‘Can we hang fire until I get back? I’ll probably be stuck in the office until Thursday.’
‘Thursday? You want me to wait until Thursday to tell Steph our news? I’ll burst!’
‘Well …’ He sat down, a serious expression on his face. ‘It might be a good idea to hold on for a while anyway before we start shouting about it. Steph’s hardly had the happiest experiences with men, has she?’
‘No … but that won’t stop her from being happy for us, Connor.’
‘Even so, perhaps we should curb a little of our enthusiasm. Be slightly more tactful?’
She frowned. ‘Tactful?’
He patted her hand. ‘Sensitive, then.’
‘If you really think so …’ Lottie said, slightly hurt that Connor had misjudged Steph, but unwilling to cause a scene when he was about to leave.
Connor smiled and picked up his phone. ‘I’ll see you later in the week.’
‘OK.’ With a quick kiss, he left.
Lottie consoled herself with the reminder that it was only a few days, after all, and she’d rather wait until the weekend when he was able to relax and fully enjoy the moment.
However, she spent the entire drive to work still disappointed he’d rushed off and wondering exactly what he’d meant about being ‘tactful’. Granted Steph had had a few disastrous encounters with guys. The twins’ father was a guy she’d met on holiday in Ibiza and he’d given Steph a fake phone number so she’d never even been able to track him down to tell him about his daughters. Even so, Lottie was certain Steph would have been overjoyed to hear about her engagement.
Lottie had been the first person Steph had called to reveal she was pregnant; the one she shared all her news with, good and bad, big and small. Steph was the rock of Lottie’s life, now their parents lived in New Zealand. She was the woman she wanted to talk to now more than she ever had before: her big sister and her closest friend.
Telling herself Thursday would soon come around, Lottie threw herself into her work, even though her fingers itched to dial Steph’s number. She also couldn’t help planning her wedding in her head. It would probably be at the village church overlooking the lake with the reception at the hotel she worked for. She knew a local designer whose dresses she loved. She smiled to herself, thinking what a thrill it would be to ask the seamstress to make her a bespoke bridal gown.
Now she’d had chance to think about it, it was probably not the worst thing that Connor had persuaded her to delay announcing their engagement by a few days. If she timed it right, they could catch their parents on Zoom before they went to work, and after the twins were in bed, make a proper ‘party’ of it even if not everyone could be there.
Buoyed by making plans for the wedding in her head, Lottie managed to get through the days. Connor was busy in the evenings and they only managed a quick text exchange but by Thursday Lottie was growing as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. Connor messaged to say he’d be home from Scotland very late, so not to wait up if she was too tired.
But Lottie very much did want to wait up. She put some fizz on ice and sat in the sitting room, in heels and a slinky dress, waiting for him. She heard his BMW crunch onto the driveway, the security light flicked on and she flew into the kitchen, grabbed the champagne and flung back the door, ready for a romantic reunion – and the start of the celebrations.
Yet there was something about Connor that made her pause in the doorway, and stopped the cry of ‘Surprise!’ in her throat. Even from metres away, she could see that something was wrong. His shoulders were slumped; his face was pale. He looked a broken man.
His first words when he reached the door were: ‘I’m sorry. I’ve done something unforgivable.’
Five seconds later, Lottie’s world started to unravel.
Chapter One
4 November, the following year
Langmere, Lake District
‘Morning, Lottie. How’s it going? Found yourself a nice young man, yet?’
Lottie rolled her eyes. One of the village’s senior residents asked her this very question every time he saw her, often in front of everyone in the post office. It was now a running joke between Irina and her husband, Jan.
‘Not yet, Irina,’ she said. ‘Still waiting …’
‘I would keep away from them all. Especially the nice ones – they’re the most dangerous.’ Irina raised her voice. ‘I don’t have a problem fending off the young ones any more.’
‘Eh? What’s that?’ Jan asked, walking out of the storeroom with a carton of Kendal Mint Cake. Originally from Poland, he and Irina had been running the post office for over a decade now and were both stalwarts of the village.
