‘Good Lord, that brings back memories,’ said the Earl. ‘Named after the Minister for Food, wasn’t it? Our cook could work miracles with Potato Pete and Doctor Carrot.’
Lady C let out a girlish giggle. ‘I haven’t heard those terms for years.’
‘So what’s in this pie?’ I asked.
‘Vegetables,’ said Lady C, ‘and a gravy made from Marmite and rolled oats. The pastry lid is made from potato and, if you were particularly lucky, one would grate cheese on top.’
Ick. What a shame I’d probably be joining the guests for lunch.
‘And dessert?’ I asked.
‘Apple jelly, followed by eggless jam sponge with the coffee.’
Even worse! It was hardly chocolate brownies with ice cream and fudge sauce.
I drained my cup of tea and reached for the phone on the low coffee table. It was one of those old-fashioned ones where the receiver was horizontal and it had a rotary dial instead of touch buttons.
‘Shall I start to work my way through this list, then?’ I said, once again looking at the floral sheet of paper.
‘Give me half of the names,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll phone from the library. The sooner we can contact these people, the better. And we’ve a bit of extra time now, before we watch tonight’s show, as it’s been moved to a later slot at nine o’clock.’
I raised my eyebrows as I folded the sheet of paper and tore it neatly in half.
‘There’s been several complaints about the content of the Marwick Castle footage, so the programme had to move to after the watershed.’ Edward shrugged and took his half of the list from me. ‘Gaynor’s pretty happy as they’ll now be able to broadcast any unsuitable scenes that were previously edited out—starting tonight. She said something about nudity at the Castle, and a drunken brawl.’
‘How terrible,’ I muttered.
‘Indeed, Abbey,’ said Lady C. ‘It’s disgraceful, putting viewing figures before moral standards.’
‘No, I mean how terrible for us,’ I said. ‘Reality show viewers love those risqué scenes. The Baron and his estate will be more popular than ever because of this.’
‘Bill said The Green Acorn has installed a television,’ said the Earl, ‘so that regulars can watch it together in there.’
If only I could become invisible and sit with the locals to get their take on how entertaining Marwick Castle really was… I sat more upright. Of course! Like the other night, all I needed to do was dress as myself. Then I’d find out whether Applebridge Hall was losing the votes of the loyal villagers.
‘The most risqué footage of ours tonight is probably shots of those intruders Thompson saw messing about in the pond, during that storm last night,’ said Edward.
‘Really?’ I squeaked. ‘And no one’s still any idea who they were?’
‘None whatsoever,’ he said. ‘Must have been cold in that water.’ The hint of a smile crossed his lips.
Could he be thinking about me, Gemma, and our time in the pond the other night? Was it too far-fetched to think he’d like to see the real me again?
Jeez, this was mega mad…crazy. I’d only known Edward a few days. All these feelings that were starting to surface… Perhaps I had Stockholm Syndrome—where a girl’s kidnapped and falls in love with the bloke keeping her captive. Except Edward wasn’t holding me prisoner; I was here by my own free will, and we were so mismatched it was bonkers to even mention the word ‘love’.
Yummy teacake finished, I needed to get down to The Green Acorn ASAP. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I might head to the computer in the cellar and go through this list of names. If I don’t come back at nine to watch the show, perhaps someone could fill me in on how it went, tomorrow.’ And, please God, let none of them recognize me as the intruder, legs akimbo above the pond.
Lady C stared at me for a moment and then patted my arm. ‘You’re a good girl, doing your best to help.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I mean, apparently yesterday’s Scottish cookery class was a great success – Kathleen, erm, told me how much you’d practised.’
We exchanged looks and, for the first time since her arrival, she gave me a mega warm smile. At last I was finally doing something right. Perhaps I really would save the day for Abbey. In fact, on my way out of the Parlour, Edward earnestly whispered, ‘Best of British with the phone calls.’ His breath tickled my neck and the hairs there stood on end. My stomach knotted slightly—lying to him was the pits. But how could I come clean about my identity after Kathleen saying that the one thing Edward hated in life was deception?
