by Freya North
Mr Tompkins frowned. ‘Why wouldn’t I give it to you to shift, love? Good commission you’d make – last valuation was three mill.’
‘Because,’ Lydia interrupted, ‘it’s time for Miss Hutton to return to her roots. She’s an art historian, you know. And her first role is to be finding purchasers for the art here at Longbridge which I shan’t be taking with me.’
‘I love that painting of the big horse,’ Mr Tompkins said. ‘Nice round arse – reminds me of someone.’ He winked at his wife who simply turned to Lydia and Stella with an expression of theatrical exasperation.
‘You can have first refusal on it all,’ said Lydia. ‘Furniture, art – and I’m throwing in all the curtains. For free.’
‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ said Mr Tompkins.
‘I like a nice big painting,’ said Mrs Tompkins. ‘I don’t know about art.’ She turned to Stella. ‘But you do, then?’
Stella nodded. They could see she couldn’t talk and they chose not to comment on the fact that a tear had just fallen audibly onto the plate in front of her.
‘Best in her field,’ said Lydia. ‘Especially Rembrandt but unfortunately, we don’t have one of those. We do have a Reynolds, though. Come and see.’
* * *
That evening, Xander returned home to find a hand-delivered letter waiting for him on the doormat.
Thursday 28th October
My dear Xander
Would you come to Longbridge tomorrow evening? Join me in a glass of sherry? 6.30 prompt.
Lydia F
‘I’ve been summoned,’ he phoned Stella. Stella thought, it’s something to do with the cottages on Tramfield Lane. But though she didn’t know what, she sensed not to even mention it to him.
Mrs Biggins was on her way home when Xander arrived.
‘She’s in the library,’ she told him.
‘How are you, Mrs Biggins?’
‘I’m jolly,’ she said. ‘As always.’
‘You always are,’ said Xander, ‘unless you’re crotchety with Lady Lydia.’
‘That’s when I’m at my most jolly,’ Mrs Biggins said and Xander knew exactly what she meant.
He shut the great doors behind him, knocked gently at the library door and entered on Lydia’s say-so.
‘Good evening, Xander.’ She looked tired yet radiant – the sort of heady exhaustion that comes from supreme effort, hard graft and ultimate triumph. A bit like running a marathon.
‘Good evening, Lydia.’
‘Have a seat – no, next to me. There’s a boy.’
He sat. She passed him an envelope. It had his name and address on the front. He was about to open it when she stilled his hand. ‘Longbridge has been sold,’ she said.
‘I’m so pleased,’ said Xander. It was that marathon feeling again.
‘Very good people,’ said Lydia. ‘Who want to buy my taste. I have come to see that in this day and age, the big money is found where you’d least expect it. And one is not to judge on background – but the quality of the person alone.’
‘Well done you,’ said Xander.
‘Well – I had a little help from Caroline and Stella,’ she said. ‘We will exchange contracts by Christmas, with completion planned for next spring.’
‘Very good,’ said Xander, ‘that’s a decent run of time for you. And we’ll all help in any way we can.’
‘I know.’
‘I heard about Art,’ Xander said. ‘That’s great. I’m so happy for him – and I know how much it must mean to you.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Lydia. ‘And we need to talk about you.’
‘Me?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll be fine – I’m a grown man, you know.’
Lydia couldn’t find her voice. She swallowed hard. Drew herself up nice and straight. ‘You’re a Longbridge Boy,’ she said.
He took her hand. ‘And I’ll never forget it.’
‘I’ll say,’ and Lydia laughed. She looked at him. ‘Dear Xander.’ She paused. ‘In this envelope are the title deeds for number one, number two and number three Lime Grove Cottages, Tramfield Lane, Long Dansbury.’ She felt Xander pull away but she grabbed his arm and steadied them both. ‘I know what you are like – how proud you are. I’m not giving them to you, but you will buy them at a peppercorn price. I was in that wretched place, Tesco, the other day. Mrs Biggins wanted to show me clothing. Can you believe that? But it gave me an idea. Three for Two, they call it. Apparently, it’s everywhere these days. So – you can have the three cottages for the price of two, Xander. At their value on the day you were born.’
He couldn’t speak.
‘However, there’s a great big But,’ she said and, automatically, they both glanced through the open door to the enormous horse’s arse facing them from the canvas on the stairwell. ‘And the caveat is that you look after Miss Gilbey – just as you do now. You will be her landlord. She’s independent – but she’s old. Almost as old as me. And we all need a watchful eye in our dotage.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I—’
‘I haven’t finished!’ Lydia snapped.
‘Sorry,’ said Xander, ‘please.’ Half thoughts churned with a barrage of emotions.
‘The final condition of this deal is that you knock number two and number three into one.’
