by Fiona Walker
Officially Russ was a sanctuary volunteer. Unofficially he was much more. Theirs was still a fledgling relationship, from the laughter-laced high summer five months earlier, through an autumn of burgeoning friendship to a winter of mounting flirtation. The two had been crowned Eardisford’s Wassail King and Queen in the apple orchards on Twelfth Night, sharing their first kiss after drinking a cup of spiked punch procured by Russ’s uncle Bill, who was eager to see his nephew settle down at last. Russ was the black sheep of the cider-making Hedges dynasty, a free-spirited music lover, conservationist and sometime animal activist who lived in a caravan amid the fruit trees he lovingly tended.
‘It’s dangerous here on your own. I’ll stay over.’
‘I have Dawn coming.’
‘You’ll hardly know I’m here.’
‘Is the caravan leaking again?’
‘Like a sieve. Don’t worry – I’ll kip on Uncle Bill’s sofa.’ He dipped his head, smiling up at her. ‘You need your space.’
The dye had almost grown out now, leaving amazing white tips at the end of his dark brown mop, rather like a pint of Guinness. It should have looked ridiculous, but the effect was edgy fashion shoot, setting off the unique square beauty of his jaw and the fierce ursid eyes. Russ was full of visual contradictions: the neatly trimmed beard was theatrically cosmopolitan, the wild mane urban jungle, the clothes rural vigilante and the dark eyes martyred. Some locals found him frightening, and his face certainly had a devilish quality, but he stood out as much as Kat did.
‘No, stay. You’ll like Dawn. We’ll all go out later. God, I’m running so late.’ She looked down at her mud-caked torso and legs. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about helping this afternoon.’ Russ wasn’t the most reliable sanctuary volunteer, often going AWOL for days on end. By the same token, he wasn’t a standard-issue boyfriend, but that suited Kat, who was wary of being tied down. He called himself a ‘free-range lover’. When he was in situ, which was increasingly often now the weather was colder, he was a hard-working ally and an aficionado of sensual shoulder rubs and long, breathless kisses, as he demonstrated now.
He was an extraordinarily skilful kisser: tall, sweet-tongued and tactile, with a way of putting both hands to her face when his mouth sealed softly with hers, thumbs beneath her jaw, that drew down her insides with desire. She’d once thought beards off-putting, but Russ’s was so soft and the long hair that framed his face so heroic that it was like being kissed by a medieval hero, her own Robin of Sherwood. She just wished she wasn’t going to be quite so late.
‘I’ve been here ages,’ he pointed out, as they surfaced for air. ‘I was putting feed in the woods for wildlife. Mags gave me a load of bar snacks that were past their sell-by date – the badgers love them.’
Kat eyed him suspiciously. ‘Was it you who left the gate to the spinney open?’
He looked shifty. ‘I know better than that.’
But Kat had no time to cross-examine him as she raced inside to change again, diving into a broken-zipped bomber jacket with Official Event Farrier on it and her only remaining clean trousers, the ageing green velvet joggers she wore to run her fitness and Pilates classes in the village hall.
Kat could no longer drive up through the parkland as she once had: the vast wrought-iron gates at the end of the lime walk on her side of the lake were now kept padlocked by order of the Big Five, denying her access to the tracks that ran around Herne Covert to the old stableyards, coach houses and kennels and on to the Hereford road gatehouses. Instead, she was forced to off-road through the woods that ran alongside the millstream.
The Big Five were the main beneficiaries of the late Constance Mytton-Gough’s estate, her four daughters and only son. The quintet were all well beyond sixty and based across several time-zones with children and grandchildren of their own. None had shown any desire to take up their late mother’s mantle by returning to run Eardisford, instead rushing with near-indecent post-funeral haste to have the estate catalogued and discreetly marketed to the few of the world’s super-rich able to afford the eight-figure asking price.
Selling the historic Herefordshire house and its ten thousand acres was a monumental challenge, even setting aside the endless legal clauses protecting the integrity of the estate and its many tenants. Too far from London to appeal to Arabs, too expensive for pop-stars and too decrepit for corporate use, sceptical locals predicted that Eardisford would languish on the market for years. The great house’s contents had been stripped out and sold to cover inheritance tax and feed the Big Five’s appetite for a return from their mother’s long life. In the year since her death, interested parties had come and gone, but it was clear that one thing more than any other was putting them off. Among the minefield of codicils in Constance’s will that prevented Eardisford being broken up was one that had bequeathed a farm in the middle of its magnificent parkland to the Constance Mytton-Gough Animal Sanctuary, now in the care of her former nurse and occupied by the elderly animals that had survived her.
The sanctuary – known locally as the Hon Con’s Zoo – had an elected committee, a constitution, audited accounts and charitable status, but the Big Five knew that this was just a legal force-field to protect it from their attempts to fight Lake Farm’s exclusion from their mother’s estate. The ancient steading – part parkland folly, part historic monument – was in direct view of the main house. Purchasers clearly had no desire to look out at a cherry-haired figure feeding pensionable pot-bellied pigs and decrepit horses.
