Lady Fortescue had closed our meeting by handing me two fifty-pound notes.
‘For you, Holly: a little bonus for all your hard work. I thought you could perhaps find a new outfit to wear for the wedding?’
My heart had swollen with pride and I’d nipped off to Joop after work and splashed out on a new dress, which I’d had to leave with Esme to have altered.
I checked my watch: eleven o’clock. Now was probably a good time to go and collect my dress. With any luck I’d be back in time to see Zara in her wedding gown before she left for the church. Perfect plan!
I jumped aside as two men carrying cello-y type instruments in large black cases hurried by and then left the hall by its grand front entrance.
Zara and Philippe were getting married in the little church of St John’s. It was right next to the hall and I could see its Norman bell tower peeking over the high brick wall that bordered the grounds. Soon Zara would be walking down this gravel drive on the arm of Lord Fortescue. How lovely to have all this on your doorstep, I thought with a sigh, looking down the drive, past the pristine lawns and topiary hedges to the gatehouse. Imagine being able to call Wickham Hall ‘home’. Lucky thing.
‘How do I look?’ called a voice from above, interrupting my thoughts.
I turned and looked up at the far corner of the hall, where the west wing, which housed the Fortescues’ private chambers, met the main hall. Zara was waving to me out of an open window. She was smoking a cigarette, her hair in giant rollers, and her face covered in a chalky-white face mask.
I laughed and waved back. ‘A bit pale! Come and join me in the sunshine for a few minutes.’
‘Can’t, I’m beautifying!’ She started to peel off the face mask and squealed in pain. ‘Ouch! I think I’ve just pulled actual skin off. Do you think Philippe will still marry me if half my face is missing? Oh bugger, Mum’s coming!’ She pulled a face, frantically stubbed her cigarette out on the stone window sill, and flipped the butt into the shrubbery below just as Lady Fortescue appeared next to her.
I laughed at Zara’s antics as I continued my quick march down the gravel drive, through the gatehouse and across the path to the staff car park.
Zara had arrived a few days ago and I’d fallen under her charms instantly. She was as beautiful as her mother, but she had her father’s fair colouring, temperament and easy smile. She was sweet and nervous and full of excitement at getting married and her happiness was contagious.
Philippe had been here too a couple of nights ago for a grand formal dinner held in honour of the Valois family. I hadn’t seen him but Sheila and Jenny had, and they had nothing but good things to say about him. His mum was English, apparently, and he’d gone to university here, so his English was perfect but his black hair and dark eyes were unmistakably French.
Ten minutes later I was congratulating myself on securing a parking spot directly outside the pretty boutique on Hoxley High Street.
Esme’s mum Bryony opened the door, planted a kiss on both cheeks and dragged me inside. ‘How are the wedding preparations going?’ she demanded. ‘I want all the gossip.’
‘Smoothly so far,’ I replied, tapping the white-painted wood counter for luck.
‘Not one of them bought their outfits here, you know,’ she harrumphed, fluffing up her golden tresses and jamming her hands on her curvy hips.
‘I’ll take some of your business cards back with me,’ I promised. ‘Leave them subtly on tables if I can.’
‘Ooh lovely, thanks,’ she said, scooping up a pile from the counter and handing them to me.
‘Your rings,’ I blinked at her, looking at her bare fingers. ‘All your rings have gone.’
Bryony brought glitz and glamour to the tiny village of Hoxley. She was never one to shy away from loud colours, bright lipstick or bold accessories and her fingers of both hands normally glinted with rings.
She rubbed one hand over the other self-consciously.
‘My finger joints have begun to swell,’ she sighed, ‘so I decided to take them off while I still could. My mum ended up having to have her wedding ring cut off. Broke her heart seeing it sawn through.’
My heart ached for Bryony; it looked as though she was beginning to suffer from arthritis, just as Esme had predicted.
‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ I grinned. ‘You’ll have to treat yourself to one of those manicures where they set gems into the polish.’
‘Ooh, yes! Never thought of that. That would give me my sparkle back!’ She beamed. ‘Go on through, love, I think she’s finished your dress.’
