I was completely used to my friend jetting off to spend time with her little family unit of three, but this year I was particularly aware of the dad-shaped hole in my own life.
I sipped at my tea and mentally brushed away that particular niggle. No time for daydreaming, Holly Swift, I told myself firmly: the copy for the festival guide was due at the printers that afternoon and I still had a few pages to check.
I immersed myself in the artwork, sorting any typesetting issues and spelling mistakes with a stroke of my red pen. I’d reached the itinerary page for the last day when a shadow fell across me and a slight breeze made my paperwork lift from the table.
It was Nikki wafting herself with her sun hat. ‘What are you doing out here, fallen out with Benedict?’ she asked with a grin.
‘No, not at all,’ I said smoothly, ‘the office just gets a bit heated at this time of day with the two of us in it.’
Nikki laughed and pulled out a chair to sit on. ‘I bet it does.’
I felt a flush rise to my face. ‘The way the sun comes round, I mean, at noon.’
‘Sure.’ She winked.
I busied myself pouring out a second cup of tea while the colour on my cheeks subsided.
The truth was that I was finding it increasingly difficult to spend time alone with Ben in our office. It wasn’t just that he insisted on having a radio on all the time, or that occasionally paint flicked from his brush onto my desk, or even that he was still, even now, with two weeks left until the festival, randomly bursting out with ‘hey, what about . . .?’ and then embarking on an enthusiastic explanation as to why we should incorporate his latest idea into the schedule.
No, I could just about cope with all of those things.
My issue was that whenever I looked into his dark eyes, framed by even darker lashes, my heart gave a little flutter and no matter how often I reminded myself that a) he was my boss and b) he didn’t treat me any differently to anyone else, the fluttering was getting harder and harder to ignore.
‘. . . and on a day like today,’ Nikki was saying. ‘I’m surprised he’s even in the office. Benedict’s like me: a free spirit and doesn’t like to be hemmed in. Between you and me, I think he finds being at Wickham Hall too suffocating.’
I sometimes felt like that about Weaver’s Cottage, but here? I glanced around me at the size of the buildings, the acres of wide-open space.
‘Hmm, I’ve noticed that too, although I can’t understand why. I’m sure he loves Wickham Hall but there does seem to be something holding him back from committing to it long term. Do you know what it might be?’
Nikki shrugged. ‘No, but I guess it’s something to do with his parents. I admire Lady Fortescue, but she does treat him like a child. Family life is rarely straightforward, is it?’
Understatement of the century.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ I said, giving her a wry smile. ‘Anyway, how are your preparations for the festival going?’
‘The pearl garden is going to look fantastic,’ she said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the head of a white geranium. ‘Pretty, isn’t it? Problem is that it’s scorching out there and the flowers are all blooming like billy-o, I just hope I can extend their flowering until the end of the month. And the watering . . .’ She paused to roll her eyes. ‘Gallons and gallons of the stuff. We’re OK while the plants are in the nursery beds, but once we’re down on the showground everything will have to be watered by hand. It’s a full-time job just keeping them from drying out! Talking of which, I’ve earned myself a drink this morning, see you later.’
Nikki wandered inside and I was about to resume my proofreading when I noticed Ben and Lord Fortescue coming across each other at the far side of the courtyard.
Lord and Lady Fortescue had returned from the South of France looking healthily tanned. I was glad to have them back. The place seemed all the brighter for their presence, almost as though Wickham Hall stood to attention for them.
It was the first time I’d seen father and son talk to each other without anyone else around – Ben had arrived during a manic time on Zara’s wedding day and the Fortescues had gone away straight after that – and I must admit, I was quite curious to see the two men together.
Even though I couldn’t hear what they were saying I could read their body language. Lord Fortescue seemed perplexed: one hand smoothing his hair, the other on his hip. Ben didn’t look very happy; he was staring at the ground, shaking his head, waving his arms around until finally folding them defensively. Lord Fortescue laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and patted him gently but Ben turned his body away, catching my eye in the process.
I raised a hand and Ben made a beeline for me as Lord Fortescue carried on walking towards the private car park.
