Wickham Hall, Part 3

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Oh yes.’ I wrinkled my forehead, pretending to search my memory. ‘I remember. But do you really think you can track down my father?’

  ‘I do.’ He grinned. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  He stuck out a hand and held my gaze.

  I pretended to consider his offer carefully and then shook his hand to seal the deal. ‘Done.’

  He sighed with satisfaction and shrugged his coat back on. ‘Wrap up then, it’s cool out there this evening.’

  I frowned, intrigued as to where he was taking me. ‘I haven’t brought a coat today. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Here, borrow this.’ He opened a tall Chinese lacquered wardrobe and pulled out a battered leather jacket.

  He helped me into it. It was huge but the leather was soft and when I buried my nose in the collar it smelled of Ben and I immediately wondered how long I could hold on to it before he asked for it back.

  I followed Ben out of his private rooms, along to the end of the west wing and down a narrow flight of stairs. He unhooked a torch from a peg by the door and turned a large old-fashioned key to let us out.

  ‘It’s not dark yet, but the place we’re going will be,’ he said, handing me the torch.

  I couldn’t imagine how this could possibly lead to information about Antonio, but I was having fun anyway.

  ‘A magical mystery tour.’ I smiled. ‘How exciting.’

  It was nearly seven o’clock, most of the staff had left and we had the grounds to ourselves. We walked along a path lined with topiary shapes that led to the long row of brick buildings at the far side of the Fortescues’ private car park.

  ‘All of these used to house my grandfather’s vintage car collection,’ said Ben as he struggled to push open the heavy wooden door of the end unit.

  ‘And what’s in here now?’ I squinted.

  ‘Archives. Financial stuff mostly. It’s all computerized now, of course, but there’s something precious about these old handwritten records, I think. Back in the early days when Mum and Dad first took over at the hall, they had an old chap working in the office who had been here for decades. He kept a big book and listed all the names and addresses of the exhibitors who came to the Summer Festival. Then he used to write them a letter every autumn, inviting them back for the following year.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I marvelled.

  ‘Zara and I used to have a job stuffing envelopes and licking postage stamps to earn pocket money. We did all manner of jobs around the estate, actually. Looking back, we had a great childhood,’ he said wistfully.

  I gave him a sideways look. He adored Wickham Hall; it was obvious to me, even if he couldn’t see it himself. When would he see the light? I wondered.

  ‘Brilliant, I’ve found another torch.’ He switched it on and I turned my beam to a shelving unit, stacked from top to bottom with ledgers, files and cardboard boxes.

  ‘OK. In theory, the shelves should run chronologically,’ said Ben, stepping up to the first shelf. ‘Which year are we looking for?’

  ‘1984.’ I ran my torch up and down the rows of books and files. ‘Over here, look.’

  ‘Ha. Success,’ said Ben after a few minutes. He stuck the torch between his teeth and used both hands to pull out a heavy blue book. A label with ‘Summer Festival 1984’ written in thick black pen was peeling from its spine.

  Between us we cleared some room on the top of an old bookcase and began flicking through the alphabetical list of exhibitors.

  ‘This is so weird,’ I murmured. ‘All those years Mum spent searching for Antonio and the answer was right here all along.’

  ‘We hope,’ countered Ben.

  I shivered. The old storage building was damp and cold, but it wasn’t just the temperature that was making my skin tingle. I knew the story of how my parents met now, and it was lovely and sweet and had wrapped itself around my imagination like a fairy tale, but this was hard facts. This made Antonio real.

  I was possibly on the cusp of learning more about my father than even Mum knew.

  ‘Do you . . .? Should I leave you alone?’ Ben asked gently.

  I touched his arm. ‘No, please stay.’ I gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I know it sounds silly, but this feels like such a major moment. I mean, I’ve always been just Holly Swift. I’ve never had a clue about my own father’s surname.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Your mum would have a field day with that.’

  ‘Don’t let her starchy demeanour fool you for a second.’ He grinned. ‘She’s an old romantic at heart. She’s always reading lovey-dovey books, when she’s not trying to run my life, that is.’

