A Country Scandal: a sexy, scandalous page-turner

by Sasha Morgan

  *

  Finula was reading the article, too, while spluttering with laughter. The story even mentioned how Sadie had handcuffed Dylan to the bed, the little minx. The Templar had got a mention, which could be good for business, all publicity being good publicity. Although she wasn’t sure her dad would see it that way. Probably best to keep the paper away from him.

  *

  Dylan sat at his breakfast bar with a strong, black coffee and read all about his ‘energetic lovemaking’ and ‘athletic physique’ with a wry smirk. Could have been worse, he thought, could have been called a shit shag. Then another thought entered his head. Flora. Guiltily he gulped his coffee. The girl worshipped him. What had he done to her? She was bound to have read the article. He pictured the way her fresh, innocent face lit up with joy at seeing him. They’d met quite a few times in the stables and as well as the sex, he’d actually got to know her. He found her easy to talk to, not just because he didn’t have to make an effort, but she was uncomplicated, honest and had no hidden agenda, unlike the Sadie Stringfellows of this world.

  He paused and took another gulp of coffee. The seeds of blame took root and began to gradually grow. He remembered not wanting Flora to be there at The Templar. Why? he asked himself. She would have appreciated what he’d experienced. It wasn’t all about winning and celebrating, but the time, sacrifice and preparation it took to get there. He very nearly lost that race. She would know that. Flora understood horses, how unpredictable they could be, and she knew how to handle them. He’d seen how they responded to her gentle yet firm way; she was a natural around them. Flora’s routine meant being the first to arrive early in the stables and the last to leave. Her commitment was commendable, especially for one so young. Dylan had often thought she was wasted at Treweham Hall stables and should be working in a racing yard, where her efforts could really be appreciated. On impulse he scrolled through his mobile and rang the local florist, having used them several times before.

  ‘Hi, I need you to send a dozen red roses, please.’

  Instantly recognising his voice, the florist replied with humour, ‘And who to this time, Dylan?’

  ‘Flora, at Treweham Hall stables. Make sure my name’s on them.’ Then he added, ‘In fact, put “With love from your Dylan”.’ Did that sound a bit cheesy? Probably, but these young things liked that kind of thing, didn’t they?

  *

  Tobias didn’t have time to read the morning’s newspapers. He was up very early, busy with his plan, which meant paying old Ted a visit in the nursing home. Ted was pleased to see him. The Cavendish-Blakes had always been good to him over the years and Tobias had often called in to his cottage for a quick visit. Ted considered Tobias to be a gentleman and a credit to the Treweham Hall estate.

  ‘Tobias, good to see you.’ Ted, too, was up early and sat in the sun lounge with a tartan rug over his lap. He’d grown accustomed to being looked after and, apart from missing Zac dreadfully, had adapted to his new life well.

  ‘And you too, Ted. How are things?’

  ‘Not bad at all. What brings you here?’

  Tobias sat down next to him. ‘Ted, it’s about your cottage. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to return to it? It’s still there if you want it.’

  Ted sadly shook his head. ‘Thank you, Tobias, but I’m staying put. I feel safer here, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Of course. I understand. In that case, I’ll be taking it over.’ Ted’s cottage belonged to the Treweham Hall estate. The Cavendish-Blakes had rented it out to Ted years ago as an almshouse.

  ‘To rent out or sell?’ Ted was wondering what would happen to his little cottage and whose home it would become.

  ‘To live in,’ replied Tobias. Ted’s face creased with a knowing smile; he might be old, but he was no fool.

  ‘Megan’s a grand lass. Look after her for me, won’t you?’

  Tobias laughed to himself. Was he that transparent? ‘I certainly intend to, Ted.’

