Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘So you hid the packaging rubbish on the bonfire?’

  ‘I cleared it away from the store room, as Ben asked, but there was no bin collection for weeks and rather than dispose of it properly, I hid it in one of the old sheds. That was back in September. By the time I came across it again, Jim had started to build the bonfire.’ He shrugged weakly. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  I frowned. ‘That explains the smoke, but why have you been so against me ever since I arrived?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to work in a creative environment.’ He sighed. ‘And when the job came up in the events department as Pippa’s assistant, I thought it was meant for me. And Pippa was going to give it to me, I was sure. Until she interviewed you and then my dreams went up in smoke.’

  ‘But isn’t your job in the gift shop creative?’ I frowned, setting a mug in front of him.

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted. ‘Lady F is so controlling; other than a free rein with the window displays, my hands are tied. And I never get to choose stock.’

  ‘Well, my job is ninety-nine per cent organization,’ I argued. ‘Only the initial ideas for events and marketing campaigns are creative. I spend a lot of my time writing copy for press releases and leaflets.’

  Andy blinked at me. ‘Oh, I didn’t realize that. I’d be rubbish at that, I’m a bit dyslexic. I have to get Edith to check anything I’ve written.’

  ‘There you go, then!’ I attempted a smile and sat at my desk. Inside I was gritting my teeth. All this childish behaviour for a job he’d probably have hated anyway.

  ‘You still get to work with Benedict, though,’ he muttered. ‘I’d love to be in your shoes.’

  ‘But you do know that Benedict is unlikely to . . . you know,’ I waved my hands awkwardly, ‘reciprocate?’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Andy, twirling his diamond earring distractedly. ‘As soon as you came on the scene, that was it.’ He mimed a knife across his own throat.

  I blinked at him. ‘But . . . Oh, never mind.’

  ‘Anyway, Holly, other than stealing my thunder, my job and my prince, you’ve really done nothing wrong,’ Andy said with a rueful smile. ‘So I apologize wholeheartedly and I promise not to be such a bitch in future, starting with running the Christmas craft workshops for you.’

  He stood up and walked over to me, holding his arms out. ‘Hug it out?’

  I suppressed a snort and submitted to his dainty hug. ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘Now I really must dash,’ gasped Andy, ‘or poor Edith will have disappeared under a sea of wicker hampers. Laters.’

  He blew me a kiss and dashed out, leaving me bemused by the whole experience.

  I didn’t have long to dwell on it, though, as my desk phone rang its special internal ring and I swooped to answer it. ‘Events department, Holly speaking.’

  ‘Holly, sorry to bother you, but could you join me in the library?’

  I jumped to my feet.

  ‘Of course, Lord Fortescue. I’m on my way.’

  I skipped down the stairs as quickly as I could, curious to know what he could want me for. I decided to take the quickest route, which was to walk along the east-wing corridor past his office.

  Wickham Hall closed for the season at the end of October and didn’t reopen until Easter, with the exception of the last two weeks of December when we opened the doors to the public for the Christmas season, and I still hadn’t got used to the lack of people around the place. The hall felt lonely without Marjorie waiting at the door to impart some unusual facts about Lord Wickham’s ancestors, or members of the public asking me questions.

  But as I drew level with Lord Fortescue’s office, Sheila called out to me.

  ‘Holly, do you happen to have an address for Esme Wilde?’

  I nipped into her office and she held up an envelope.

  ‘Invitation to Lord and Lady Fortescue’s Christmas at Home evening,’ said Sheila, answering my questioning expression.

  ‘Wow. Of course.’ I beamed at Sheila. ‘She’ll be flattered. In fact, I doubt I’ll hear of anything else from now until Christmas.’

  ‘How lovely.’ She chuckled, her blue eyes crinkling with delight. ‘Your presence is required too, Holly, although on a strictly professional footing, of course.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said and wrote down Esme’s address for her.

  I turned to go and then remembered something that had been niggling me for ages. ‘Sheila, what do you know about the renovation of the art gallery?’

