‘You’ll like this.’ He winked, shook the dregs of his tea into the lavender and set his mug down.
I walked with him down through the gardens towards a cluster of tall trees where the ornate marble fountain sprayed flumes of water into a circular pond.
Jim stopped under the tree canopy, hunched his shoulders and pressed a finger to his lips.
‘Now you’ll have to be quiet or else you’ll frighten ’em,’ he said in a low voice.
‘OK,’ I whispered, amused.
‘Come on.’ He beckoned me to follow him to the low wall around the pond. ‘Look. There on the other side of the fountain. A moorhen and her little ’uns.’
We crouched down to see a black bird with a red head and yellow beak leading a clutch of peeping black chicks to the water’s edge.
‘Oh, cute!’ I whispered. ‘It looks like they’re all having their first swimming lesson.’
‘They come down to the water every morning for a splash. See how fluffy the chicks are?’
I nodded.
‘Well, when they get their adult feathers the parents turf them out of their nest. This is a lesson in survival.’
‘How did you know they’d be here?’
‘I know everything that goes on around here.’ He tapped his nose and grinned. ‘I’ve been watching wildlife on the estate for sixty years; you pick things up.’
I watched as Jim reached into his pocket for a camera. I guessed he was about ten years younger than my Granddad Swift would have been now. I felt a sudden wave of nostalgia for what I’d never had; I’d have treasured doing things like this with him.
‘Have you got grandchildren, Jim?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Me and my Betty weren’t blessed with children. Would have been lovely bringing kiddies down here.’ He smiled, but there was a shadow of sadness behind his eyes.
‘Well, now you’ve brought me,’ I said, secretly casting him as my adopted granddad. ‘And you’ve given me an idea.’
‘Glad to be of service.’ He chuckled.
We both fell quiet then; Jim was taking a few pictures and I was busy thinking about the possibility of him running children’s nature trails. There was a big focus on the gardens at Wickham Hall, but the wildlife was largely ignored and Jim would be brilliant at it. It was definitely something to bring up at the next meeting . . .
I stood for a moment, listening to the sound of the fountain, the rustle of the trees and birdsong high up in the branches around us. I watched while the chicks bobbed about on the water and their mother flitted backwards and forwards keeping a careful eye on them and I exhaled happily; I couldn’t imagine a more peaceful start to my week.
‘Glad you came?’ Jim asked, slipping the camera back in his pocket.
‘Definitely.’ I nodded. ‘Thanks, Jim.’
We walked back towards the staff entrance and Jim collected his abandoned mug.
‘Word of warning: I’d keep a low profile today,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘Lady Fortescue’s in one of them moods.’
‘Really?’ My eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘His Lordship’s in the doghouse.’ He chuckled and did a beer-drinking mime with his hand. ‘Apparently he had a few jars on Saturday night.’
I cringed. ‘Oh dear. Thanks for the tip; I’ll stay out of her way.’
‘Right, I’m off to inspect the new fencing. We’ve been having problems with poachers, so we’ve gone all electric now along where the deer park meets the main road. That’ll teach ’em.’
I’ll do as Jim suggested and keep my head down, I thought as I ran up the stairs towards the events office. I had plenty to do, so it should be easy enough.
Or maybe not. The door to my office was open and waiting inside it were three agitated figures: Lord and Lady Fortescue sitting on the edge of Pippa’s desk and Sheila hovering beside them.
My stomach churned, what on earth had happened?
‘She’s here. Thank goodness,’ exclaimed Lady Fortescue before I had chance to speak. She jumped to her feet and began pacing around the office. Her hair, normally immaculate, hung to her shoulders in shaggy clumps. And no lipstick. That alone spoke volumes.
Lord Fortescue, I noticed, appeared a little worse for wear. He had one hand pressed to his right temple and looked as though he hadn’t shaved for a day or two. Surely if he’d been drinking on Saturday night he couldn’t still be suffering, could he?
‘Holly, I’m afraid we need to arrange a press conference,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘This morning. Noon at the latest. You’d better explain, Hugo.’
‘Storm in a teacup,’ protested Lord Fortescue. ‘Least said, soonest mended. It’ll all come out in the—’
His wife silenced him with a piercing look. ‘Too late for that now, Hugo, and will you please stop talking nonsense.’
