“How strange,” said Gina. “It seems out of character.”
“Sybil says Fergus is in a state of confusion,” went on Zoe.
Gina blinked and concentrated. “Fergus? I’ve never known anyone less confused. His life is always in order. Perhaps he’s had a tiff with Charlotte.” Unlikely, there never was a man more under his girlfriend’s thumb, she thought.
“Could be, but I don’t think he’s spoken to her since he came here.”
“Run into a problem with his thesis, then.”
“I don’t think he’s interested in his thesis just at the moment. You know how organized he is, and how hard he works?”
“Yes.”
“Not here, not now. His papers and files and books are either still in a box or shoved under his bed. He hasn’t even plugged his computer in.”
“Burnt out,” said Gina. “He’s been working too hard. And coming here, tang of the sea, green spaces, holiday atmosphere, you idling about all day... Good for him to have a break. Give it a week or ten days and he’ll be tapping away again.”
Zoe wasn’t convinced, but she felt too lazy to argue the point. “We can see if it’s anything to do with his love life when Charlotte comes next week. Personally, I think he’s gone off Charlotte in a big way.”
Gina sat up. “Fergus wouldn’t. Why, he’s the most loyal man I’ve ever met. You are nasty about him, Zoe.”
“I speak as I find,” said Zoe imperturbably.
Gina finally registered what else Zoe had said. “Charlotte? Coming here?”
“Yes, she’s coming for the ball. Don’t look so appalled, Gina. Fergus has been invited because of his auntie, I suppose, and they’ll have been invited as a twosome as usual.”
“She knows who I am!”
“Of course she knows who... Ah, I see the problem. She might let on about you not being the piggy one, but a fiendish impostor.”
“Hell,” said Gina. “I just think I’ve got one knot sorted out, and whoosh! there’s another one in its place.”
“We’ll have to tell her. Make up some convincing reason for it all, and persuade her to keep her mouth shut.”
“When has Charlotte ever kept her mouth shut?”
“There is that. Well, Fergus will have to keep Charlotte at his side, not give her any opportunity to yak to any of the Cordovans. He can say you’re there because you’re a friend of the family; she doesn’t have to know that you’re pretending to be a cousin.”
“A big risk to take,” said Gina, worried.
“True,” said Zoe. “But you haven’t got much choice, have you?”
CHAPTER 21
Someone rang for you,” said Guy as Gina went through the hall. Good, thought Gina. Dad; he’s got the passport. “A Mr Popplewell. He was extremely nosy, and I’m afraid I wasn’t very forthcoming.”
“Popplewell?” Gina felt winded.
“He didn’t exactly ask to speak to you, but wanted to know if you were staying here. I didn’t like his tone at all. Is he a friend of yours?”
Guy’s own tone indicated that he would think the less of Gina for being acquainted with anyone of the Popplewell ilk.
“No, no,” said Gina. “A friend? Not at all.”
“He was very persistent. In fact, I thought he might be some kind of weirdo.”
“A phone pest?” said Gina.
Pest of every kind. How on earth had he tracked her down here? That article in Gossip!, perhaps. Had he been in touch with the Hartwell grandparents in Scotland? Discovered that they believed their daughter was in Heartset? While he knew that she had been photographed in New York? And had therefore assumed that any Gina Hartwell with or without an E who might be staying at Heartsease Hall could only be his prey?
Gina had an unrealistic idea of the intelligence of the average civil servant. Mr Popplewell had merely questioned the postman in Oxford, ascertained that all post for Fergus, Zoe and Gina was to be forwarded to Heartsbane; had made some further enquiries and located one Gina H. at the Hall.
Guy was looking doubtfully at Gina. “Are you all right? Don’t worry about this man, I told him where to get off. In fact, I lied to him.”
“Lied?”
“Indeed I did. My nose must be several inches long by now. I said that Miss Hartwell, a member of the family, had been in residence here, but had left. And no, I had no information as to her present whereabouts, but I was sure that any friend or acquaintance, such as he purported to be, would know where to find her.”
