Doubting Abbey

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Doubting Abbey Page 9

by Tonge, Samantha


  The Baron nodded. ‘Just after he was awarded the title of Baron of Marwick in 1920. Then he renamed this place and renovated the Castle. It was a right dump back then.’

  The Earl snorted. ‘The government outlawed the awarding of titles in 1925. It’s an outrage. People should be born to their names, not buy them like a loaf of bread. And if the Baron was so jolly successful, he wouldn’t have needed to enter this competition.’ He muttered ‘pompous arse’ under his breath.

  The words ‘Baron Numpty’ escaped Kathleen’s lips.

  Still Edward said nothing and sat as stiff as one of the headstones in his family cemetery, only leaning forward when the programme moved onto Applebridge Hall. Oh my God! That was me, getting out of the car when I arrived. Or was it? I hardly recognized myself. Without my chicken fillets and tarantula lashes I looked kind of older. And yes, even I could see the resemblance to my flatmate. Plus, hallelujah! My bum wasn’t half as big as I expected – my brothers must have lied about that all these years.

  The footage moved to the orchard. Oh, no. I hadn’t warned Edward that… My cousin smacked his hand down on his knee.

  ‘I instructed Gaynor to edit that out,’ he said as the camera zoomed in on me, supposedly convulsing on the soil.

  ‘That’s my fault,’ I said and cleared my throat. ‘Gaynor and I decided it would be best to leave this shot in, after all.’

  His lip curled. ‘What about self-respect and dignity? I told you that scene wouldn’t work.’

  ‘And I told you that, during my stay, I should have a part in the decision-making,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Splendid decision,’ he sneered. ‘You sprawled amongst tree roots, legs akimbo, is a real credit to the family.’

  A lump rose in my throat. He was right. But high viewing figures were everything. At least I recognized that.

  ‘The pace of the show has sped up, though,’ said Nick and jerked his head towards the screen. It showed Edward sweep me up into his muscular arms. How easily he carried me into the house. I smiled at Nick, appreciative of the support.

  ‘If I may be so bold, My Lord,’ Nick went on, ‘like it or not, refined cookery lessons won’t compete with girls in skimpy outfits dancing on tables among joints of meat.’

  ‘I’d keep your opinions to yourself then, if they are that negative,’ said Edward in a measured voice. ‘The Croxleys will not throw away their principles. Not for anything.’

  ‘Our ancestors must be turning in their graves,’ said the Earl’s gruff voice.

  Crap. If they were that put out by my collapse, then how would they react to my hug with Nick in the kitchen? My mouth went dry as the show moved onto yesterday’s dinner with the Hamilton-Browns. I busied myself by handing around the last of the biscuits.

  ‘Och, will you look at my hair,’ said Kathleen, gazing at the telly.

  Um, I don’t think so – I was too wrapped up in studying my terrible table manners. I’d started my bread before everyone else and – oh my God – I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. Good thing my mobile was off. Any horrified texts from Lady C could wait for a couple of days. Suddenly Nick and Jean guffawed at the flying onion. My hands felt sweaty as the next shot was in the kitchen.

  There sat Kathleen, at the pine table, talking with Mr Thompson – I gazed at the background of the shot. You could just make out Nick, sliding his arms around my waist. Or could you? His dark hair kind of merged in with the shadows and the short-sighted viewers might possibly mistake his arms for a really thick belt. As for me, the background light was so bad, you couldn’t make out my face. Heart racing, I watched the gardener nuzzle my neck. I hardly dared glance at Edward.

  Which was bonkers. I was only here for two weeks. Why did I care about his opinion of me? My throat hurt because I knew the answer—like it or not, Gemma Goodwin, you’re starting to care about the Croxleys and their house.

  Urgh. Edward had clearly spotted me, his noble cousin, on screen, getting intimate with a servant, because his cheeks flushed maroon and he jumped up, practically tossing his cup onto the tray as the credits rolled. While the rest of us stared at him, jaws open, he picked up the laptop and stormed out of the Parlour, slamming the door shut on his way.

  LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY

  Sunday 2nd September

  ‘Comments’

  9.10p.m. I’ve just flipped open my laptop, here in the library. My first thought was to check the blog instead of the news or weather forecast. Gradually I’m understanding why social media is popular – it offers a break from the responsibilities and obligations of the real world. Even though this e-diary is about my life, it lacks the stresses and strains of the genuine thing.

