***
‘I’m dying! I can’t breathe! Help!’ yelled Noblet.
‘Relax,’ advised Mia. ‘It’s the only way you’re going to enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy it? I’m not trying to enjoy it, you lunatic! I’m trying to survive it!’
Henry, having seen Mia and Noblet at the door of the plane one moment, and gone the next, had felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as the reality of what he was about to do hit him. His instructor shuffled them across the floor of the plane to the door, Henry crossed his arms across his chest and tilted his head back as instructed and then they were gone; air rushing past his face as if he’d dived into a strange waterless ocean. He felt a tap on his shoulder and an almighty jerk as the parachute deployed. Then silence. After the rushing of the air, it was unearthly, and he hung, motionless, not even aware of the parachute above him or the man behind him; alone and silent, suspended in the sky. Beneath him, Mereshire stretched far into the distance in all directions: fields, rivers, villages, towns. As they descended, he felt a reluctance to return to earth.
Looking down as they neared the landing site, that reluctance grew.
‘What the…’
He heard the instructor chuckle behind him.
‘Weren’t expecting that then?’
‘You could say that,’ replied Henry, grimly.
As he watched, a figure stepped right onto the banner and seemed to be peeling something back. The words of the proposal were ripped away and underneath was another message, revealed just as Noblet and Mia were landing beside it.
‘MIA WILD IS A FAKE. ASK HER REAL NAME.’
***
A minute later, Henry had landed in the middle of mayhem. Noblet was sitting on the grass, head in his hands. Saskia was confronting an amused-looking Mia, telling her her time was up and she was going to be unmasked for the fraud she was. Lady Caroline had got out of the car and was approaching the group, picking her way across the field in her high heels, clutching her handbag. Photographers had emerged from the undergrowth and surrounded the group, snapping away. Staff from the skydiving club were trying to calm Saskia down, roll up the banner and move everyone away from the landing area. They succeeded in shifting the group a few metres away, and Henry, pulling off his goggles, strode across to them.
‘What’s going on?’
Saskia spun round to face him.
‘It’s time for you to know the truth, babe. That’s what’s going on. This woman has duped you all but she couldn’t dupe me.’
Lady Caroline was in earshot by this time and called out, ‘Saskia, I think you may need professional help, dear.’
‘Oh, Caroline, can’t you see it’s your sons that need help? They’re the victims of fraud, perpetrated by this woman, Mia Wild. Or should I say…’ Saskia turned and pointed at her with all the drama of Hercule Poirot unmasking a murderer ‘…Mia Falcone!’
Mia looked unperturbed. ‘No, you shouldn’t. That’s not my name.’
Saskia smiled. ‘I knew you’d try to deny it. That’s why I brought these…’ She reached into her bag for some papers.
‘Falcone isn’t my name,’ Mia continued, ‘it’s my husband’s name.’
Lady Caroline and Henry stared at her. Even Noblet raised his head for a moment, shook it, and let it drop back into his hands.
‘I kept my name when we married. I’ve never been Mia Falcone.’
The photographers snapped away, capturing the looks of shock as Lady Caroline’s chauffeur and a couple of the skydive crew tried and failed to move them back.
Henry recovered the power of speech. ‘Why…?’
‘You want to know why, babe?’ Saskia cut in before Mia could answer. ‘Because she’s a freelance investigative journalist. I thought I recognised her the first time I saw her – I’d seen her around. She pretended to be interested in marrying Noblet to get intimate details of your family life and splash them across the gutter press.’
Mia opened her mouth to respond but whatever she said was drowned out by the strident tones of an enormous woman in tweeds who was parading across the field towards them. She led a motley procession of people waving banners with slogans ranging from ‘Restore our Dignity!’ to ‘Down with lovely BRIGHT pictures’.
‘This woman is a liar and a trickster! Don’t listen to her, whatever she’s saying! She doesn’t deserve the title of journalist!’
For a moment all eyes turned to Mia, wondering what new accusations were about to rain down on her. As the procession approached, however, it became clear that Saskia was the focus of their attention.