  Chapter 24

  Megan woke with an uneasy feeling that refused to be dispelled. Whilst being excited and eager to paint Treweham Hall, this feeling was matched with slight hesitation at what she had agreed to take on. Not just the task of reflecting the magnificence of such a splendid building, but the inevitable contact with the Cavendish-Blakes. The tour of the Hall had proved to be very interesting. She loved the place, totally steeped in family history, from the décor of the grand rooms to the secret passages and priest holes, to the picturesque lawns and working kitchen gardens. Treweham Hall was a well-oiled machine that seemed to run smoothly, with its small team scurrying in the vast kitchen, washing, chopping and packing all the fruit and vegetables to be distributed to local businesses, and the groundsmen who worked on the estate and also in the greenhouses, vegetable plots and orchards. Megan couldn’t help but be impressed.

  She had witnessed the easy manner with which Tobias treated them. He clearly had good working relationships with his staff. Finula was right, he didn’t lord his position over them, or anyone else. Despite his reputation, he genuinely did appear to be a decent man. Certainly not someone who would drive recklessly, as Nick would have her believe. She pondered over Nick and Tobias and why their opinions of each other were so low; and also why Finula obviously couldn’t stand Nick either. Then another quandary entered her head. The letters. She leant to the side of her bed and pulled out the Parma violet tin from under it. There they were, all the letters and photographs of Gran and ‘E’. With a shaking hand, she decided to read the rest of them.

  17 February 1945

  Dearest Gracie,

  Let me start off by telling you how much I miss you, and how I long for the day we are together again. Darling, I do love you so. I get a lump in my throat just looking at your picture. I am desperate to get home soon. I am so sick of this war, but it looks like the end is in sight – I hope so.

  In your letter you mentioned having attended a wedding. What kind of a wedding do you want, my sweet? Or should we wait until I get home so you can tell me?

  I will never forget how I felt that night I left you at the train station. It was then that I was sure, oh so sure.

  This is Saturday night and always the loneliest night of the week for me. Oh, Gracie, how I would love to be with you, to have you in my arms, to talk and talk. I wonder what you are doing tonight. I sit and brood over how we are cheated of so many precious moments on account of this terrible war. I am not complaining, darling. I also get a lot of enjoyment dreaming about you and the things we will do when I return.

  War news is again looking good. Although the end is in sight the war will be as hard or even harder than before. Everyone over here has given up predicting the date of its end, but hoping it will be over soon.

  Will close, darling, hoping all is well with you, and that you are thinking of me tonight.

  All my love,

  E.

  28 March 1945

  Your letter was wonderful. The men know that they can ask for almost anything on the days that I receive a letter from you. I can tell I have a letter from you before it gets into my hands because the mail clerk has a big smile when he comes up to me.

  The war news is wonderful. It should be over soon. It would be a great gift from God if it would end before Easter Sunday.

  I am getting that spring feeling also and long more and more to be with you. Do you ever see me in your dreams? Most every night when I fall off to sleep I live over the times we were together – the things we did – what we said and the many things we should have said… Oh my sweet, how I miss you. All my prayers are to get home in one piece to you.

  All my love,

  E.

  8 April 1945

  Dearest Gracie,

  Oh Gracie, I am praying for this war to end and for me to get home to you. The way it looks now Hitler is going to fight until the last German. I can’t understand how a few men can have such control over a country when the majority know that they are fighting for a lost
cause. Such useless loss of life and limb.

  When you receive this letter, we will be working hard to end this miserable war. Remember, my sweet, that I am always thinking of you and that you have all my love.

  E.

  Tears ran down Megan’s face. The last letter ‘E’ had sent was dated April 1945. Megan calculated that Gran must have been four months pregnant, as her mum had been born the following September. So that was it, Grace had actually been expecting when waving ‘E’ off to war, standing on the station platform, ignorant of the events due to unfold. ‘E’ was undoubtedly her grandfather, as the dates made that clear. But why hadn’t Gran told her any of this? What about Granddad Michael, the caring, gentle giant that had worshipped her mum? Did her mum know any of this? Megan’s stomach clenched. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, so many things that needed explaining. The one resounding certainty echoing in her mind was that Gran had chosen for some reason to share this with her now. Why else leave a tin full of love letters and photographs, the quiet, living evidence of a past life, a family secret that had never been shared? Her gut instincts told her that her mum didn’t know, because if she did Megan was sure she’d have told her. Why not? And if Gran had never told her own daughter, why tell her granddaughter? The whole scenario left her with a burning curiosity. Her coming to Treweham had been premeditated; Gran must have known what she was doing when bequeathing Bluebell Cottage to her. She was determined to learn more about the man behind the letters, however hard it was going to be.

