Persuade Me

by Juliet Archer

  ‘Who else is going?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be mainly family. Barbara, his wife, we’ll have to hope she’s not doing the catering.’ She giggled, but didn’t share the joke. ‘His two daughters, Louisa and Henrietta, they run the stables at the far end of the village. His son, Charles, and his dreadful wife. A few other neighbours, I think, and us.’

  ‘Do you know someone in Uppercross with two little boys?’ He paused, calculating their ages. ‘One’s six or seven and the other’s a lot younger.’

  ‘There aren’t many families with young children round here. Could be Charles Musgrove, his boys are that sort of age.’

  ‘The one with the dreadful wife?’ He held his breath for her answer.

  ‘Well, I’ve only met her once and that was enough. Can’t remember her name but she’s actually the daughter of Sir Walter Elliot.’

  Bingo. ‘Sir Walter Elliot?’ He hoped he sounded appropriately curious. He’d never discussed Anna with Sophie. By the time he’d seen his sister again after France, he was working his way through a succession of women at the University of Melbourne. So why mention yet another meaningless fling?

  ‘Yes, the man who’s renting us the greenhouses and Kellynch Lodge,’ Sophie went on. ‘He’s dreadful too, drones on and on about being a baronet and looks down his nose at me as if I should be tugging my forelock–’ She stopped, and Rick could imagine her impish grin. Then she said, ‘How do you know the boys?’

  ‘I don’t, I just saw them as we left this morning. With the mother.’

  ‘Who’d be shouting her head off, she’s hopeless with them.’

  He hesitated. ‘Something like that. Anyway, it was great to see you and I’ll phone during the week. Give my best to Ed, will you?’

  She said goodbye and rang off, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

  Anna … Musgrove.

  In six days he’d meet her again. And he’d prove he was over her, if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter Six

  The last Monday in September saw the start of Freshers’ Week at university. For Anna, it was the run-up to another academic year when she would focus on giving her students a grounding in – and, if possible, a passion for – her chosen subject. Strange, though; while the tide of nineteenth-century Russian literature swept inexorably from Romanticism to Realism, she often felt she was swimming against it. Her mother’s death may have turned her into more of a realist than most teenagers, but, as she grew older, she found herself drawn to romance – or at least the memory of it.

  This year, however, she felt different. It was as if the knowledge that Rick Wentworth was nearby – or, at least, in the same part of the world – gave her an energy that moved everything up a gear. Because, as she was only now realising, she’d spent the last ten years in neutral. Oh, she’d got her degree, a First, as Mummy would have wanted. She’d won a measure of independence – financial and emotional – from the Ancient Principality of Kellynch. She enjoyed her job, overall. And she had plenty of opportunities to socialise, mainly with Jenny and Tom and their friends in the more bohemian parts of Bath.

  But these were all superficial signs of life and, if she died today, they’d make a painfully short obituary. ‘At her untimely death aged twenty-eight, Dr Anna Elliot was a lecturer in Russian Studies at Bath & Western University. Long fascinated by the great figures of nineteenth-century Russian literature, Elliot was continuing her research into their impact on western culture, the subject of her earlier PhD (the actual title was far too long and boring). She leaves a grieving father (Walter always reckoned he looked good in black), two sisters and a few close friends. The owner of her favourite bookshop said he knew her name but couldn’t quite put a face to it.’

  And that was the sum total of Anna Elliot. Except …

  Somewhere deep down was another Anna, the one she’d been at eighteen during that summer in France. The one Rick Wentworth had coaxed into being, then left to shrivel and die. And she hadn’t really looked at another man since. Oh, she’d tried; at Oxford, there’d been a few boyfriends, but they simply couldn’t compare. It was like warming yourself on a radiator when you were used to basking in the sun.

  She’d grown accustomed to it now, this quiet longing for another life.

  By the time she drove into Uppercross on the following Saturday morning, she was obsessed by the thought of meeting him. Each car she passed, each man walking along the pavement, could be him. He was bound to be visiting his sister this weekend; according to his website, never a source of anything but purely factual information, he had no events scheduled until Tuesday evening.