Xander looked at her. Tipped his head. Knock them into one? He looked at Lydia, who appeared to be wanting to say something, but was unable. He wondered if he should offer her a tissue to wipe away the tears that wouldn’t stay put. Wondered if she even realized she was weeping.
But Lydia did speak. ‘You knock the two cottages into one and you make it into a family home, Xander. You make it into a little Longbridge of your own.’
Epilogue
‘Here, Will, you can have this.’ Xander plonked a fleece beanie that had been a freebie from a client onto Will’s head.
‘How much will My Lady Lydia pay me?’
‘Well,’ said Xander, as if doing advanced maths by staring hard at the sky, ‘it depends. She tends to change the going rate from year to year.’
Though all the airports were shut with the snow, the day was bright and the road to Long Dansbury from Hertford was surprisingly clear and very beautiful. It really was like driving through a Christmas card depicting a classic winter scene of yesteryear.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Stella asked. ‘Sounds pretty dangerous to me.’
‘Is your mother being rude about my driving?’ Xander asked Will, glancing at him from the rear-view mirror. Will just laughed.
‘You know what I mean,’ Stella gently scolded.
‘It’s a terrible idea,’ Xander laughed, ‘but it’s a tradition.’
‘Is that why she’s asked the Tompkins? To hand it down?’
Xander smiled. ‘I reckon so. Come on! There she is.’
Lydia was a strange sight indeed, top to toe in tweed with enormous ancient mittens – the type that Scott would have packed for the Antarctic – and strange old gumboots from which froths of insulating newspaper puffed out of the tops.
‘Welcome!’ Lydia called. ‘Come on!’ Will scampered over to her and she patted at him as if he was a Labrador puppy mid-training. ‘Come on!’
Arms linked, Xander and Stella strolled over.
‘I haven’t all day, you know – there’s Christmas carols at Summerhill Place this afternoon. Mercy has arranged for Mrs Biggins and I to attend. Guests of Honour.’
Will looked expectantly at his mother – and Stella said ‘maybe’ under her breath.
‘Right,’ said Xander, ‘which tree?’
They followed Lydia. A path had been neatly cut into the snow, and the grass crunched underfoot as if it had been iced by Mrs Biggins. Through the gardens they went, to the little copse behind.
‘That one,’ Lydia decreed. They looked up the tall straight trunk to the bare branches. High up, like a puff of green candyfloss, the mistletoe gathered in a great thatchy ball. Art was already there. With a ladder. And Claren
ce, just watching. Art held the ladder, and with a hearty slap across his shoulder blades from Lydia, Xander climbed.
‘Lydia!’ Stella gasped.
‘Oh hush, girl,’ said Lydia. ‘We’ve done it this way for ever.’
Xander scaled the tree nimbly at first, then cautiously, and then just an inch at a time. Suddenly, mistletoe rained down on them in clumps and Xander was making his passage back down the tree. There were two baskets nearby and Will was gathering the sprigs and sprays into one of them.
‘Not bad,’ Lydia assessed the basket. ‘A little paltry.’ She seemed irritated and looked about her, suddenly brightening. ‘There! Look at that lot up there!’ The mistletoe in a neighbouring tree was twice as high.
‘Lydia – absolutely not,’ said Stella. Lydia turned to Xander as if to say, you’re not going to let her talk to me like that, are you?
Xander shrugged. ‘She’s the boss,’ he said and, after a moment, Lydia thought, that’s no bad thing.
‘I’ll be back in a jiff,’ she said, and disappeared.
In the meantime, the Tompkins arrived, kitted out from top to toe in brand new attire befitting the nouveau landed gentry in a style that was seen last in the nineteenth century. They’d added modern snowboots and ski gloves, and fluffy white ear muffs for Mrs Tompkins. They looked as if they were half in, half out of a time warp but it was rather touching and they looked very chuffed. Everyone chatted amiably as they waited for Lydia. Will went through his Christmas wish list for the umpteenth time, should anyone happen to be listening.
And then Mrs Tompkins screamed.
And Stella said, oh Jesus.
Mr Tompkins said, flippin’ Nora.
And Will screeched with delight, she has a gun!
But Xander, Art and Clarence just laughed and shrugged. They’d seen it all before.
‘This, Mr Tompkins, is how you get the mistletoe down if Xander goes all sissy and won’t climb up for it.’
And Lydia raised the rifle and began shooting high up in the branches. ‘Off you go, Will,’ she said, sending him to pick up, as if he was a retriever on a shoot. ‘You see, we sell Longbridge Mistletoe – it’s quite a nice little earner. Though Xander here insists on taking forty per cent.’
‘Fifty,’ said Xander.
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ said Lydia.
‘Where do you sell it?’
‘At the Long Dansbury Christmas market,’ said Lydia. And everyone knew that however she and Xander divvied the proceeds, they always donated the lot to the community fund.
