A Room at the Manor

by Julie Shackman

  ‘But what about weekends?’ I asked. ‘Obviously, there would be a rota so that all the staff get sufficient time off.’

  ‘Oh, Harry’s dad can look after him on weekends but if there was a problem, my mum or Oron said they would help out,’ she assured me. ‘It’s just late afternoons that would have been a problem, with my son now at school.’ Then she reddened. ‘Listen to me. I sound as if I’ve got the job already.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with thinking that,’ I replied, ‘This is all very promising. Anybody who can make a quiche as mouth-watering as that gets my vote!’

  Jess froze for a second.

  ‘I’ll just have a read through of your application and check your references, of course, but I have a good feeling about this.’

  I couldn’t help but smile as I saw Jess leave Glenlovatt in her little white Fiat, wearing one of the broadest grins I’d ever seen. I’d promised to let her know within the week.

  Eighteen

  ‘Morven!’ I panted down the line. ‘For pity’s sake, help me!’

  My best friend’s calm, measured tones slid into my ear like warm honey. ‘Take a deep breath. You sound like a heavy breather.’

  ‘I have been taking deep breaths,’ I moaned. ‘I’ve taken hundreds.’

  Morven sighed. ‘This is your area of expertise, organising everybody. In fact, organisation should be your middle name.’

  I stared forlornly at my to-do list. ‘I wish I had your faith. I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Any of it. The tea room, the ball. Hugo had so much faith in me . . .’

  I looked around my kitchen with a doleful look. ‘You should see the state of my lemon and lavender fondant fancies!’

  ‘What?’

  I eyed my baking efforts in despair. Yoghurt and egg were smeared on the kitchen worktop, and dirty glass bowls sat idly around in the carnage. Despite my carefully experimenting with a new icing recipe, each lilac and yellow miniature sponge resembled something out of a science fiction movie. And the sugar roses hadn’t worked out at all.

  ‘They’re supposed to look like dainty little presents,’ I wailed down the phone, ‘Not these melted, lopsided lumps I’ve produced.’

  There was a pause before Morven announced, ‘You’re just having a bit of a wobble—that’s all and perfectly understandable. But you’ve forgotten one very important point. You are not on your own in all of this. I’m right by your side.’

  I replied with a whimper.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ continued Morven. ‘What with your baking talents and my schmoozing abilities, this gorgeous little tea room is bound to be a success.’ I heard her moving around at the other end of the line.’ Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course. You need a bloody good talking-to.’

  I headed for the fridge ‘Thanks, Morvs. I’ll crack open a bottle of white.’

  A clean-up and two generous glasses of crisp Sauvignon Blanc later, Morven and I slumped further into my sofa.

  She pushed her long blonde hair back. ‘It’s not like you to have such a crisis of confidence. What’s brought all this on?’

  ‘I don’t want that Vaughan Carmichael standing there saying, “I told you so,” even though he probably will anyway, whether things go tits up or not.’

  Morven’s green eyes locked with mine. ‘That’s the third time in the last ten minutes you’ve mentioned his name.’

  I waggled my slippered feet. ‘Is it?’

  Morven crossed her arms, sending her array of gold bracelets jangling in unison. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well, you’d go on about it too if you had to deal with him,’ I replied darkly. ‘He’s an arrogant, rude sod.’

  Morven’s lips twitched. ‘He gets mentioned in the gossip columns a lot, you know.’

  I cradled my mug. ‘Does he?’ I asked airily. ‘I wouldn’t know. I never look at them.’

  Morven, on the other hand, devoured the social pages with relish. What she didn’t know about socialites wasn’t worth knowing.

  She shifted slightly beside me and cast a long look from under her lashes. ‘Do you know what they call him sometimes?’

  ‘Go on. I know you’re dying to tell me. It isn’t Grumpy Git, by any chance?’

  Morven’s eyes twinkled. ‘In a way, you’re not far off. They call him the Heathcliff of the art world.’

  ‘Heathcliff?’ I spluttered. ‘Well, I suppose that’s one name for him.’

