A Country Rivalry

by Sasha Morgan

  ‘You don’t sound too pleased to see me.’ Nick was staring at him as if trying to read his expression.

  Sebastian refused to give anything away and kept a neutral tone. ‘I’m not,’ he replied bluntly, making Nick flinch. Was this just another insincerity? Had Nick realised just what he’d thrown away? Well, tough. It was too late. Way too late.

  ‘I just want to talk to you, Sebastian.’ Nick’s voice held a desperate note, making him sound needy. This wasn’t the same Nick who had arrogantly cheated on him, tearing his heart to pieces.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to talk to you, Nick.’ Sebastian stared defiantly into those blue eyes, which at one time could melt him. ‘I don’t,’ he repeated, barging past him and back inside to the comfort of the bar.

  12

  Viola had booked a place on a guided tour of Treweham Hall. She had decided to get a feel for the place as a member of the public, not part of the television film crew. That way she could get an insight into the place before announcing who she was, in case she was given a frosty reception. If Jamie was right – and she thought he probably was – the moment Tobias Cavendish-Blake got wind of any media sniffing around his home she’d be whisked off the premises.

  Instincts told her to befriend Finula from The Templar as best she could, hopefully paving the way for a possible interview with Tobias, as she had soon cottoned on to the fact that they were good friends. In fact, Finula had been very open about how the Cavendish-Blakes played a crucial role in the village and were thought very highly of. She had mentioned a tradition held every year, the Landlord’s Supper, when the Lord of Treweham Hall held a dinner for all the residents on his estate. It dated back to medieval times, when the tenants all paid their rent to their landlord in return for supper and as much ale as they could drink. The custom was still upheld and proved a popular event in Treweham village.

  Viola’s interest had been particularly piqued when a nearby customer, overhearing the conversation, had rumbled with laughter over the ‘fiasco’ of the last Landlord’s Supper. When Finula had brushed aside the remark, it had left Viola even more curious.

  It was mid-October and the tours were due to stop soon, as the Hall would be closed to the public over the winter months and re-opening in early spring. As it was one of the last tours of the season, Megan had decided to take it, and she was rather looking forward to showing off the rooms for the last time that year. Her pregnancy was starting to show now. The small bump was getting more obvious, so that the couple had decided to announce their happy news to a very excited family. Beatrice had been beside herself with joy at having Celia’s guess confirmed, to the amusement of Tobias. Sebastian was elated at the prospect of becoming an uncle, whereas Aunt Celia had nodded her tight grey perm in approval with a knowing look. Megan’s family had been equally delighted, if not a touch surprised at the timing. Not knowing their daughter had already been pregnant at the wedding, they were a little taken aback.

  *

  ‘Welcome to Treweham Hall,’ Megan greeted the small gathering.

  Viola stood towards the back, sizing up the new Lady Cavendish-Blake. She was very pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way, Viola conceded, admiring her thick, glossy dark hair, cut neatly into a bob. She had a beautiful, fresh complexion too, thought Viola with envy. Viola herself had often struggled with spots and forked out a fortune on expensive concealers and make-up. Megan Cavendish-Blake had style too, with a designer dress and patterned silk scarf. On further inspection, though, Viola’s sharp eye clocked the slight bulge protruding from it. Was Lady Cavendish-Blake pregnant?

  ‘So, if you would like to make your way to the Chapel…’ Megan continued.

  ‘Is that where you got married?’ interrupted an excited lady at the front.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied Megan with a grin.

  Smug cow, thought Viola with spite, but smiled with the rest of the party.

  Viola made discreet notes throughout the tour, picking out points of interest for future reference. She had to admit she’d thoroughly enjoyed listening to the history of the Hall and wandering through the lavish rooms. She had been especially taken by the photographs in smart frames dotted around, depicting the Cavendish-Blake family life. Pictures of the late Lord Cavendish-Blake and his bride, two young boys riding on tricycles, one pale and blond, the other dark with a mischievous grin.