‘Is it your day off?’ Irina asked Lottie. ‘Doing some Christmas shopping?’
‘No, I’m on my way back to Firholme from dropping the twins at school. Steph has a hospital appointment today.’
Irina frowned in sympathy. ‘How’s she doing? I bet she’ll be glad when that’s over.’
‘She’s OK. It’s been very tough for her.’
‘Those gorgeous little girls of hers are such angels. Good job she has you to help her out, what with your parents living on the other side of the world.’
Amused at the idea of Myra and Jodie as ‘angels’, Lottie smiled. ‘I’m definitely glad I live so close.’
‘Here you go, have these for the girls.’ Irina reached for a bag of Milky Way Magic Stars and pushed them under the screen.
Lottie smiled. ‘Thanks, you’re very kind but let me pay for them.’
‘No way. It’s only a little treat!’
‘In that case, thank you.’ Lottie popped some coins in the mountain rescue box.
The doorbell dinged and an elderly man with a stick walked in. Wilf Carman was over ninety and had piloted a glider into Normandy as part of the D-day landings, as he never ceased to remind everyone, not that Lottie minded.
He waved his stick. ‘Hello, young lady! I still remember when you were Dotty Lottie.’
‘Morning, Mr Carman.’ Lottie smiled, but did wish he wouldn’t use her school nickname every time he saw her. He’d been caretaker at the school when she’d first started at the village primary. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Irina stifling a giggle behind the post office screen.
‘Have you found a nice young man, yet?’ he said.
‘Not yet, Mr Carman. Why? Are you offering?’
He let out a cackle. ‘If I was sixty years younger. I cut quite a dash in my RAF uniform, you know.’
After listening to him reminisce for a few minutes, and then begin to tell Irina the latest news about a branch of his family who lived in Cornwall, Lottie had to excuse herself as she needed to get back to work.
She walked towards her car, parked on the small car park by the lakeside café. Ducks and geese waddled around, picking at scraps. Woodsmoke spiralled out of the chimneys of the village, where the stone and slate-roofed cottages huddled around the pub and church looked as if they were straight from a Beatrix Potter tale.
Lottie drove out of the village, past the café, mountain equipment shop, gallery and pub until the houses gave way to the open fellside, edged with dry-stone walls. The Herdwick sheep had been brought down off the fellside to the lower fields now and were gathered in fields near the farms. They munched away as she drove past, their winter fleeces shaggy and marked crimson to make them easier to identify. Lottie had often thought they were the punk rockers of the sheep world and her nieces delighted in finding the most colourful.
It was a crisp November morning, with the sheen of frost still lying on the grass and bracken. The road out of Langmere twisted and turned for over a mile until the entrance to the Firholme estate appeared, marked by two huge stone pillars topped with two creatures that had once been griffins but whose faces were now weathered away and covered with orange lichen.
After passing the ‘Welcome to Firholme’ sign and the visitor car parks, the big house itself came into view.
Lottie never cease
d to be impressed by how beautiful it was, and how spectacular the setting. In fact, everything about the Firholme estate had been designed to make a statement, to impress and wow visitors. The house had been built at the turn of the twentieth century as a ‘gentleman’s residence’. Its original owner had made his money from cotton mills, and every aspect, from the elaborate oak panelling and stone fireplaces to the grand staircase, was designed to impress guests and business associates with his ‘self-made’ wealth.
It was set in the middle of a large estate whose grounds stretched from the shore of Derwentwater right up to the high open fellsides, with gardens, outbuildings, cottages and woodland in between.
Lottie continued beyond the visitor car park and turned down a small track marked ‘Private’ until she reached a pair of semidetached cottages, situated a few hundred yards below the house and screened by a small stand of trees.
Back in the day, they’d been deliberately built well out of sight of the main house so its owners would never have had to see their workers’ humble cottages. That suited Lottie because it gave her privacy from the visitors and some demarcation between her working day and home life.
