Wickham Hall, Part 2 Read online

  ‘Me too,’ Ben added. ‘I’d like to thank her for letting us borrow these.’

  Oh crumbs, what had I started? Coming round to the house was a big no-no. The last man I’d taken home was someone I’d been sort of seeing, a fitness instructor from Eden Spa called Simon. It was our second date and we’d been for a drink in Henley and had come back to Weaver’s Cottage for coffee. It hadn’t gone well. He’d been a bit freaked out about the state of the house, even though I’d tried to warn him; Mum had flapped around clearing stuff off the sofa so we could sit down and I had been hideously embarrassed. There hadn’t been a third date.

  ‘We-ll, actually, she’s a bit precious about them,’ I said, pulling an apologetic face. ‘Maybe not such a good idea.’

  Ben folded his arms and leaned back on the workbench, curiosity etched into every curve of his smile.

  Steve nodded. ‘Totally understand. But tell your mother that from what you’ve described a collection like that is a cultural treasure trove, each one a snapshot of village – or even English – life through the last three decades. She would be doing me a great honour if she’d let me see them.’

  That was just the right thing to say. I think despite her reluctance to let anything go, deep down Mum was ashamed of her hoarding. Perhaps hearing something like that might give her a boost? It had to be worth a try . . .

  ‘I’ll ask her.’ I smiled. ‘If nothing else, she’ll certainly be flattered.’

  ‘Great,’ said Ben and Steve together.

  I watched as Ben emptied a stack of CDs from the bag and sifted through them. A flash of silver caught my eye as a CD flew off Ben’s finger and landed on the floor.

  He stooped to pick it up and polished it on his sleeve. ‘Whoops. I hope I haven’t scratched it or Dad’s secretary will never forgive me. 2001, according to the label. Can we have a look at it?’

  ‘Sure.’ Steve took the CD from him, blew the dust off it and inserted it into his laptop.

  ‘I recognize this very clearly,’ Ben said, squinting at the screen. ‘It was the opening of the Coach House Café. Princess Anne came along to cut the ribbon. Look, there she is, all sassy in her navy suit. She got a bit merry later on Mum’s strawberry daiquiris.’ He smirked at me. ‘Mind you, we all did.’

  Like you do.

  I blinked at him incredulously. Sometimes Ben seemed perfectly ordinary, just like me, and then whoosh he drops royalty into the conversation and I realize that we are, in fact, worlds apart.

  ‘Oh and there’s a picture of me, looking uncomfortable in a suit. I must have been about nineteen.’

  I leaned forward, curious to see what he looked like back then. Although I had grown up in the village of Wickham, our paths had never crossed: he went to boarding school and then university and hung out with a different crowd.

  He was heartthrob-handsome even then, his hair cropped short at the sides with long curls on top. He had his arm around a pretty girl with a curtain of auburn hair, his lips pressed to her cheek.

  ‘Oh, the pain and pleasure of young love.’ Ben sighed dramatically, catching my eye. ‘That’s Sasha Jones. She broke my heart shortly after that and dumped me for a rugby player.’

  I sneaked a look at his profile and couldn’t help wondering if he was still single. After all, he hadn’t brought anyone to the wedding, as far as I knew.

  He caught me staring. ‘I’m single now, though, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I muttered. I fanned my face. ‘Is it me or is it warm in here?’

  Not that his status mattered to me, one way or the other; he was so not my type. In fact, could anyone be more diametrically opposed to my type? Anyway, I was plain old Holly Swift and he was heir to Wickham Hall.

  So that was the end of that.

  By the time I had got my pink face under control, Steve had folded and stacked the newspapers in date order and Ben was preparing to leave.

  ‘Well, you must come to the festival this year, as our VIP guest along with your wife,’ said Ben. ‘And I’ll be sure to credit your name in the exhibition.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Steve cried, pumping Ben’s hand. ‘But I’ll bring some of my students, if I may. Plenty of opportunity for them to take some interesting shots.’

  Ben’s face lit up. ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we run a photography competition, Holly? Ask people to send in their snaps and we pick the best one. Do you think the Stratford Gazette would run it?’