  ‘And he’s got a reputation with the ladies.’ She picked at an imaginary thread on her silk skirt. ‘He’s a bit of a bad boy, you know.’

  The echo of Gordon’s recent remark rang around my head. Then I recalled those newspaper photos of Vaughan lying on Gordon’s desk. A spark of annoyance lit up in my chest. ‘Why are you telling me all this, Morvs?’

  ‘I don’t want you getting hurt again. Not after all that shit you had to deal with in Malta.’

  I gestured dismissively. ‘Anton is well and truly in my past. I’m moving on, or at least I’m trying to.’

  Morven looked around my flat, with its blue stripes, nautical knick-knacks and clusters of shell ornaments.

  ‘What?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘It looks like a Mediterranean harbour in here.’

  ‘Thanks very much!’

  ‘I’m not being rude about it,’ explained Morven. ‘It’s lovely. I’m just wondering whether your heart is still over there.’

  I shook my red curls defiantly. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I still miss Malta, but as for Anton . . .’ I finished with a shrug. ‘I loved him but he didn’t love me. End of.’

  ‘Well, I never liked him,’ she said through a grimace.

  ‘You only met him once!’

  ‘And it was enough,’ she added.

  I laughed dryly as we slumped our heads back against my sofa, looking out at the prickly beauty of the Fairview landscape through my sitting room window. The evening sky was awash with dashes of pink cloud.

  ‘My priority is Thistles from now on,’ I said, cutting through the silence.

  Morven was confused. ‘Thistles?’

  ‘That’s what I was going to suggest for the name of the tea room.’ I sat up, enthused. ‘I’ve been struggling to come up with something suitable but original at the same time. I asked Gordon but he was more than happy to leave it with me. It came to me this morning. Thistles feature heavily in the Carmichael family crest.’

  ‘And Vaughan is certainly prickly,’ supplied Morven with a wry smile.

  Although I couldn’t deny what she had said, I gave her a withering look.

  ‘Well, let’s make a toast then,’ said Morven, her wine glass aloft. ‘Here’s to Thistles and all who eat cake in her!’

  I clinked my glass against hers with a grin.

  Nineteen

  After a productive evening of brainstorming ideas with Morven for the Ladies and Rogues Ball, I marched into Glenlovatt Manor the next morning, armed with a notebook’s worth of suggestions. I was also going to tell Gordon and Vaughan about my idea for the name of the tea room.

  ‘Let’s go into the drawing room,’ beamed Gordon as we concluded our morning tour of the worksite. ‘We’ll be more comfortable in there.’

  Vaughan proffered me a frosty smile and indicated for me to walk in front of him. Tapping self-consciously across the black-and-white tiled floor, I risked a glance over my shoulder. For a split second I could have sworn Vaughan’s attention was focused on my rear, but his angular face was so impassive I dismissed the thought. I wished now that I hadn’t opted for the skirt I was wearing. It was a little on the snug side.

  I’d only glimpsed the drawing room very briefly once, with Hugo. The easy chat we had that day, his dry sense of humour, the delicious lunch and his infectious love of his ancestral home came spilling back to me.

  Gordon opened the dark wooden doors. Light sliced through the two sash windows,
pooling on the green chaise longue and the two floral sofas. The drawing room reminded me of Hugo in so many ways: classic, warm and full of character.

  Gordon indicated one of the sofas and I gratefully sat down. Vaughan and his father took up positions on the two bottle green armchairs opposite. As if by magic, Travis, Hugo’s trusted chauffeur, appeared in a sharp suit, with a silver tray glinting with matching silver teapot, cups and saucers and a plate of shortbread. He delivered it to the table with an encouraging smile at me before retreating.

  ‘So,’ I smiled, straightening my notebook unnecessarily, ‘before I suggest some ideas for the ball, I wanted to run a name by you for the tea room.’

  Gordon clattered the teapot and paused. ‘Go on.’

  Taking a big breath, I announced, ‘Thistles.’

  For a moment, the only sound in the drawing room was the rattle of teaspoons.

  ‘Thistles?’ repeated Vaughan slowly, in that deep cut-glass burr of his.