‘Hello, Mr Happy,’ I said as he dropped into the chair Nikki had just vacated.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face roughly.
‘Parents,’ he said gruffly. ‘Dad knows that I’m not really cut out for this role, but asks me loads of questions anyway, which I can’t answer, and then he gives me his disappointed face as if I’m not doing a good enough job.’
He looked so dejected that it was all I could do not to pull him in for a hug.
I cleared my throat. ‘What sort of questions?’
Ben sighed. ‘How many tickets for the festival have we sold, for example? I mean, my grasp of numbers is weak at the best of times. In one ear and out the other. I should know, but I just forget.’
‘We’ve sold eighteen thousand,’ I said. ‘With thirty per cent of those coming from online bookings. I’ll drop him an email. What else?’
‘Oh, er . . .’ He scrunched up his eyes. ‘Have we made sure there are disabled access ramps in the indoor arena?’
‘Yes, we have.’ I looked back down at my paperwork to hide my smile. That would be the ‘Royal’ we.
‘Oh good.’ He nodded. ‘And he wanted to know whether the outdoor seating in the VIP area is shaded.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Well, it is now. I’ve just been down this morning and asked them to put a canvas roof over it. It will be a bit like a sail. I didn’t want your parents’ guests keeling over with sunstroke.’
He stared at me and whistled. ‘How do you remember this stuff? I bet I could ask you a thousand questions and you’d be able to answer all of them.’
‘Planning. It’s all in here. Look.’ I held up my diary at today’s page. There was barely any empty space; I’d written reams of notes all over it.
He shook his head and grinned. ‘Holly Swift, you’re a marvel. What would I do without you?’
I felt ridiculously pleased and too tongue-tied to come up with a witty answer and was relieved when Sheila inadvertently came to my rescue.
‘There you are!’ she announced, panting slightly as she laid a heavy cardboard box down on the table. ‘I’ve been carting these round looking for you.’
‘I’m sorry, Sheila, I thought I’d escape from the perils of sharing an office with an artist.’ I smiled, flicking a glance at Ben.
‘The new Wickham Hall calendars are in.’ She flipped open the top of the box and handed one to each of us. ‘I thought you might like to see them before I drop them off at the gift shop.’
‘I would, thank you!’ I held my breath as I looked at the calendar. This had been my first job on arriving at Wickham Hall, my first chance to prove myself, and I hoped I had succeeded.
The cover photograph of Lord and Lady Fortescue was adorable: instead of a stilted formal pose, Lady Fortescue was sitting on a window seat in the Long Gallery, Lord Fortescue beside her, his arm around her shoulders; the pair were smiling and gazing at a jewellery case containing Lord Fortescue’s grandmother’s tiara. A lump appeared in my throat as I read the caption: Lady Fortescue’s Hidden Treasure. A surprise on our wedding day from Hugo, this gift, a family heirloom, more than anything truly made me feel like one of the family.
Even though I’d read
her words before when we put the calendar together, it still warmed my heart to read it again.
‘Holly, this is great. Really great.’ Ben reached across and ruffled my hair as though I was a small boy. ‘And different. I don’t think the calendar has ever featured people before, has it, Sheila?’
She smiled. ‘No, it’s usually flowers or views across the estate or various rooms in the hall.’
‘The team at Wickham Hall, the people, they’re its beating heart. Good on you, Holly.’ Ben gazed at me and I stared back, trying to read his expression, my own heart beating furiously at the compliment.
Sheila picked up the box and walked off to the gift shop and gradually the noise and the movements around me came back into focus.
The door to the café opened very slowly and Jenny’s head appeared through it, followed by the rest of her.
‘Just checking Lord Fortescue wasn’t around. I want to keep this a surprise. What do you think?’ She held out a small dish of tiny eggs skewered onto cocktail sticks that had been decorated with concertina’d ribbons of Parma ham.
‘Very pretty,’ I said. ‘What is it for?’
‘A little amuse-bouche for our thirtieth-anniversary menu: the quail eggs represent pearls.’
‘Wait a second and I’ll give you my verdict,’ said Benedict, scooping up two and popping them one after the other in his mouth.