Elaine continued. ‘We are here to protest at the villainous actions of this woman, for whom we agreed to be photographed in good faith and who has abused our trust!’
‘Trust!’ echoed Ted, waving his banner.
‘She came here, to our peaceful village, with her London ways and her London photographer…’
‘London photographer!’ growled Lorraine, shaking one washing-up-glove-clad hand at Saskia.
‘…took our pictures and then defaced them in the most perverted manner before splashing them across her magazine for all to see.’
The paparazzi clustered round, shooting Saskia encircled by angry protesters. Derek, with one solicitous eye on Sinead, was videoing the proceedings.
‘We demand justice!’ declared Elaine. ‘We won’t leave without a full apology!’
‘And compensation!’ added a voice from the back which sounded suspiciously like Jan Fratterbury’s.
‘Apo-lo-gise! Apo-lo-gise!’ Elaine chanted, the others joining in. ‘Apo-lo-gise! Apo-lo-gise!’
Saskia looked bewildered, waving a hand as if batting away this annoyance. Henry, after trying to speak a couple of times but getting drowned out by the chanting, bellowed, ‘Will you all please shut up!’
Taking advantage of the surprised pause, he continued, ‘I have no idea what’s going on and it seems explanations are in order, but can I suggest we do it somewhere more private.’ He motioned towards the photographers. ‘Saskia, Mrs Jowlett – all of you, please join us at the Hall where we can continue this discussion more,’ he searched for an appropriate word, ‘comfortably.’
Lady Caroline turned and stalked back to the car, helped over the muddy ground by her chauffeur. Noblet roused himself and followed her. Henry shot an enquiring look at Mia.
‘I’ll see you there,’ she said. ‘I need to pick something up on the way.’
He shrugged and walked away, wondering if she would turn up at all.
Seeing her audience drift away, Saskia hurried to her car, trailed by the protesters. Lorraine continued to chant, starting off with the original ‘Apo-lo-gise!’ but soon adding a little poetic licence with ‘Com-pro-mise’, then ‘Past-eur-ise’ and finally ‘Damn-your-eyes’.
***
Barely was her bowl of muesli finished that morning when Alice found herself standing at the kitchen counter weighing out the ingredients for a Victoria sponge. There were some days when the only thing for it, was to bake. While some people preferred yoga or tai chi, for Alice a meditative state was achieved through sifting flour and beating eggs.
Her mind was a mess and she needed clarity. She would tackle the work side of the jumble first she decided, mentally pushing Henry de Beeble into a box and closing the lid. Her catering business had started to pick up again after the post-de-Beeble-party hiatus. A couple of her initial customers had commissioned her again and friends of theirs who’d tried her food had also booked her. When she looked at her calendar the bookings stretched beyond the summer into the autumn, when she’d be back at work. ‘You mustn’t let your hobby impact on your teaching, love,’ she could hear her mum saying. ‘Best to keep it as a summer-only thing.’
But she didn’t want to keep it as a summer-only thing, she thought with a surge of petulance that made her bang the flour down so hard she was enveloped in a white mist. Going into school, seeing her friends there, teaching the children – she enjoyed it, it was rewardi
ng on good days and at worst, on the bad days, it was a bit dull. Cooking, on the other hand; having people enjoy her food and ask her to cook for them again… It was like comparing a warm bath to the Caribbean Sea. One was pleasant, the other was sparkling and stunning and life-affirming and, oh God, she wanted to cook for a living.
She wanted to cook for a living. There it was. She stood immobile at the counter, one floury hand on the KitchenAid mixer, the other pressed to her cheek. Could she do it? Her heart beat faster at the thought. It wasn’t feasible yet, she didn’t earn enough; but if she built up her business, worked evenings, weekends, school holidays, then maybe she could hand her notice in, say… this time next year? It was terrifying – and overwhelming – and while her brain weighed up the pros and cons, her heart had already decided. She’d been good little Alice Brand for long enough, doing the sensible thing. Now it was time for the tulip to bloom.
