Boot Camp Bride

by Lizzie Lamb

  And, to be fair, it was no more than Charlee calling in a favour. Indirectly, she must have saved the Walkers thousands of pounds in school fees when, at seven years old, she’d refused to attend boarding school as her brothers had before her. And, Poppy had declared, if Charlee wasn’t leaving home, neither was she.

  Instead, they’d both been educated at the tiny village school where Barbara Montague was teaching head, before finally transferring to an independent school as day pupils at eleven. Charlee had always felt that her mother’s attitude towards her was that of an exasperated teacher towards a bright, but recalcitrant, pupil; big on lectures but short on love. When she’d been in her mother’s class, she’d referred to her as Mrs Montague like all the other children and it neatly summed up their distant relationship. Later, as her mother pursued her ambition to become one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Schools and her father focused on building up his veterinary practice, Charlee had been left to her own devices.

  If it hadn’t have been for her Montague grandparents, she would have been brought up by a succession of nannies and au pairs. It was ironic, really, now she was on the verge of her big break that the family should close ranks and come over all protective towards her.

  Whistling the dogs to heel, she climbed the stile that marked the boundary between the two properties. From her vantage point on top of the stile, she looked down on the Walkers’ house fast disappearing in the late December afternoon. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d marched out of her home in high dudgeon and gone over to Poppy’s house seeking solace, reassurance and a slab of home-made cake.

  However, just as she raised one leg to climb down, someone came round the side of the house and set off the Walkers’ security lights. There was no mistaking the distinctive navy and white VW camper van parked next to Sam Walker’s Range Rover.

  ‘Ffinch!’ she exclaimed, her breath snagging as she almost toppled off the stile. ‘Why are you still here? What’s he up to, boys?’ she asked the dogs waiting at her heels. ‘Sorry old chaps, change of plan. Home. We’ve got some thinking to do.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Blooding

  After a night spent tossing and turning, trying to guess Ffinch’s motives for staying on at the Walkers’ when he should have been halfway to his family home in Scotland, Charlee woke up, woolly headed. She knew she was capable of fashioning mountains where previously there had only been molehills - but she couldn’t get the picture of Ffinch, snapping to attention when she’d mentioned the boot camp in Norfolk, out of her mind.

  Something linked the two events, but what?

  Pushing herself out of the warm cocoon of her duvet, Charlee glanced at the iPad on her bedside table. She’d lain awake until well after two o’clock delving into the background of Ffinch, Markova and her shadowy Russian fiancé until the battery had run down. She’d been so enamoured with the idea of being Ffinch’s partner that she’d been less than thorough in finding out exactly who he was. But, thanks to the internet, she was now fully up to speed with his backstory. Even if it was an uncorroborated version of it gleaned from several different sources.

  And it didn’t make for pretty reading.

  ‘Charlotte, Boys, breakfast! Come on, we’ll be late for the meet,’ her father called from downstairs. It was a familiar scenario, all the Montagues together under one roof and faded posters of Buffy, Cap’n Jack and Aragorn looking down from the bedroom wall. She’d take them down today - she was no more the girl who’d pinned them up there, than Johnny Depp was captain of the Black Pearl.

  That thought in mind, she leapt out of bed and headed for the shower.

  Later that morning, Tom, Wills and Jack would borrow horses from Daphne Walker’s stud and make utter fools of themselves chasing after the hounds across the furrowed fields. As usual, her mother and father would follow the hunt in their Land Rover with Miranda and George.

  As for Charlee - she had a quarry of her own to pursue.

  Two hours later, Charlee clambered out of her father’s Land Rover County, and pushed through hunt followers, villagers, saboteurs and animal rights groups massing at the closed five-bar gate to the Walkers’ stud. She’d stopped attending the Boxing Day meet when she was old enough to realise what happened when the dogs caught the fox. However, now the hunt followed an aniseed trail across the countryside, she’d started attending again - much to her family and Poppy Walker’s delight. Charlee’s philosophy being, if the riders wanted to dress up like something out of a nineteenth-century print and risk their necks over bush and briar that was entirely their affair. Being a spectator was as far as she was willing to go.