With the rifle now safely in Art’s hands and the baskets brimming with mistletoe, Mr Tompkins turned to Lydia.
‘That date you want – next spring for completion – it’s a bank holiday.’
‘Well, how ridiculous!’ Lydia barked. ‘How very inconvenient!’
‘Doesn’t the Queen have something to do with approving public holidays?’ asked Mrs Tompkins, looking hopefully at Lydia.
And they all wondered whether Lydia would be straight on the phone, on some secret hotline to Buckingham Palace, suggesting to the Queen that she change it.
‘So we’ll have to move it to June,’ Mr Tompkins said.
‘Do you actually know her?’ Mrs Tompkins asked Lydia artlessly.
And Lydia let an ambiguous tilt of the head and a knowing expression widen the woman’s eyes.
‘Those garden parties at Buckingham Palace can be terribly dull and one never has enough to eat,’ Lydia said. ‘I think, next year, before I leave Long Dansbury, I shall throw an enormous party right here in the Longbridge gardens.’
Everybody congratulated her on an excellent idea. Christmas was coming. The world looked so pretty. The New Year wasn’t far off and it would herald change for them all, bringing with it the growth of hope for good times ahead, the seeds for which had already been planted.
Lydia could sense emotion welling between them all like those silly Mexican waves Will had described happening at football matches. They’d even done them at Wimbledon. Most inelegant and quite unnecessary. She cleared her throat. Now was no time for emotion – they had a busy morning ahead. ‘Now, we like to have a little sherry as we divide the mistletoe and tie it with red ribbon. Who’s joining me?’
Everyone.
In the house, Mrs Biggins had everything ready. She was standing at the front door as though she owned the place.
Stella lingered behind. Just a little way off. No one noticed.
As she passed the statue of Lord Freddie she stopped. She stood on tiptoes, placing her arms gently around him, and kissed his cold old cheek.
He tried to look unimpressed but actually, today, he regarded her most benevolently.
‘Happy?’ he asked, as if he had been at the helm of all that had happened to her since they first met back in the spring.
‘Very,’ said Stella.
She walked on, then turned and retraced her steps to him. ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘You’re definitely staying here, Sir. You’ll never be parted from Longbridge.’
And as Stella skipped through the snow to join the others inside, Lord Frederick Makepeace William Fortescue glanced at the house that he’d built and looked out over the gardens he’d planned and thought how beautiful all of it looked today.
Acknowledgements
I had a ball researching and writing Rumours – snooped around some divine houses and met truly extraordinary people. I respect the fact that most wish to remain anonymous – but I thank them sincerely for their time, their hospitality and their memories. It was a privilege. It was riveting. I am honoured. Katey Hugi – a wink and a big high five to you!
Team North, as ever, have been superstars. You wouldn’t believe the behind-the-scenes effort that this talented and supportive posse invest to ensure my books reach you. My agent Jonathan Lloyd and my editor, Lynne Drew – wow, a not so dirty dozen. At HarperCollins, I’m indebted to Oli Malcolm, Roger Cazalet, Adam Humphrey, Thalia Suzuma, Ben North, Damon Greeney, Kate Elton, Alice Moore, Belinda Budge and Victoria Barnsley. Mary Chamberlain – thank you. Maura Brickell – thank you.
Writing this novel also coincided with me feeling wonderfully settled into my new life in the Hertfordshire countryside and my own community has been instrumental in this. So here are my heartfelt thank yous. The Cucumber Girls – especially Souki and Lyla. The Little B people – particularly Sandie Ash. The St Jo’s ladies – Lisa W, Michelle S, Mel B and Helen B-C. The Tuesday Potters – you never know, you might be next!
To my besties: Sarah Henderson, Jo Smith, Kirsty Jones, Clare Griffin, Jessica Adams, Mel Bartram, Lucy Smouha and Emma O’Reilly – finally we had a year when there was way more laughter than tears.
To my family: as always, you’ve been a tremendous support. Thanks – Ma and Pa, Dan and Osi, Jane and Jonny.
To my beautiful and extraordinary children Felix and Georgia – what a ride we’re having! Hold on tight, kids, it’s going to be spectacular.
In memory of Liz Berney 1968-2005
About the Author
Freya North is the author of 11 bestselling novels which have, in a career spanning 16 years, been translated into many languages. From teenage girls to elderly gentlemen, Freya’s novels have won the hearts of legions of readers worldwide. In 2008, she won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for Pillow Talk and was shortlisted for the RNA Contemporary Romantic Novel Award in 2012 for Chances.
At school, Freya was constantly reprimanded for day-dreaming – so she still can’t quite believe that essentially, this is what she is now paid to do. She was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family and other animals, where she writes from a stable in her back garden.
To connect with Freya and hear about events, unique competitions and sneak previews of what she’s writing, join her at www.facebook.com/freya.north or log onto www.freyanorth.com and find out more.
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