  She removed her reading glasses and peered at me. ‘Goodness, Holly, that’s an old one. What made you ask?’

  I shrugged. ‘It was a leaflet I found months ago. Nothing really, I just wondered about it because nobody has ever mentioned it in all the time I’ve been here.’

  ‘That project got mothballed several years ago, unfortunately.’ She frowned thoughtfully and pushed her chair back from the desk. ‘Take a pew; I think I might have a folder about it somewhere.’

  ‘Actually,’ I smiled mysteriously, ‘I have an assignation with Lord Fortescue in the library. Can we do it another time, Sheila? Sorry.’

  ‘No problem, dear,’ she chirped. ‘Run along now.’

  Which I did. All the way to the library.

  I knocked lightly on the door and Lord Fortescue called me in. I hadn’t been in the library since that press conference when I’d caught my first glimpse of Ben, courtesy of Lady Fortescue’s iPad, looking tantalizingly naked in full view of our local press. The room was every bit as inviting as I remembered it: several reading lamps were lit against the fading wintry light, and the smell of leather and old books was mixed with woodsmoke from the roaring fire in the grate. There was no iPad in sight, although Lord Fortescue had a laptop balanced on his knee.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Your Lordship,’ I panted.

  He waved me into a seat and I chose a leather armchair facing him, cosily close to the fire. We sat in silence, watching the flames for a moment or two, until I couldn’t bear the suspense any longer.

  I cleared my throat. ‘So. How can I help?’

  Lord Fortescue templed his fingers together and peered at me.

  ‘There has never been anywhere else for me but Wickham Hall; I knew from an early age that my future lay here. So I finished my law degree, got married and started working as a solicitor, biding my time until I found myself as the new owner of the hall.’

  ‘And I understand your father passed away quite suddenly?’ I asked, wondering where this conversation could possibly be heading.

  ‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘Benedict, on the other hand, forged another life for himself as an artist as soon as he left home for university, a world away from anything his mother and I have ever known. He seems to have found something that makes his heart sing and if running Wickham Hall doesn’t have the same hold on him then who am I to force him down a road he doesn’t wish to travel?’

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ I blurted out.

  Lord Fortescue blinked at me, looking startled.

  ‘I think he’d do a brilliant job here,’ I continued boldly, ‘but I also know how much it means to him to stand in front of a blank canvas and create something beautiful, to do his own thing.’

  ‘Well put,’ he said, smiling softly. ‘And I agree with you. I am proud of what he’s achieved with his art.’

  My heart lifted; Ben would be over the moon to know that his father was proud of him. I cast my mind back to the launch of his art collection at the gallery when Ben said that neither of his parents valued his work. It would completely change their relationship if only they would talk to each other.

  ‘You should tell him, I don’t think he knows how you feel at all,’ I urged.

  ‘You’re right. I’d rather come to that conclusion myself.’ He clasped his hands across his chest. ‘That’s where I need your help.’

  ‘Well . . . of course, I’ll help if I can,’ I said, intrigued.

  ‘Thank you, Holly.’ He swivelled the
laptop around so that I could see the screen. ‘I haven’t a clue with all this techno stuff. Zara has given me Benedict’s Facebook address. Apparently he has been posting to his page, whatever that means. But I must be doing something wrong . . . I can’t seem to find him.’

  I stared at the picture on the screen.

  ‘Facebook?’ My face broke into a wide smile of relief. ‘You want to join Facebook?’

  If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be spending a winter’s afternoon teaching a man in his sixties, who also happened to be eighty-fifth in line to the throne, how to work Facebook, I’d have laughed my head off. And yet here I was: doing just that. One of the many reasons why I loved my job. Loved it.

  Within thirty minutes Lord Fortescue had a profile, although we decided to keep it private for the time being until he got the hang of it. He’d sent friend requests out to some of his chums who included several high-profile politicians and quite surprisingly a few celebrities too. My eyes were out on stalks by the time we’d finished, and when the friend request to Daniel Craig was accepted I nearly fell off my chair.