  No doubt you are all still digesting tonight’s show. Several people, however, have already responded to my earlier question of what viewers really want.

  I see that BustyfanDownton and Lovehotnoble – like Gaynor - are absolutely in favour of men standing in ponds. Erm, please, both of you stop fighting over who would – hypothetically – help me unbutton my shirt to dry off. I’m quite old enough to do that myself. And Mr Darcy I am not. Knityourownmansion, many thanks, but I won’t need woollen Speedos. No, EtonMess, I don’t think cousin Abigail will take a dip in the pond wearing a tight T-shirt.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Awwwwesome,’ I said in a loud voice, having finally found Edward downstairs in the library, knocked and gone in. But urgh! What was I thinking, speaking like that? ‘I mean, awwww, some of my favourite books,’ I quickly added.

  My mouth fell open at the number of shelves going up, ooh, over six feet high. If you wanted a book from the top, you’d have to use the nearby set of ladders. Unlike the other rooms, the panelling in here was made from a warmer, caramel-coloured wood. Ignoring me, Edward closed his laptop. Lit-up lamps across the room gave it a mega cosy glow. He leant back into the sage-green upholstered chair behind the large wooden desk. Catching my breath after searching for him, I slid a leather-bound book off the shelf. It was by Dickens, Abbey’s all time favourite author. Her parents had bought her the complete works, in red leather, all embossed in gold. I lifted the book to my face and sniffed.

  ‘My mother always used to do that,’ muttered Edward and stared. ‘She believed you could smell a good story.’ He gazed into the distance for a second.

  My eyes tingled. Stubborn old sausage or not (as Abbey would probably say) it hurt to see him in such a state.

  ‘Look…’ I said. ‘About what you saw on that programme tonight…the gardener… It appears worse on screen than it was.’

  ‘Really?’ he said and looked up.

  My mouth went dry. Seems like this Upstairs Downstairs love stuff really was a serious business.

  ‘Nick and m…’ oops, that should be Nick and I ‘…we wanted to create some entertainment and…’

  Edward shook his head. ‘That’s the least of my worries, you and a member of staff bursting into laughter over an onion. In any event, we all eventually joined in. Just try to remember next time, Abbey, that at Applebridge Hall, guests are our friends—not the staff. Of course, Jean, Mr Thompson and Kathleen are very important to Applebridge Hall,’ he said gruffly, ‘but Gaynor thinks we should present this clichéd image of being distant, upper-crust toffs. She thinks viewers like stereotypes. As a compromise, I’ve agreed not to appear over-familiar with people on the pay-roll, whilst the cameras are on.’

  Huh? He thought I meant me and Nick laughing together when the onion went flying? Looked like he hadn’t seen the sexy smooch after all.

  I slid the book back. Right. So if he hadn’t noticed me getting down and dirty with the help, why did he storm off?

  ‘I know Nick is your own age,’ he continued, ‘which may be appealing, but please… Try to keep up appearances.’

  I bit the inside of my cheeks. Jeez, he made me sound about twelve.

  ‘The ironic thing is,’ he said,’ that one of the staff – Kathleen—is the most uppercrust thing about us.’

  I
raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Her grandmother worked for the Queen Mother when the latter’s father, Claude George Bowes-Lyon, inherited the Earldom of Strathmore and Kinghorne.’

  Aha, that must be why Kathleen was always mentioning the Queen Mum.

  ‘Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon she was back then, a young girl in the early nineteen-hundreds,’ he continued. ‘Kathleen’s grandmother helped out in the kitchens and passed down the recipes she learnt to her own family.’

  Ooh, I wondered what the Queen Mum liked to scoff.

  ‘Mother was very excited when Kathleen mentioned this in her job interview.’ Edward gave a wry smile. ‘She loved the royal family and was hugely pleased at the thought of us having connections through anyone in the house, even if the link was super tenuous.’

  ‘How long has Kathleen worked here?’

  ‘Over thirty years. She took up the position the year before I was born. Mother and Father weren’t long married.’

  ‘She never wanted a family of her own?’