Each cottage had a postage-stamp front garden bordered by a low beech hedge with its own gate. She left the car outside the one called ‘The Bothy’, noting there was no sign of the muddy pick-up truck owned by her new neighbour. Jay Calder, Firholme’s newly recruited estates manager, had only moved in a week or so before.
Lottie had seen him standing beside his pick-up when she’d popped back to her cottage in the middle of the morning. He’d been unloading his possessions and had no one with him apart from a friendly black Labrador. She’d introduced herself, and when she’d asked him if he needed anything, or any help, he’d politely but firmly muttered, ‘Thanks for the offer, but I am fine.’
She’d walked back to work, with a sense even at this early stage that Jay wasn’t going to be the most sociable of neighbours. That was his business, of course, but she was unable to shake his image from her mind. Somehow, she’d expected a homely older man, not a good-looking guy around her own age. She could only wish him good luck if he didn’t want to be noticed. With his handsome face and physique, in a small community like Firholme, which was fascinated by any newcomer, he’d have a hard time not attracting attention.
Lottie went inside, changed into her suit, slicked on some lip gloss and hurried up to Firholme House where she’d arranged to meet her boss for a ‘quick chat’. Knowing Shayla Kendrick, Lottie knew it would be anything but quick, and definitely not just a ‘chat’.
‘Now, what Firholme really needs is a big juicy, lavish wedding that we can slap on the website and shout about on social media. The bigger, the better! We need a showpiece!’
Lottie’s boss threw her arms out like a diva on the last note of an aria. Shayla Lambert was clearly inspired by the grand setting of the ballroom of Firholme House. It was at least the fifth time that week Shayla had uttered this line in one form or another. She’d rescued the estate from near bankruptcy and was dedicated to turn it into a must-visit destination for events and weddings.
‘Well, the Valentine’s Week wedding fair will give us a huge boost,’ Lottie replied. ‘And I’ve secured several features in the bridal magazines from now right through to late spring.’
Shayla gave her an encouraging smile. ‘And that’s all good …’
‘Plus, we have the festive season coming up,’ Lottie pointed out. ‘The Edwardian Christmas evening will bring in lots of visitors and some may book other events. There’s a team-building day in the grounds and at least three big company Christmas parties.’
‘I know. I know you’ve worked very hard so far and I can’t believe how fast you organised that autumn antiques fair last month or how you managed to persuade all those performers and stallholders to take part in the Edwardian night.’
‘Most of them were contacts from when I worked at the Lakeland Hotel,’ Lottie said. ‘With a little persuasion, most were happy to add an extra date to their schedules – even if it is a new event at an untried venue.’
‘I knew you’d pull a rabbit out of a hat. That’s why I was so keen to poach you, but we do need as many showcase events as we can to make up for the start to the year.’
‘We’re definitely getting lots of enquiries …’ Lottie said, thinking of how long the nights had become, and how often she woke to autumn fog shrouding the view that Firholme was famous for.
Shayla smiled. ‘What you’ve achieved so far is great …’ Lottie waited for the ‘but’ …
‘If we could get a truly amazing wedding before Christmas, it would be such a showcase for Firholme, not to mention the revenue would help see us through. We really need to persuade people to come back in their droves.’
Lottie nodded in all the right places. Shayla was a dynamic and exciting boss to work for, if a little overoptimistic at times. Despite this, the fact remained: it was Lottie’s job to get the wedding calendar filling up, although she thought there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of securing one with Christmas only seven weeks away.
‘We should definitely set up a photo shoot with all our bridal suppliers. We can show couples that Firholme is a fantastic place for a wedding whatever the season,’ Lottie said, keeping the conversation positive. ‘And that nowhere could be more romantic or spectacular for their big day.’
‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ Shayla said with a sigh of awe. ‘Even if I do say so myself.’
Despite the huge challenge ahead, the gloss of owning Firholme clearly hadn’t worn off for Shayla and Lottie didn’t blame her. Steps led up to the grand vestibule where double doors opened onto a drawing room, morning room and a ballroom complete with chandelier and three sets of double doors out onto the terrace. Even on this autumn day, the lake glittered in the valley, its surface reflecting the fells rising up on either side, with dark forests giving way to hills, which were still russet with bracken.
