Wickham Hall, Part 2 Read online

  He turned and grinned, panting after our run. ‘We made it.’

  ‘With moments to spare, by the look of it,’ I said.

  The sky was an artist’s dream: from inky navy way up high to the softest Tiffany blue on the horizon and every shade in between. Wisps of cloud marbled the sky, tinged candyfloss pink by an as yet invisible sun. And then I held my breath as a golden haze appeared over the turreted roofline of the hall followed by the perfect curve of an enormous golden globe.

  ‘It’s too beautiful,’ I said, half laughing, ‘I think I might cry.’

  ‘Don’t you dare, you’ll set me off and I’m a very ugly crier.’ Ben nudged my arm.

  ‘It feels like the whole world is asleep except you and me,’ I said. ‘Our secret sunrise.’

  ‘Not quite just you and me, look.’ He pointed down the hill to where a fallow deer and her fawn were grazing on the silvery grass.

  ‘Oh, Ben, how gorgeous!’

  We watched them for a few minutes, the mother nuzzling her baby tenderly and then they wandered off to join the rest of the herd at the edge of the woods.

  ‘Thank you for this. I . . . I think I’ll remember my first dawn for the rest of my life,’ I said softly.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He gazed at me with such warmth that I felt my heart swell with happiness.

  ‘Some moments are like that,’ he added. ‘Not many. But when they happen you have to stop what you’re doing – snoring your head off, in your case,’ he elbowed me in the ribs and I wriggled away from him, laughing, ‘and be in them, really live in that moment. I never feel more alive than when I see the sun wake the earth like that.’

  Esme had said something similar last month. What was it? Something about living in the moment because that was when the magic happens. She was right: being here with Ben in the stillness of the morning was magical.

  ‘That’s when the magic happens,’ I murmured.

  ‘Exactly.’

  The sun was rising fast now, almost all of it visible above Wickham Hall. It had changed from orange to white, surrounded by a halo of light, and it was too bright to look at it. I glanced at Ben instead, his face suffused in soft golden shadows, his jawline dark with stubble and his eyes glistening and for a second I wondered if he was OK. He met my eye and smiled wistfully.

  ‘Look at it, at that view. When I see Wickham Hall like this – on the dawn of a brand-new day – it looks so fresh and new I can almost see myself here for ever. I see possibilities and opportunities. And then . . .’ He finished with a sigh and I felt his shoulders sag.

  Not for the first time, I wondered what was behind this apparent reluctance to take over from his parents at Wickham Hall. Sometimes it almost felt as though he resented his inheritance and the legacy of privilege that went with it.

  ‘And then what?’ I asked, confused.

  He raked a hand through his hair. ‘And then the world wakes up and there are duties and expectations and structure and business as usual. And it’s just not . . . me.’

  ‘Welcome to the adult world, Ben,’ I said wryly. I stood up and spread my arms out. ‘For most people, the chance to call all this home would be a dream come true. It certainly would be for me.’

  He stood too and faced me, his jaw tightening. He pressed his lips together and searched my face as though torn whether to confide in me.

  ‘You’ve seen my home,’ I said quietly, ‘or at least the hallway; and it doesn’t get any better in the rest of the cottage. Mum can’t let anything go, she hoards everything. I don’t let people in; I don’t even tell people about it. In fact, I’m not sure why I’m telling you any of this.’

  ‘I did notice the stacks of newspapers inside the door.’ He smiled softly.

  ‘It has overshadowed my whole life, ever since I was a little girl. She has just begun to accept help and I’m hoping that . . .’ I hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about the mystery man in the photograph. I decided against it. For now it was enough that he’d had a glimpse into my home life. Besides, I wanted to know more about him. ‘Well, I’m hoping that things are going to get better soon.’

  Ben placed his hands gently on my arms. ‘It sounds like you’ve had a lot to deal with. And that’s the counsellor that you mentioned?’

  I nodded.

