by Pippa Wright
‘Are you ready?’ asked Lance, hesitating for one moment to maximize the suspense. I nodded. He beamed as he pushed open the door to a vast hall, the uneven flags of the floor not covered in rushes, but buffed to a dull shine by the wear of generations and lit by a low-hanging iron chandelier which blazed with real wax candles. Although it was still morning outside, the narrow slits of the windows allowed in only a glimmer of light, so the candles lit up the room just as it must have been when it was first built. It was magical.
I stopped on the threshold to stare. Holly and ivy had been wound around the wooden staircase, which led up to a carved gallery that stretched across one wall. Enormous mirrors, spotted with age, hung on the walls and reflected the lights endlessly, as if we were in a series of candlelit chambers instead of just one room. It was not grand in the embellished, fussy style of Versailles; it was sparsely substantial, feudal, imposing. On the bottom step stood the duke and duchess, smiling in silent greeting, and in evident satisfaction at my reaction.
‘You love it, right?’ said Lance, linking my arm with his and giving me a squeeze. ‘I said to Bibi, “You have got to give her the full candle experience the second she walks through the door,” and now I’ve seen your face I know I was totally right, right?’
‘Totally,’ I echoed, entirely forgetting in my awe that I was meant to be admiring the textiles and addressing my hosts in the correct manner.
The duchess stepped towards me, extending her hand graciously. ‘Miss Carmichael?’ she asked, in a cut-glass voice that did not betray the faintest suggestion of her American background.
‘Your Grace,’ I said, bobbing my knees and lowering my head completely involuntarily. Somehow the combination of her grand manner and the imposing hall made me feel instantly subservient; perhaps some dormant servile instinct had been awakened, or perhaps the unseen hand of Martha had stretched across the miles to push me downwards into a curtsey.
The duke appeared next to her and shook my hand too, with hearty bonhomie rather than condescension. Now that they were closer, I could see that both of them were older than I had first thought; the candlelight had flattered them both into seeming much younger. He was probably in his early fifties, with a slightly receding hairline and a florid complexion set off with a mustard-coloured cravat. His tweed jacket could have belonged to his father’s father and, judging by the frayed leather patches on the elbows, probably had. His red trousers were spattered with mud and what looked like a dog’s pawprint.
The duchess seemed to have stepped out of an entirely different story; her accent may have lost any American inflection, but her appearance loudly announced her origins. She could have been any age from thirty-five to sixty, as she had that slightly immobile face that spoke not of youth but of cosmetic assistance. Her blonde hair was highlighted and blow-dried and not one strand dared to wave out of place. Her manicure was immaculate. Although I had to admire her dedication to her appearance out here in the wilds of Derbyshire, I unkindly wondered if she knew that such grooming instantly excluded her from full membership of the aristocracy, despite her title. She would have to get a bit of dirt under her nails to truly belong here; to buy some of her clothes from agricultural shows, like the Duchess of Devonshire, instead of from Net a Porter. As someone who did not fit into this world myself, an observer rather than an insider, I was finely attuned to others who had got it a little bit wrong, and I felt an instant sympathy for her that even her condescending ways could not extinguish. The duchess’s shrewd eyes picked up on this immediately, one outsider recognizing another, and her welcoming smile froze into a rictus of distaste; clearly she preferred her guests to be awed rather than sympathetic.
Lance’s not fitting in, however, did not count. He was not trying to blend in; nor to suggest that he belonged here in any way. He was a thrilled and awed tourist and his enthusiasm was contagious. While the duke and duchess stood stiffly like paper cut-outs from a book, Lance whisked me through the hall.
‘Now you spoke to Martha, right? I loooooove Martha, she is entirely amazing. Devastated not to meet her. The piece you’re doing is romance, romance, romance, right? And what better day to do it than Valentine’s Day?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I said, glad to have been forewarned. The duke and duchess had restored the house, which had been allowed to fall into disrepair by his disreputable father, at vast expense. Now they had to pay for it and they planned to do that by offering Seaton Hall as a venue for weddings and other large events.