  Of course, she knew nothing could come of it. Too much water had gone under the bridge; and anyway, he had a girlfriend, Shelley someone, absolutely stunning. But meeting him again would close the chapter, put the other Anna out of her misery. It had to. She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the alternative.

  Mona lived on the fringes of the Musgrove estate, at Uppercross Cottage; the name rankled as a reminder of its unsavoury origins – two little farm labourers’ cottages knocked together. The resulting four-bedroomed house was big enough to satisfy her ambitions – for now – and small enough to limit her spending, theoretically at least. Anna remembered how, even before she’d moved in, Mona had rebranded it as ‘Uppercross Manor’ with new signage and a range of personalised stationery. Apparently it impressed her London friends but had little effect closer to home; much to her annoyance the locals, especially her in-laws, still referred to it as ‘the Cottage’.

  Anna parked her Mini next to Charles’s old Range Rover and sat for a few minutes, summoning all her reserves of patience. Although she’d always been closer to Mona than to Lisa – which wasn’t saying much – their relationship had cooled when Mona married and became a mother. Anna wouldn’t have minded if it was because Mona was too absorbed in her husband and children. But she wasn’t; the reasons were altogether more complex.

  And one of them was coming out of the house and walking this way; a thin dark-haired man two years older than herself, whose tense face lit up at the sight of her. She fixed her smile in place and got out of the car.

  ‘Charles! I thought you were going out this morning?’

  He held her, didn’t kiss her, but looked deep into her eyes. ‘Good to see you, as always.’

  ‘And you.’ She moved away to get her bags from the back seat. Then, with an anxious glance, ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Not too bad, actually. Mum and Dad had the boys overnight.’ He gave a sheepish grin and Anna guessed that he and Mona had stopped arguing long enough to have sex. He went on, ‘I’m just going to fetch them now and take them to feed the horses. Mona’s had a lie-in, but she seems to be stirring.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her, it’ll be good to have a chat while the boys aren’t around.’ A pause. ‘How’s she been?’

  ‘A lot better. I think your visit last weekend did her good.’ His face clouded. ‘But she’s all worked up about tonight, that’s why I thought if there were two of us …’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She gave him a reassuring smile.

  He smiled back, then frowned. ‘Have you heard of Rick Wentworth, some Australian celebrity who’s over here on a book tour? Turns out he’s not really Australian, he’s Sophie Croft’s brother and he’s staying with her this weekend. Came down last night apparently, although nobody’s seen him. Anyway, Dad’s invited him to the party. Sounds harmless enough, doesn’t it, except it’s got Mona all hyper and Lou and Henrietta almost in hysterics.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Lou went up to London specially for one of his book signings, she thinks he’s even more gorgeous in the flesh. Can’t understand his appeal myself. I mean, he’s good-looking, I’ll grant you that, but I bet there’s not much between the ears, someone probably has to write his books for him. But then Lou’s always been impressed by a nice set of pecs, whereas you’re more interested in a man’s mind, aren’t you?’ He touched her arm. ‘
Anna?’

  She started. ‘Oh! … Yes …’

  His hand was still on her arm. ‘You and I can form our own club, the Rick Wentworth Non-Appreciation Society, inaugural meeting tonight. You never know, by the end of the evening we might get more members, although at this stage it looks very doubtful. Even Mum’s besotted, and of course Dad thinks that anyone who can fight off a shark with his bare hands must be – Do you think it really was a shark? Probably just a dolphin, same sort of fins, easy mistake to make.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Well, good to chat but I’d better get going. Come up to the Great House for Dad’s birthday lunch, they’re expecting you. Should be safe to eat, Henrietta’s on kitchen duty. Here, I’ll take those.’

  He let go of her arm at last, grabbed her bags and herded her into the house; then shambled off, taking a well-trodden path across the fields opposite – the short cut to his parents’.