  ‘That sounds like my mum. Oh wait, what’s this?’ I lowered my head to decipher the loopy writing in the ledger. ‘Biancardi leather goods.’

  ‘Sounds Italian,’ Ben agreed. ‘Address in Bergamo, Italy. There you go, that must be it.’

  ‘Let’s double-check there aren’t any other Italian names,’ I said in a shaky voice.

  We checked right through the list of exhibitors, but the only other Italian name was an artisan ice-cream maker based in London. I flipped back to the leather goods listing.

  ‘Biancardi,’ I murmured, tracing my finger over the letters. ‘Biancardi. What a lovely name.’

  The hairs at the nape of my neck prickled. Holly Biancardi . . . What should I do now, find his number and ring him up with a cheery ‘Hi, Dad’? Could it really be that simple?

  I reached into my handbag for my phone and took a picture of the Biancardi company’s details.

  I looked at Ben and his eyes glittered back happily. ‘So. What next, Miss Swift? Will you be leaping on the next plane to,’ he pulled the ledger closer, ‘Bergamo?’

  I dropped the phone back in my bag and shook my head. ‘This has to be planned carefully. There’s Mum to consider and Antonio, too. If he’s as lovely as my mum says, no doubt he’ll have a family of his own by now. As well, I mean.’

  ‘So you’re going to make a plan?’ He smiled. ‘How very Holly Swift.’

  I shrugged self-consciously. He might be the sort to jump on a plane on a whim, but I preferred a more organized approach.

  ‘Hey.’ He put an arm round my shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t tease; I do understand what a big thing this is. Do you want to borrow the book?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve got all I need. Thank you, Ben. So much.’

  I smiled up at him and we were so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face.

  ‘I’d better go; I’ve got plans for this evening,’ I murmured.

  I took a step back and a look of disappointment flickered across his face.

  It was a white lie; my plans entailed nothing more riveting than hand-washing my angora cardigans ready for the approaching autumn, but something Esme said was ringing in my ears.

  I handed him the torch back and said goodnight but as I reached the door he called my name and I turned to see him leaning against the shelf, a cheeky smile playing at his lips.

  ‘I’d still have helped you find that information even if you’d said no to our date.’

  ‘Saying no to our date never crossed my mind.’ I winked. ‘Not for a second.’

  The sound of his laughter echoing around the old garage made my heart skip as I headed towards the staff car park. Esme was right about the thrill of the chase: it was completely intoxicating.

  Chapter 7

  It was noon on Saturday and I was in Joop. I had one hour until Ben was due to pick me up. Sixty minutes! At this rate I’d be going out au naturel. I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time.

  ‘All I know is it’s a smart occasion,’ I said, feeling slightly panicky as I rejected outfit after outfit.

  ‘Men,’ huffed Bryony. ‘A surprise is all well and good and very romantic.’ She glanced at me slyly. ‘But it’s not very helpful when it comes to choosing an outfit, is it?’

  I blushed and pointed to a beige linen dress with a full skirt. ‘How about that?’

  Bryony looked at me as if
I was bonkers. ‘That colour will wash you out.’

  I pulled a face, suitably chastised. ‘Maybe not, then.’

  She took a silk dress in baby blue with a row of beads around the neck from the rail. ‘Put this on.’

  ‘Pale blue?’ I looked at it doubtfully.

  Esme grinned. ‘You’ve done it again, Mum. Perfect.’

  ‘Silk is smart, I suppose,’ I conceded. ‘OK.’

  ‘But smart can mean anything.’ Bryony sighed, slipping the silk dress off its hanger and handing it to me. ‘It could mean ball gown or cocktail dress, or even formal work wear.’

  I shuddered and disappeared behind the curtain of the fitting room. ‘Or hopefully none of the above.’

  ‘Hey!’ Esme piped up. ‘Maybe it’s a private jet to the opera, like in Pretty Woman! Maybe Italy.’

  Italy? My stomach took a nosedive at the sudden thought that Ben had somehow contacted my father, Antonio Biancardi (I still enjoyed rolling his name around in my head), and we were heading off to meet him. But that was silly; the date had been in the diary long before Ben had even heard the story. Besides, he wouldn’t go behind my back like that and if he did I’d be furious.