She switched on the food mixer and watched the mixture come together, pale yellow and fluffy. Taking her cake tins out of the cupboard she divided the mix between it. This was her professional life, she thought, taking the first one and sliding it into the oven. The second tin she gazed into for a moment, as if she would find some answers there. Time to tackle this one – her personal life. That went into the oven too and she turned on the timer.
The day with Noblet and Henry had been a bit like the contents of her mixing bowl: many disparate ingredients whipped together over time. Instead of eggs and sugar, there was embarrassment, confusion, hope, excitement and happiness. She’d never felt the way she did with Henry with any other man. The fireworks she’d read about were real, and they went off at all kinds of unexpected moments, not just when he’d kissed her that time at the party. When she’d made a silly joke that went over Noblet’s head but Henry got it straight away. When they’d turned to catch each other’s eye at the same moment during the film. When they’d caught each other getting swept away with the excitement of the chess game. When Noblet had disappeared into the bushes on the trail of a rabbit and Henry had reached out to help her over a stile, and she knew – knew – that neither wanted to release the other’s hand.
She loved Henry. It was preposterous but what the hell. Who was to say how long it took to fall in love?
She took some strawberries out of the fridge and washed them in a colander. As she chopped the red flesh into quarters, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had no idea what to do about the fact she loved Henry, but the relief of admitting it made her feel as light as those gently rising sponges in the oven. And, she reflected, as she moved on to whipping the cream, there was one thing that had become clear. She should withdraw from the interview process. No matter how nominal she felt her candidacy for the job of wife of Lord de Beeble was, to stand down would be a step in the right direction. She would be taking back control of her own future.
What was the proper etiquette for letting an earl know that you were very grateful to him for considering you as a potential spouse, but you’d like to stop the whole goddamn circus and get off, please? She was sure Sinead would know, there was probably a chapter dedicated to it in Debretts.
With the cake finished on the worktop before her, she knew what she would do.
***
‘Sally, we’re expecting guests,’ announced Lady Caroline when they arrived back at the hall. ‘Tea for fifteen or so out on the terrace as soon as you can, please.’
‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ said Sally through gritted teeth as she hurried off to break the news to Martyr.
Henry returned from briefing the security team on the potential arrival of paparazzi and took a seat next to his brother.
‘Alright, Bob?’
Noblet turned a pair of weary eyes on him.
‘Alright? I’ve been bounced through woods, fallen out of a plane, been revealed as the hapless victim of a con artist and got caught up in a village uprising. What do you think, old man?’
Henry got up again and went inside. Coming back with a gin and tonic he handed it to his brother.
‘Everything will seem better after this.’
Noblet grabbed it and took a great gulp. The doorbell clanged. ‘Just in time,’ he said, taking another swig.
Everyone was settled around tables on the terrace and furnished with tea and biscuits, when Sally reappeared.
‘One more guest,’ she announced, stepping aside to reveal Alice, beetroot red and grasping a cake tin and card to her chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I didn’t realise there were so many people here. I’ll leave this for His Lordship and go.’
She put the tin and card down on a table and turned to leave. Henry sprang out of his chair.
‘Please,’ he urged. ‘Join us. Don’t go. We’ve got a few things to clear up but then Bob will be delighted to speak to you.’
She looked as if she wanted to sink into the ground but allowed herself to be led to an empty chair. Henry hovered nearby until she had accepted the teacup proffered by Mia, then went back to his seat.
‘If Mrs Jowlett will allow me, I would like to clear up the mystery surrounding Mia Wild – or Falcone – first, if I may.’ He had been surprised to see Mia amongst the first to arrive at the Hall, looking as unruffled as ever.
‘Too right,’ snarled Saskia.
‘I’m more than happy to explain what I’m doing here and who I am,’ Mia said, calmly. ‘But I’d prefer to do it in private.’
Saskia leapt up and flung a pointed finger towards the other woman, head turned in appeal to Henry. ‘Trying to wriggle out of it!’
Lady Caroline, sipping her tea, glanced at Mia. ‘We’re among friends here. I’m sure whatever you have to say will remain confidential.’
