‘Gaynor wants you to keep this on for the afternoon,’ she said, as quickly as ever. ‘The crew will follow you around while the Earl gives you a tour of the house. It’s a chance for the viewers to see all the rooms again.’
Ahead, Gaynor fitted Edward with the same equipment – except she seemed to take longer, especially threading the wire into place under his shirt, and, to my annoyance, I felt an urge to do the same.
The Earl appeared and headed over to me, puffing on his pipe.
‘Lunch will be served after this, Abigail,’ he said. ‘It will give us the opportunity to exchange news.’ There was no smile, no crinkly smiley eyes. He looked as if I was the last person he wanted here.
‘Thank you, Uncle,’ I said and breathed in the smell of tobacco, glad I’d not said ‘ace’ or ‘ta’. Gaynor positioned me in between him and his son. I swatted away a cloud of tiny fruit flies.
‘Big smiles, everyone,’ ordered Gaynor, before giving a rusty smoker’s cough. ‘Abbey, darling, if you could pick one of those apples and hold it in front of you… Fabulous. Right, Charlie, let’s roll.’
Charlie gazed into the camera. ‘And here we are, folks, once again back at Applebridge Hall. Teddy, here…’ Edward bristled ‘… Teddy has an announcement to make. Over to you, Lord Edward,’ he said with a big smile.
The camera panned over to me, Edward and his dad.
‘The prize money we won for reaching the final has gone towards extending the kitchens, at the front of the left wing on the ground floor,’ said Edward calmly. ‘We’ve built five work-stations to start with, that will enable us to run top-notch cookery classes – residential ones eventually, we hope, that will accommodate ten students at a time.’
The Earl muttered something about not having strangers kipping in his home.
‘We already have three locals eager to be the first students,’ continued Edward. ‘On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays the doors shall open to… Applebridge Food Academy.’
‘Classy stuff, Teddy,’ said Charlie and clapped him on the back ‘So, a kind of cookery school. And where does your cousin fit into this plan?’
‘With renowned caterer, the Honourable Richard Croxley, as her father,’ he said, ‘Abbey has culinary talent in her blood. Applebridge Food Academy will be a traditional, family-run affair with her at the helm.’
‘A kind of Mansion Masterchef,’ said Charlie. ‘I love it! After all, cooking is the new sex! Viewers love gastronomy programmes. Your cousin could be the next Nigella, perhaps. So, Abbey, Chat with the Chingo – tell me what you think to teaching people how to cook posh nosh.’
Huh? I felt dizzy. They’d got it wrong. I was only here to serve scones in a coffee shop. Waitressing, that was my experience – plus I could nuke food in the microwave, prepare cold snacks and order takeaway. But wait a minute… Cookery school? That’s what Abbey must have told Lady C about on the phone, that day in the park. The two of them knew!
My mouth went dry, knees weak, heart fast… Me, cook from scratch and instruct other people? Please don’t say the future of Applebridge Hall depended on that!
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Saturday 1st September
‘Comments’
3p.m. Good afternoon. Time for a quick appearance whilst my, um, cousin… recuperates after her journey. Naturally, I am pleased to see her. It means…an awful lot. Family is of paramount importance to Father and me. Indeed, it is with amusement and a touch of family pride that I can again observe Abigail’s… outspokenness—a true Croxley trait. However, it’s her cooking skills which shall be most significant over the next two weeks, and I’m interested to see your comments about this morning’s poser question – do keep them coming until you discover the answer in tomorrow evening’s programme.
Some of you have even put forward your own entrepreneurial concepts for us to follow. Knityourownmansion, I’m intrigued by your idea of producing woollen earmuffs in the shape of apples. Tiarablogger, I like the idea of those cider flavours you suggested – although, utterly English as it sounds, I’m not sure about apple, sage and onion.
Time to dash, but Lovehotnoble, let me first decline your kind gift proposal. On a purely practical note, I suspect the sequinned trim would chafe in all the wrong places. I do hope my frankness isn’t offensive. I…where possible…always aim to tell the truth.