  Just inside the front door, Anna leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She’d meet Rick tonight, for sure. No surprises there, she’d expected to see him this weekend. But now she had a time, and a place, and the clock was ticking. Should she spend time tarting herself up in some pathetic little act of defiance – or go as she normally did, wearing the first thing to hand and sporting an invisible ‘I’m Allergic to Male Pheromones So Don’t Even Think About It’ badge?

  In the end, the decision was made for her.

  ‘Anna, is that you?’ Mona’s sulky voice from upstairs. ‘Come here. I feel like shit, it’s going to take all day to get me ready for the party.’

  Chapter Seven

  The evening before, Rick had returned to Sophie and Ed’s and heard their progress report on the garden centre refurbishment. He’d responded with a brief – and sanitised – account of the week’s book signing events. In reality, it had been an unnerving experience. Some of the women he’d met made the deep sea angler fish – famous for biting on to its mate and never letting go – look sexually inhibited. And, for God’s sake, if he wanted a girl’s phone number he certainly wouldn’t ask her to write it on her knickers, recently worn or not. With a grim smile, he’d passed the offending article to Guy and left him to deal with the disappointed owner.

  And when Sophie had asked about Shelley, he’d fobbed her off. Shelley was neither answering her phone nor returning his calls, but he didn’t want Sophie to make a big deal out of it. There’d be a simple explanation, he was sure.

  Now, on Saturday morning, he was preparing himself to see Anna Musgrove later in the day. He started with his usual routine of a hundred sit-ups and fifty press-ups, had a protein-packed breakfast of smoked haddock and scrambled eggs, read the paper, then announced to Sophie that he was going for a run. When she asked how long he’d be, he told her not to expect him for lunch.

  He went over his route on Ed’s Ordnance Survey map, but refused to take it with him; the pockets of his shorts weren’t big enough and he had his mobile if he got lost. Then he headed for Kellynch, telling himself he wanted to check out the greenhouses and The Lodge and take in the garden centre on the way. It was certainly not for sentimental reasons; although, if he chose to, he could recall the warmth in Anna’s voice as she described her home and its happy associations with her mother. No, if there was an ulterior motive, it was purely to remind himself of the gulf between his background and hers. How had her father put it, the one and only time they’d met? Something along the lines of ‘You’re not fit for my daughter to wipe her feet on.’ He’d found some satisfaction in retorting, ‘But I made sure she enjoyed every single minute of it.’

  The main road out of Uppercross was narrow and winding, its high hedgerows jewelled with late blackberries. For safety he ran against the traffic – and once or twice had to swerve into the grassy ditch to avoid an oncoming car. He didn’t like running on tarmac, too unyielding, but there was no obvious alternative route. It was very warm for an English October and he was glad he’d remembered his water bottle.

  He stopped after four miles when he reached the garden centre. The place was easily accessible from the road, had ample car parking and seemed well maintained. The refurbishment was limited to the main part of the shop, where Sophie and Ed had changed the layout; they were reluctant to spend time and money making the first-floor living accommodation habitable and, anyway, Sophie wanted a place to unwind away from the business. As far as Rick could tell, everything was on target for the grand opening in early November, shortly before he returned to Australia. Not the best time of year to open a garden centre, but Sophie wanted to try out some Christmas decorations and gifts, and Ed planned to test the local market for pet products and animal feed.

  After a swig of water he set off for Kellynch, which he reckoned was only another couple of miles further on. And indeed, the hedgerow beside him soon gave way to a crumbling stone wall and a weathered sign where he could just make out the words ‘Kellynch Estate, Private Property – Keep Out’. Although he could have easily scaled the wall, he kept to the road, noting the lie of the land he passed: open fields with a few sheep grazing, then more formal gardens as the house came briefly into sight.

  At the wrought iron gates he paused. They were tall and ornate, but riddled with rust and half-askew, as though they’d forgotten why they were there. As he jogged along the weed-ravaged drive, an elegant Palladian mansion came into view, glowing in the sunshine like a large pearl on a green velvet cushion. But when he reached it, he saw that the elegance was a mirage; the walls of the house were damp-stained and peeling, the lawns patchy with neglect.