The legacy might have been disastrous, were Kat not so hard-working, adaptable and uncomplaining. She genuinely loved the unique peace of Lake Farm and its elderly, demanding occupants. For the past year, she had learned on the job, sought help where it was needed and weathered real and virtual storms.
The Big Five had made it clear from the start that they wanted Kat out, so when attempts to take their battle to court failed and Kat refused to be paid off, they’d resorted to bullying. Isolated and prone to flooding, the farm was reliant upon the Eardisford Estate for services, utilities and access, all of which were denied to Kat during one of the wettest autumns on record. For weeks, she had survived on borrowed generators and bowsers, forced to access her home via public footpaths, the villagers rallying to her aid while the committee fought to get her rights reinstated. When her erstwhile ally, estate manager Dair Armitage, had turned traitor, paid by the Big Five to launch a campaign of intimidation, she’d confronted him in the Eardisford Arms and demanded it stopped.
Fearless in her determination to protect the animals, Kat had never contemplated giving up on Lake Farm. She believed that the sanctuary could eventually take in old and abandoned animals in need of care locally, but she still had a lot to prove. Keeping it running was about day to day survival, and this winter had been harsh. She was aware that the jury remained out on her suitability as a farmer – her sheep-handling skills had reduced James Stevens, the debonair vet, to tears of laughter – but nobody could fault her tenacity.
Driving out through the woods that divided the estate’s old hunting grounds from its farmland, she got tantalizing glimpses of the big house she had grown so familiar with during her time there as Constance’s nurse.
The stately pile had never been given a precise title – hall, manor, house or castle; it was simply Eardisford, which often caused confusion because the village that abutted its park shared the name. The sub-division to Upper and Lower distinguished the local community from the main house, and many of its cottages were still tied to the estate.
The Tudor origins of Eardisford remained on show in its half-timbered courtyard, but its east-facing front was a serious Jacobean makeover, which had added vast wings and an extra floor topped with a lantern tower, along with Dutch gables, corner turrets and an elaborate quoined, strapworked porch. The Georgians had tarted it up more, the Victorians had twiddled with Gothic touches, and a party-loving Edwardian had almost burned the lot down, wiping out one wing along with the original fifteenth
-century chapel. The house remained, though, a splendid showcase of the best of British building artistry, framed by thousands of acres of parkland, gardens, farms, woodland and the erstwhile feudal village.
The Eardisford Estate had been owned by the Mytton family for several centuries. Its last chatelaine, Constance, had remained there until her death, having outlived her husband, Ronnie, who had added ‘Gough’ to the family name.
Kat’s enduring image of Constance was at the first wassail she’d attended in the Eardisford orchards. Constance had not witnessed the ceremony in more than a decade but had insisted that her nurse must enjoy the show and that she would accompany her. Wrapped up against the frost in an ancient fur coat, several checked blankets and three dogs warming her knees, she’d arrived in grand fashion in the old golf buggy, which she complained that Kat drove far too slowly.
Now a lump rose in her throat as she remembered the nonagenarian joyfully spiking the wassailing cider with fifty-year-old calvados fetched up from the hall cellars, the golf cart weighed down with bags of mince pies and sausage rolls to hand around, as well as her ubiquitous oxygen cylinders. Constance had enjoyed the evening tremendously, telling everyone she was looking forward to coming again next year.
Instead, the toughest and funniest patient Kat had ever worked with had contracted a chest infection the following autumn and died quietly while the village gathered around the giant Bonfire Night pyre on the Green. Her five children had been at her bedside, drawn back from all corners of the world, and, as deaths went, it had been magnificently dignified and peaceful.
You’re not thinking about my death again, are you? a voice demanded in her head. How jolly morbid. And how many times have I told you what a bad lot that Hedges boy is? Frightful leftie. Brake!
Kat grinned as the car slid to a halt amid the leaf mulch and she jumped out to open a gate. She had known Constance for little more than a year, yet she’d been more inspired by her than anyone else she’d ever met; she still missed her terribly and often heard her voice in her head. Right now it was demanding to know what on earth she thought she was wearing: You’re such a pretty girl, Katherine (never ‘Kat’ – Constance had thought abbreviating names the height of ill manners), but you have absolutely no idea how to make the best of your looks. I was exactly the same before I met Ronnie. I would have lived in jodhpurs if I could. Thank goodness he had exquisite taste, and would take me to London at the start of each season to pick out some new pieces. Every girl needs a Ronnie. We must find you a real man, not a beardy weirdo with a vegetarian dog.
She wondered whether to risk the flooded ford track or the top one, which was on the private estate and Dair’s gamekeepers had been patrolling with border-guard vigilance all winter.
Dogs make far more reliable bed-warmers than men, and are much easier to kick off, Constance lectured. In fact, they’re absolutely essential for preventing guests freezing to death in English country houses. You must lend your guest Maddie. Border terriers have terrifically warm coats.