  I suppressed a smile; it had been at least half an hour since he last had a new idea to add to the festival programme . . .

  ‘It would be nice to incentivize Steve’s students. Why don’t we keep the competition restricted to them?’

  ‘Fine by me.’ Ben shrugged. ‘Steve?’

  He nodded happily. ‘They’re always up for that sort of thing. Term will have finished by then, so I can’t make it compulsory, but if I could give them free tickets in exchange for sending you their pictures?’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Ben, patting Steve on the shoulder. ‘We’d better go; I promised Holly she could feed the swans—’

  ‘Good grief!’ cried Steve. ‘I’ve just remembered something, hold on a minute.’

  He darted over to a series of shelves and crouched down. Ben raised his eyebrows at me and I rolled my eyes.

  ‘I do not want to feed the swans,’ I whispered.

  His lips twitched. ‘Spoil sport.’

  The two of us looked at Steve as he pulled out a thick box file marked 1984 with a satisfied, ‘Aha!’

  The year Mum fell pregnant with me. My ears pricked up and I edged closer to Steve to get a better look.

  ‘I brought this in to show one of my students a few months ago and never got round to taking it home. He opened up the file on the workbench in front of us. ‘Now there are loads of jobs in here – not just your festival, but if I remember rightly, I should have some Wickham Hall prints here . . . Yes, here we are.’

  Steve extracted a handful of large colour photos and laid them out in front of us. I picked one up for a closer inspection.

  ‘Of course,’ exclaimed Ben with a laugh, ‘they’re in colour! I was expecting them to be in black and white like the newspaper. Imagine these blown up to two or three feet in size, they’ll look great, won’t they, Holly? Holly?’

  ‘What? Sorry?’ I looked at him blankly, not sure what he’d said. In my hand was a photograph of a group of Morris dancers but behind them, to the left of the shot, was a girl with wavy blonde hair wearing a pale pink ra-ra skirt. She had her back to the camera and was holding hands with someone who had been chopped off the edge of the picture. My heart thumped as I gazed at the picture. That girl was my mum, I’d recognize her anywhere, it had to be: her hair, her height and build, even the clothes . . . it all fit. Which meant that the person she was holding hands with was probably my father.

  ‘Steve,’ I said shakily, ‘can I borrow this?’

  ‘Sure.’ He nodded and checked his watch. ‘And now I’m going to have to be awfully rude and say goodbye. My next lecture starts in five minutes.’

  As soon as we got back to Ben’s car, I sent Esme a text.

  Emergency meeting at yours tonight, OK?

  A reply flashed back immediately.

  Ooh, sounds exciting. Is it boy-related?

  My fingers hovered over the keyboard of my phone as I hesitated over my response.

  Let’s just say it’s a family matter. See you at seven, I’ll bring food x

  Chapter 5

  Jenny and Nikki were waiting for us in the office when we got back to Wickham Hall. Jenny was perched on my desk, hands clasped in her lap, and Nikki was looking out of the window at the gardens.

  Nikki turned to face us and folded her arms across her chest. Jenny leapt up straight away and began pacing the floor. Her chef whites were flecked with pink and strands of purple hair had escaped from her hair net.

  ‘Jenny Plum!’ Benedict grinned and patted his stomach. ‘Wic
kham Hall’s answer to Mary Berry. Did you bring me any food?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Jenny, shooting him a very un-Mary-like grimace, ‘Because I am not at all happy with you.’

  ‘Me?’ Benedict sank onto his chair looking wounded and watched her pace.

  ‘Well, someone, anyway,’ she said, looking from him to me.

  Ben and I exchanged confused looks.

  ‘Jenny, we don’t know what you mean,’ I said, reaching for the kettle. ‘Put us out of our misery.’

  ‘I’ve just been sent the plans of the festival showground,’ she explained. ‘My outdoor restaurant is right in the far corner away from all the action. Location, location, location, guys!’ she said, stopping at my desk to give it a thump. ‘If we aren’t in the centre of things we’ll fail, we won’t take enough bookings, there’ll be no atmosphere and people won’t come.’

  Personally, I thought she might have a point but the layout had been done before I arrived at Wickham Hall and it was too late to change it now; there was nowhere else to put it.