‘You’re supposed to savour it, you glutton!’ Jenny tutted.
I giggled at the look of indignation on her face.
‘Very moreish,’ declared Ben, reaching for a third. ‘If a bit small.’
‘Oi.’ Jenny twisted away out of reach. ‘Let Holly have a taste.’
I bit into one. ‘Mmm, delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had quail eggs before.’
‘Too small for me,’ said Ben, trying to get past Jenny’s hand to pinch another. ‘Give me a good old-fashioned hen’s egg any day.’
‘Actually, quail eggs are old-fashioned. Quite popular in Elizabethan times,’ I argued. ‘I’d have thought you’d have known that, Mr Fortescue.’
‘You tell him, Holly.’ Jenny held out the last cocktail stick to him and then made her way back to the kitchen.
He unravelled the Parma ham from the cocktail stick and dropped it into his mouth.
‘I can see why you like sitting in here.’ He grinned.
‘I’m trying to finish the festival guide.’ I leafed through the loose pages, found the section that mentioned his parents’ thirtieth anniversary at the hall and slid it across the table towards him. ‘Perhaps you’d read this for me?’
His forehead furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed in the text, his full lips moving as he read silently and I found myself wondering what those lips would taste like . . .
He looked up. ‘You’re staring.’
‘Sorry.’ I popped the rest of my strawberry tart in my mouth and prayed my face didn’t give me away.
‘Yeah, that’s good.’ He handed back the page and stood to leave. ‘Fancy a trip to Stratford? I’m going to the college to collect the photos for my exhibition from Steve.’
‘Um . . .’ I hesitated. It was tempting to spend a couple of hours with him away from Wickham Hall. But duty called. ‘No, too much to do. But would you please let Steve know I’ll give him his photograph back when I see him at the festival.’
I’d made a copy of Steve’s photograph but I hadn’t got round to showing it to Mum yet. The time wasn’t right. She had started seeing a therapist. I’d been over the moon at first but she was finding the sessions hard and came back emotionally exhausted. The therapist had given her exercises to do at home, too. But she seemed to have regressed a bit and the dining room, which we’d started to clear, had accumulated another three bags full when I looked at the weekend. It was early days, though, and I was determined to help her crack it.
‘OK.’ Ben pretended to look wounded and began to stride away.
‘Oh and can you ask him for his mobile number?’ I added. ‘I’ll arrange for him to see my mum’s newspapers if he’s still interested.’
It had to be worth a try.
‘Sure.’ He grinned. ‘Now try not to miss me too much when I’m gone.’
‘It will be difficult,’ I twinkled my eyes at him, trying to ignore the thumping of my heart, ‘but I’ll do my best.’
Chapter 7
A week later, very early in the morning, when it was still dark – or at least dark enough not to be able to see my watch – I was woken by an insistent, repetitive noise coming from downstairs. It was the door: someone was knocking on the front door.
What on earth . . .?
I stumbled out of bed, picked up my phone to turn it on and pulled back the curtain. Adrenalin began to race through me as I spotted movement in the semi-darkness. Beneath the window, a shadowy figure was leaning on the wall of the cottage and then . . . bent to sniff the flowers.
I threw open the window. ‘Ben!’
He took a step back, stumbled over one of Mum’s plant pots and cursed under his breath. A thin sliver of moonlight illuminated his smile as he peered up at me. I smiled back and wondered for a second whether this was just a dream.
‘Hello. I was just contemplating whether to shin up this drainpipe and bounce on your bed.’
‘Keep your voice down. And why are you smelling our flowers at,’ I paused and squinted at my phone, ‘four twenty in the morning?’
‘I woke up and thought about you never having seen the dawn and what a travesty that is. So I’m taking you to watch the sunrise at my favourite spot.’
Oh. That was possibly the loveliest thing that anyone had ever done for me. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts.
‘That’s a relief,’ I whispered. ‘I thought the festival showground must be on fire or something.’
‘No offence, Holly, I know you’re amazing and the world’s greatest diary keeper and everything, but you wouldn’t be my first port of call in a fire. I’ve been out here for ages.’ He grinned. ‘Half of Warwickshire would have been razed to the ground by now.’