‘What do you think?’ Esme looked up and swirled a piece of fabric I recognized as my new dress in the air as I joined her in the store room.
I’d chosen a white and navy dress with a boat neck and full striped skirt, cinched at the waist with a grosgrain navy ribbon. Unfortunately, the top half had somewhat dwarfed my petite frame and Esme had offered to rework it.
‘Love it!’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘Can I try it on?’
‘Sure!’ she said, handing it over. ‘But it will fit, I guarantee, Esme’s measuring tape is never wrong.’
She was right, of course: it was a perfect fit. I twirled round in the fitting room and examined myself from every angle.
Thank you, Es,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘You’re a genius.’
‘Now don’t upstage the bride,’ she warned.
I shook my head. ‘No chance of that. Zara’s wearing the most gorgeous gown I’ve ever seen. She sneaked it down to the kitchen yesterday for me and Jenny to see.’
Esme folded her arms. ‘What I wouldn’t give to be at that wedding.’
‘Aww, I’ll take a few pics of the happy couple for you,’ I promised.
She walked me to the door and handed me my old outfit in a Joop bag. ‘I’ll hold you to that; I want to see the dress in detail.’
Church bells chimed in the distance, reminding me to get a move on.
‘Goodness, I’d better dash.’ I popped a kiss on Esme’s cheek. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Hey,’ she called after me, ‘I’m working tomorrow morning on a prom dress. Drop by then with the photos.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ I grinned. ‘See you then.’
By the time I got back to Wickham Hall guests had started arriving and the Fortescues’ private car park was filling up. I spotted Nikki standing next to a side gate in the high wall that surrounded the front grounds. She had a tray of something in her hands and looked the smartest I’d ever seen her in a loose linen suit. She wolf-whistled at me as I walked over to her.
‘Wow, you look like a blonde Audrey Hepburn in that dress, Hols. Very glam.’
‘And you,’ I laughed, tugging on her sleeve, ‘I think it’s the first time I’ve seen you in proper clothes!’
‘Thought I’d better make an effort as I’m handing out the buttonholes. What do you think? Good, aren’t they? Andy did most of it.’
The tray in her hands was full of exquisite roses in the same colours as I’d seen in the displays in the Great Hall – pink, yellow, white and peach – each one wrapped with sprigs of gypsophila and fern, their stems tied with ivory lace.
‘Stunning,’ I agreed. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job with the flowers, Nikki, all of them.’ I pointed at the gate. ‘But why stand here?’
‘It’s a short cut to the church via the graveyard. The bride won’t use it; she’ll go through the lych-gate at the front, grand entrance and all that. Ooh, excuse me, more guests. Catch you later, Hols.’
I left her sorting out buttonholes for an immaculately dressed family of four and entered the hall by the main entrance.
‘Holly, there you are!’ The extravagant feathers on her hat quivered as Lady Fortescue hurried down the main stairs, pulling on her lace gloves. ‘Is everything all right? Any problems?’
‘Not at all, Lady Fortescue.’
‘Take this anyway.’ She handed me a two-way radio from a console table. ‘Security has got it well c
overed, I’m sure, but one never knows.’
‘Please try not to worry and enjoy your day, Lady Fortescue. You look lovely, by the way,’ I said, clipping the radio onto the ribbon on my waistband.
‘Thank you, Holly, although being surrounded by Zara and her lovely bridesmaids does make me feel ancient. It doesn’t seem five minutes since I was the bride at Wickham Hall. Oh, here they come!’
We both gazed up the wide sweeping staircase as seven girls, giggling nervously and dressed in long satin gowns of varying pastel shades, began to make their way down.
‘Oh, don’t you look divine!’ Lady Fortescue cried. ‘Lovely girls . . .’ she muttered as an aside to me. ‘I’m hoping one of them might suit my son.’
I pressed my lips together to hide a smile at Lady Fortescue’s match-making plans. I still hadn’t met Benedict but from what I’d heard about him so far I imagined he’d be unlikely to appreciate his mother’s interference.
