‘Have you tried to find someone?’
He shrugged. ‘There’s a lad from the village who’s done a bit. He helps from time to time when it gets too bad. And I cut the grass—hence the dirty hands. I had to rebuild the mower again this morning. I hit something.’
‘Something?’
He shrugged again. ‘A branch? Who knows. It was out in the wilds a bit, and I was cracking on, because it’s a heck of a task, even with a ride-on mower. There’s a lot of it.’
‘How much?’
He shrugged. ‘Fifteen acres? Not all cultivated,’ he added hastily as her eyes widened. ‘There’s the old knot garden on the terrace, the kitchen garden and the walled garden by the house. That’s my favourite—it opens off my study and the sitting room we were in last night, but it’s a real mess. And then there’s the laburnum walk and the crumbling old orangery which is way down the list, sadly. The rest is just parkland—or it used to be. None of it’s been managed for years and it’s all just run wild.’
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