  Benedict looked at me blankly; he had only seen the plans briefly at yesterday’s meeting. I reached for the relevant file and spread the plans out on his desk.

  ‘It is in a corner, Jenny, but there’s nowhere else for it,’ I said, pointing to where the restaurant was. ‘But I will make sure there are plenty of signs and I’ll put the reservation number on Facebook and I’ve done a press release about your thirty-pound menu.’

  Ben stood up and put an arm round Jenny’s waist. She was taller than him and I noticed her transfer her weight to one leg to reduce the height gap.

  ‘We’ve put the restaurant there, Jenny, because we wanted to give it plenty of space so that diners feel more comfortable. We thought it would be good to create more of an exclusive ambience, make it upmarket. I know my father is planning on eating lunch there every day with old friends and business associates and word has already got round about your food, you know.’

  Jenny’s eyebrows disappeared under her white hair net. ‘Really?’

  He nodded earnestly. ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘That’s gratifying to hear, Benedict, thank you.’ She sighed. ‘I just want it to be a success; we’ve never done an outdoor restaurant on this scale before.’

  ‘I think you’re underestimating the “Jenny Plum” effect.’ He grinned and winked at me.

  Jenny studied the plan for a moment, running her finger along the paths around the showground.

  ‘It does make sense, I suppose, having more space.’ She nodded. ‘And we wouldn’t want to be next to all the fast food, would we, with their fried onions and greasy chips?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Ben smiled smoothly.

  That seemed to appease her and she skipped off, muttering something about silver cloches and linen napkins. Ben and I turned to Nikki.

  She was still at the window, arms folded, mouth twisted to one side and her sun hat jammed low over her forehead.

  ‘Don’t even think about giving me that Benedict Fortescue patter,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Nikki, come on,’ Ben said with his most charming smile. He took a step forward and held his arms wide.

  ‘I mean it, Benedict, you are out of line.’ The head gardener flicked her palms up. ‘I’ve been given the list of lots for the charity auction. Lot fifteen – an afternoon of garden design from Nikki Logan. What were you thinking?’

  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘So someone – anyone – can bid for an afternoon of my time?’ She shoved her hands in the pockets of her khaki shorts and glared at him. ‘I haven’t agreed to that. You can’t just pimp me out to the highest bidder for me to design somebody’s garden. I could end up anywhere. I shouldn’t have to do that sort of thing. I’m a professional and I will not stand for it.’

  Oh dear, I’d never seen Nikki so riled. Not even the time that Lady Fortescue had suggested that the solution to the boggy bit of grass at the entrance to the kitchen gardens could be astro turf. Her bark might be worse than her bite but right now she did look very angry.

  ‘A cup of tea?’ I offered, to diffuse the mood.

  Nikki shook her head. ‘If this is how you are going to treat me then I’m afraid I might have to consider my position at Wickham Hall.’

  I glanced at Ben, wondering how he was going to get out of this one. This was his doing; he’d promised me that he would fill in the gaps on the auction list by sourcing a few more prizes. I’d have to check it this afternoon to make sure there were no other surprises on it.

  ‘Crikey, Nikki,’ said Ben, running a hand through his curls. ‘Please don’t get upset, there’s just been a misunderstanding. The auction list should read: “An afternoon of Wickham garden design with Nikki Logan”. Nothing more elaborate than a garden tour here, like you normally do, but with the emphasis on the design changes you’ve made in your time. That’s all.’

  Nikki appeared to contemplate Ben’s words for a long moment.

  ‘So I’d take the highest bidder on a garden design tour of Wickham Hall?’ She eyed Benedict from under the brim of her sun hat.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. He stepped forward gingerly and placed an arm around her shoulders. ‘The charity was delighted when they heard; a bespoke tour like that will probably set off a bidding war.’

  She bobbed away from him and frowned. ‘I don’t exactly buy your answer, but I’ll let you off the hook. For now.’

  ‘Phew.’ Ben pretended to mop his brow.

  Nikki ignored him and turned to me. ‘I’ve got tons of salad leaves going spare in the kitchen gardens if you want some?’