‘Holly, dear,’ Sheila said, fiddling with her cameo brooch, ‘we need to call the press and invite them in for a chat. Can you do that?’
I gave my full diary a last lingering look. ‘Of course. May I ask what the occasion is?’
Lady Fortescue folded her arms. ‘The occasion is crisis management. Hugo inadvertently let slip that we’re looking forward to retirement in five years’ time.’
‘Oh, congratulations; I didn’t know that.’ I smiled, looking from her to Lord Fortescue and then over to Sheila.
‘No, neither did I,’ said Lady Fortescue crisply. ‘I’m not ready to be pensioned off.’
‘I am,’ retorted her husband.
‘I see,’ I said simply. I didn’t really see but it seemed the only suitable reply.
‘Announcing the heir to an estate such as Wickham Hall is usually a formal affair,’ Sheila explained quietly. ‘A statement with formal photographs and whatnot.’
Lady Fortescue made a horsey sort of harrumphing sound. ‘And it is most certainly not announced to a public house, whilst three sheets to the wind and before agreeing it with the heir in question,’ she snapped.
Lord Fortescue’s head sank lower until his neck was completely invisible. Poor thing, I was almost tempted to give him a hug.
I cleared my throat, not sure if I was missing something. ‘And who is succeeding you at Wickham Hall?’
The Fortescues looked at each other and then shiftily at me.
Lord Fortescue smoothed his hair down nervously. ‘Ah, well—’
‘I’ll be in the garden letting off steam,’ announced Lady Fortescue. And off she stormed.
The room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Lord Fortescue, why don’t you get back to your office, have a nice strong cup of coffee and carry on trying to ring Benedict, while I explain everything to Holly?’ soothed Sheila.
Benedict? So Lord and Lady Fortescue’s son was the heir?
‘Righty-ho,’ he said and shuffled off.
Sheila waited until he was out of earshot and let out a sigh. ‘What a palaver.’
Thirty minutes later I’d been fully briefed by Sheila, I’d emailed all the local press and was busy constructing my most important press statement ever.
Lord Fortescue, it seemed, had escaped to the Fox and Hounds in Hoxley while Zara’s hen party was in full swing. At some point or other, he had declared that he and Lady Fortescue would be handing over the reins of Wickham Hall in five years. Some opportunist, looking to make a few pounds ‘with a scoop’, had phoned the Stratford Gazette, which in turn had called Sheila.
‘This is all such bad timing,’ Sheila had said crossly. ‘The focus should be on Zara’s wedding at the moment. This is a distraction we don’t need. But if we don’t hold a press conference and issue a formal statement, we’ll be besieged with calls.’
‘But at noon?’ I’d queried. ‘I can write the press release, but the journalists don’t have much time to get here.’
Sheila had smiled primly. ‘Exactly. The fewer the better. Lord Fortescue can say his piece about ensuring the hall remains in safe hands, blah, blah, blah, and you can issue any no-shows wit
h a statement. Most of the press is syndicated anyway, as you probably know. Word will soon get around, believe me.’ She made her way to the door and sighed. ‘I just hope we get to Benedict before the press does.’
‘And does Benedict know anything about Lord Fortescue’s plans?’
Sheila leaned her hip against the doorframe and folded her arms, drawing her cardigan tightly across her chest. ‘Let’s just say it’s complicated. You know what families are like.’
I pulled a sympathetic face, whilst musing that no, actually, I didn’t. ‘Go on.’
She glanced over her shoulder into the corridor, and evidently found it empty. ‘Zara can’t take on the hall as she’s marrying into a wine empire in France, which leaves Benedict and I think he feels a bit trapped.’ Her eyes dropped to her wrist watch. ‘Heavens, I must away! Let’s catch up in an hour or so.’
A noise outside distracted me and I turned to look through the mullioned window. It was a perfect summer’s day and the grounds of Wickham Hall had never looked lovelier. A young couple strolled hand in hand through the formal gardens and children ran laughing through the maze. In the distance I could just make out Nikki talking to a group of people, possibly conducting one of her gardening tours. I would never tire of this view, I thought, never.