  Viola was in awe of the recent portrait of Tobias, which had managed to completely capture his magnetism. To think that he had married a local village girl, when he could have had someone of much higher calibre. Viola stole another glance at the lucky woman who had bagged such a catch. She wasn’t that special, was she? No better-looking than herself, surely? Viola looked down at her svelte figure tucked flatteringly into skinny jeans, showcasing her pert bum. The tight, black jumper she wore outlined her curves, making her look voluptuous, she thought, although others might think it vulgar.

  ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, that concludes today’s tour. Please do feel free to visit the tearoom.’ A slight applause followed.

  Megan made her way down the next flight of stairs to the tearoom where she had arranged to meet Finula. She didn’t really want tea and cake in their drawing room when she could mingle with the staff in the café, and besides, Tobias was there with Dylan. Megan enjoyed the banter and was looking forward to catching up with her best friend. There she was, sitting by the window. A beam of sunlight illuminated her red hair. On noticing Megan, she waved her over.

  ‘Hi, so good to see you!’ She hugged her hard, then quickly backed off. ‘Sorry, don’t want to squash your bump. You’re really showing now, aren’t you?’ Finula looked down at Megan’s stomach.

  Megan gently patted it. ‘Certainly am.’ Once seated, and with a cream tea before her, Megan was keen to hear of any gossip. ‘So, the tall, dark stranger has arrived, then?’ she asked with a sly smile. She was, of course, referring to Marcus Devlin, the documentary producer who had made quite an impression on her friend. Finula had excitedly filled Megan in on all the details after her dad had taken the room bookings for the film crew.

  ‘Yes, and he’s as handsome as I remembered,’ gushed Finula, making Megan smile. Good, old Finula, she observed, always wearing her heart on her sleeve. She was an open book: what you saw was what you got, which was why she loved her. Megan was pleased that her best mate could have another chance to be happy, especially after being so crushed by Nick.

  ‘He’s had his hair cut shorter and grown a bit of stubble,’ Finula’s face was animated, ‘and it makes him look more rugged and sexier than ever,’ she said in hushed tones. Both girls giggled.

  ‘So, has he made a move yet?’ whispered Megan.

  ‘Give him a chance.’

  ‘He will. If he’s any sense.’

  ‘Bring it on,’ Finula laughed.

  ‘Well, he must be interested. I mean, why else send the photograph? I bet he’s got a duplicate, framed by his bedside,’ joked Megan. Finula’s head went back and she laughed loudly. It was good to see her in high spirits. Megan hoped Marcus Devlin was going to come up trumps.

  Two tables away, behind a pillar, Viola sat listening intently. Well, well, well. So Finula had the hots for Marcus, did she? That could prove very useful indeed, especially if they needed him to dish the dirt on the village. What was that about a photograph, though? Clearly Marcus and Finula had met before, which explained why Marcus had seemed familiar with Treweham and The Templar at the meeting. And she was dead right about the pregnancy: obviously conceived before the marriage. So it was a ‘shotgun wedding’. That’s how the new lady of the manor had snared such a prize. It was the oldest trick in the book.

  *

  In the south wing Tobias and Dylan were discussing plans for the training yard. ‘Attracting clients from the Far East is definitely the way forward,’ Tobias stated, knowing full well the astronomical sums of money they would pay.

  ‘I agree,’ replied Dylan, nodding enthusiastically. ‘I’m amazed at the m
oney they’re prepared to part with. Mind you, why not? I run a top-class training yard.’

  ‘On an ancestral country estate. That counts for a lot with some people.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Dylan, then paused. ‘I’ve been approached by a magazine for an interview.’

  Tobias looked surprised. ‘You’re not doing it, are you?’ He had always assumed his friend’s opinion of the press was the same as his own.

  ‘Flora talked me round.’

  ‘Really?’ Tobias’ eyebrow arched higher.

  ‘Said it would be good for business. I think she has a point.’

  Tobias mulled this over, his brow furrowed in contemplation. ‘Hmm, maybe.’