  I held my breath as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

  ‘You’re an amazing girl, Holly. And that explains why you’re so organized at work. And why you almost hyperventilated when I made such a mess on my first day in the office.’

  ‘I thought I coped very well, considering.’ I grinned. ‘Come on, let’s go. I’m gasping for a cup of tea and you can tell me what’s holding you back from taking over from your father.’

  Ben scooped up the blanket, stuffed it under his arm and we ambled down the hill towards the car.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my heritage, my ancestry and the fact that the Fortescues have managed to hang on to Wickham Hall through the centuries when many other old properties have been sold off to pay death duties. But . . .’

  ‘You don’t like being told what to do,’ I finished for him.

  Ben unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for me.

  ‘Have I ever told you about the school I helped build?’

  ‘No!’ I climbed in and waited for him to get in next to me, conscious that he was deflecting the conversation away from himself.

  ‘It’s in a tiny village in Cambodia called Mae Chang. I went out there as a volunteer when I was an art student. A group of us built a little secondary school and I’ve been going back there ever since. I teach art to the kids. These people have nothing. Nothing, Holly. Can you imagine?’

  His eyes glinted as they bored into mine and I shook my head, mesmerized, as I tried to envisage him teaching Asian children under a hot red sky.

  ‘It might sound clichéd and don’t get me wrong, their life is tough – sometimes if crops fail or if the area floods, they suffer terribly – but they have taught me so much about what is important in life. And what’s important to me is my art.’

  ‘More important than Wickham Hall and your family?’

  I turned to face him as he sucked in a breath.

  ‘Couldn’t you do both?’

  He shook his head and blew out through the side of his mouth. ‘I’ve never told anyone this . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What it all boils down to is that I’m scared.’

  ‘You? Scared?’ I raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  He waited until I was buckled in before starting the engine. ‘When I’m in London at my studio, or meeting art gallery owners or out with friends, I’m Ben Fortescue the landscape artist. I’m confident in my world. But here I’m Benedict, only son of Lord Fortescue,’ he shrugged, ‘and those are pretty big shoes to fill. Particularly when it comes to taking over a successful estate. In a way it would be easier if the business was losing money, at least that would be a challenge.’

  ‘But your feet are huge,’ I exclaimed. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

  Ben grinned at me. ‘Thanks, I think. Come on, where to, m’lady?’

  ‘There’s a café open early in Henley,’ I suggested. ‘We could get breakfast there.’

  He nodded and we set off more slowly over the bumpy track. I regarded his profile thoughtfully. ‘But you will always be an artist, won’t you? You’ve already painted one canvas since you’ve been back. You wouldn’t have to give up your art totally?’

  ‘If I take over from my father, it isn’t just the hall I’d be heading up. There are other business interests, too, like property and stuff. I wouldn’t have time to be creative; I’d be drained.’

  ‘You’re wrong, I’m sure of it,’ I argued.

  But he turned on the radio and started singing along to Katy Perry and I couldn’t help laughing.

  I looked out of the car window so that he couldn’t read my expression. He was like suns
hine, I thought, and I was a sunflower, tilting my face to bask in his light.

  He was doing some strange form of dancing in his seat now and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, in an attempt to attract my attention, and my cheeks ached with the effort of smothering my giggles.

  Whether he was ready to admit it or not, he was the perfect choice to take over the running of Wickham Hall. He was charismatic, a natural leader, and he was as happy in the limelight as I was out of it. He didn’t have to be stuck in an office if he didn’t want to be. All he needed was the right person behind him to keep him organized.

  I risked a look at him as he concentrated on the traffic lights ahead and felt a fluttering in the pit of my stomach.

  I’d quite like that person to be me.

  Chapter 8

  The first day of the festival had dawned and miraculously the spell of fine weather continued. We were prepared for record visitor numbers, St John Ambulance was on standby to take care of any medical mishaps, there were drinks kiosks and ice-cream sellers dotted across the showground and we had erected a large shaded picnic area at the eleventh hour to provide some respite from the sun.