‘So I thought we’d start off with the chapel – which I have done out in some darling little lights – and then some pictures in the walkway, which we’ll need to have finished before the light begins to go, and we’ll finish off with more shots and an interview with Sacheverell and Bibi in the hall. Right?’
Just as he was whisking me out of the door at the far end of the hall, the duke cleared his throat.
‘I say, Miss Carmichael, we haven’t even offered you a cup of tea. Shall I ask the kitchen to send one up?’ he called, his voice ringing in the empty room.
Lance sighed dramatically and exchanged a look with the duchess. ‘Darling, there is no time for tea,’ the duchess said, supposedly to her husband, but with a warning look in my direction that left me in no doubt I should not even think of saying yes. It seemed clear to me that I was a means to an end to her; she wasn’t about to waste time offering me refreshments when there was work to be done.
‘Oh no, thank you, I’m fine,’ I said quickly, and the duchess offered me a tight smile before leading the duke away up the stairs. ‘I love the curtains!’ I called, far too late.
‘For a country that is so totally obsessed with tea,’ confided Lance, leading me through the door to the Palladian wing, ‘it is beyond impossible to find a skinny soy chai latte anywhere around here. Sometimes I don’t know how Bibi stands it.’
‘How long has she lived in England?’ I asked.
‘Oh, years,’ said Lance, dragging me through the Victorian Gothic revival wing far too fast – I had no time to look at the imitation fan-vaulting on the ceiling, let alone the crenellated thrones that, although they looked medieval, had (said Martha’s dossier) in fact seated a mere two generations of Delavals. ‘Bibi came to St Martin’s for fashion school when she was twenty and never left. Now you’d think she was born here, am I right? That accent! Uh-mazing, just like Madonna.’
I murmured a non-committal sound of polite agreement; now was not the time to debate Madonna’s mastery, or lack thereof, of the English accent. In any case, I barely had the chance to say anything as Lance rattled through the schedule he had set up and told me how he saw the feature taking shape. I made a few feeble attempts to interject with Martha’s instructions, waving the dossier at him as if I could club him into submission with its sheer weight, but although Lance would leap willingly on each idea, he subsequently flattened it in minutes. Since he had been, as he told me, a regular visitor to the house over the five years of restoration, it was impossible for me to deny that he had a far better knowledge than I of how to show it to its best advantage. I wondered if Martha herself would have been able to resist his bulldozing excitability – perhaps she could have steered him towards her own ends, but I doubted it. Even she, I felt, would have realized, in the face of Lance Garcia, that the dossier I waved had now turned into a flag of surrender.
The renovations had been conducted in a way that was guaranteed to thrill the Country House reader. The duke and duchess had declined to use a large firm of interior decorators in favour of many small teams of artisans. Father-and-son carpenters had recreated the wooden stairs of the ancient hall by hand. The prayer cushions for the chapel had each been individually hand-stitched to show local landmarks and the Delaval coat of arms. Paints and dyes had been created according to traditional methods – there was woad here, and elderberry, and a yellow made from onion skins. Weaving had been done by two sixty-something women who called themselves, inevitably, Warp and Weft. Lance had spent the
last few years photographing the work’s progress in timeless black and white: a hymn to craft and tradition. I noted, leafing through his portfolio, that he had even photographed the plumbers, but most likely because they were exceptionally good-looking rather than amazing craftsmen. Despite Martha’s instructions, I had to admit that Lance’s emphasis on traditional crafts bettered her ideas: his black and white photographs would form the basis of the piece, while he and I would create a few full-colour tableaux that showed off the finished results as romantically as possible to appeal to moneyed brides.
‘The chapel, the chapel, the chapel,’ chanted Lance, whisking me out of the covered walkway and on to a gravel path that wound through a copse of ancient yew. ‘You know,’ he confided, ‘the family legend says that each of these trees – some of them are over a thousand years old – contains the soul of a knight who laid down his life in battle.’
‘Which battle?’ I asked breathlessly, looking around me at the looming trees, already captivated by the history of it all.