The elderly canine companions that had outlived Constance were now in Kat’s care. Of them all, her closest allies were the pair that their late mistress had stubbornly referred to as ‘the terriers’ although dachshund Daphne was technically more hound (‘She behaves like a terrier and so I call her one, in the same way I called Edwina Mountbatten a boho leftie. It’s not just about breeding,’ Constance would say); there was also a contented old Labrador who divided his time between impersonating a hearth rug and a doormat, and a brace of over-bright lurchers who specialised in theft and escapology and preferred outdoor life. Kat had banished all of them from the spare bedroom this week.
‘Dawn’s not a big dog fan.’
Why on earth did you invite her? Send her back. Better still, lend her the beardy weirdo. Kat imagined she could hear the delighted barks of laughter now, so genuine and unstoppable, like naughty sneezes of amusement, particularly if she was feeling confessional after her six o’clock Glenfiddich. In India, we girls dreamed of marrying a charming army officer and returning to England to run a large country house and have families. As soon as we did, we longed to be back in the heat. Making a match is such a terribly difficult thing, isn’t it?
‘I’m not making a match, Constance. I’m free-ranging.’
As she pulled out of the narrow farm track on to the village lane, she waved at ageing glamour-puss and sanctuary-committee stalwart Miriam, who was walking with local roué and hunting fanatic Frank Bingham-Ince, both carrying guns as casually as Sunday newspapers, dogs at their heels.
‘Pretty little thing. Still talks to herself non-stop, I see.’ Frank watched the car speed away. An inveterate flirt, the pepper-haired Lothario of the mounted field had a particular weakness for redheads. ‘Heard she’s learning to ride. We must get her out with the Brom before the end of the season.’ He and Miriam were joint masters of the Brombury and Lemlow foxhound pack, known to all as ‘the Brom and Lem’.
Miriam, who had been successfully hunting hounds and husbands for at least thirty years and had plans to share more than just the mastership with Frank, wasn’t about to let him jink on to another scent. ‘The girl’s not really a natural in the saddle, Frank. Would’ve packed it in months ago if it wasn’t for Constance insisting she had to learn as a part of the legacy. Besides, I can hardly see young Russ approving of her following hounds, can you?’
‘Ah, you’d be surprised.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘He’s been following our hounds through Wednesday country all season. Hadn’t you noticed? Of course, he calls it monitoring. Tell me, what is it about Russ Hedges that women find attractive?’ Frank’s teenage daughter’s highly inconvenient conversion to vegetarianism was down to a crush on the village renegade.
Miriam flicked back her silver blond mane, kept in a rigid Duchess of Cornwall pith helmet of flick-ups. ‘He’s terribly sexy for an anti. And being with Kat lends him credibility. She’s far too good for him, of course.’ She sighed. ‘My godmother would have disapproved enormously, especially all that nonsense he spouts about hugging wildlife.’
‘Hope to God whoever buys Eardisford still lets the Brom and Lem hunt it,’ Frank said. ‘Oldest recorded coverts in Herefordshire – terrific fox country.’
‘To lay trails through,’ Miriam reminded him, with a wise look.
Frank lowered his voice. ‘Is it really true there’s a buyer lined up?’
‘So I gather.’ Miriam batted her eyelashes at him as she stage-whispered, ‘Cash. The Big Five are ready to sign on the dotted, but naturally there’s still a lot of fuss about the Lake Farm covenant.’
There was a roar of diesel engine as Eardisford Estate manager Dair Armitage blasted out of the track in his Range Rover, pulling up beside the dog walkers and buzzing down the nearside window. ‘Did you see Kat Mason drive past here?’ The upper part of his face was concealed as usual by a flat cap. A short, broad-shouldered Scot with a chin almost as wide as his neck, he was carrying a walkie-talkie in one hand from which a voice with a strong Herefordshire accent was shouting, ‘Lost visual on Red Kitten. I repeat, I have lost visual on Red Kitten, over!’
‘We’ve seen nothing,’ Miriam said innocently.
‘If I catch her crossing estate land in a vehicle without permission again, she’s —’
‘Ah, Dair, just the man.’ Frank stepped forward with an ingratiating smile. ‘What are these rumours about a buyer for Eardisford?’
‘I’ve been told nothing.’ Dair was typically brusque as he tilted back his head so that he could glare at them from beneath his cap. Then he spotted the guns.
‘I hope you’re not rough shooting on estate land?’
‘You know my godmother was always happy for me to take something for the pot occasionally.’ Miriam was indignant.
‘You won’t be able to do that now.’
‘So they’ve signed already?’ she gasped. ‘Who is it? An oligarch?’
The cap was swiftly lowered. ‘A Seth. Into big game. But you did
n’t hear it from me.’
‘Isn’t a Seth some sort of Egyptian god?’ asked Frank. ‘Is he Middle Eastern?’
‘Yorkshireman.’
The two-way radio crackled into life. ‘I now have visual on Brown Bear. Repeat, visual on Brown Bear. He is hanging round the pheasant hoppers. Looks like he’s throwing Scampi Fries around.’
Dair bellowed like a furious Highland bull. He loathed Russ Hedges more than most, the smooth running of Eardisford’s commercial shooting and fishing interests being regularly undermined by the man’s vigilante activities. He buzzed up the window and drove off.
‘How thrilling.’ Miriam shivered. ‘Do you suppose the new owner’s single?’