While it didn’t operate as a hotel, the ten bedrooms were perfect for accommodating wedding guests, parties and conferences. The numerous smaller rooms, hidden away at the rear of the building, were used as extra kitchens, and for storage and services. It always amused Lottie that the moment you opened a grand door onto a ‘working’ part of the house, the lavish wall coverings and parquet floors were replaced by the grey plaster and flagstones the servants would have been accustomed to.
Over the years, Firholme had been through various incarnations, including serving as a nursing home and a rather run-down hotel, until Shayla had bought it that summer and injected a load of cash to turn it into a prestige events and wedding venue.
It gave Lottie a good feeling to think that the house now provided jobs for twenty full- and part-time staff and many seasonal workers, plus accommodation for key staff like herself. She also liked to think about how Shayla, a self-made woman, now owned it and was determined to help her justify the investment and hard work that had been poured into restoring it.
Lottie had helped Shayla plan how the space would be used for weddings. Guests would gather for champagne on the terrace if it was warm or the drawing room on cold or wet days. The brides would enter via the vestibule with its elaborate oak staircase, before walking up the ‘aisle’ in the ballroom for the ceremony itself. Later, the space could be transformed for the reception and party.
Shayla raised her eyes to the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling in the ballroom. ‘I do think a photo shoot is a great idea. We could even make it a video,’ she said.
‘Even better. I’ll set it up right away,’ Lottie said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve also been thinking about the Christmas decorations for the house and working on a colour scheme.’
‘Really? Great minds think alike …’ Shayla cut in. ‘So have I! I’m very excited about …’ She opened her large handbag and pulled out a grey object. ‘This! I thought we could have a minimalist theme throughout Firholme this Christmas. Everyone’s doing understated
chic these days. Well, what do you think?’
‘Um. It’s definitely very … understated,’ Lottie began, thinking the bauble in Shayla’s hand looked the same colour as the old long johns her grandad kept to clean his shed windows. She couldn’t visualise the drab decorations adorning the Christmas trees of Firholme.
‘Exactly what I thought.’ Shayla clapped her hands together. ‘Now, take a look at these samples I ordered from the web.’ She handed Lottie a black snowflake decoration. ‘They do a complete range in steel, charcoal, gunmetal and if we do think we need a bit of bling, they do a new line of pewter tinsel …’
‘Pewter tinsel?’ Lottie said. ‘That’s um, different.’
‘Yes. I can’t wait to see them on the Christmas trees. How lucky are we to have our own Christmas tree plantation? It was the icing on the cake when I bought the place, a valuable source of revenue at a quiet time of year. And how lovely to tell couples we have our own home-grown trees and greenery for their winter weddings.’
‘We’d need to get the Christmas trees and decorations in place earlier than planned if we want a photo shoot,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ve already arranged to meet Jay Calder up at the plantation this morning to talk about the Christmas tree sales opening day so I’ll ask him about the trees for the house at the same time.’
‘Great.’ Shayla smiled. ‘Have you had much contact with him yet? I expect you two will be chatting over the garden fence already.’
‘We’ve said hello a couple of times and I’ve seen him out walking with his dog, but that’s all.’ She smiled. ‘I expect he’s still settling in. He doesn’t know us yet.’
Lottie was being charitable. Jay had given her the briefest of nods and a polite but brief response to her attempt at conversation.
She’d also received an equally brief reply to her email requesting a meeting about the Christmas tree centre. She’d heard music through the wall and the dog – Trevor – barking from time to time, but there had been no sign of visitors. If he wanted his privacy, she respected that. She guarded her own private life just as keenly after all that had happened to her over the past year.
A Surprise Christmas Wedding: from the best selling author of A Perfect Cornish Christmas comes one of the most feel-good winter romance books of 2020 Page 2