  ‘How do you know him?’ I squeaked.

  ‘Um?’ Lord Fortescue smoothed a hand over his fine silver hair and pondered their connection. ‘Ah, yes! Sat next to him at the rugby once, hit if off straight away.’

  Wait until Esme hears this . . .

  But not even the fluttering I got reading Daniel Craig’s posts could compare with the tug at my heartstrings when we clicked on Ben’s private profile.

  There hadn’t been many posts since he’d been in Cambodia. It seemed that the village he was staying in, unsurprisingly, had no internet access but occasional visits to a nearby town meant that he could log on to Facebook every so often. I could have kicked myself; why hadn’t I thought of this earlier? Ben had been gone nearly a month and in that time, the pain of missing him had been almost physical at times. The breath caught in my throat as we scrolled through the images he’d uploaded of the village, of the damaged school that they were repairing and the people he was working alongside. The most recent post showed him surrounded by children, all wreathed in smiles and holding up their paintings to the camera.

  ‘He looks happy, doesn’t he? Totally at home,’ Lord Fortescue marvelled.

  I nodded, the lump in my throat stealing my speech. Ben was in his element, sharing his love of art with an appreciative audience.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sighed, smoothing his hand over his silver hair. ‘This is clearly where his vocation lies, how can I ever hope to compete with that? What chance does Wickham Hall have? What can we possibly offer to make him stay more than five minutes?’

  He looked so despondent that I had to fight the urge to fling my arms round him and hug him tight.

  ‘Ben loves a challenge, that’s why he gets such a kick out of being in Cambodia; he can see the difference his work makes. You and Lady Fortescue have done so much here and he can’t see how to take Wickham Hall forward. It’s not a blank canvas.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’ Lord Fortescue chest heaved with a sad sigh.

  And then suddenly my heart twanged as my brain kicked into action. Perhaps there was a part of Wickham Hall that was a blank canvas. A project that he could really get his teeth into . . .

  I jumped up from my chair. ‘If you have any more problems on Facebook, just give me a call, Lord Fortescue. I’ll be in my office.’

  He nodded but was so engrossed in his son’s photographs that he barely noticed me leave. I strode back to my office purposefully.

  I loved Wickham Hall and deep down I knew that Benedict, the next lord of Wickham Hall, did too. It could compete for Ben’s attention, I was sure of it, and I had the beginnings of an idea that just might work.

  Chapter 3

  With just over two weeks to go until Christmas, Wickham Hall would be opening to visitors on Monday and we were almost ready.

  My week could be summed up in three words: holly (no pun intended), ivy and glitter. In fact, I had been sparkling for five days straight. I hadn’t expected to be involved with decorating the hall but of course it was a mammoth undertaking and it had been all hands on deck all week. Andy had directed us all admirably in our tasks of wiring seed heads, weaving ivy and untangling fairy lights, and so by Friday afternoon our White Christmas theme was almost complete.

  It was slightly chaotic at times, which rather goes against the grain with me. But despite the hard work, frayed nerves and occasional disasters (yes, eucalyptus leaves and poppy seed heads, I’m talking about you) it had been a magical few days and every so often I’d caught myself sighing happily at my good fortune. Wickham Hall was one of my most favourite places on earth and I was making it sparkle for Christmas and being paid for it – how lucky was I!

  My last job of the day before finishing for the weekend was to decorate the huge Christmas tree in the Red Sitting Room with head tour guide Marjorie. The fireplace had already been hung with garlands of fir interspersed with fragrant tufts of rosemary, bay leaves and lavender, which filled the room with a wonderfully pungent aroma. The huge fir tree, cut from the Wickham estate, was at least twice my height and decorating it would require three sets of stepladders, a thousand white lights, several hundred baubles and a steely head for heights.

  ‘How is it looking, Marjorie?’ I called from the top of the medium ladders. ‘Can you spot any bare bits?’