Chapter 4
Within minutes of this announcement I had one of my funny turns. Unsteadily, I wavered from side to side, before my body went into spasm. There was no need to call the doctor. I’d suffered this before. The remedy was an afternoon in bed. Otherwise, I might have had to pull out of the show…
Sounded believable, didn’t it? And, sure enough, everyone in the orchard fell for my act, which was the only way I could cope with Edward’s terrifying announcement about me being some cookery teacher—distraction was the key, before Charlie asked me any awkward questions.
Yet I felt bad, putting on such a performance, which even Edward fell for after I’d writhed for a few seconds in the soil. He and Kathleen whisked me into the house, my eyes half-shut but still managing to goggle at some fancy staircase leading up to the first floor. Once left alone in my bedroom, I turned on my front and groaned into the pillow.
Urgh. Cringe. Blush. Poor Kathleen had seemed mega concerned, deep lines forming around her eyes as she’d tucked me in. But there was no way I could just stand in front of the camera after Edward dropped that bombshell. Gemma Goodwin run some cookery school? No way. After a minute or so, I sat up in bed and opened my eyes.
Forget my planned tour around Applebridge Hall. I needed the rest of the day to phone Lady C. I tugged off my mic. It was dark. Before leaving, Edward had gently pulled thick curtains around the – listen to this—four-poster bed. Stifled in the enclosed space, I drew them back.
Wow. The room was amazzzzzzin’, with the walls’ bottom half wood-panelled and the top painted plain red. In contrast, the ceiling was white and ornate. I bounced up and down for a moment. Talk about The Princess and the Pea - I’d never been on such a high mattress. To my left was the door and opposite an en suite. I gazed around at a floral tapestry and an intricately carved fireplace. On the right was one of the huge windows I’d seen from outside.
I picked up a glass of water from the bedside table. Mmm. I needed that.
Right. Time to ring Lady C. I reached for my handbag, which was on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed, next to a bowl of smelly pot pourri. On Lady C’s advice, I’d bought a cheap phone and set it up with the name ‘Abbey Croxley’ for her, as my supposed aunt, to contact me. Plus that meant I had a mobile to use out in the open, around Applebridge Hall. My real phone – my life! – with all of Gemma Goodwin’s contacts, was hidden in a pair of socks.
‘Please pick up,’ I whispered, which she did, within seconds.
‘Hello, Gemma,’ said Lady C in a small voice.
‘You knew! All about Applebridge Food Academy!’
‘Now, calm down, dear, you see…’
‘And Abbey! How could she not tell me, at least?’
‘Abigail only found out that day in the park – her father failed to mention the details previously. He has such faith – quite rightly – in my niece’s culinary talents that he didn’t think it would be a big deal. Which, of course, it wouldn’t, if it was actually her staying at Applebridge Hall…’
‘But why didn’t she warn me?’
Lady C sighed. ‘I, um, might have persuaded her not to – played down the whole “school” bit. I said you’d no doubt have cooks doing the real work… And she was so wrapped up preparing for her African trip…’ Another sigh came down the line. ‘Frankly, dear, I didn’t want you to change your mind. I apologise. That was selfish.’
‘But how did you think I’d cope, once here?’
‘Well, surely you can cook a bit, dear. I’ll help you choose the recipes. We’ll keep them simple…’
I shook my head in disbelief. Didn’t she know that, nowada
ys, it wasn’t the goal of every young woman to be a domestic goddess? That plenty, like me, considered the microwave a more important invention than the wheel?
‘We’ve got tomorrow to plan the recipes, then?’ she said, more firmly. ‘Your first class is on Monday?’
I gasped. ‘What… No… I mean…You’re taking this seriously? But I can’t cook, let alone teach. We need to think up some excuse, a good reason why I can’t possibly do that job.’
‘Keep calm and carry on,’ was the answer that came down the line. ‘Don’t arouse suspicion.’
‘But I can’t—’
‘No such word as “can’t” in a lady’s vocabulary,’ she interrupted – naughty! ‘I’m sure your culinary knowledge is better than you think.’
‘Okay. Test me on a few cookery terms,’ I said, determined to prove her wrong.
‘Bake blind.’