  He shrugged. ‘There was one gentleman, I believe, but it ended badly – she told Mother all about it.’ He stared vacantly at the wall opposite. It was hard to imagine how much someone must miss their mum if they’d actually known them. I missed mine and she was just a distant figure made up from the memories of a toddler.

  ‘Dear Edward, do tell me what upset you tonight,’ I said gently, and sat in a wooden chair opposite him.

  ‘Here, take my seat,’ he muttered. ‘It’s more comfortable.’

  We swapped. Blimey. Not that I was into being seen as the weaker sex, but no man had ever been quite so concerned for my comfort. Lee, my ex, used to hog the duvet and bagsied the window seat when we flew to Benidorm.

  Edward jerked his head towards a portrait, high up on the wall. I recognized the serious man in specs from the picture in the Long Gallery. It was the Earl’s ‘Papa’ as he called him – Edward and Abbey’s granddad.

  ‘There are eyes everywhere in this house,’ he muttered, ‘reminding me of my duty; the responsibility to maintain standards.’ He shook his head. ‘Million Dollar Mansion – the whole concept is just so disrespectful to our heritage. Grandfather did his best with his business dealings but, I regret to say, it wasn’t enough; we’ve never really recovered since the war. Father has struggled and finally we’ve had to do the one thing the old Croxleys would never have considered. The Earl detests me renting out the land for car boot sales and fairs…’ His shoulders sagged. ‘We’re taking money off people to come into our home. “Entering trade” as Father would say. How has it come to this? That’s what’s upset me. Plus realizing how much the public are going to love the Baron.’

  ‘This family is doing what it has to, Edward.’

  ‘But I know Father feels that he’s let our ancestors and the village down. This estate used to provide jobs for life for many families in Applebridge, back in the days when neither the grounds, nor the house ran on a shoestring staff.’ Edward bit his lip. ‘I’m not stupid. Father might sneer at the Baron of Marwick, but I go on the Internet and see the magazine headlines in the shops. Hen nights, drunkenness, vulgar behaviour in general, with no sight of a moral compass… Rightly or wrongly, that’s what the viewers of these shows want. But we Croxleys will never go as far as providing that sort of entertainment.’

  I was one of those viewers he talked of. Big Brother fisticuffs, Love Island drunken flings… It made good telly, didn’t it, and it was something to chat about the next day at work? I blushed.

  ‘But Edward – you are being true and honest to yourselves, at least. The Baron is putting on a show.’

  ‘True? Honest?’ he muttered and – oh, no! – Edward held his head in his hands. ‘If only you knew,’ he muttered in a strained voice. ‘The continual… If only I could tell one person… My life is just a…’ A tortured pain in his eyes, he looked up.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked gently. ‘Please, let me help.’

  He opened his mouth but closed it again. ‘Apologies, Cousin. Ignore me – it’s just sometimes the pressure…’

  My eyes felt wet. I’d rather see him all arrogant than torn like this.

  Edward got to his feet and paced up and down. ‘Can Applebridge Food Academy really compete with medieval banquets?’ he said, back to his normal controlled voice. ‘Father still isn’t happy about the classes eventually becoming residential. It took me long enough to convince him that car boot sales were worth it for the income.’ He sighed. ‘Over the years, I’ve had to persuade him to become more pragmatic. I’m always looking for new ideas. We can only host around fourteen events on the land per year without planning permission. If we don’t win the competition…’

  ‘As Charlie Chingo pointed out, cookery programmes are all the rage,’ I said, noticing for the first time the dark circles under Edward’s eyes. Funny. I’d only ever thought about the upside of owning a stately home and never considered it could be a burden that could give you sleepless nights. Croquet on the lawn, cucumber sandwiches, diamonds worn to dinner, that’s what I’d imagined – not family expectations, leaky roofs and disastrous debts. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I said softly.

  He smiled at me. ‘You really think so?’

  I nodded.

  Edward rubbed the back of his neck and eventually straightened. ‘Of course. I’m sure it will. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘If you ever want to talk…?’

  ‘That’s kind, Cousin, but really there’s no need.’ He was back into formal coping-mode. ‘It was an early start today. Mr Thompson had to show me some fencing that’s desperate for repair, right at the bottom end of the estate. I’m probably just tired. Do excuse my whining.’