A photographer in a trendy charcoal suit appeared from between them and jogged down the stairs.
‘OK, if we can have you in two lines, please; little ones at the front?’
The bridesmaids hooted with laughter as they battled for the front row, chivvied along by the patient photographer.
‘That’s great, and now one of you with the bridesmaids, Lady Fortescue?’
Just then a door along the corridor marked ‘private’ opened and Lord Fortescue emerged. His fine silver hair still looked damp, but he looked very refined in his morning suit and he beamed with pride when he caught sight of his wife.
‘Beatrice,’ he said, catching hold of her hands and kissing her cheek, ‘you look more beautiful now than on our own wedding day.’
My face broke into a soppy smile. Lady Fortescue seemed to be feeling a bit sensitive about her age today and he couldn’t have uttered more perfect words to her.
‘Oh Hugo.’ She giggled, pink with pleasure. ‘Now, our daughter is dressed and ready and looking every inch the perfect bride, complaining, of course, that the dress is too tight and she can’t walk in it, but I told her she’ll be fine as long as she concentrates.’
It suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t doing a very good job checking for errant journalists; I really ought to go and do something. But just then Zara glided into view at the balustrade on the first floor. My heart tweaked and I couldn’t drag my eyes away. She looked incredible.
Her long blonde hair had been twisted into a chignon and finished with a headband made of pearls and silk rosebuds stitched onto a lace ribbon. The ivory dress was simple and stunning: the top was made entirely of lace with a V-shaped neckline and cap sleeves. The skirt was one long satin sheath.
I tutted at myself as a lump formed in my throat. This wouldn’t do at all, I thought with a sniff, reaching into my handbag. I wasn’t even family.
‘Here comes the bride,’ Zara trilled, holding her arms out. Her bridesmaids turned and clapped. One actually put her fingers to her lips and whistled.
‘Darling!’ exclaimed Lady Fortescue, dabbing a tissue to her eye. ‘Oh, our beautiful girl, Hugo, look!’
‘Thanks, Mummy,’ Zara grinned, ‘and please don’t cry. At least not until I say “I do”, or you’ll have no mascara left for the photos.’
Lord Fortescue opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, his eyes looked suspiciously moist and I thought he was going to expire with pride.
‘Right.’ Lady Fortescue leapt into action. ‘The bridesmaids are ready, so we’ll head over to the church and you follow in twenty minutes or so.’
‘Right you are. Any sign of . . .?’ He raised his eyebrows.
Lady Fortescue shook her head. ‘On his way, apparently. Go and give him another call, will you? Come along, ladies.’
The mother of the bride and bridesmaids departed noisily by the front entrance, Lord Fortescue darted back into the room he’d come from and a moment of calm followed before the photographer started issuing instructions to Zara. I felt my bottom lip wobble as she made her way gingerly down the stairs.
‘You look absolutely beautiful, Zara,’ I said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m so bloomin’ nervous!’ she said, fanning her face with her hand. ‘Do you think I could risk another fag?’ She peered over the banister on the lookout for her father.
‘Better not,’ I laughed.
‘Definitely not,’ added the photographer, beckoning her down the last few steps. ‘I’m going to take a more formal shot of you with the full staircase in view.’
‘Do I look as if I’m waddling like a penguin?’
‘You look gorgeous.’ He winked, taking a step back. ‘Now lower your bouquet so that it looks less like you’re holding a microphone.’
‘The bridesmaids look good fun, Zara, are they friends or family or both?’ I asked, slipping my phone out of my bag to take some pictures of my own.
‘They’ll all from my university netball team,’ she said, pretending to throw her bouquet up in the air like a ball. ‘I played centre because I was the smallest and nippiest and I could jump . . . arrgghhh!’
The photographer and I lunged forward to catch Zara as she tripped over mid-netball demo, but we weren’t quick enough; her foot missed the bottom step and there was an almighty ripping sound as the side of her dress tore from the hem to the top of her thigh and I caught a glimpse of a pale ankle at an odd angle as she landed in a snowy heap.