I bolted to my nearby bedroom. Boobs, lashes, gloss, bronzer… I had no time to lose in dressing up as me and slinking out to the pub. Phone calls to people on that list would have to wait until first thing tomorrow morning, no doubt after another night of washing red dye out of my hair.
In my favourite short black dress with a snug-style denim coat and high shoes, I crept down the staircase and past the kitchens, keeping an eye out for Mr Thompson. With a sigh of relief, I made it past the orchards and to the bottom of the drive in one piece. Speed-walking now, I soon reached The Green Acorn. A couple of smokers sat outside on wooden benches, just in front of the pretty window boxes filled with orange and yellow flowers. I shivered and reckoned the Indian Summer was over, despite smudges of candy-pink sun against the evening sky – ooh, listen to me, all poetic.
With a deep breath, I went into the pub, which was a lot noisier than the last time I was there. In fact I could hardly get to the bar for bodies – people of all ages, from toddlers in prams to pensioners older than the Earl. Free, once again, from my duty to behave like a lady, I craftily pushed my way to the bar. Mmm, a mouthful of pear cider and the crunch of pork scratchings – what more could a girl want? Apart from a chair – but there was little chance of that, so I hovered by a coat stand, to the right of a mega TV that had been set up on a high table.
I swigged (yep, unladylike me ‘swigged’—yay!) my cider. By the looks of it, I’d missed just the first few minutes of the show as my cookery class was underway. Blimey. Would I ever get used to seeing myself in such classy clothes? Yet it was strange – my Gemma outfits weren’t as comfortable now. The chicken fillets seemed a bit silly and the false eyelashes itched. Most of my tops and bottoms were tight and my shoes squeezed my toes. Whereas Abbey’s stuff, some of it quickly altered by Lady C, just fitted to a tee and seemed to show off a shape I’d never thought I had. Perhaps that’s why my flatmate was always banging on about the importance of good tailoring.
‘Bit of a prat, that Chingo bloke,’ muttered the young guy next to me, in an old man’s flat cap. Even weirder, considering we were indoors, he hid behind huge shades and had a blinding iceberg-white smile. ‘You’ve watched all the series?’ he said.
‘Um, yeah. Us villagers owe Applebridge Hall a bit of loyalty, right?’
The man sneered. ‘We ain’t in Jurassic times, you know, when locals bowed before the Lord of the Manor. As for cookery lessons? Borrrrrrring—although that Abbey bird’s all right. Bit up herself but, after a couple of drinks, I bet there’s a vamp inside.’
Vamp? What would Lady C say? I stuck the cider bottle in my mouth to suppress a chuckle. For some reason, he made me want to laugh.
‘What do you make of that Baron chap?’ he asked and pulled his cap further down. ‘Now a castle… That’s the sort of building that deserves to win this show.’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno—his family haven’t lived there very long.’
‘Who cares? Dungeons, banquets, swords… What’s Applebridge Hall got to offer, apart from a stupid maze and apples?’
‘You’re not from the village?’ I said in a low voice, as everyone quietened down and listened to one of Kathleen’s Queen Mum stories.
‘No,’ he said eventually, after Kathleen’s voice had stopped. He grinned. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Well done, Miss Croxley!’ shouted someone as Charlie Chingo was now on the telly, congratulating ‘Abbey’ on a successful cooker
y class.
‘Those pheasant breasts look a darned sight better than Monday’s stew!’ called another voice.
Titters filled the pub – but I stood taller, as if I’d been awarded an OBE. The banter was mega friendly and when the on-screen me bowed to the camera, people in the pub whistled and clapped.
‘Hey, Tim,’ shouted someone to the landlord, ‘how about free Bloody Bulls all round?’
The cheers subsided as Charlie Chingo interviewed Edward and his dad about the planned reunion. The weirdo next to me listened intently. Perhaps stuff to do with the war would interest him more.
‘I remember some of those children,’ said an elderly woman from the back. ‘My father used to deliver groceries to the estate and would take me with him to play with the girls and boys there. I wonder if I’ll recognize them.’
‘What, sixty-odd years later, Mabel?’ said a wrinkled man next to her. ‘At our age, we don’t know ourselves in the mirror, let alone anyone else.’