  Perhaps Flora had a point. Tobias was beginning to see how the media might actually work in a positive way for him, for once.

  13

  Marcus took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. This was a tough one. The budget was tight. He knew his role would involve editing and directing, as well as being the person who made the documentary happen. Not only was he going to be the producer, he’d have to act as manager, accountant, visionary and entrepreneur. All were talents of his – he knew that – but this time it was different. This time it was personal. Any outsider, not really knowing Marcus Devlin would assume he was an aloof character, a dark, brooding Heathcliff figure, that kept all his emotions in check, and to a degree they would be right in this assessment. But deep down, in the pit of his soul, lay torrid feelings of anger and the driving desire to correct the unforgivable injustices that had blighted the one person he had loved unconditionally, his mother.

  It had been nine months since she had died. He had been there from the very beginning of her diagnosis. The cancer had raged through her body cruelly, giving him only a few short months to love and look after her, to tend to her every need. How could he cram in all he wanted to say and show her how much he cared in that short time? It was impossible. As soon as Marcus had learnt of his mother’s cancer, he had tried to make time stand still. He had stopped all he was doing, backing out of a programme he had just started to make. His mother came first, it was that simple.

  It had always been just him and her. Anne Devlin had been a single mother and had been fiercely protective of her only child. Being single, pregnant and from England hadn’t been the best of starts in a small village in Roscommon, even though she had called herself ‘Mrs’ Devlin and worn a wedding ring, claiming her young husband had been killed tragically in a car accident. Anne had family in Ireland and an auntie had originally taken her in as long as Anne pretended to be a ‘widow’. No one was going to bring shame to her doorstep, particularly family. As a result, Marcus grew up believing his father had been killed. It was only in the dark hours of early dawn, nine months ago, that he had learnt differently. His dying mother’s last breaths had told him the truth: his father was very much alive and living in England. Marcus had been stunned, but equally appalled that he had never met or known him. Anne’s faint whispers had explained why. He was married. He was well known, a somebody, with a title. Marcus strained to listen and absorb every last detail, his heart racing. The fury had started to build at that moment, and had gathered momentum ever since. His mother had been fooled, used and then conveniently disposed of. It had been straightforward to research the name she had given him, especially as he vaguely recognised it in any event. Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake of Treweham Hall.

  By the time Marcus had buried his mother and recovered some form of normality, plus digested the revelation of his parentage, it was too late to pursue the matter. Exactly a month after Anne Devlin died, Richard Cavendish-Blake had followed suit. Marcus had spent restless, sleepless nights plotting how he would confront the bastard, expose him, make him pay, only to read one lazy, weekend morning, whilst poring over the Sunday papers, that Tobias Cavendish-Blake was now Lord of Treweham Hall, following the sad loss of his father, the late Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake.

  Marcus had been duped, robbed of the opportunity to look his father in the eye and tell him exactly what he thought of him. He was incensed with the injustice of it all. How could people like that not be held accountable? How could he get away with it? Well, he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter how long it took. He was a patient man, but he would have his revenge if it killed him.

  The way the resentment had eaten away at him had affected his health, but one day the perfect opportunity had landed right in his lap. He even wondered if his mother was helping him from above, such was the timing. He was approached by a bigwig from the BBC, wanting to make a documentary. He had an idea in his head, which Marcus leapt on. As soon as the words ‘quintessential English village life’ were spoken, Marcus’ reaction was unusually animated, and so positive in fact that the idea had blossomed quickly into a real project. Marcus had bust a gut getting the finance together from individual donors, foundations, companies and arts funding to get the show on the road, and at breath-taking speed. It all seemed to fall into place. Having contacts with the kind of people that could make things happen had proved invaluable; that and the fact they wanted to help Marcus, after seeing him off the scene so long with the loss of his mother. He was both admired and respected. Then when Viola had actually suggested Treweham he was speechless, but relieved that he wasn’t going to have to find a way to steer his team in that direction. Again, his thoughts turned back to his mother and how she must be looking down on him and helping him.