Mia looked her in the eye. ‘Don’t you know what I’m going to say, Lady Caroline?’
The hand which held the teacup shook.
‘How on earth would I know?’
‘I think you have your suspicions.’
When Lady Caroline tried to put her cup down in the saucer it rattled.
Noblet turned to her.
‘Mother?’
‘I really don’t know…’
‘She’s not just your mother, Noblet. Nor yours, Henry. She’s also mine.’ Mia looked at Lady Caroline, whose eyes remained trained on her teacup.
‘It’s true that I’m a journalist,’ Mia went on, ‘and in a way, that’s why I’m here – but not for the reasons Saskia has suggested.’
Saskia, along with the rest of the group, was staring at Mia, open-mouthed.
‘I grew up in a commune in the South of France. I had a happy childhood but I wanted to find out more about my real parents. I knew that a woman had brought me to the commune and asked the people there to bring me up. They knew that woman’s name was Caroline, that she was English and rich, but that was all. They had one photograph of her.’
Mia took a photograph out of her bag and placed it on the table in front of Lady Caroline.
In the foreground of the picture was a group of smiling people sitting around a table outdoors. Over one of their shoulders, unaware of the photographer, was a young Lady Caroline. She sat on a bench under a blossom-laden tree, talking to another woman.
Henry picked up the picture, looked at it and passed it to his brother who inspected it speechlessly.
Mia was speaking again. ‘It took me years, but I discovered who the woman was – and a couple of weeks later I heard about Noblet advertising for a wife. I wanted a way to get to know the family without embarrassing Lady Caroline, or causing a scene. This seemed like a fun option.’ She pulled a face at Saskia. ‘Of course thanks to you, the embarrassment and the scene have happened anyway.’
Henry looked at his mother. ‘Mother? Is this true?’
She looked around at the agog villagers, hesitated, then nodded.
‘Yes, darling. It’s absolutely true.’
Jan Fratterbury nudged Elaine and hissed, ‘It’s better than the telly!’
‘
It’s absolutely true,’ said Lady Caroline. ‘I had spent the summer in Capri – your father had stayed here at the Hall, he never liked to be away from England in the summer.’ She paused, drawing a pattern on the wrought-iron tabletop with her spoon. ‘I had a lover – you needn’t look so disapproving, Nobby, we all had them in those days.’
‘Hmmph! That’s all right then,’ muttered Noblet.
‘One day I realised I was going to have a child. I couldn’t pass it off as your father’s – even he would have worked out that the dates didn’t add up. So, I wrote to him and told him I’d been ill, but not to worry, that I would convalesce in Italy over the winter and be home by the spring. Noblet was at pre-prep school by then and Henry hadn’t been born.’
‘I remember,’ said Noblet, a faraway look on his face. ‘The Christmas Mummy didn’t come home.’
Lady Caroline nodded. ‘I had the child – a little girl. A friend of a friend had told me about a commune in the South of France and I thought – well, I thought one more child running around won’t make any difference to them. We travelled back overland and stopped at the commune. I asked them to take the child and arranged for monthly payments to be made for her keep.’ She looked up at Mia for the first time. ‘I kept up those payments throughout her life, until she turned eighteen, when she was to be given, via a French lawyer, a lump sum.’
There was silence. Everyone was on tenterhooks, waiting for the next revelation. Lorraine picked up a piece of shortbread and crunched noisily.
Henry looked at his mother, an inscrutable expression on his face. ‘You had Mia before I was born? Did you go back to Italy after that?’
‘Once or twice, yes.’
She flinched under the intensity of his questioning gaze. ‘What, dear?’
He sighed. ‘You know what. Am I… Am I Bob’s half-brother or full brother?’
The way her eyes flickered before she answered said it all.
Noblet looked at his brother, comprehension dawning on his face.
‘You mean… You’re not…’
Henry gave a ghastly smile. ‘It seems I’m half-Italian. Like our sister.’ He and Noblet both turned to gaze at Mia as the words sunk in.
Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Page 25