Oh God. Why, why, why did I mention the bridesmaids? This was my fault. I thought I might actually throw up.
‘Zara, are you all right? I’m so sorry.’ I knelt down quickly, removed her shoe and instantly wondered whether that had been the right thing to do. The chances of getting it back on again were slim, which was more than could be said for her rapidly ballooning ankle.
‘Not your fault,’ she whispered, her face contorted with pain.
The photographer crouched down beside us. ‘You’ve probably just sprained it.’
‘Just?’ she cried, gripping her ankle with both hands. ‘It really, really hurts!’
We both looked at the torn dress and the bare leg complete with lace garter poking through the split then back to each other and she let out a bubble of hysterical laughter.
‘At least you’ll be able to walk in it now,’ I said, casting round for something positive to say.
We looked at each other and did that laugh you do when you know something is really bad and not at all a laughing matter. Seconds later Lord Fortescue flew back out from the drawing room.
‘Good Lord,’ he whispered hoarsely, dropping to his knees next to his daughter. ‘Beatrice is going to kill us.’
That shut us up.
‘Holly, the dress is ruined,’ wailed Zara, looking very pale all of a sudden. ‘What are we going to do?’
I looked back at the ripped fabric and at her swollen foot and I squeezed her hand, my heart beating like hummingbird wings inside my chest.
How on earth was I going to get the bride to the church on time?
Chapter 9
Think, Holly, think. We need a plan and quickly.
‘Right,’ I swallowed, my mind whirring rapidly, ‘don’t worry. I know exactly what to do.’
Sort of.
‘Ice,’ I said rapidly to the photographer. ‘Run straight down the corridor, last door on the right. Someone in there will help you. Frozen peas will do.’
A thought struck me that maybe stately homes didn’t carry a freezer full of Birds Eye frozen foods like normal homes, but never mind, I was sure he’d find something.
‘Ice. Good thinking.’ He laid his camera down and stood up. ‘Do you want brandy with that?’
‘Yes please!’ chorused Zara and her father as he jogged away.
I turned to Lord Fortescue. ‘And do you have a first-aid box?’
‘Of course.’ He trotted off, shouting for Sheila.
I asked Zara to wiggle her toes and ankle and between us we established that we didn’t think anything was too seriously
damaged.
‘Except my dress,’ said Zara in a small voice. ‘I know I laughed, but it isn’t funny, is it? People in the church will start getting fidgety soon and I can’t walk down the aisle like this, can I? Assuming I can walk at all, that is.’
Her lip started to wobble and my heart went out to her.
‘Hey, don’t panic,’ I assured her, reaching for her hand. ‘I’ve got a friend who is a whizz with a needle and I know she would love to take a look at your dress.’
I picked up my phone and called the number I had on speed dial.
Esme answered straight away.
‘You know that piece of vintage lace you bought? Do you think you could cobble . . .’ I hesitated. Zara’s dress had come from a Mayfair boutique, apparently; cobbling something together at the eleventh hour quite possibly wasn’t what she wanted to hear. ‘Er, make a last-minute adjustment to a wedding gown with it?’
‘Ye-ah?’
I smiled at the fizz of curiosity in her voice.
‘Bring it to Wickham Hall, with ribbon and anything else bridal-y that you can lay your hands on. Oh and your sewing box. And drive like the wind!’
By the time I’d confirmed that Esme would be here in a matter of minutes, both Lord Fortescue, accompanied by Sheila, and the photographer, carrying brandy and a tea towel full of crushed ice, had returned. I elevated Zara’s leg, resting the tea towel on top of it.
‘Right, we’ll leave it like that for now. And you go steady with that,’ I said, eyeing up the brandy glass in Zara’s hand. ‘You’re wobbly enough as it is.’
Sheila caught hold of my arm. She looked elegant today in a salmon-pink suit and her hair had a newly set crispness to it. She spoke quietly. ‘Holly, before you go—’
‘Sorry, Sheila,’ I whispered back. ‘I’d better go and let Lady Fortescue know what’s happening. I’ll catch you later.’
Wickham Hall, Part 1 Page 8