Lance shrugged. ‘Like I know. But imagine the trees lit up with fairy lights, right?’ he said. ‘Or even, maybe, along the path, flaming torches in braziers? You can see it, right?’
And I could – it would be romantic and mysterious, although perhaps fairy lights were a little undignified a decoration for the hardened manly souls of the tree-bound ancient warriors. Lance made me stand at the top of the steps to the chapel, which was sunk down in a yew-surrounded hollow, while he ran ahead and switched on the lights. I shivered, pulling my coat tighter around me; even in the light of day this place was a little spooky.
‘And here is the pièce de résistance,’ he announced, and I stepped into the chapel. It had been whitewashed into a stark purity that contrasted with the dark greenness of the yew trees which brushed against the mullioned windows. Lance had eschewed candles here for hundreds of tiny lights which surrounded the altar, leaving the rest of the chapel in almost-darkness. Instead of flowers, it had been decorated with lichen-covered branches which cast their shadows across the walls. Although it was a consecrated chapel there was something pagan and ancient about it; it wouldn’t have surprised me if the long-dead soldiers had stepped out of their yews to kneel here in front of us, offering sacrifices to their Saxon gods.
‘And here’s the thing,’ said Lance, interrupting my open-mouthed staring by promenading down the aisle as if it was a catwalk. He stopped at the altar and spun on his heel to face me. ‘We just need someone to look a bit bridal in a few shots – and Martha and I think it should totally be you, right?’
‘Wh-what?’ I said, horrified. This wasn’t at all what I had signed up for. I was here as a responsible journalist and representative of Country House, not a dress-up Barbie for Lance’s entertainment.
‘I know, I know,’ said Lance, waving his hands. ‘Martha said you might be all weird about it, but it’s nothing much – no face shots, no full-body shots, just a little bit of human interest. We’ll have Sacheverall and Bibi in the Hall and in the walkway, but here we want someone young and bridal-looking. And you’re just perfect, darling, with that amazing red hair of yours.’
I felt tears well up alarmingly. I felt so very far away from being bridal. It seemed impossibly cruel that Martha should have lined me up to play that role just after I’d been dumped by the man I had thought I would marry. I wouldn’t believe that she had done it on purpose – she must have not thought it through. Luckily the weak light in the chapel hid my trembling chin.
‘I – I’m not sure,’ I wavered. ‘I don’t really like having my photograph taken.’
‘Oh, Aurora,’ said Lance, skipping back up the aisle towards me, both hands outstretched in entreaty.
‘Rory,’ I insisted.
‘Rory,’ said Lance. ‘It’s going to be a few shots of, like, your hand holding on to a man’s hand – mine, of course, there’s a dire shortage of male models up here, I’m sorry to say. It’ll be the back of your head bowed near the altar, that kind of thing. It’s not like, America’s Top Model or anything: no full bridalwear, no hanging from harnesses, no smizing, I swear it. Bibi’s going to be in the other photographs and not one of Sacheverell’s female staff is under, like, two hundred years old. Please say you’ll do it.’
I remembered how hard Martha had worked to arrange this. I thought about how she had begged me to do her justice.
‘Do you absolutely swear that you’re not going to put me into some hand-woven wedding dress?’ I asked. ‘Because I will not put on something scratchy and hempy made by Warp and Weft.’
‘Oh, darling,’ laughed Lance, ‘as if. You don’t have to get changed at all; we’ll make it work beautifully without any fuss. Just you and me. Trust me.’
7
By the time I got to my room at the Delaval Arms I was exhausted. I had no idea how professional models did it – but then professional models most likely didn’t also have to interview a duke and his frosty duchess as well as supervise the photo shoot while being directed in how to assume poses of a bridal nature. I threw myself backwards on to the bed and leapt immediately back up again, having forgotten that Lance had insisted on decorating my hair with holly for the final shots of the day. I picked the spiky leaves gingerly out of my hair and released it from the twist that had restrained it for the afternoon.