  I checked the time again – two minutes to nine – and then glanced around me: everything and everyone was in place. Thank goodness. Gathered just inside the festival showground were the Fortescues, myself, Sheila, several marshals in official polo shirts and tabards and our official photographer. And on the other side of the extra-wide pearly white ribbon that Sheila and I had strung across the entrance between the two ticket booths was a pleasingly large throng of the general public.

  ‘Are you ready for the onslaught?’ Ben murmured close to my ear.

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’ I nodded, taking in his smart linen suit. His cotton shirt was open at the neck and my eye was drawn to a tuft of dark hair just visible at his chest. I blinked and looked up. ‘You scrub up well, I must say,’ I said, tongue in cheek. ‘Although I kind of miss the paint splashes in your hair.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He pretended to brush fluff off his jacket. ‘Don’t worry, three days and normal service will be resumed.’

  I had bought three new outfits: one for each day of the festival. Today’s choice was a sleeveless shift dress, which I hoped would help me to stay cool in the soaring temperatures that this morning’s weather report had predicted.

  ‘What about me?’ I said, doing a twirl.

  He cast his eyes down at my dress and pretended to contemplate my outfit. Served me right for digging for compliments, I thought, going pink.

  ‘You’ll do.’ He grinned. ‘Look, Holly, I’ve got to do the “heir to the throne” bit today, meeting and greeting Mum and Dad’s cronies, a few press and whatever, but I’ll keep my radio with me all day. There is usually a fair bit of running around on the first day. Please don’t try to sort out every problem yourself. OK?’

  ‘Roger that,’ I said, bringing my own radio to my lips and pretending to talk into it. ‘Over and out.’

  He tutted and jabbed a finger light-heartedly. ‘I’m serious, Holly. We’re a team.’

  ‘I hear you, boss,’ I said, smiling at him.

  He shook his head at me and walked over to his father, slapping him on the back. Lord Fortescue cupped a hand to his ear, straining to hear what his son was saying.

  At the front of the crowd, a cute little girl with two missing front teeth was tweaking the wide satin ribbon longingly. I smiled at her, remembering the shoebox I used to keep under my bed, full of smoothed-out sheets of used wrapping paper and lengths of ribbon that I couldn’t bear to part with.

  The little girl caught my eye, dropped her hand from the ribbon instantly and crept behind her mum. I reached into my dress pocket for the spare piece of ribbon that I’d rolled up and handed it to her with a wink, my heart melting as her eyes lit up.

  The church bells of St John’s rang out, signalling the hour, and the crowd began to inch closer to us.

  ‘The scissors, Sheila?’ Lord Fortescue asked, turning to his secretary who handed over a pair of golden ceremonial scissors.

  I glanced down at my clipboard, running through the itinerary for the umpteenth time. My stomach clenched just thinking about all the places I had to be and events I had to facilitate today. I thought back to my interview with Pippa just two months ago. How I’d longed to be part of the behind-the-scenes team. And here I was. My shoulders lifted and I let out a happy breath.

  Lord Fortescue cleared his throat and a hush fell across the crowd.

  ‘As some of you may know, this is the thirtieth festival since Lady Fortescue and I took over Wickham Hall.’ He looked at his wife affectionately and chuckled. ‘Although my wife doesn’t appear to have aged a day!’

  Lady Fortescue’s face softened. ‘Oh, Hugo.’

  The ladies in the front of the crowd pressed hands to their chests and said ‘Ahh’, although I did hear one whispered suggestion of Botox.

  ‘Thank you all, as ever, for your incredible support. On behalf of my wife and I, we hope you all have a marvellous day and without further ado, I declare this year’s Summer Festival open.’

  I joined in with the hearty round of applause as Lord Fortescue snipped at the pearly white ribbon with the official scissors and held his position with a smile while the photographer from the Stratford Gazette took her shot.