‘With my eyes shut?’ I replied.
‘Beat eggs,’ Lady C ventured.
‘That seems mega cruel.’
‘Skin a banana?’
‘Barbaric!’ I declared.
‘Follow the recipe,’ she said, hopefully.
‘Where’s it going?’
‘Turn on the oven, Gemma?’
‘How? Call it hot stuff and flourish a whisk?’
A sigh came down the phone.
‘Look, I can scramble eggs and bake a potato,’ I said, ‘but, honestly, that’s about it.’
‘Have they suspected you’re not Abigail yet?’
‘I don’t think so…’
‘There you go,’ said Lady C, voice brighter. ‘Things are off to a jolly good start. All we need to do is talk through some simple recipes.’
Which we did, for what felt like hours. The trouble was, I’d never baked a cake and bought pastry ready-made. I got white sauce out of a jar and mistook broccoli for cauliflower. Finally, Lady C gave up and said she’d call me early the following day. Overnight, she’d study her cookery books, determined to find some impressive dishes that looked more complicated than they actually were.
My stomach gurgled loudly. I wasn’t used to missing lunch and suddenly craved a kebab with a triple chocolate milkshake. Someone rapped at the door. I smoothed down my polo shirt.
‘Enter,’ I said, my voice a bit wobbly. Perhaps they’d sussed out my fake collapse.
The door opened. Honey curls appeared and Edward walked in with my suitcase.
‘You look better,’ he said, a brief flash of relief in his eyes. He put down my luggage. ‘No doubt Kathleen will insist you have some of her Scotch Broth.’
‘Thank you, Cousin.’ My cheeks burned. ‘Um, apologies for before…’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. Health problems don’t make for good television. The Croxleys are old school. We don’t get ill—certainly not in public.’
Huh? For a second, my shame evaporated! ‘Thanks for the concern,’ I said, unable to hide a strong hint of sarcasm that I’d never heard Abbey use.
‘You might mean that when you hear I’ve persuaded Gaynor to cut that unsavoury scene from tomorrow night’s show.’
Was he bonkers? That was good telly. ‘Um, Teddy…’
He scowled.
‘Edward… That’s just the sort of footage that makes a reality show – according to my lodger, Gemma,’ I hastened to add. ‘She’s a big fan of that genre. From what I can gather, it’s the dramatic bits that gain viewers. It’s not a serious illness and my, um, medication helps. Don’t edit it out on my behalf.’
‘I didn’t, Abigail. It’s to uphold the family reputation.’
‘It’s Abbey,’ I said, meeting his scowl.
‘Throughout history, Croxley women have been strong,’ he said and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘They are stoic in the midst of war, resourceful during economic downturns, uncomplaining in the face of disease…’ His voice wavered. ‘You only had to see the way my mother carried herself during her last months. It does our image no good to have you drop to the floor because you… you felt out of sorts.’
It could have been some serious brain condition, for all he cared. Yet my fists didn’t curl for long as I reminded myself that I had been acting, plus I’d noticed how the mention of his mum made his chin give a teeny wobble.
‘You must miss the Countess terribly,’ I said. ‘When did she…?’
‘Die?’ His body stiffened. ‘I’m sorry that part of our family history has slipped your memory. Or perhaps your father never found it important enough to explain.’
Of course—Abbey would have at least known that. Urgh. Poor bloke. My stomach twisted really tight.
‘No… I mean…’ I cleared my throat. ‘I was just going to ask: when did she first receive the diagnosis?’ I guessed she’d had the Big C. ‘Father didn’t give me many details and, as you know…’ blagging for my life, here ‘… with the estrangement between our parents, attending the funeral proved to be, sadly, quite impossible.’
‘Granted.’ His cheek twitched. ‘From start to finish, the cancer took three years to take her from Father and me. Two years next month she’s been gone. Mother was only fifty-five.’
A lump rose in my throat as Edward’s eyes looked all dull. Wow. How tragic. Nowadays, fifty-five was like the new forty. And if anyone knew what life was like without a mum it was me.
‘How old was she when your parents married?’ I tucked a loose dyed blonde curl behind my ear. The Earl must have been a right sugar daddy.