Laughter rippled around the room.
The footage now cut to the storm and me in the pond. A group of youngsters in the pub snorted with laughter as my legs appeared above the bulrushes. Phew. Thanks to the twilight, no one could work out it was me and Nick.
‘Reminds me of that scene in Dirty Dancing,’ said a girl leaning on the bar and texted into her phone.
Bingo! I nearly cheered!
‘Bloody hooligans,’ said the landlord and shook his head. ‘Think I’ll get some extra cameras set up outside. All sorts of nutters might turn up if the Earl wins this show.’
So the locals thought we were really in with a chance? Now Charlie was talking to the Baron. A few jeers came from the far side of the pub.
‘Good. The Castle. It’s about time we had some proper entertainment,’ muttered the man next to me and straightened up.
I put my empty bottle down on a nearby table. It was the Murder Mystery night at the Castle that Roxy had warned me about. The room went silent. In fact it was so quiet for the next fifteen minutes, apart from the odd ‘ooh’ or ‘aah’, that I could hear a dog drink from the pub’s water bowl.
Crap. People were mega rapt, trying to work out which of the corporate team was the murderer. When it was finally revealed as a bleach-blonde PA, the girl who’d cleverly identified my Dirty Dancing scene clapped her hands. Apparently most people had already guessed that, on Twitter.
The footage cut to the banquet and, apart from the occasional elderly tut from the back of the room about ‘vulgar low-cut tops’, excited chatter filled the pub. When a corporate director slipped over after too much beer, young men near the screen clinked beer jugs and reminisced about their last big night out. Then humorous cries of disgust rose into the air when the blonde PA dashed outside the Castle to throw up. Awestruck gasps followed this as the camera focused on the banquet nosh. OMG. Even I ogled the enormous chunks of cheese, juicy fat grapes, mahoosive meat joints and lush-looking pickles. Yum.
A small sigh escaped my lips. Marwick Castle still led the way; anyone could tell that. Whether people disapproved of the Baron’s drunken events or not, it made compelling viewing. Even the disapproving old biddies at the back had left their drinks untouched since the Murder Mystery event began.
‘You want a drink?’ said the man in the flat cap, after consulting his huge twinkly gold watch. He grinned at me and I stared again at those super-white teeth. Even the fair hair sticking out from the grotty flat cap looked a little too blond. His appearance just didn’t add up, like the modern sunglasses against the creased boring shirt. As if he’d just read my mind, he took off the shades and winked. My mouth fell open. Of course. Why hadn’t I spotted this before? But it didn’t make sense…
‘You’re the Baron’s son,’ I hissed. ‘The Honourable Harry Gainsworth.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, babe.’
A bubble of laughter tickled my chest at the thought of us both sitting here incognito, neither of us seeing through each other’s disguise. It was like some freaky parallel universe.
‘What the…?’ I stuttered. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Free country, ain’t it? I was just passing and…’
‘Really?’
‘Okay, you aren’t stupid, darling, I can see that. If you must know, I’m sussing out the so-called support for the opposition. Nothing to worry about, by the looks of it, though…’ He smirked. ‘Even the locals preferred our part of the show.’
‘They seemed very interested in the evacuees’ reunion,’ I said airily.
Harry yawned. ‘What, a bunch of old fogies talking about sad times without Ma and Pa? Like that’s going to make great viewing.’
Uh oh. Adrenaline rush – that feeling I got when I was going to do something stupid… Like grab the nearest beer and tip it over this jerk’s head. Shame the nearest drink was only an inch of orange juice.
He looked me up and down. ‘Nice outfit,’ he said. ‘What’s a doll like you doing in this dump?’ He smiled. ‘My car’s outside. Why don’t you let me take you for a drink in a place with real class?’
I smiled politely. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Right. I get it, babe. You’re one of the few locals loyal to Applebridge Hall. And that’s a good thing. But having a glass of plonk with me isn’t a crime. I mean, there’s not some local court in this one-eyed village that’s going to hang you for treachery, right?’
Guess it might be interesting to get to know the Croxleys’ adversaries.
‘I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt,’ I said. ‘Okay. You’re on.’