I turned back to my laptop.
‘Trapped, eh? Poor baby,’ I murmured to myself.
By the end of the morning, I had printed out a brief statement, organized for Jenny to send refreshments for the three journalists who promised to be here and sorted out a back-up. The plan involved the cooperation of Jim and Pam, the housekeeper, and Lord and Lady Fortescue themselves. And now I was on my way to the library to set up the room for the press conference.
The library was a lovely room, not huge but it somehow made you feel cosseted within its deep emerald-green walls. There was a big stone fireplace in the centre of one wall, hundreds and hundreds of leather-bound books, plus one smaller cabinet stuffed entirely with newer paperbacks. The smell was calming, too: a comforting mix of wood smoke, leather and old books. A small armchair in the corner looked so inviting that I was highly tempted to curl up with a book and disappear into a fictional world for a while.
I’d just set out two armchairs with a coffee table between them when I heard the sound of footsteps along the corridor. Sheila and Lady Fortescue appeared first, followed more sedately by Lord Fortescue. Lady Fortescue, I noted, had recovered her usual poise and looked elegant in a black and white silk kaftan.
‘We’ve had The Times on the phone,’ said Sheila, taking my arm and leading me to the far corner of the room away from the Fortescues. ‘They’re running a piece tomorrow and want an interview with Benedict about his succession, but so far none of us have been able to raise him. At least he’s only at his studio in London and not in a different time zone for once.’
I raised my eyebrows, wondering how often that happened. ‘Should we really be telling the press anything before his parents have spoken to him?’
‘Lady Fortescue is going to FaceTime him now. Benedict should be up by noon.’
Sure enough, Lady Fortescue was sitting in one of the armchairs and had set up her iPad on the coffee table.
‘Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t they?’ I whispered, feeling an uncomfortable prickle of sweat under my arms. ‘In fact, that must be the press now.’ Out in the corridor, I could hear several sets of feet marching towards us.
I positioned myself at the door, armed with a stack of press releases, and plastered on a smile as the feet approached the library.
The next events happened in such a blur that I’m not quite sure what came first. But by the time the three journalists – a redheaded woman, a weaselly boy with a notebook and a portly photographer with a handlebar moustache – had taken their seats, Lady Fortescue’s iPad screen had flickered into action.
‘Mum, what do you want?’ a man’s voice grunted, sounding slightly groggy. ‘I’ve been up all night. Only just got to bed.’
As one, we all leaned forward and squinted to see the screen.
‘Speak up, son,’ tutted Lord Fortescue, cupping a hand to his ear.
‘Benedict!’ Lady Fortescue gasped.
I clapped a hand over my mouth as Sheila lunged forward and knocked the iPad onto its front, but not before I – and I guessed everyone else in the room – had seen a naked torso, a tousled head of curly dark hair and one slightly unfocused brown eye amongst a tumble of white sheets.
There was a titter of laughter from all three members of the press, which confirmed it: the Honourable Benedict Fortescue had just attended a press conference wearing nothing but a frown.
Lord Fortescue’s face was ashen, which contrasted nicely with his wife’s scarlet cheeks.
Holly, time for that back-up plan . . .
I clapped my hands so loudly that the weaselly boy flinched. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ I said loudly, wondering as I did so if that was what you actually said to journalists. Either way, it had the desired effect: every single person in the room was now staring at me.
‘Lord and Lady Fortescue have prepared a press statement for you all about their succession plans for Wickham Hall—’
‘Hold on a sec,’ grunted the boy, ‘I didn’t come all the way out here for a press release! I could have got that sent to the radio station.’
‘Absolutely not, of course,’ I agreed. ‘I – we – have devised a bespoke press tour for each of you.’
I handed out my press releases swiftly.
‘Martha?’ I smiled at the lady from the Stratford Gazette. ‘I’ve arranged for Pam, Lady Fortescue’s private housekeeper, to give you an exclusive preview of the Honourable Zara Fortescue’s wedding dress.’
‘Really?’ gasped Martha, bouncing to her feet. ‘Goodness, that’s . . . well . . . thank you!’
‘On the understanding that any pictures will be embargoed until after the wedding service, of course.’