I had imagined I’d have a quiet evening on my own at the inn, but Lance had suggested joining me for dinner and, as he had been excellent company all day, I’d happily accepted. Dining with a stranger seemed infinitely preferable to eating by myself on Valentine’s Day. On my first Valentine’s Day alone for a decade. It wasn’t that Martin and I had made a big deal of Valentine’s. In fact we’d always stayed in on the night itself because he said all the restaurants put up their prices too much for just one over-commercialized night. His birthday was in March so we had our big night out then, which made sense since Martin liked to really treat us – it was his money after all – and we couldn’t have afforded to go to somewhere like Claridge’s on two consecutive months. But I’d loved our quiet Valentine’s nights at home. Just the two of us, with a special meal that I’d made, and maybe a DVD together afterwards. I didn’t need hearts and flowers to love being with Martin.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror, shoulders drooping as I sat on the edge of the bed, the corners of my mouth turned down like one of those Venetian masks meant to represent tragedy. Snap out of it, Rory, I told myself, and forced a smile at my reflection. Martin is no doubt spending Valentine’s with his new girlfriend. You are here, at the Delaval Arms, with an oddly dressed, enthusiastic American who would probably prefer to be on a date with someone from Grindr. Both of you are making the most of the circumstances. You owe it to Lance Garcia not to droop all over the table like some half-drowned Ophelia descending into heartbroken despair. It could be worse.
So I made a special effort, as if I was dressing for a proper date instead of – what? A pity date? A business meeting? The evening ahead was strangely undefined, which was maybe what was making me feel weird. I always felt safest when I knew what role I was playing, where I fitted into a particular scenario. Although I’d been intimidated by the icy duchess when I’d interviewed her, I’d known that with enough bowing and scraping, and several compliments on the textiles, I could get her to unbend a little. The duke was easier to work out; he just needed some jolly-hockeysticks teasing and for me to lavish attention on his black labrador. I was the efficient, knowledgeable journalist from Country House, respectful and slightly awed. By the end of our interview the duke had invited me to stay for dinner, but the duchess had sharply reminded him of a prior commitment. Thankfully Lance had come to the rescue by insisting on accompanying me to the Delaval Arms; he was probably looking for an excuse to get away from his aunt’s romantic celebrations. The former Bibi Wishart didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who’d let her husband get away with a DVD and a night in.
I realized as I walked down the corridor to the dining roo
m that I had probably taken more trouble over my appearance for this evening with Lance than I had for the last five Valentine’s nights with Martin. I was freshly showered, wearing heels and a pale-lavender dress from Topshop, and had spent half an hour on my make-up instead of my usual five minutes with a mascara wand and a lip gloss. I wondered if it was true what Martin had said, that I’d let myself go with him. I hadn’t become obese or stopped shaving my legs or anything, but I had probably stopped making this sort of an effort since we so rarely went out. Shouldn’t I have tried a bit harder to keep his attention? Shouldn’t I have realized that a man like Martin needed to be proud of the girl on his arm? I shouldn’t have taken him for granted. It was weird how I hadn’t heard from him at all, except for an efficient cheque for my share of the deposit on the house. Like I had entirely ceased to exist for him, even though his place in my head was still very much occupied. Stop thinking about Martin, I reminded myself, and squared my shoulders, pushing my chest forward and lifting my chin. If I didn’t feel confident, I could at least fake it for one night.
Lance was already waiting at the table, dressed in skinny jeans, a checked shirt buttoned right up to his neck and a fitted purple cardigan. His face wore a look of faint amusement as he scanned the room. I wasn’t sure exactly what was making him smile: himself, or me, or just the rather improbable situation. We had been given a table that sat slightly raised on a dais at the top of the room, overlooking the other diners, as if on display. I suppose if you were somebody who cared about such things – Michael Winner, say – you would have declared it to be the best table in the house. The maître d’ certainly seemed to think so, leading me towards Lance with a strange combination of deference and condescension that said, quite clearly, I realize you must be someone of importance to have bagged this table, but I want to make it absolutely evident that I have no idea who you are, and nor do I care. The room was already nearly full of couples, their faces shining with determination to have a good time. A few of the men looked strained already and I wondered if, from our vantage point, we would be witnesses to any proposals tonight.