  Her heart melted, being transported back in time to when a young couple had been cruelly torn apart by a vicious, raging war that dictated they be at opposite sides of the Channel, ‘E’ fighting for his life and Grace pining for the father of her child. Tears swelled once again when reading ‘E’s desperate words, ‘How about you throw me a rope?’ If only. How must Gran have coped when learning of his death?

  Megan’s thoughts then went back to Granddad Michael, who gallantly stepped into the breach and married an already pregnant Grace. Her heart then warmed, recalling how good they must have been together. Her mum had been the apple of Granddad’s eye. Megan was convinced she knew nothing about ‘E’, or her parentage. So just why would Gran want her to know? The same questions kept repeating themselves in her head.

  A loud noise interrupted her thoughts. Getting up and drawing back the bedroom curtains, she saw a truck parked outside Ted’s cottage. It was unloading a skip. Was Ted’s home about to be emptied? A lump rose in her throat. She felt emotional about losing old Ted for a neighbour and cautious as to who would be replacing him.

  *

  Dylan’s mobile rang. ‘Bloomers’ flashed before him. With a knowing smile he answered. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Dylan, I’m afraid Flora from Treweham Hall stables refused the roses.’

  ‘What?’ he spat. ‘Did she know they were from me?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want to know what she said?’

  No he didn’t. ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, to quote her,’ there was a pause, he could hear the laughter in the florist’s voice, ‘she said, tell the bastard to stick his flowers where the sun don’t shine.’

  ‘Oh.’ He stared into space.

  ‘Looks like you’re losing your touch, Dylan,’ she giggled down the phone.

  ‘Hmm, we’ll see about that.’

  Well, he hadn’t seen that coming. Deciding to face her, he set off with resolve to Treweham Hall.

  Flora had had a busy morning mucking out the stables. Feeling hot, sweaty and tired, the last thing she wanted to see was Dylan making his way across the yard. She hated her traitorous heart for beating so wildly. Did he really think she would forgive him because he’d sent red roses? How stupid did he think she was? Pretty stupid, she thought dully. Look how easily she had fallen under his spell. Well, not any more.

  He stood in front of her while she carried on brushing the stable floor. After a few moments he spoke. ‘Flora, please, talk to me.’

  She stopped and looked him in the eye. ‘I think it’s you who needs to do the talking.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry for—’

  ‘Ignoring me in The Templar? Shagging behind my back? Actually no, that wasn’t behind my back, I saw everything.’ Dylan stopped. So she had been there. His feelings of guilt started to build.

  ‘Flora, I’m sorry. I… I was drunk.’ He cringed at how lame he sounded.

  ‘Yes, I saw how drunk you were. I watched everyone buy you drinks, celebrating the money you’d made them. Nobody cared that you could easily have lost that race. I watched you get boxed in by the rails. Your horse lost his balance and you could have been badly injured!’ she screamed, tears falling down her face.

  Dylan’s stomach contracted. He felt sick with shame. He tried to touch her arm, but she flung it away.

  ‘And don’t ever touch me again!’ she bellowed, making him flinch.

  My God, this had gone badly wrong. He didn’t know what to say, or do, he just stood frozen. All her words were true. Nobody in The Templar but she would have realised or understood what he had experienced in the race, making all the celebrations seem so shallow in retrospect. Flora was the only one who would have worried about his welfare – and the horse’s, for that matter.

  Swallowing, he whispered huskily, ‘I’m so sorry, Flora.’

  She glared at him, then spat, ‘Get lost. I mean it, Dylan. Piss off.’