  Despite checking repeatedly that I was still free on Saturday, Ben had given me no details about our date at all until last night when he’d suggested that I ‘might want to wear something smart’.

  So here I was, in Joop, frantically combing the rails for the perfect ‘smart’ thing. The outfit Esme and I had originally planned all those weeks ago – jeans, heels and a nice-but-not-too-sexy top – had instantly been dismissed as unsuitable and if there was one thing I hated, it was not being prepared.

  I zipped myself into the blue dress and took a deep breath as I looked in the mirror: slightly too long but otherwise, lovely.

  I slid back the bolt on the fitting-room door. Bryony gave me the thumbs-up and Esme instantly dropped to her knees and began to pin the hem.

  ‘He did say we’d be gone all day, but he didn’t mention needing a passport so—’

  ‘A day at the races,’ Bryony exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘A hat, you need a hat. Esme, what have we got?’

  I laughed. ‘Thank you, Bryony, but I don’t want a hat. I’d feel uncomfortable and I’m nervous enough as it is. I just want to be me. That is who he asked on a date, just ordinary me.’

  Esme stood up, spat the pins out of her mouth and plonked a kiss on my cheek. ‘You are far more than ordinary, Holly Swift.’

  I smiled my thanks and then yelped as she accidentally stabbed me with a pin.

  ‘Don’t you dare bleed on it,’ she warned.

  I stood as still as a statue in the centre of the shop while she pinned up my hem and my eye suddenly noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign in the uppermost part of the window.

  ‘You’re definitely selling up, then?’ I asked Bryony, who was leaning on the counter inspecting her sparkly nails.

  She let out a heart-felt sigh. ‘Well, I can’t do the alterations any more, my fingers get too sore, and we aren’t bringing in enough money to make a profit so . . .’ She shrugged.

  I nodded sympathetically. Esme kept silent, I noticed.

  I smoothed my hands down the dress and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’d never in a million years have picked this colour by myself. Bryony just seemed to have an eye for colour and style and could easily pick out outfits to suit her customers. And then the idea came to me . . .

  ‘Bryony,’ I exclaimed, ‘you should offer a personal shopping service. You could do one-to-ones or even group bookings for hen parties. People would pay good money for personal fashion advice to sort their wardrobes out.’

  Esme stopped pinning and Bryony raised her eyebrows with interest.

  ‘She’s right, Mum, you’d be brilliant at that,’ said Esme. ‘Do you know what, Holster? I think you might be onto something.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I smiled serenely.

  Miraculously, an hour later when I saw Ben pull up at the kerb, I was ready; my hair had been swept up into a pretty chignon, the dress had been shortened to a suitably youthful length and my arm jingled with a selection of Bryony’s silver bangles.

  Ben walked through the door and I swear I heard Esme’s sharp intake of breath. At least I hope it was hers. It might have been mine: in a tight-fitting navy suit and white shirt open at the neck, Ben looked insanely hot.

  ‘He is rocking that suit,’ Esme murmured and I had to cough to cover up my giggle. Even Bryony took a staggering step back to lean on the counter.

  Ben whistled and took his time looking me up and down. I think my entire body was alight with blushes. And the fact that Esme and Bryony were whispering behind me didn’t help.

  ‘Is this OK?’ I asked in a shaky voice, giving him a twirl. I felt a breath escape when he nodded.

  ‘Much better than OK.’ He beamed. I waited for the joke about me scrubbing up well or something, but he simply smiled proudly, holding my gaze until I looked away.

  ‘Which jacket, do you think?’ I held up a silvery silk bolero jacket and a pale blue cashmere cardigan.

  He pointed to the cardigan and I gave Esme a secret smile as I folded it over my arm. We hadn’t been sure which would suit the occasion best and it had been her idea to be led by Ben.

  ‘Your carriage awaits.’ He made a flamboyant arm gesture towards where Lord Fortescue’s Range Rover was parked outside. ‘Excuse us, ladies.’