She nodded vigorously. ‘Of course!’
I signalled to Sheila to radio for Pam and caught Lady Fortescue’s eye. Her eyes twinkled with amusement and she was nodding ever so slightly. Phew.
I turned back to the young reporter.
‘David, I thought you could interview our head of security. Bit of a scoop for you. Poachers have been taking pot-shots at our deer. You’ll find him in the ticket booth, name’s Jim.’
‘Oh, wicked! Poachers? With guns?’ David nodded, the grin on his face making it plain that this story was a million times more exciting than who would take over Wickham Hall in five years. He bounded to the doorway and then stopped. ‘Will there be any antlers going spare?’
‘Good heavens!’ Lord Fortescue huffed.
‘Sorry.’ David blushed and then disappeared just as Pam arrived and bore a radiant Martha away to see some bridal wear.
‘What can I do?’ asked Neil, the freelance press photographer. ‘I need a picture of something or I’ll have had a wasted journey.’
‘I’ve got something very special for you,’ I said, gazing at him intently. ‘It’s Lord and Lady Fortescue’s thirtieth year at the hall and I thought you could take a commemorative portrait of them at the bottom of the main staircase.’
Neil seemed to think that this was a marvellous idea and Sheila escorted him off to set up his tripod.
I puffed out my cheeks with relief. I could barely keep my smile in; that had gone unbelievably well. Lady Fortescue pulled her husband out of his chair and linked her arm through his.
‘Holly, that was inspired.’ She beamed. ‘Well done on organizing that so quickly.’
I feigned nonchalance. ‘It was nothing. I just thought we should have a back-up plan in case you hadn’t managed to speak to your son.’
‘It’s all in the planning,’ said Lord Fortescue heartily. ‘Excellent, excellent.’
‘You,’ said Lady Fortescue, kissing his cheek, ‘are never allowed in the Fox and Hounds on your own again. How’s that for a pl
an?’
Peace restored, I thought, breathing a sigh of relief as I made my way back to the office. Now what was I supposed to be doing . . .?
Chapter 8
I gazed out of a window in the Great Hall, where Zara and Philippe’s wedding breakfast was to be served in a few hours’ time. The sky was that rare sort of azure blue – the colour of Nikki’s treasured poppies, in fact – which gave you absolute confidence that it was going to be the perfect day for an English summer wedding. Even the lacy clouds on the horizon looked as though they had been put there specially to decorate the sky.
The setting was perfect, too: outside, the terrace had been filled with tables and chairs and almost invisible wires hung overhead, carrying miles of tiny fairy lights that would twinkle magically once the sky faded into inky darkness. A wrought-iron bandstand had been installed on the lawn to house the jazz band and next to it stood a marquee complete with wooden dance floor, DJ equipment that would make Calvin Harris drool and enough bottles of champagne to ensure the party would sparkle, courtesy of the groom’s family’s vineyard.
Inside the Great Hall, Nikki’s gardeners had performed miracles to provide such an array of blooms: roses in pastel hues interspersed with tufts of gypsophila and fronds of ivy adorned every surface: glass bowls on the window ledges, swags across the tall white fireplace and towering glass vases along the oak table that spanned the length of the room. And arrangements of other flowers, most of which I couldn’t name, spilled from every corner.
Wickham Hall was closed to the public for the weekend in honour of the celebrations but even so the hall and grounds were overrun with men and women, dashing about carrying all sorts of things from furniture to food, flowers to photographic equipment, and it was impossible not to get caught up in the sense of urgency that filled the atmosphere.
I hurried out of the Great Hall and along the corridor to the stairs and wondered what to do next. I was armed with press statements and a handful of official portrait photographs of Zara and Philippe, but so far no press had been found lurking in the bushes.
Lady Fortescue had sat me down yesterday morning and given me strict instructions as to what to do in the event of a paparazzi intrusion: firstly, call security. Jim had reinforcements dotted around the perimeter of the grounds especially for the day. Secondly, hand over the official wedding press release and talk about the Anglo–French forging of two great dynasties. Thirdly, on no account mention Wickham Hall’s succession or Benedict – whom no one had seen hide nor hair of since the FaceTime fiasco.
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