  Chapter 25

  Megan took a deep breath and set up her director’s chair on the front lawn of Treweham Hall. Laying a sheet of watercolour paper on her drawing board, she began to draw a simple outline sketch of the Hall. She wondered how long it must have taken to build, with its vast stone walls, corner turrets and sturdy buttresses. The Gothic stained-glass windows glimmered prettily in the sunlight. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed sketching and painting, not having done it for so long. Soon she was in her own world, totally absorbed capturing how regal and imposing the magnificent building was.

  Megan had half expected to see Tobias at some point, but he was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t make her mind up if she was disappointed or relieved after last night. Maybe he had regrets and was avoiding her? Then, as if on cue, she saw his silver sports car coming up the gravel drive. She watched him park and walk towards her, wearing a playful grin. He looked very much the country squire with his jeans, check shirt and Barbour jacket. ‘And how are you this morning?’ His eyes danced with mischief. Obviously not avoiding her, and no regrets.

  ‘Fine, thank you, and you?’ she answered with as much bravado as she could muster. Then, seeing he was about to look at her drawing, she quickly stopped him. ‘No, don’t look yet.’

  ‘Oh, why?’ He looked disappointed.

  ‘It’s too early,’ she pressed.

  He shrugged. ‘OK. Come on, it’s lunchtime.’

  Megan packed up her things and put them into her car. She’d been sketching for three hours and was glad of a rest. Following Tobias into the back of the Hall, she was once more amazed by the place. They passed through the enormous kitchen, where Tobias ordered sandwiches and tea to be served in the drawing room. It felt surreal to Megan. A few months ago, if someone had predicted her sitting in a stately hall drawing room, sipping tea with a handsome aristocrat, she would have laughed out loud. Yet here she was, sitting next to Tobias on the Chesterfield sofa in front of the marble fireplace, staring at the priceless artwork.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said to the housekeeper, who had swiftly delivered salmon and cream cheese sandwiches and a pot of Earl Grey tea. Megan noted every last detail, from the fine bone-china crockery to the way the sandwiches were cut into small triangles. She pictured the doorstep jam butties she regularly made and again her lips twitched.

  Tobias was watching her. ‘What’s making you smile?’ He passed her a cup of tea and handed her a plate of sandwiches.

  ‘All this, I suppose.’ She glanced around the room. He frowned. ‘I mean… well, it’s so different fro
m what I’m used to. It’s another world to me.’

  ‘It needn’t be.’ Now she frowned. Tobias continued, ‘It’s just stone and mortar, like your cottage.’ It bothered him that she felt in awe of the Hall. He so wanted her to feel at ease, more at home with the place, not hover on the periphery like an anxious guest. ‘With all this grandeur comes the cost and worry of running it.’

  Didn’t it just. He was beginning to lose sleep over the cost of the Hall.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it must,’ Megan replied quietly. She recalled the conversation she had had with Finula about the responsibility Tobias must carry and felt a little humbled. He was right, it was just stone and mortar. The fact he had been born into an aristocratic family with a title and estate was purely chance. Although he lived in a stately hall, it was, to all intents and purposes, still just a home to him. He must tire of people like her judging. He had an obligation to all his staff, too, not to mention the tenants in the village. She looked at him and for once didn’t see the playboy, the wild child he so often had been portrayed as, but a man born into a system that dictated honour, duty and commitment. Megan suspected he did worry about money, judging by his demeanour whilst he had been watching Dylan at Newmarket. He must have had a lot riding on that race. All this made her life seem so simple and straightforward. Like Tobias, she had been bequeathed her home, but she didn’t have the same pressure of managing it.

  He was gazing at her deep in thought. God, she was beautiful. Her forehead had furrowed slightly and her brown almond-shaped eyes held a pensive expression. Her fringe fell into them. He tenderly swept it to one side with his fingers so he could look into her face. For once, she didn’t tense, which was progress. ‘What are you thinking, Megan?’ he softly asked.

  ‘About you, and how hard it must be at times.’

  The answer surprised him. ‘You mean living here?’

  ‘In a way. It’s down to you to keep the whole show ticking over. People rely on you. It must be…’