“Thank goodness,” said Gina. “Guy, I owe you. That creep’s been hounding me for weeks.”
“I should tell the police,” said Guy, shocked. “You never know what these people may do when roused. Now, come along to the kitchen, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. You look quite pale.”
The kitchen was a refuge of order and industry. Unmistakable Esme sounds of operatic radio with accompanying hums came from one of the sculleries. Pans gleamed, the floor shone, a sweet baking smell filled the air. Light streamed in from the many windows. Soothed, Gina slid along the bench set up against the long table.
“Hester is looking for you, Gina,” said Maria, who was doing some expert whisking in a large copper bowl. “She has an express letter that came for you, from America.”
Gina’s spirits rose. “I’ll be straight back for the coffee,” she promised Guy. “Where is Hester?”
“In the garden, talking to Prim and Nicky,” said Maria. “I can see them through the window there.”
Gina shot out into the stableyard, through the arch and along the gravel to the sunken garden. Nicky and Hester were sitting on a bench on the upper walk; Nicky with a notebook and a harassed expression on her face, Hester with a basket full of dried flowers for sorting. They were discussing with Prim the flowers for Aimee’s ball. It wasn’t an ideal place for a conversation, because Prim was trimming the ten-foot-high yew hedges which ran round the edges of the walks.
Prim had twisted round on the top step of her ladder the better to express her disapproval of Aimee’s plans. “It’s all very well Victor giving Aimee carte blanche, he might know that she’d want great hothouse flowers and plants everywhere. And it’s not just a question of the shocking cost, it’s ecologically unsound.”
Snip, snip went her shears as she turned her energies to the hedge once more.
“Aimee’s so very headstrong,” said Hester mildly. “Oh, there you are, Gina,” she went on, laying her basket to one side. “There’s a letter for you. Express, from America. I tried to find you because I thought it might be important.”
She handed Gina a slim blue envelope. Too slim to contain a passport, but in her father’s handwriting.
“Thank you,” said Gina, retreating to the next bench along to open it. Snatches of conversation reached her from the others.
Hi Gina
“The scent of Liputian lilies...”
I did my best, but the bird had flown.
“Swags of Bacchus ivy...”
Gone upstate, no idea when she’s due back.
“Netted greenery...”
Suggest you contact Embassy for replacement passport.
“Banks of filibusters and yellow montrose...”
Ask for Dan McOstrich, he’s an old friend of mine.
“Negus palms in the tent, and bunches of heartsgonia for the supper tables.”
See you at the ball, if you’re still at Heartsease. Love, Dad.
The words jumbled together in Gina’s mind before it cleared enough for her to make sense of what was written. As though in a dream, she got up, and walked away, quickly, back to the house.
Without thinking, she retraced her steps to the kitchen. What she wanted was to be alone, to think things through, come to terms with the new, extra tricky twist to the tale. What she got was cheerful people, happy in their work, full of talk. Esme, Maria, Guy, and Mrs Slubs were all there, together with Wilf, who had come up with a delivery and lingered for a coffee and company.
G
uy was supervising the coffee, dispensing a rich brew to those present, accompanied by some tiny chocolate biscuits made by Maria.
“To test,” she said, putting a plateful down on the table with a flourish. “A layer of very plain biscuit and above it, little pieces of mint, all covered with extremely dark chocolate. I want to serve these at the ball with the coffee.”
The biscuits were welcomed, sampled, discussed and appreciated. Gina sipped her coffee, and nibbled a biscuit so as not to hurt Maria’s feelings.
The talk was lively and general. Gina took no part, trying to focus her thoughts as the gossip flowed around her.
“Nicky’s looking dreadful.”
“Roger’s being difficult about the children.”
“The children miss her, bound to. Roger do his best, but he has a job, and little ones to manage, on his own; it’s too much. He’s not the organized type, he haven’t got a clue.”
“No, those children go off to school with odd socks and I don’t know what. Teacher say they’re none too clean, neither, and she reckon they don’t eat right.”
“Shame,” was the consensus.
