. ‘They all sound like that, even when they’re telling jokes. It’s to do with having only two hours of daylight a year, or something.’
    ‘Couldn’t you come with me, Em?’ I whined cravenly.
    She sighed. ‘I suppose I could walk down there with you. We’ll take the dogs, and I’ll bring Flossie back for you.’
    ‘Flossie’s still asleep. She doesn’t usually get up until lunchtime.’
    ‘She’s not a dog, she’s a cushion on legs. Go and get her, it will do her good.’
    Flossie was disgusted, but consented to accompany us down the long, winding road to Hoo House, though whether she would walk back up it again was a moot point. Perhaps Frost would pick her up in his long jaws and carry her home like a puppy?
    We were the only walkers; a series of immaculate four-wheel-drive vehicles passed us, all converging on the nursery, each giant petrol-eater containing one adult and one mutinous infant.
    Em strode through the decanted parents and offspring, grunting at anyone who dared to wish her a good morning, and dragging my reluctant self and the dogs with her.
    Our resident luvvie, exiting too hastily from the doorway, fell over the entwined dog leads, gave me a look of surprise and then, collecting himself, strode off with a nod and a grunt as brusque as anything Em could produce.
    ‘Morning,’ said Em affably. I stared at her in amazement.
    A small, bun-faced woman in riding breeches and Hunter wellies cantered out in hot pursuit, crying shrilly, ‘Oh, Mr North! Hef you got a minute?’
    ‘He’s incognito,’ I said to her helpfully.
    He was certainly fit – he was halfway down the drive already. And he hadn’t come in a car, though I wouldn’t put a four-wheel-drive past him.
    ‘Incognito? He’s gorgeous!’ muttered bun-face, drooling after the retreating actor (tall, broad-shouldered, expensively hacked hair – no jester’s hat today).
    ‘You can’t call someone wearing a bright red duvet gorgeous,’ I objected.
    ‘It’s vintage Kenzo,’ she said absently.
    ‘Is that sort of like judo kit?’
    ‘Judo? No,’ she said, getting a grip on herself and really looking at us for the first time. ‘Ah, Emily, is this your sister?’ she said graciously. ‘Inga said she was going to be the new helper.’
    ‘Charlie,’ Em said shortly, ‘this is Elfreda Whippington-Smythe. Bought that half-ruined farmhouse up by the Donkers. Husband looks like Monet on a bad day. One sprog.’
    ‘Er … yes, Satchel,’ agreed Mrs Whippington-Smythe nervously, but then, Em often has that effect.
    ‘Satchmo? Good name!’
    I’d have expected something more stolid, like John or Charles, or even Ethelred or Wolfbane.
    ‘No, not Satchmo,’ she corrected me. ‘
Satchel
– like Woody Allen’s son.’
    ‘I thought Woody Allen’s aura was a bit tarnished round the edges these days?’
    ‘Oh, no – he’s such a genius! You simply can’t believe all those fairy tales Mia was putting about; she’s the jealous, unbalanced one.’
    Genius? Enough people seemed to think so, although I’d never been a fan. Maybe I just didn’t have an ear for that sort of thing, like understanding classical music, or opera.
    ‘Satchel …’ I mused. ‘It’s pretty odd as a name when you think about it, isn’t it? I mean, I wonder what made him think