  People surged forward, eager to be amongst the first visitors inside the showground and the Fortescues were led away to pose for more pictures in front of Nikki’s commemorative geranium flower bed. I ticked off items one and two – ribbon cutting and photo opportunity – on my clipboard and decided to do a lap of the festival, to check all the exhibitors were happy.

  I had been here since seven o’clock, making myself available for last-minute queries, of which there had been plenty. In fact, I’d been here early every day this week, as had Ben. But it had paid off, I thought contentedly, as I strolled through the centre of the festival. Visitors were streaming in now, the atmosphere was buzzing and a queue had already formed at the coffee kiosk.

  Up ahead, I spotted Nikki sprinting across the path with a watering can in each hand so I headed over to the pearl garden to see if she was OK.

  I adored what she and her team had done with this show garden. It was essentially a water feature with plants set around a picturesque pond, the centrepiece of which was a large fibreglass oyster shell, open to reveal an oversized pearl. The plants she had chosen were a serene mix of white flowers, silver grasses and green foliage. I felt cooler simply being in amongst them.

  But my heart lurched when I caught sight of Nikki. She looked anything but serene. She was red-faced and her T-shirt was clinging to her in sweaty patches.

  ‘Nikki?’ I said in horror, catching hold of her arm. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Bloody disaster!’ she groaned, wiping the sweat off her forehead with a hanky. ‘One of our volunteers hasn’t turned up – food poisoning, apparently. He was supposed to be here early to water this morning. Now everything is drooping. At this rate the pearl garden won’t last the morning, let alone the three days of the festival.’

  I eyed the plants: now she mentioned it, some of them did look a bit limp.

  ‘I’ve got no staff based here and I’ve radioed for assistance but no one’s free to help. And that celebrity gardener, Suzanna Merryweather, will be arriving any minute and look at the state of me.’

  She made a sobbing noise and turned away towards the water tanks so I couldn’t see her face.

  ‘Here, give me the watering can,’ I said, dropping my radio and clipboard on the ground. ‘I can do this. You go and have a drink, a rest, freshen up and come back in time to meet Suzanna. Her first stint in the indoor arena is, um,’ I bent to look at my clipboard, ‘one o’clock. Plenty of time to show her round the Wickham Hall gardens before then.’

  She eyed me doubtfully. ‘Are you sure?’

  I smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s water, Nikki, not even I can get that wrong.’

&nbs
p; ‘Cheers, Hols, you’re a mate.’ She sighed, passing me a heavy watering can.

  She showed me how to operate the taps on the water tanks and then produced a four-leaf clover from her pocket. ‘To bring you luck for your first festival,’ she said, pressing it into my hand. ‘I found it this morning in the wild flower meadow.’

  I thanked her and slipped it under the top sheet of my clipboard and Nikki strode away to get cleaned up.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ I called confidently, swinging the watering can in my right arm and promptly smearing dirt on the side of my new dress. Damn.

  As I bent to examine the mark a familiar voice cried out: ‘Don’t touch it!’

  I whirled round, slopping water over my shoes, to find Mum standing at the side of the garden. She was looking very summery in a brightly coloured maxi dress and flip-flops, her hair pinned up with a variety of combs and clips and held off her face with large sunglasses.

  ‘Let it dry and it’ll brush off,’ she said, stepping over the rope barricade that surrounded the show garden. ‘Rub at it now and the stain will be nigh on impossible to shift.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, kissing her cheek. ‘When will I stop relying on you for help, do you think?’

  ‘Never, hopefully, darling,’ she said, stroking my face with the back of her finger. ‘And I’m sure I rely on you more.’

  My heart twisted at the note of sadness in her voice.

  ‘In that case, I don’t suppose you fancy a job, do you?’ I said, handing her a watering can.

  I explained the situation and the two of us began watering the pearl garden companionably.

  ‘I’m quite envious of you being at Wickham Hall, you know,’ Mum confided as we refilled our watering cans for the second time at the tank. ‘I always thought I’d end up here.’