  It wasn’t long before she located Ffinch sitting on the sill of his camper van eating fruit cake and drinking a traditional stirrup cup of port. Like her, he was dressed casually but for warmth - woollen trousers tucked into fur-lined leather boots, a thick jersey, scarf and scuffed flying jacket. The wind ruffled his thick dark hair, which was held off his forehead by a pair of pushed-up Ray-Ban Aviators. The low sun caught the angles of his cheekbones and the line of his nose and mouth - all very photogenic to be sure, Charlee thought, unaffected by the beguiling picture he presented.

  She wanted to go up to him, shake him by the lapels of his sheepskin jacket and demand to be told what was going on. Anger fizzed inside her chest like an out of control firework as she made her way over to him.

  ‘Not hunting, Ffinch? I’d’ve thought chasing a quarry halfway across the county and then moving in for the kill was right up your street.’

  Ffinch’s slate-grey eyes narrowed and his expression became wary. Charlee sensed that he’d been waiting for her, guessing that she’d show up today after their acrimonious farewell yesterday. And that she’d have plenty to say!

  ‘A metaphorical quarry these days, surely,’ he said, handing his empty port glass to a waitress and getting to his feet. He sent her another sharp look, evidently sensing her pent-up anger and aware that he was the cause of it. ‘I don’t ride to hounds,’ he pronounced ‘hounds’ as ‘hinds’ in a mock upper-class accent. ‘To be honest, it’s all too Downton Abbey for my tastes.’

  He dropped the Ray-Bans over his eyes as protection against the low sun glittering over the frost-rimed fields - and, Charlee suspected, to hide his expression. Standing with one foot on the VW’s sill and with his head turned slightly to the left so his face was in profile, he looked quite the man. Charlee harboured the uncharitable suspicion that he was aware of just how good he looked and wanted to ensure that he stood out among the red-coated huntsmen. Much to her annoyance, he managed to look more macho than any of them, in spite of the fact they looked like they’d stepped out of the Cecil Aldin print: A Hunting We Will Go.

  ‘Downton Abbey?’ She gave a derisive ‘I’m so not impressed by your posturing’ snort. She’d spent her life surrounded by handsome, photogenic men - it would take more than dark good looks and a high opinion of oneself to float her boat. Hearing her contemptuous snort, Ffinch turned towards her, unsmiling, very much aware that her displeasure was nothing to do with his reference to Downton Abbey but everything to do with how he’d walked out on her yesterday. He gave her a long look as if her unpredictable temperament gave him pause for thought and made him aware he’d have to proceed with care.

  He came over, his body language suggesting there was something he had to say to her - something for her ears only. But he couldn’t have a private conversation with her without appearing to whisper in her ear, and she guessed that was too intimate given the way things stood between them. Instead, they stood side by side watching the local vicar, wearing a surplice over his hunting gear, bless the hounds and wish the riders safe passage over the hedges and fields.

  ‘More Jilly Cooper than Downton Abbey, I’d say.’ Charlee said, more from a desire to fill in the awkward silence stretching out between them than to be sociable.

  Huntsmen and women in black or red jackets bent down from their saddles, handed their empty glasses to waitresses
bearing silver trays and brushed crumbs from their breeches. Poppy Walker, looking gorgeous in full riding gear and with her hair tidied away in a net, waved her crop at them. Charlee waved back and Ffinch gave one of his sardonic smiles, though what was so amusing she couldn’t imagine. From what she’d learned of his background last night - he came from an Anglo-Brazilian family of coffee growers who’d used their money and influence to move into politics - he was used to mixing in the higher echelons of society and she guessed this wasn’t the first Boxing Day meet he’d attended.

  Following his line of sight Charlee soon discovered the source of his amusement: her brothers - looking undeniably handsome in hunting gear, examining their borrowed horses’ girths and stirrups and tapping their whips against their boots - anxious to be off.

  ‘Do you have to look a dead spit for Rupert Penry-Jones to be a member of your family?’ Finch asked as her brothers exchanged a collective purposeful look and walked over to them. ‘Do you think I’m in danger of being beaten by the Ruperts?’ He leaned against the camper van in a relaxed attitude as though he found the whole idea ludicrous. ‘You know, I was wrong when I said your brothers were the male equivalent of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.’

