Honor sighed. Sometimes the incredible burden of her responsibility got to her. Not that she resented Ted for a millisecond. But occasionally she felt not exactly self-pity, but a bit wistful; a secret longing for a life where she could share things with someone. Not only the bad bits – she wasn’t looking for someone to dump on – but the good bits too. Like when Ted had been Joseph in the nativity play, and when he’d got his hundred metres swimming badge –
She put her cup down with a bang, telling herself to pull herself together. She’d managed this long on her own, for heaven’s sake. She’d better not go all wibbly-wobbly on Wednesday when Johnny came round, or he’d wheedle his way back into her life in seconds. She felt panicky about his visit whenever she thought about it, and she knew jolly well why.
Because she was looking forward to it.
And she didn’t trust herself.
It was no good. She needed somebody to talk to. She’d give Henty a ring. The secret was going to be out before long, after all, and Henty would be mortified if she thought Honor hadn’t confided in her. She picked up the phone and dialled, already feeling some relief that her burden was going to be shared. All she wanted was some objective guidance about the best way to tackle Johnny’s reappearance in their life, bearing in mind that the only person that really mattered was Ted, who was not only an innocent bystander but the one who could be most affected in the long term.
Henty’s phone rang and rang. Honor gave it twenty rings before she hung up. On reflection, maybe it was best to keep it all to herself. That was the only way she could be sure of controlling who found out the truth and when – not that she didn’t trust Henty, but you just never knew. Some people found the responsibility of secrets just too great to bear. She might be tempted to tell Charles, and Honor certainly didn’t trust him to keep his trap shut. Least said, soonest mended, she thought, and decided she would wait and see what Wednesday brought.
In the meantime, she prayed that Johnny had grown up enough not to play games…
Henty was in the flat over the stables. She’d rushed there as soon as the children had finally been got to school, to see if it was fit for human habitation. There was no point in organizing a nanny if they didn’t have anywhere decent to put her, and the flat had been empty for years. In fact, it could hardly be called a flat at all – it was just a large room tucked into the eaves, with a shower and loo off. They’d converted it because Charles had thought at one point he might like to work from home, but had decided that it would be too complicated – the bit of paperwork you wanted would inevitably always be in the wrong place – so it had sat there empty. Now, looking at it, Henty decided it was quite comfortable. She’d turned on the heating and within half an hour it was as warm as toast. A good cleaning session, a lick of paint and a trip to Ikea, and it would be ideal.
It was going to be absolute bliss, thought Henty, to have someone around to help out. It would make all the difference to the children too. She often had to cart them all round in the car when she was picking up one of the others, and they always moaned and protested. But if the nanny was around, they could stay at home while she nipped out. And she and Charles could pop out for dinner whenever they felt like it. Or go to the cinema. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d been to the movies, because it seemed a waste of a babysitter when things came out on video so quickly, but then she never managed to rent the films she wanted to watch. She was always outvoted.
Though all four children were at school, Fulford Farm was a high maintenance household. Not helped by the fact that Charles was very fussy and particular about how the house was kept. Because he had a dust allergy, the entire house had to be hoovered from top to bottom every day, and their bedsheets were changed twice a week. He changed every evening when he got home too, and those clothes always went straight into the dirty bin even though they’d only been worn a couple of hours. Then his shirts had to be ironed in a particular way. There was someone in the next village with an ironing service, and Henty had often longed to offload a mound of laundry, but Charles would be bound to notice, and quibble and complain. It was easier not to rock the boat.
He was fussy about what he ate as well. Meat had to be bought from the butcher’s in Eldenbury; vegetables from the organic farm shop; cheese from the deli. And he had to have a proper meal every night. Thank God the children had decent school lunches and made do with sandwiches or spaghetti hoops on toast.
Added to all of this was the chore of looking after the horses. Five years ago, when Lily and Thea had started going to Pony Club, Charles had met some of the other parents and been talked into taking up hunting by the evangelical master of the local hunt, who happened to be a woman and far from unattractive. Within twelve months he’d learned to ride, bought himself a horse and the girls a brace of ponies, and joined the Eldenbury hunt. It was, Henty knew, one of his ambitions to become Joint Master, but he still had a long way to climb up the hierarchy. In the meantime, he and the girls hunted most Saturdays in winter, which strangely seemed to lead to an awful lot of work for Henty.
For Charles’s allergy was peculiar, in that he seemed to be able to ride horses, but not muck them out or groom them. Which left Thea and Lily in charge, and it was always up to Henty to chivvy them along, to the extent that it was often easier to do it herself, even though she was terrified of horses. She didn’t mind clearing out the stables once they’d been turned out – it was quite therapeutic – but she couldn’t stand handling the animals. It was the way they threw up their heads or kicked out their hind legs just when you least expected it. But if the nanny was going to help out there as well… A smile spread itself across Henty’s face as she saw a new life opening out in front of her.