  My stomach squeezed. Like it or not, I longed to cheer up this uptight, stubborn… goddamn good-looking noble. Yet I guessed he wouldn’t want to watch trashy TV or gorge on chocolate, and probably didn’t own a Wii or karaoke machine. I gazed outside for a second. It was dark now.

  However, in the dim corner of the room, on a bottom shelf, I spied a flat green box.

  ‘Would you care to join me in a game of Scrabble?’ I said. That would at least take his mind off things.

  ‘What—now?’ His brow furrowed. ‘I should check the weather forecast for tomorrow, and set up more buckets if rain is due.’

  ‘Worried I might beat you?’

  ‘What utter tosh!’ His mouth twitched. ‘Okay then. You’re on.’

  I fetched the box and cleared some stationery from the desk. Then I set up the board and grabbed a pen to mark the scores. We both selected our letter tiles. Edward began. ‘DECEIT’ was his first word. I bit my lip. Was that fate telling me that he’d eventually uncover my true identity?

  Forty-five minutes later we were neck and neck. The floorboards creaked outside the door as someone went upstairs to bed. PROFIT, RANK, ACCOUNTS and HUNT were some of his words, but nothing compared to the one which got me my highest score. I remembered it from a previous game with Abbey – MUZJIK, a Russian term for a peasant. Although I doubt Edward was impressed with the rest of my words, which included TIT (the bird, of course) and BUM (sorry, but needs must).

  ‘You aren’t allowed that. It’s slang for a body part,’ Edward had said with a smile.

  Victorious, I’d shaken my head. ‘Sorry. I checked this once when playing with Ab…my lodger Gemma. It’s a proper word that means lazy person or vagrant.’

  ‘She must be quite clever, this Gemma,’ he said.

  I smiled nervously. ‘Um…’ What would Abbey say?

  ‘You get on well, living together?’

  I smiled. ‘People sometimes mistake us for each other and yes, I suppose in several ways we are rather like sisters… Brothers are super, but as well as dear Rupert,’ read that as annoying Tom and banged-up Ryan! ‘I would have loved a female sibling.’

  A curious look crossed Edward’s face for a moment and I could have sworn he mumbled, ‘Me too’.

  Loud chimes cut through the wall from the Low
Drawing Room next door – from the spooky-looking grandfather clock. Yikes. Eleven? I’d completely forgotten about Googling Nigella and Delia and there were only…I swallowed hard…ten hours to me playing teacher. Applebridge Food Academy was to open at nine a.m. sharp.

  ‘Would you mind terribly if we picked this game up another time, Edward? I didn’t realize it was so late and must go on the computer to check a few things for tomorrow’s cookery lessons.’

  ‘Who’s worried now?’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘I’m clearly going to win.’

  ‘I doubt that. Although you do have a decade’s knowledge above me. My youth puts me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘I’m not on a Zimmer frame yet!’

  ‘You check weather forecasts,’ I said and shook my finger at him. ‘No one under forty does that. What next? Discussing arthritic knees? Declaring mobile phones are the downfall of our society?’

  We grinned at each other. It was only a board game, but the first indication that stuffy old Edward knew how to have some sort of fun.

  I stood up and turned to the door, my gaze falling on the bookshelves to the right. Halfway up was about a one metre length of pastel and pink book spines. I walked over and pulled out a book. It smelt flowery, as if the last person to read it wore a lot of perfume.

  ‘Sophie Kinsella! Marian Keyes!’ I said, scanning the shelf. ‘I love these books! Um, as well as the classics, of course.’

  ‘They were Mother’s. Crime and any sort of romance were her novels of choice.’ He jerked his head. ‘On the opposite side of the room are my childhood books. We’ve the whole Beatrix Potter series and I grew up thinking I was Christopher Robin.’ He shrugged. ‘Borrow books any time you want, Cousin. Or read at this desk, if you prefer. Father doesn’t much care for the media people and often seeks refuge in here as well.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I said and tried to imagine him as a little boy, with curly blond hair. Serious, he’d have been. I doubted he ever got a detention or less than a grade A.

  ‘So.’ He stood up. ‘The computer. Will you find your way down to the cellars okay?’

 

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