  I thanked her and agreed to collect some before leaving for the evening, pleased that she didn’t appear to be cross with me too.

  ‘What about me?’ Ben asked when Nikki walked to our office door. ‘Don’t I get salad?’

  ‘You can pick your own,’ she called over her shoulder as she left.

  I snorted as Ben clutched at his heart and pretended to be hurt.

  Nikki’s boots clumped down the stairs and Ben blew out of the side of mouth, making his curls bounce. ‘That was a close call,’ he said, accepting a cup of tea from me.

  ‘You handled both ladies very well,’ I said with a grin. I sat down at my desk and opened my diary ready to get on with my afternoon.

  ‘All in a day’s work,’ he said, slurping his tea.

  ‘I was impressed, actually,’ I said. ‘I think you might be quite a good manager of people.’

  ‘Really?’

  I nodded. ‘You motivate people, you fire them up. I saw it yesterday at that meeting.’

  Plus I’d felt it myself; he had whirled through this office like a typhoon, but I had to admit I hadn’t had a single dull moment since he’d arrived on the scene. And, I realized, I was enjoying his company.

  I expected Ben to adopt his default setting of confident nonchalance and shrug off the compliment but he looked quite taken aback. And I was pretty sure he coloured a bit under his tan. Ben had a serious side and all of a sudden I liked him a lot more for showing it.

  He shot me a sideways glance and rubbed his neck. ‘Thanks, Holly. No one has ever said that before.’

  ‘Lord Fortescue is good with people too. Perhaps not as exuberant as you,’ I twinkled my eyes at him, ‘but he has a certain aura about him. It must be in the genes.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Ben thoughtfully. ‘We all must inherit something from our fathers, mustn’t we?’

  I thought of the photograph I had in my handbag, which I believed had my father on it, and a shiver ran down my spine.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I murmured and wondered what I might have inherited from mine.

  At seven o’clock on the dot, I knocked on Esme’s door and she opened it dressed in a pale yellow playsuit that set off her golden brown skin beautifully.

  ‘So, what’s the emergency?’ she said, ushering me inside.

  ‘Food first.’ I held up my bags.
‘And wine.’

  I quite enjoyed cooking; I found it relaxing. Not at Weaver’s Cottage. That was anything but relaxing. I like to lay all my ingredients out, do all my preparation before I begin cooking. There simply wasn’t room amongst all the kitchen clutter at home to do it properly.

  Esme uncorked the wine while I washed the tiny new potatoes that Nikki had given me along with the salad leaves and set a griddle pan out ready to cook a couple of salmon fillets.

  ‘I thought about going for a run to sort out all the mush in my head,’ I said, accepting a glass of rosé from her, ‘but this is far better.’

  ‘No contest.’ Esme pulled a face. ‘Cheers.’

  We took our glasses out onto her tiny balcony while the potatoes cooked and sat down in the evening sun.

  Esme’s flat was one of ten in a two-storey building on the edge of Henley. Built in the 1950s it had as much space as a modern two-bedroomed house, a communal garden and this, the pretty balcony that she’d decorated with bunting and fairground-style lights.

  I stretched out my legs and exhaled. Esme waited patiently.

  ‘I met that old lecturer of yours today – Steve. He wants to come round to our cottage and look through all Mum’s old newspapers. Apparently, they’re almost impossible to get hold of. “A treasure trove of culture” he called them.’

  ‘Did he? The old smoothie.’ She chuckled.

  ‘Part of me thinks that maybe I should arrange it. He did seem quite excited. And it might give Mum a boost, especially now she’s admitted she’s got a problem.’

  ‘Do it! Definitely.’ She rolled her eyes at my doubtful expression. ‘Look, Hols, if the newspapers really are of value to him, he’s not going to mind the state of your house, is he?’

  ‘The thing is,’ I worried at a piece of loose skin on my lip, ‘Ben wants to come too.’

  ‘Ben now, is it?’ she smirked.

  I ignored that remark. ‘We’ve been getting on really well this week and I don’t want to spoil anything.’

  Esme gave the patio table a triumphant tap. ‘You really like him, don’t you? I knew it.’