Esme took a hearty line. “She should stop wasting her time mooning after Don. She’s had her fling, she needs to get away from there. He’s not bothered one way or the other, plenty more where she came from. She ought to pull herself together.”
“Not so easy,” said Wilf wisely. “That Don, he fair casts a spell on they women. They’re all the same, all sniffing round him.”
“That Tara at Heartwell House, she’s the latest.”
“She! She and her fancy London ways. Mind you, she look like one can look after herself.”
“Besotted, that’s what women are with Don.”
“Too right. He say snip and they say snap.”
“What about you and the TV, Guy?” enquired Esme. “Has Gareth been propositioning you any more, luring you away from your work with pots of loot?”
“He has not,” said Guy. “I don’t know if he’s found someone to do what he wants, but it won’t be me. The nerve, thinking he only had to click his fingers and I’d be there on screen.” He gave himself an extra lump of sugar in his coffee. “I hear he’s got hold of a historian now. A teacher from Oxford. He’s going to have a half-hour programme, fancies himself as the next A. J. P. Taylor, I dare say. Have you heard of him, Gina? Him being from Oxford? His name is Alwyn Aumbry.”
Gina blinked. “On television?” She was stunned. “Television? Alwyn?”
“You know him, then.”
“Oh yes,” she said bleakly. “He’s doing some very good work. Research. The Tudors, that’s his field.”
“Not any more,” said Guy knowingly. “I heard them talking it over at the club. I wish Gareth wouldn’t go there. He’s straight, you can tell, and the club really isn’t meant for voyeurs. I don’t think this Alwyn liked it much there, to tell you the truth, but it is a fairly swanky place, more than you can say for anywhere else in Heartsbury.”
“He’ll still go on with his work in Oxford, of course he will,” said Gina. “He’s a scholar.”
Guy pursed his lips. “Gareth told him there won’t be time. Apparently Alwyn has research assistants and so on at Oxford, but Gareth’s going to provide researchers for him, top-class experienced ones. Alwyn said he’d be happy to give up his Oxford work. He can certainly afford to, you should hear the money he’s being offered.”
That prompted a discussion about outrageous rates of pay, Mrs Slubs holding out that all telly personalities were paid too much. “They get uppity, and fancy in their ways.”
Gina was completely floored by this third blow. Doors were slamming shut on her from every quarter. She tried unsuccessfully to keep a sense of proportion. After all, in the greater scheme of things, what did they matter, Popplewells and passports and the probability of no work in Oxford? They mattered a lot, she swiftly concluded. This was panic time. This meant no help with a work permit, no backing for any applications for further study, no more Oxford.
Guy’s calm voice washed over her. He pretended that gossiping about the family was wrong, but at the same time, he loved to impart his inside knowledge. Victor was his special field. “He’s had a terrible row with Marcus, terrible.”
“What’s new?” said Esme, blowing bubbles in her coffee in what Guy considered a disgusting way. “Don’t look at me like that, Guy, like I was some creature out of the deep. Victor and his eldest son don’t get on; it’s an old story.”
“This isn’t just the normal rowing,” said Guy, reverting to his theme. “He said Marcus’s attitude to Aimee was perverted.”
“And he’s right,” put in Mrs Slubs. “I’ve seen what no respectable woman should see, goings-on in that indecent room of hers. That’s no way for brothers and sisters to carry on.”
“Victor doesn’t get on with Charles either,” pointed out Esme.
“Charles,” said Maria, raising her eyes to heaven. “Save me from this man with his furnaces and sculptures who only eats cheese. It is fortunate he is here so seldom.”
“No wonder Victor is in a quandary about who’s to inherit,” went on Guy.
That silenced them.
Mrs Slubs came to first. “That Harry, him with his tricky ways. If he give up them sodoms and finds a girl who’ll do, Mr Victor’ll be that relieved.”
The table agreed, one or two of the company giving Gina quick, knowing glances.
“Mind you, Victor’s in a temper anyway because of the Swiss girl.”
“Why’s that?” said Esme, eating her ninth chocolate biscuit.