‘Atta-girl! Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He snaked his arm around my waist, holding me just a bit too tight – unless I’d simply become all prim and prudish, spending so much time as elegant Abigail. As soon as we were outside, he pulled off the flat cap and threw it to the ground. Harry took out his mobile, selected a number and pressed dial.
‘Hey, Pops,’ he said into the phone as we strolled along the pavement. ‘Job done. Put the champagne on ice. Even the locals here think we’re the dogs’ bollocks. Those boring old farts at Applebridge Hall don’t stand a chance. The million-dollar prize is in the bag, no probs! Get the party going! I’ll be there in an hour, with a new friend.’
Huh? ‘We’re going to the Castle?’
Harry grinned.
‘What better way to win you over to our side, babe? Follow me. You’re about to have the night of your life!’
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Thursday 6th September
10.20p.m. Good evening, I hope you enjoyed tonight’s show and appreciated the news that on Saturday we are hosting…an evacuee reunion lunch. I know that Historybuff, at least, will be delighted. The idea has, indeed, ignited Father’s enthusiasm. The amount of work necessary to arrange this get-together is not for the weak-hearted, although I have already contacted one former evacuee, who happily accepted the invitation. Plus my cousin has impressed me with her ability to apply herself when necessary. As you saw tonight, nerves now under control, yesterday’s cookery lesson was exemplary.
It’s hard to explain, but today, for the first time in weeks – months, even – I feel positive. Thanks to Abigail’s input, the weight of preserving Applebridge Hall’s future is…less oppressive. I’m beginning to appreciate that her ideas and gusto are refreshing. And I’m sure her friends, such as her, erm, lodger, would be equally inspiring. Plus funny, easy-going and spontaneous…
Abigail has made me realize that, without Mother’s light touch around here, Father and I have become as stale and musty as an antique book from our library. We needed dusting off and that’s what she’s achieving. The arrival of Lady Constance Woodfold has also raised my father’s spirits.
What’s more, Abigail’s aunt helped me think of another poser question: she used to run a finishing school—if there was one thing about yourselves you could improve, what would it be?
Chapter 18
Quick! Put your foot down, Harry, the drawbridge is rising. If those zom
bies catch up, we won’t escape alive. Hurry! Any slower, we’ll miss and go crashing down into the moat…
Okay. There was no zombie apocalypse, but boy, Marwick Castle really was the stuff of fantasies. As we turned into a long drive, it came into view at the top of a hill.
My heart raced and I came over all romantic and medieval. Me wench, Harry… I would have liked to say warrior soldier but, with his groomed appearance and designer clothes, his look was about as rugged as a soft deep-pile carpet. When we’d reached his car, an old Jag with – get this —blacked-out windows, he’d torn off his old top, opened the boot and changed into a mega sharp slate-coloured silk shirt. Several squirts of aftershave later, he was ready for the off. His shoes shone and trousers were neatly pressed. Harry was no rough and ready knight.
‘Home Sweet Home, babe,’ he said when we reached the top of the hill and followed a road to the left, along which several cars were haphazardly parked. Eventually Harry pulled up in front a double garage. What a relief. I couldn’t take a minute more of his name-dropping and tales of celebrity life. Having his photo appear in the gossip mags had clearly gone to his head. Although, secretly, I was in awe of the stars coming to his party this coming Saturday night, including an actor from my favourite TV soap, a footballer and Big Brother contestant, plus an agent, who apparently reckoned Harry had a big future ahead of him. Cue ‘Macho from Marwick—yep, Harry had already been told to think up a name for his own scent.
We walked up to the Castle, which didn’t look quite so mahoosive in real life. But still, with outdoor lights illuminating the turrets, it impressed me. Lights flickered from the small windows and dance music pulsated through the night air. We crossed the drawbridge and I looked down into the moat.
‘Wow. That’s a mad fall.’ I gazed at inky black waves. ‘In olden times, it must have put off loads of intruders trying to cross over the top.’
‘It wasn’t really for that, babe. Moats were to stop people tunnelling underneath.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘We had to learn all sorts of stuff for this gig, to try and look as if we give a monkey’s about our so-called heritage.’
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