  He wondered what he was doing this side of the gates; he’d probably get accused of trespassing. That in itself didn’t bother him, it was more the thought of having to explain his presence to someone when he didn’t understand it himself. Sure enough, at that moment two women appeared at the front door; both tall and blonde and wearing immaculate designer gym outfits, one pale pink, the other lilac. They saw him – and their conversation came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Yes?’ Pink said imperiously. Her eyes fixed on his damp, clinging T-shirt, as if seeking enlightenment from the words ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder’ emblazoned across his chest.

  Lilac ran her tongue over her already glistening lips. ‘I nuh oo yuh aargh,’ she said. ‘Yuh aargh Reek Wantwart.’

  Rick looked at her, totally baffled.

  Pink, however, seemed to have no difficulty in understanding this gibberish. ‘Well, well, Rick Wentworth,’ she breathed, in a much more encouraging tone. ‘Are there any photographers with you?’

  ‘There might have been, but they couldn’t keep up,’ he said brusquely, then forced a smile. No point in antagonising the woman; at least, not yet.

  ‘Welcome to Kellynch.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Were you after anything – or anyone – in particular?’

  ‘I’m here on behalf of Sophie and Ed Croft.’ That was partly true, wasn’t it? ‘They want me to report back on the state of The Lodge.’

  ‘Checking up on us, are they? Come along, I’ll give you a personal tour.’ She slipped her bare arm through his – skin as smooth and cold as marble – then turned to her companion and said, ‘Bring the car round to The Lodge, we’ll go to the gym from there.’

  He let her guide him away from the house, down a wide, overgrown path at right angles to the gates he’d just walked through. He wondered if she was related to Anna; at first glance, it didn’t seem possible. But he didn’t have to speculate for long, because she talked without any prompting. And her favourite subject seemed to be … herself.

  She had a silly, little-girl voice which was profoundly irritating and completely at odds with her sophisticated image. He made himself listen, however, and soon learned that she was Elisabeth-with-an-s, Lisa for short, eldest daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, 8th Baronet. She’d apparently given up a successful career in the City – she didn’t say what – to devote her time to various worthy causes connected with Kellynch. First impressions led Ri
ck to suspect that there was no worthier cause than the beautification of Elisabeth Elliot.

  The Lodge nestled beside a pair of gates that were even more impressive – and, on closer inspection, even more run down – than the previous ones. Rick guessed that they’d once been the main entrance and the path he was walking along had originally been a proper drive. There were signs that workmen had been: the grass outside The Lodge was flattened and muddied, and most of the windows were ajar, their frames freshly painted. Lisa bent down to retrieve a key from under an empty terracotta plant pot – giving him ample opportunity to observe her taste in underwear, a black thong – and unlocked the front door.

  There wasn’t much to see. It was basically small, with two bedrooms, and in need of a good clean and a lick of paint; the kitchen and bathroom had been cleared, presumably in preparation for new fittings. Lisa stayed close, which wasn’t difficult in such a confined space.

  ‘So, when’s it due to be finished?’ he said, as they went out again into the sultry air.

  She shrugged. ‘No idea. When do you want it finished? Are you coming to stay? Just give me a date and I’ll have them working day and night to deliver.’

  He gave her an appraising look – she’d probably enjoy cracking the whip, metaphorically at least – but merely said, ‘I’ll be visiting Sophie and Ed whenever I can. It doesn’t matter to me whether they’re here or in Uppercross.’ He added, in the hope of learning something useful about Anna before tonight, ‘Sophie tells me you’ve got a sister there. Do you see much of her?’

  Just then a horn blared and a silver, open-topped sports car swung into the lay-by on the other side of the gates, with Lilac behind the wheel. She leaned across the passenger seat and called, ‘Urree, or we’ll meess ze class.’