  I followed him out of the shop, pausing to wink at Esme and Bryony over my shoulder as I left.

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Ben, shielding the SatNav from me while he tapped in the destination address from a small card.

  ‘It can’t still be a surprise, surely?’ I laughed, trying to see what he was reading.

  ‘You’re peeking.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I grinned. I smoothed the skirt of my pale blue dress instead, wondering why I’d never worn this colour before; it was very pretty and suited my English rose skin tone perfectly. And Bryony, I thought, noticing her at Joop’s window, should definitely consider offering a personal shopper service.

  And then we were off.

  The roads were quiet on Saturday afternoon and soon we’d left the villages behind and were zooming down the motorway but I was still none the wiser about the location for our date. After thirty minutes I could no longer stand the suspense, particularly as Ben kept shooting me gleeful smiles.

  ‘OK, I give up,’ I said, caving in. ‘I need to know where I’m going so that I can enjoy the ride.’

  He laughed and I peered at him, taking in his handsome profile and wondering for the millionth time why, out of all the girls he could be with, he had chosen me. But extremely glad he had.

  ‘We are going to Oxford.’ He clamped his lips together infuriatingly, sliding a sideways glance my way.

  ‘And?’ I demanded, folding my arms. ‘If you don’t tell me exactly where we’re going, I’ll start singing. You don’t want that, believe me.’

  He snorted with laughter but his lips remained closed.

  I filled my lungs and belted out the chorus of ‘Let It Go’.

  ‘I surrender!’ cried Ben after the second chorus. ‘Open the glove box and you’ll find all you need to know.’

  I smiled triumphantly and followed his instructions. Inside the glove box was a square envelope with my name on it. I shot him a curious look.

  He nodded. ‘Open it.’

  I lifted the flap carefully and removed a thick piece of embossed card. It was an invitation to the opening of an art exhibition this evening at Leith’s Gallery in Oxford. The artist’s name was Ben Fortescue and the collection was entitled ‘New Dawn’. That had to be the loveliest idea for a date ever and my heart gave a little skip of joy.

  I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘Oh Ben, this is amazing! I’m . . . I’m honoured and thrilled.’

  ‘And I’m honoured to have you as my guest,’ he said simply, giving me a modest smile. ‘I wanted you to see the oth
er “me”: Ben the artist, away from Wickham Hall.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see your paintings.’ I sighed happily, until a thought struck me. ‘I don’t know much about art, though; perhaps I should look up some of your other work, will they be on Google?’

  I reached for my bag to get my phone out, but Ben grabbed hold of my arm.

  ‘I didn’t tell you precisely for that reason,’ Ben argued. ‘I didn’t want you planning ahead. I just want you to relax and enjoy it.’

  I blinked at him. ‘But what do I say if people ask me what I think of your work?’

  ‘Tell them the truth, say what you see; tell them how it makes you feel.’

  I chewed my lip doubtfully, worried that I might let the side down with my inferior art knowledge.

  ‘Holly, you have never had a problem telling people what you think,’ he said, noticing the look on my face. He reached across and squeezed my hand. ‘Just be yourself. Just be you and you’ll do great.’

  My mouth lifted into a smile at the compliment and I settled back into the Range Rover’s leather seats and relaxed. Just be me. I was sure I could manage that.

  We arrived in Oxford in plenty of time to wander around some of the university buildings, admiring the architecture. We dropped into a brasserie called Browns and arrived at Leith’s Gallery at around five o’clock.

  The gallery was still closed and the exhibition didn’t begin for another hour but Ben needed to be there early to sign off the hanging of his new collection and discuss ‘interest’ from prospective buyers with the gallery owner. He knocked on the door firmly and we stood on the narrow pavement outside the gallery waiting for someone to answer. Ben had just taken my hand when the door flew open.

  ‘Ben! Come in, come in!’ A man in his late forties dressed head to toe in black flung his arms wide and beckoned us in. He had wispy sandy hair and small round glasses.

  Ben placed a hand in the small of my back and nudged me forward. ‘Miles, this is Holly Swift, my friend. Holly, this is Miles Leith, the gallery owner.’