  Oh no. Had I put my size six feet well and truly in it? Maybe this suggestion was just too close to home for them, what with a thistle being part of Lydia’s signature on all her artwork.

  My fingers nervously tumbled over each other in my lap. ‘Sorry,’ I gushed. ‘Perhaps that’s not—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Vaughan. His voice had adopted a surprisingly softer edge. ‘I think that’s a good choice.’ He looked at me again before turning his attention to his father.

  Surprised, I snatched up my teacup. I realised how important it was for me to get the Carmichael seal of approval. This whole crazy, exciting venture meant the world to me, and the very thought of doing something insensitive caused a nest of butterflies to career through my stomach. Over the rim of my cup I could see Gordon’s wistful expression.

  ‘Lydia loved thistles,’ he mused aloud. His mouth curved into a wry smile. ‘When you think of all the gorgeous flowers in those gardens and how she always had a thing for thistles. That was her all over. Seeing beauty in everything whether it was immediately apparent or not.’

  ‘With the fact that thistles also feature in your family crest,’ I supplied gently. ‘I just thought it was appropriate.’

  Gordon nodded happily while Vaughan studied me for a moment with a quizzical gaze. ‘Right. Good,’ he barked after a heavy pause.

  I looked away. Good grief! Reading Vaughan Carmichael was like trying to understand the offside rule in football. I noticed a photograph of Hugo in a silver frame on top of a highly polished side table. He looked so dapper in a cherry red cardigan, cream shirt and navy tie.

  Gordon’s eyes followed mine. ‘He was an old bugger at times,’ he sighed, ‘but we miss him so much.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. He was a very special man.’

  Vaughan’s long fingers played with a thread on his black jeans. ‘He was also frustrating at times. I don’t know what this “Do not open till the twenty-seventh of October” is all about.’

  ‘Well, none of us know, do we?’ answered Gordon simply. ‘We’re just going to have to abide by his wishes, and come October twenty-seventh we’ll find out.’

  Vaughan’s brows knitted. They showed more than a speck of suspicion.

  I again shuffled through the notes I’d made with Morven about the ball and looked up, pinning a cool smile on my face. ‘Shall we get on to the ball?’

  I happily announced a local baroque group had been booked and pulled out a list of RSVPs from the guest list so far. I showed them photos of the flower arrangements the local florist was planning to do for us, and we went through sample menus from two different caterers, discussing the pros and cons of a canapé-style menu or a buffet.

  ‘While the canapé menu looks the most appealing,’ I added, ‘the buffet menu is more budget friendly.’

  Gordon perused the document. ‘Let’s decide by the end of the week.’

  Vaughan’s expression was unreadable. ‘You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?’

  Not sure whether he was being complimentary or sarcastic, I flicked my notebook pages over and turned to the ideas I’d been brainstorming for Glenlovatt. ‘Gordon, do we have time for me to run some other suggestions for the estate past you?’

  Gordon took a sip of his tea. ‘Please do.’

  Vaughan looked positively horrified.

  ‘Well, it’s too late for this year but I thought next year we could have a ticketed Easter egg hunt in the grounds and maybe ask someone to dress up as the Easter Bunny.’

  Mischief reared in Gordon’s eyes. He pointedly turned to Vaughan.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ he growled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  Stifling a laugh, I referred again to my notes. ‘We could make Thistles Easter themed too, with lots of yellow decorations, and I could bake Easter egg bombes, hot cross buns, gingerbread bunnies, marzipan chicks; that kind of thing.’ Spotting Gordon’s smile of approval, I was encouraged to carry on. ‘Then for Halloween, Glenlovatt could host a ghost trail. Obviously, not too scary for the little ones.’ I leaned forwards in my seat. ‘We could string little orange lanterns round some of the trees and give the children goodie bags. There would be an entrance fee for this too and perhaps a prize for the best fancy dress.’ Then another thought came to me. ‘We could even invite a local children’s author to come up with a suitable ghost story to read to them as they went on their walk.’

  Vaughan peered across at me as though I’d just landed from some alien planet. ‘I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got in mind for Christmas.’