  I grinned at her as she took a step back and inadvertently managed to get her ankle trapped in a pool of silver tinsel. Marjorie was a gem; despite being in her late sixties she had worked ceaselessly all day and I’d had to persuade her to come down from the ladder after she insisted on being the one to run the fairy lights right to the top of the tree.

  She circled the tree, moving backwards and forwards, and I had to bite back a giggle at how seriously she was taking her duties.

  ‘Just there, Holly, by your knee looks a bit sparse,’ she said finally. ‘Here you are, I’ll pass you a couple of silver pine cones.’

  Bare patches dealt with, I joined her at the base of the tree to inspect the near empty crate of Christmas decorations. We both stared at the final item left at the bottom and shared a nervous look.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Right you are, love. I’ll make sure to hold the ladder tightly.’

  Marjorie reached into the crate and picked up a rather battered angel, chuckling as she straightened the angel’s glittery halo.

  ‘I remember the year young Benedict insisted on being the one to put the angel on the top of the tree.’

  My heart flipped at the sound of his name. ‘And chaos ensued, I imagine?’ I grinned.

  After leaving the library the other day, I’d logged on to my own Facebook page and sent Ben a friend request. So far he hadn’t accepted. I kept telling myself that this meant nothing; I was well aware that his internet access was limited. Even so, days had gone by, and I was sure he must have seen it by now. How long should I keep hoping that it was simply a lack of opportunity that explained his silence, rather than our row on Bonfire Night?

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Marjorie laughed. ‘He was a teenager but quite small for his age, I seem to remember, and certainly too small to reach but that didn’t stop him trying, of course. He climbed to the top of the ladder but was still miles away from his target.’

  ‘Did he admit defeat?’ I asked, already guessing the answer. I selected the tallest of the three ladders and began my ascent gingerly, grateful for Marjorie’s steadying presence at the bottom.

  ‘Not likely!’ she continued. ‘He launched himself at the tree like a basketball player, shouting something like, “Slam dunk the funk”. He just managed to hook the angel over the top before getting himself stuck in the branches. We were picking pine needles out of his curls for hours.’

  We both burst out laughing and I nearly fell off the ladder myself.

  ‘Poor thing, did he cry?’

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘He was
as proud as punch. Benedict adored seeing the hall all dressed up for Christmas; it brought out his creative side.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I panted, reaching up as far as I could to the very tip of the tree. ‘There.’

  Angel deposited, I clambered back down the ladder and shook out my aching hands.

  ‘I bet he enjoyed joining in with all the Christmas activities at the hall too, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did.’ She laughed softly at the memory. ‘There was never a dull moment when he was around.’

  I nodded. I knew just what she meant; things had been much more subdued at Wickham without him charging through the place like a whirlwind, disrupting my day and disarming me with his cheeky smile. And I never thought I’d say it, but I quite missed the interruptions to my schedule.

  ‘I think we’re good to go, shall we do the grand switch-on?’

  I stood back from the tree while Marjorie disappeared underneath the branches to find the electric socket. The lights came on and the tree lit up the room.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ I laughed.

  Marjorie wrapped an arm around my waist. ‘A job well done, I think. Benedict would approve of your angel-arranging skills. Will he be back for Christmas, do you know?’

  ‘Fingers crossed, Marjorie.’ I sighed. ‘I really hope so.’

  After work, I drove straight home, keen to catch up with Mum. Hathaway College had already broken up for the Christmas holidays and Mum and Steve had spent the afternoon together. Today was the big unveiling of the display that Henley library had made from a selection of her newspapers and I was looking forward to hearing all about it. I parked in Mill Lane behind Mum’s car, but aside from the twinkling lights around the porch and on the Christmas tree in the living room, which came on automatically, the cottage was in darkness.

  I let myself in and set to work lighting the fire. It was at times like these – increasingly often these days – when I came in to an empty house that I longed for a cat. Or a dog. Or anyone really who made a fuss of me when I arrived home. I knelt down in front of the grate and began shaping sheets of paper into tight twists. Ironically, since Mum had stopped hoarding, we never had enough old newspaper to light the fire with and I’d resorted to bringing home scrap paper from work.