‘Twenty-three, I think. Father was forty-two.’
We sat in silence for a few seconds, before I rummaged in my handbag.
‘My hairbrush—it was in here earlier…’ I must have looked a right mess and totally unladylike. With a sigh, I pulled out all the pins, and locks of hair dropped around my face. Lady C would not have been impressed.
‘Here,’ said Edward in a gruff voice as he approached and slipped an elastic band from his wrist. He sat on the bed, turned me away from him and deftly twisted my hair at either side before tying it all together at the back with the elastic band.
‘Um…thank you so much,’ I said and turned back to him, wondering why tingles ran up and down my spine.
‘I used to do that for Mother,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Especially at the end, when she was bed-bound.’ He stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Kathleen will be up in a minute. Please be in formal dress and downstairs for seven sharp at the latest. Viscount Hamilton-Brown and his family will be here at six-thirty for drinks.’ The door shut behind him.
What an oddball he was – one minute so gentle, the next abrupt and stand-offish.
I leapt off the bed to gaze out of the window. My bedroom was at the back of the house and looked down onto the cutest courtyard with fancy flower pots and intricate metal benches. Jean stood in the ornamental gardens, weeding flower beds. Nick was further away, working in a regimented vegetable patch. To the left was the maze Abbey had mentioned and in the distance was a forested area, just in front of which was… I squinted…grey headstones, fenced off. Aha—the family cemetery.
My eyes headed back to Nick. He looked shorter than Edward, with a stockier build and more cheerful face – less typically attractive than my supposed cousin, but there was a certain charisma, an air of being confident with women.
He called out something to Jean. She laughed and he grinned back. Nick would need a sense of humour if he was going to agree to my plan. How on earth was I going to catch the gardener alone and put forward my mega idea ASAP, i.e. before dinner tonight?
Another knock at the door interrupted my plotting and Kathleen entered with her yummy broth. Weird it was, calling her by her first name while she addressed me as Miss Croxley, but Lady C had drilled into me that etiquette about names and titles was especially important with staff. So, after I’d done my best to convince her I felt fine and there was no need to worry, we talked about the evening’s dinner. Like a nanny, Kathleen hovered until I’d cleared the soup bowl and, thanks to her warm down-to-ea
rth chat, tension seeped out of my shoulders and my bedroom began to feel more homely. For the first time I felt I could cope with two weeks living in this building.
After she left, I took a leisurely shower and changed into one of Abbey’s smart black dresses. Its round neckline was modest but low enough to show a little shoulder. Freakily, it went down to the ground, covering every inch of my legs, although it had always looked kind of classy on Abbey. At least it had short sleeves, otherwise I might have really fainted from the heat.
I pinned up my hair again and put on Abbey’s crystal necklace and matching earrings. I applied a small squirt of perfume and a subtle shade of eyeshadow, just like my best bud would. It was six-fifteen. My mouth felt dry. Ahead of me was a whole evening of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Inhale. Exhale. Feeling calmer, I left my bedroom and headed along a high ceilinged corridor, actually feeling rather grown-up and glamorous. Halfway down the winding mahogany staircase—yay!—I bumped into Nick!
‘Miss Croxley,’ he said and gave a smile. Flecks of soil covered his T-shirt. ‘Nice to see you’ve recovered,’ he said in a concerned voice.
‘Thank you. Kathleen’s broth has revived me.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, I was hoping to catch you.’
He raised one eyebrow.
‘About earlier,’ I said. ‘Me pretending that you and I spent time together last year…’
Nick held up the palm of his hand. ‘Please, Miss Croxley. I get it. We’ve all been briefed about how we need to make it look as if you are a regular visitor.’
‘It’s not just that… Can I be quite frank? May I speak to you in confidence?’
‘No problem, Miss.’ Nick’s eyes twinkled and I couldn’t help smiling – which was great. I’d always been won over by blokes who could make me laugh. A good sense of humour beat looks for me every time. I mean, there was only so much a six-pack could do after a crap day at work, whereas a joke…
Doubting Abbey Page 5