  Marcus had researched the village for himself, hiding inconspicuously in the background, witnessing the mayhem that had surrounded Tobias Cavendish-Blake’s wedding. Staying at The Templar had been ideal as it had put him right in the centre of the action – not to mention the added bonus of meeting Finula.

  The thought of her made his shoulders relax and his mouth curl into a smile. Finula had been the only comfort in all of this, with her blaze of red hair and creamy, pale skin dusted with freckles. To him, she was a true Irish colleen and looked so out of place in England. The moment he had set eyes on her he had felt an overwhelming urge to pick her up and whisk her back to his homeland. Was it another coincidence that her father came from the same county in Ireland as himself? Or could it be another motherly guiding hand, leading him here to The Templar?

  Sighing, he stared down at the paperwork in front of him. The bedroom he had booked this time was the largest in The Templar, with a king-size bed, wardrobe, small sofa, and a desk and chair by the bay window overlooking the velvety green fields at the rear of the building. Being at the back of The Templar meant it was quiet, giving him peace to think, as opposed to the front bedrooms, which faced the hustle and bustle of the car park and the pub entrance. Marcus stared at his notes. He was devising a list of people to interview and places to shoot. The top priority was obviously Tobias Cavendish-Blake at Treweham Hall, but how best to pin him down? Reputedly the man hated the press. Then an idea came to him. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  Later that evening, after all the guests had dined, Finula relaxed with a well-earned glass of wine in a small alcove by the bar. Marcus had eaten with the rest of the crew and was ordering a pint of Guinness when he noticed her tucked away. He smiled to himself, collected his drink and made his way over.

  ‘Hello there, mind if I join you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She indicated for him to sit opposite her. ‘How’s the filming going?’ Finula was burning with curiosity about the whole thing, relishing the prospect of being part of the documentary.

  ‘Well, we finally start filming next week. At the moment we’re getting a feel for the place, deciding who to interview and where to film.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Marcus tilted his head to one side, as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘If you’re interested, you could come on a day’s shoot.’

  ‘Really?’ Finula’s face lit up. He loved the way her eyes sparkled in delight.

  ‘Sure,’ he nodded. ‘In fact, you know more about Treweham Hall than an
y of the team so perhaps you could advise us.’

  ‘Treweham Hall? You’re filming there?’ she replied in surprise.

  ‘We would dearly love to. The Cavendish-Blakes are local gentry, aren’t they? I believe they are thought very highly of in the village, too.’ He eyed her carefully, not wanting to sound too keen.

  ‘They certainly are. Tobias is a top bloke.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Marcus’ eyebrows rose mockingly.

  ‘Yes, of course. Just because he’s got a title doesn’t mean he’s up himself, you know,’ chided Finula, looking into his deep, green eyes and feeling rather flushed.

  Her pupils were dilated, Marcus noticed. He’d once read somewhere that was a sign of sexual attraction. Judging by the way she kept playing with her hair he clearly put her on edge too, though.

  ‘I’m sure the Cavendish-Blakes are fine people,’ he soothed with a gentle chuckle.

  Finula loved the way his cheeks dimpled when he laughed.

  ‘Well, don’t take my word for it, judge for yourself.’

  ‘I’d like that very much, if he’ll let me anywhere near.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ she said assertively. Bingo, thought Marcus. ‘If I’m there with the TV crew at Treweham Hall he’d be more likely to agree to it.’

  Marcus paused, as if in deep thought. ‘Finula, that would be a tremendous help.’

  She liked the way he said her name and gazed into her eyes.

  ‘How can I thank you?’ He watched her swallow nervously.

  ‘Er…’

  ‘How about I take you out for dinner?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ she replied hoarsely.

  ‘Saturday? In fact, let’s make a day of it.’

  As luck would have it, she had a rare Saturday off, but she’d have told her dad she was off anyway, given the circumstances.