Maria moved the plate out of reach. “These are for everybody, and you eat them all.”
“Aw, c’mon, Maria,” protested Esme, stretching out for the plate.
“Victor was planning to go to Switzerland immediately after the ball, for two or three days, and she’s not going to be there.”
“That’ll learn him, chasing after they foreign women.”
“He fancies a foreign woman, there’s always that Nadia,” said Mrs Slubs, taking a good slurping gulp of her coffee. She gave a coarse chuckle. “He likes them with a bit of spirit.”
“He doesn’t usually soil his own nest,” said Guy reprovingly. “I think Nadia’s too close to home. And she has a husband in tow.”
“Yes, but how long for?” said Esme. “Always yelling at him, you should hear her down at the vineyard.”
“She wants him to take notice of her,” said Maria. She finished her coffee, and took the cup through to the dishwasher.
Esme stared after her. “You mean you think she’s not mad at him?”
Maria came back, and took a pan from its hook with a Spanish flourish. “I think she is mad at him, all the time. Mad so that she wants to throw pots and pans at him. Like this,” she added, twirling the pan in her hand in a dangerous way. “You don’t get so angry with people unless you mind about them. This Nadia, she would just walk away if it was a nothing between them. He is the one, this husband with the poet’s name, he has to pay attention. Listen to what she is really saying to him.”
“You could be right,” said Esme. “All that trouble for a man, she’d be better off with a girlfriend.”
“A dildo may not be what she wants,” said Guy, primly.
“Loose talk,” said Mrs Slubs with relish. “I never did.” She manoeuvred her portly frame away from the table.
Esme scooped up the remaining cups with loud rattlings and headed for the scullery,
Wilf wiped the coffee froth from his mouth with the back of his hand and sauntered off to find Jarvis.
Guy wrapped an immaculate green apron round his slim middle in his usual elegant way and disappeared in the direction of the cellars.
Gina was left sitting alone at the table, staring into her cup of coffee while she stirred the dregs with a tiny silver spoon.
Then she set the spoon down carefully in the saucer beside her cup and swung her legs over the bench. She looked calm and decided.
“Tell me, Maria,” she said, “is Harry around?”
Zoe was cleaning the kitchen at Kingfisher Cottage. Clad in a pair of seedy jeans and an ancient T-shirt, she was enjoying a good scrub.
“And it is enjoyable, when you don’t have to do it,” she told Gina, peeling off a pair of lobster-coloured rubber gloves. “Although it is rather a have-to just now; Charlotte’s coming.”
Gina said nothing, and Zoe looked at her properly. She was horrified. “Goodness, have you seen a ghost? Has something happened? You look awful.”
“I’m going to get married,” said Gina.
Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on, I get the feeling that this isn’t exactly break open the fizz and save for a prezzie time.” She paused and gave Gina a long and searching look. “We aren’t talking about Harry here, are we?”
“Yes,” said Gina, defiantly. “There’s nothing else for it.”
Zoe listened to Gina’s tale of the Popplewell, and of Georgie’s disappearance, with disbelief.
“So?” she said, when Gina had finished and had subsided into a chair with a cup of nasty instant coffee. “Because of that you’re planning to marry this Cordovan? I thought you never had any intention of marrying him; you just took the chance to get out of the way for a while. Have you fallen in love with him after all? Or slept with him and decided he’s It as far as sex goes?”
“No,” said Gina. “I’m not in love with him. I’m not in love with anyone. Yes, I’ve slept with him, and he hasn’t got any nasty habits that I know of, and it was okay, no, good, actually. I don’t want to get married, okay, I know that, but it’s nothing to do with Harry personally. I just don’t believe marriage works in normal circumstances.”
“There you are, then.”
“These aren’t normal circumstances.”
“Come on,” said Zoe. “Gina, you don’t marry a man just to get a passport.”
“I do,” said Gina promptly. “And it isn’t only that. I’ve just heard that Gareth Whatnot from Heartwell House, you know, Lori’s husband, has enticed Alwyn away from Oxford and his work on the Tudors to give a series of popular TV programmes.”
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