Maintaining the Beresford family had been a full-time job, and until now, Henty had never complained. Deep down she knew Charles was demanding and fussy and a bit of a tyrant, but she’d got used to his ways. As long as you went along with him and let him think he was in control, it was fine. His good points outweighed his bad – most of the time – and he couldn’t help it if he was allergic to dust, and he did work hard. So the least she could do was provide support. Her role, after all, was wife and mother.
Now, however, with the prospect of some proper free time in front of her, Henty was determined to make some changes. She’d been stung yesterday by Charles’s remark about Fleur. As Honor had pointed out, how hard could it be to open a florist’s – especially when your husband had put up the money? But Charles was obviously impressed. Thus Henty was determined to prove that she was more than just a docile little housewife. She might not have a bum the size of a Cox’s orange pippin, but hadn’t she once been the toast of literary society?
Sometimes she found it hard to believe that really had been her. And other people found it even harder, when she revealed she’d had a six-week slot on TV-am giving advice on what to wear to Ascot and Henley. Over the years, Henty had convinced herself that Chelsea Virgin had been a fluke, that its success was one of those peculiarities of right time, right place. For after the second instalment of the book, when they’d moved to Fulford Farm on the proceeds and Henty had become pregnant with Thea, she’d tried to write a third. But away from the source of her inspiration, and bogged down with trying to renovate a farmhouse before the baby was born, Henty had struggled to string two words together. Charles had reassured her that everyone had writer’s block, and the best thing to do was to put her typewriter away for a couple of months. That had been nearly fifteen years ago, and in the meantime her confidence had evaporated into thin air. Henty convinced herself her one-time success had been a marketing con engineered by Charles which had nothing whatsoever to do with any talent she might have…
A year or so ago, however, she’d listened to a programme on Radio Four about novel writing, and it had rekindled her ambition. A germ of an idea had planted itself in her brain, and on the advice of the programme she had rushed out to buy a notebook – pink, like the notebooks she had or
iginally used for Chelsea Virgin – and started to jot down notes in the few quiet moments she had. Now the notebooks numbered three and were kept in the bottom of her tights drawer. Every time she thought about them she felt both fear and excitement, but she’d consistently had the excuse of lack of time to stop her doing anything concrete with them.
Now, however, it seemed she no longer had an excuse. And she was champing at the bit to get started. The time was right. She no longer felt fear, just the tingle of anticipation, the itch to give some sort of shape to the ramblings she had begun.
Happy that she had somewhere to put her intended addition to the family, she trotted back inside to the kitchen and found the Yellow Pages. There was an agency in Cheltenham that a lot of her friends used. She picked up the phone and dialled the number, idly doodling smiley faces over the pad she’d efficiently opened to make notes.
The girl at the agency was very apologetic.
‘You’ve called at a very bad time. Everyone’s been snapped up for the beginning of term.’
‘Oh,’ said Henty, deeply disappointed. ‘But I’m desperate!’
‘There is one possibility,’ said the girl. ‘But there is a slight snag that you might not be very happy about.’
‘Try me,’ said Henty.
Moments later, she put the phone down with a mischievous grin. Charles wouldn’t like it, but sod Charles. After all, it was his fault in the first place.
The wind whistled up the platform at Eldenbury as Guy and Richenda stood waiting for the Paddington train. Richenda shivered, and snuggled down further into her sheepskin coat. Guy put an arm round her and hugged her to him.
‘Chilly?’
‘Freezing.’
She snuggled into him, grateful for his warmth. Thankfully, their little spat of the day before seemed to have been forgotten. By the time she and Madeleine had got back from John Lewis, Guy was resolutely cheerful. He’d restored all the furniture to its rightful place and put all the paintings back on the walls. The three of them had a roast chicken supper together in the kitchen, and the atmosphere had been far more relaxed than at breakfast. Richenda no longer felt as if Madeleine was trying to undermine her or score points – maybe they’d bonded somehow in the bedding department.
The train drew in and Richenda felt a pang. For two pins she wouldn’t get on. She wanted to stay and muck in with everyone else; do her bit, prove that she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. But she was contractually obliged to turn up at the editing suite the next morning. She might like to think that her life was her own, but it wasn’t. Far from it.
Guy opened the door into the first-class carriage. She picked up her holdall and climbed on board. Guy shut the door and they shared a long, lingering kiss through the window. The whistle blew and Richenda withdrew her head with a smile.
‘Phone me when you get home,’ instructed Guy, and she nodded, then made her way into the carriage to find a seat. Thankfully, she found an empty table. She didn’t want to have to make polite conversation with anyone. Or worse, be recognized. She sank into the forward-facing seat gratefully, tucking her bag underneath her feet.
As the train drew out of the station, Richenda felt like crying. Hastily, she put on her dark glasses. What on earth was the matter with her? She should be walking on air. She was a star. She was engaged to the most gorgeous man on the planet.
The problem was simple: she didn’t know who she was, or what role she was playing. Lady Jane? Richenda Fox? Nearly Mrs Guy Portias? For a moment she felt like mousy, plain nobody Rowan Collins again. Unsure, uncertain, unsettled…
Guy strode back through the station car park. He had that deflated feeling, an emptiness in the pit of his stomach that comes with a train-station farewell. And he felt angry with himself. The past couple of days had not gone as he’d planned. After the initial excitement of their engagement the week before, and then the official announcement in the papers over the weekend, the atmosphere between him and Richenda had become rather strained. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. There was bound to be a bit of an anticlimax after all the fuss and attention. But he felt annoyed with himself for letting it get to him.