  ‘You were?’ Charlee braced herself for the killer punch line.

  ‘Yes, they’re more like an illustration from a history primer I had at prep school. Pope Gregory seeing Anglo-Saxon children in the slave market in Rome and commenting: “Not Angles, but angels.” That’s what your brothers put me in mind of - although, I’d imagine all that blonde magnificence gets rather tedious after a time.’

  Charlee raised a hand to her blonde hair and gave his naturally olive skin and dark hair a severe look. Then she caught the gleam in his eyes and realised he was enjoying himself. What was behind his uncharacteristic buoyant mood, she wondered? Perhaps now would be a good time to ask some pertinent questions about what the big deal was with Anastasia Markova and Norfolk - and what, if any, part she had left to play in it.

  He owed her that at least.

  ‘I hope you’ll have time to introduce me to the Ruperts before they beat me to a pulp for whatever they think it is I’ve done to their little sister.’

  ‘Shut it Ffinch. I’m not their little sister any longer and I don’t do what they - or you - tell me to.’

  ‘I had noticed,’ Ffinch remarked sardonically as the Montagues reached them.

  ‘Everything all right, Charlee?’ Jack asked, giving Ffinch a flinty look.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Charlee snapped, making it plain that their concern wasn’t necessary or welcome. ‘This is Rafael Fonseca-Ffinch,’ she began as way of an introduction. ‘Jack, Wills and Tom Montague.’ The manner in which she fired out their names made it plain that they should get out of her face and back on their horses.

  ‘Jack, Wills, Tom - pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The four men shook hands, but Charlee suspected that, if they’d been the hounds milling round the whippers-in, they’d have been circling each other, tails high and teeth on show.

  ‘I gather you’re Charlee’s partner?’ Jack asked Ffinch, looking towards Charlee for corroboration.

  ‘Charlee’s partner?’ Ffinch hesitated, just long enough to make Charlee squirm. She waited for Ffinch to deny the connection and humiliate her in front of her brothers. Instead, he pushed himself away from the van and put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Oh, much more than partners, I’d say - wouldn’t you, Carlotta?’

  Ffinch’s use of Carlotta suggested an intimacy that didn’t exist but was enough to put her brothers on alert. He smiled down at her and then whispered seductively in Portuguese: ‘Isso limpou o sorriso da cara deles.’

  ‘Carlotta?’ Jack repeated. ‘And what does - what has he just said to you? ’ Charlee thought it diplomatic not to tell them it translated, roughly, into ‘that’s taken the smug looks off their faces’. Jack took a menacing step towards Ffinch. ‘Are you two -’ he baulked at finishing the sentence.

  The word HAVING SEX hovered in the air between them.

  ‘You’d better ask Charlee that hadn’t you?’ Ffinch said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

  ‘Charlee?’

  ‘My relationship with Ffinch is professional and has nothing to do with any of you. This is my life and how I conduct it is my affair.’ Charlee was glad that the rest of her family were in the Land Rover waiting for the hunt to set off. To have them questioning Ffinch as if he’d robbed her of her virginity would have been too provoking for words. ‘Why don’t you get on your horses, follow the hounds across the field and make complete idiots of yourselves?’

  ‘Thanks for that, Charlotte,’ Wills replied, using her given name. Carlotta, indeed! He tapped his riding crop against his boot like a villain in a B-movie as if he’d like to submit Ffinch to a good horsewhipping. The other two Montagues gave Ffinch and Charlee a more thorough glance. Charlee was desperate to wriggle free of Ffinch’s arm but knew she had to maintain the pose until her brothers were on their horses. Then she could round on Ffinch and ask him what the bloody hell he was playing at.

  As her brothers were about to walk off, shooting warning looks at Ffinch and ‘what have you got yourself into this time’ looks at Charlee, the vicar made his way over. Knowing what was coming next, Charlee steeled herself.

  ‘Greetings, Montagues on this fine day. No sign of the Capulets?’ He laughed uproariously at his own witticism and then spotted Ffinch with his arm around Charlee’s shoulders. He gave them a professional once-over. ‘What have we here … Romeo and his Juliet? Most excellent.’ He rubbed his hands together and then extended his right hand towards Ffinch.