  Gordon silenced him with a weary ‘Please continue, Lara. I can assure you we are listening. Both of us.’

  ‘For Christmas,’ I began steadily, ‘we could have a reindeer ride around the grounds for the families.’ I indicated with the tip of my pen the sprawling gardens outside the window. ‘Pretty lights strung around the trees would look gorgeous here, and perhaps we could serve mulled wine, mince pies and hot chestnuts.’

  ‘That sounds a great idea too,’ agreed Gordon.

  Vaughan stretched his long legs in front of him, folded his arms and said nothing.

  ‘These sorts of events should make Glenlovatt more of a focal point again for the local community, especially as the estate has been closed to the public for a number of years.’

  ‘Twelve years,’ piped up Vaughan flatly. ‘Glenlovatt has been closed to the public for twelve years now.’

  He and his father swapped knowing looks.

  Gordon gestured around the richly decorated drawing room. ‘Your grandfather and mother thought the world of Glenlovatt and it is down to us to ensure its future.’

  I sensed colour erupting on my cheeks, worried I’d put my foot in it again. Recalling the faith Hugo placed in me, I swallowed hard and spoke again. ‘And for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, we could run an afternoon tea in Thistles for the mums, and perhaps something like an Irish coffee and Guinness cake event for the dads.’

  Vaughan glanced over when I said, ‘I know this is a lot of detail right now, but I feel I owe it to your grandfather to give this my best shot.’ I closed my notebook, resting it on my lap.

  Gordon nodded enthusiastically while Vaughan tried and failed to stifle a bored sigh.

  I really was so grateful to Hugo for believing in me, but at times like this I did question whether all the hassle from his unpredictable grandson was worth it.

  I collapsed beside Morven into a chair by the tea room’s patio doors. There were only three days till the Ladies and Rogues Ball. Papers lay scattered over the table in front of us, alongside discarded cups of tea and plates of half-eaten cake.

  There were lists about lists, scribbled confirmations from last-minute guests and a couple of last-minute apologies, a list of items donated by local businesses for the charity auction, and details of the buffet and when it would be delivered.

  Morven tipped back in her seat. Her blonde ponytail snaked down the back of her chair as she let out a loud yawn. ‘I don’t think I can eat anot
her mouthful of cake.’ She rubbed her nonexistent tummy. ‘I’ve had far too much.’

  I eyed her flat stomach, concealed under a red ribbed top. ‘Yes, I can see that from all the way over here. People will think you’re pregnant.’

  She stretched. ‘I think we’ve got everything in hand. And if we haven’t, well, tough luck. We’ll just wing it on the night.’

  I took a slurp of cold tea. ‘Urgh! I’ll make another pot.’ I stood on weary legs. ‘You think it will go okay, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course it will. And if it doesn’t, you could always offer to be Mr Grumpy Pants’ new nude model.’

  I took an ineffectual swipe at Morven’s head. ‘That isn’t even remotely funny.’

  There was a sharp knock on the tea room door and Travis walked in with a cardboard box in his arms. ‘There has been a delivery for you. I think it’s your menus.’

  We both jumped to our feet as he placed the box on the floor. ‘Thanks, Travis,’ I beamed while Morven eagerly ripped into the contents. ‘I’ll bring you one of our special coffees for the excellent service.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

  I smiled after his retreating frame, and spun round with a clap of my hands only to see that Morven’s excited expression had melted into one of mild panic.

  ‘What’s wrong? They’re not avocado green, are they?’ I laughed lamely.

  ‘No, they’re not green,’ she faltered, turning one around to me.

  I took it out of her hand. ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘Look at the top. Right there. Where it should read “Thistles”.’

  Oh, for pity’s sake!

  ‘“Fizzles”?’ I gasped. ‘How the hell did they work that one out?’

  Morven patted me on the arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured me, ‘I’ll sort it.’

  I dragged a tired hand down my face.

  ‘I’ll get on to the printers right now, okay?’

  She strode off across the great hall and I turned back to the paperwork, silently praying there would be no more mishaps.