He certainly hadn’t meant to be so beastly to Richenda the day before by throwing her offer back in her face. It had been a sweet gesture, as she knew that deep down he hated having to exploit Eversleigh Manor’s charms. But he’d had to come over all macho. He felt racked with guilt as he remembered her crestfallen face. Why had he humiliated her like that? He could at least have been gracious about it, thanked her but refused politely. More to the point, he could have accepted it. Guy had no doubt that she was making the sort of serious money needed to maintain a manor house like that. And if they were to be married…
But she had hit a raw nerve. Guy would have liked nothing better than to have the kind of money to keep Eversleigh going, to run it as it should be run. But he’d never settled down or stuck at anything, so now he was paying the price. He supposed he could have gone into the City, like a lot of his schoolmates, and made a killing – a killing that would amply underwrite the maintenance of a Cotswold manor house.
But then, he reasoned, he wouldn’t be him. She’d told him time and again that it was his waywardness that she loved, his lack of convention, his scruffiness. The fact that he was his own master. So that wouldn’t have been the solution. Guy told himself he should just be grateful that he and his mother had hit upon an alternative way of keeping their legacy going. And it wasn’t such an awful fate – or at least, he hoped not. They’d know better after next weekend what they’d let themselves in for.
All he regretted now was that they hadn’t had time to make up properly for their disagreement. Richenda had seemed a little subdued when he’d kissed her goodbye, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. So he stopped off at the florist’s in the high street and ordered some flowers to be sent to her flat; the assistant assured him they would be waiting for her when she arrived back.
As he drove back home, Guy realized it was the first time he’d ever sent anyone flowers, and he smiled to himself. This must be the real thing.
9
On Monday evening, Charles stepped off the train from Paddington on to the platform at Eldenbury. As the rest of the local commuters either trickled off to the car park to collect the cars they’d left there that morning, or sauntered out to their waiting spouses, he stood by the ticket office. He would either have to walk, telephone a taxi or call Henty and be very, very apologetic and humble.
He knew she didn’t deserve to be treated the way she had. He’d walk up to the off-licence, buy a bottle of champagne. There were gallons of champagne at home, but somehow walking in through the door with a chilled bottle wrapped in tissue showed thought. And he’d get a big bag of her favourite cashew nuts as a peace offering.
As he set off purposefully up the high street, he saw with surprise that Twig was still open.
Two voices carried on a hot debate in his head.
Henty would much prefer flowers to champagne.
Not from Twig, she wouldn’t.
Take the label off. Tell her you got them from the florist’s in Charlotte Street and brought them back on the train.
OK. But what if Fleur’s in there?
What if she is? Anyway, she probably won’t be.
Of course she will! Anyway, you know that’s why you’re going in. Because you want to see her. You’re crazy, Charles. That way madness lies…
He pushed open the door, stepped over the threshold and into the hallowed atmosphere of Twig. The floor was limestone, the walls a very pale green, and along the back ran a dark wood counter topped with copper. In a huge semicircle in front of the counter were ranged zinc buckets stuffed with flowers whose names Charles couldn’t even begin to guess. They ranged from the fragile to the exotic, from pale pink to raging red, flaming orange and deepest purple. The scent was overpowering. It made him feel quite peculiar. His pulse was racing nineteen to the dozen.
&nbs
p; Fleur appeared, as if by magic, through a curtain of glass beads that tinkled back into place behind her.
Charles smiled awkwardly.
‘Hi,’ he offered. ‘I’ve come to buy some flowers.’
Fleur brushed her hair back with one hand and surveyed him with amusement.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, then.’
‘What do you recommend?’
‘Well,’ she said, businesslike. ‘That all depends. On who they’re for. And why.’
She moved forward, and Charles resisted the instinct to step back.
‘Um. My wife.’ Flustered, he looked along the buckets and pointed to some fat, pale pink peonies. ‘Those are nice.’
She nodded approvingly.
‘They’re sweet. They’d look lovely with some roses and some larkspur.’
‘Perfect.’
Charles watched as she deftly assembled his chosen blooms, snipping them to the required length and mixing them with a selection of frondy foliage until they were gathered into an artfully casual arrangement, as if they’d been plucked from the hedgerows by some willowy, Pre-Raphaelite maiden on a ramble. Charles frowned.
‘She’ll never be able to arrange them like that. They’ll look a mess as soon as she gets them out.’
Fleur wound some hairy string around the stems.
‘If she keeps the string tied, they’ll stay like this. Just remember to keep topping them up with water.’
She pulled a length of dark green organza ribbon from a holder on the wall and wound it around the string, then tied it in a big, fat bow with a flourish, snipping the ends with her scissors so they formed an inverted v shape at each end.
An Eligible Bachelor Page 14