  ‘Jeremy Trevelyan, pleased to meet you. But please call me the Rev Trev, everyone else does.’

  ‘Rafael Ffinch - without one Capulet gene in his body,’ was Ffinch’s dry response as they shook hands. The vicar’s hearty laugh made heads turn in their direction. Charlee squirmed and felt hot with embarrassment. She hadn’t seen her neighbours since the summer and turning up with a new man who had his arm draped over her shoulders in such a proprietary manner would set the tongues wagging.

  Ffinch was right - it was too Downton-bloody-Abbey for words.

  ‘Church is getting pretty booked up for the summer, Charlotte,’ the vicar came back with another unwanted observation. ‘If you lovebirds have a date in mind, don’t leave it too late.’

  ‘But, we’re not …’ Charlee began. Ffinch’s arm slipped from her shoulder and snaked round her waist. His grip tightened warningly and Charlee had the sense to say no more, very much aware of her brothers’ furious expressions. There would be a family conference tonight when the hunt was over, and she’d be interrogated. Ffinch had better come up with some good reasons for this absurd play-acting.

  ‘We won’t, thanks,’ Ffinch replied as the vicar stripped off his surplice to reveal full hunting gear, boots and spurs. ‘A fox hunting vicar, how very Tom Jones. The novel, not the singer,’ he added for the benefit of Charlee’s brothers - as though he thought them incapable of getting the literary reference. It was clear that they were torn between joining the hunt, which was preparing to move off, and finding out what was going on between Ffinch and Charlee.

  ‘Tom Jones - Henry Fielding. Marvellous, simply marvellous,’ the vicar butted in, openly pleased at the comparison. ‘Come, Montagues, we must away!’ he said in a fruity voice as the Master of Foxhounds blew his hunting horn in short, sharp toots and the pack prepared to move off. Left with no other choice the Montague boys followed him.

  ‘I think your vicar has overdosed on P.G. Wodehouse as well as Fielding,’ Ffinch bent down and whispered in Charlee’s ear with all the tenderness of a lover. ‘Wave; smile, that’s the way.’

  ‘I think you’ve overdosed on banned substances,’ Charlee said, wriggling out of his grasp the second the hunt and its followers had disappeared behind the high hedges lining the lanes. ‘Was that charade just to wind my brothers up - not that I’m adverse to that -
or is there method in your madness?’

  Ffinch looked at her long and hard, his eyes uncertain - as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind how far to take her into his confidence. Charlee read the conflict in his face, knew he couldn’t quite bring himself to trust her and was annoyed that it mattered. At the first opportunity, she’d let him know that the feeling was mutual.

  ‘Let’s go indoors,’ he said, steering her towards the house with his hand in the small of her back. Charlee skidded to a halt like a cartoon character, dug her heels in and waited until he’d removed his hand. ‘My God, you’re prickly this morning. More so than usual,’ he breathed as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

  ‘And with good reason,’ she returned, tossing her head like one of the thoroughbreds heading off down the lane. ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing but you can stop your play-acting now, there’s no one around to fool or impress.’ Her sparky look was designed to remind him she was no pushover.

  They entered the Walkers’ house and Charlee led the way into the kitchen, the heart of the house. Here she’d wept on Daphne Walker’s shoulder - in lieu of her mother’s - when at the tender age of thirteen her first romance had broken up. It was in this kitchen, among the equestrian paraphernalia draped over chair backs and a welsh dresser covered in rosettes, that she’d opened the letter offering her an unconditional place to read Politics and Modern Languages. In the same untidy room, Sam Walker had conducted an informal interview for her internship at What’cha! with Daphne at his shoulder, beaming encouragement at her honorary daughter and daring him to turn her down.

  On all of those occasions, her parents had been unavailable, too busy pursuing their careers and deaf to her insistence that she wanted to become a journalist. They weren’t being deliberately obstructive, Charlee knew that. They simply didn’t get her in the same way that Daphne did - and that’s what hurt the most. She suspected her mother was only half joking when she referred to her as their ‘Little Changeling’.