I laughed softly. ‘Sorry, I’m a deep sleeper. It’s because I work so hard. You should try it.’
He stared at me and then flapped his arms. ‘Well, come on then, get some clothes on, the sunrise waits for no man. Or woman. You look very cute with bedhead hair, by the way.’
I poked my tongue out at him and shut the curtains again, hugging my excitement to myself.
I pulled on a pair of jeans, a hoody and my trainers and ran down the stairs two at a time, trying not to wake Mum, while dragging my fingers through my hair in lieu of a hairbrush.
I hesitated in front of the door and glanced round the hall. Boxes were still stacked behind the front door and a teetering pile of newspapers cluttered up the entrance to the kitchen. I knew there was an improvement, but even so, I didn’t want Ben to see it like this.
I opened the door just enough to squeeze myself through and a look of curiosity flicked across Ben’s face as he tried to look past me into the hallway.
‘Right, I’m ready,’ I said briskly, ‘let’s go.’
I was about to close the door quietly when the cottage was suddenly filled with light and footsteps thumped down the stairs.
‘Oh no! We’ve woken my mother,’ I hissed.
Ben pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry.’
‘What’s going on?’ called a voice. ‘Who’s there?’
I put my face to the chink in the door. ‘Only me, Mum. Bye.’
Mum opened the door wide, yelped in surprise when she saw Ben and darted back behind the door, wrapping her arms across her chest.
My heart sank. Ben must have been able to see the mess in the hall and I felt my face burn with shame.
Mum popped her head round the door and peered into the gloom. ‘Excuse me in my nightdress! I didn’t know we had visitors. Are you just arriving or leaving, Mr, er . . .?’ Without her glasses on she didn’t have much chance of seeing him in any detail.
‘It’s Benedict, Mum, from Wickham Hall. And we’re both leaving.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mum, her blue eyes wide with curiosity. ‘Hello, Benedict, I didn’t recognize you in the dark.’
‘And to be clear, Ben has just arrived.’ I caught Ben’s eye then and sent up a silent thank-you that there wasn’t enough light to see my blushes by.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Swift.’ Ben extended a hand and then averted his eyes as Mum unfolded her arms from her chest to shake it. ‘Are you sure you two aren’t sisters?’
‘It’s Ms Swift, actually, but you can call me Lucy.’ Mum gave him a girlish smile and ran her fingers through her hair.
‘Oh, Lucy, I just remembered.’ He delved into the pocket of his shorts and held out a scrap of paper. ‘Steve Selby asked me to—’
I plucked the paper out of his fingers. ‘I’ll take that, thanks. Hadn’t we better get going? Bye, Mum!’
Mum watched from the door as I darted down the path, closely followed by Ben to where his battered old mini was waiting.
‘Sisters?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.
Ben turned the key in the ignition and winked. ‘What can I say? Flirting comes fitted as standard.’
‘Unlike the suspension in this car.’ I winced as we bounced over the potholes in my little street.
We drove through the twilight in easy silence and after only a few minutes, Ben pulled over in front of a pair of old metal gates that I’d never noticed before. He unlocked them, we drove through and as he jumped back out to lock them again, I realized that we were inside the grounds of Wickham Hall.
‘We’ll have to hurry,’ he said, glancing up at the sky. Already the darkness had evaporated, leaving a milky blue light in its place. He jammed the car into first gear and we bumped along the track. ‘Sunrise can only be minutes away.’
He stopped at the end of the track. We jumped out and Ben pulled a rug from the back seat. We ran over the dewy grass and up to the top of a hill, where he threw the rug down and I dropped down next to him, breathless and exhilarated.
It was the perfect spot. We were in the parkland on the edge of the Wickham estate: directly ahead of us, to the east, lay the hall, its terraces and gardens barely visible in the distance; to our left, the woodland and in front of that, the river meandered silently through the park. The showground, deserted at this time of day, was almost complete and I could see the white marquees clustered inside the temporary metal boundaries.
Wickham Hall, Part 2 Page 6
