Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (3 page)

How the driver found the turning to Barton Park in the tree-crowded darkness was a mystery.

It felt, she thought now as she followed Lady Violet up the steps to the front door, as if they’d been traveling for
eons
.

She shivered. It was bloody freezing up here, too.

“I did tell you it was colder here,” the woman informed her as she drew her bouclé jacket closer against the chill. “When Tuppy had his grouse hunts, the fireplaces roared continuously.”

“Tuppy?” Marianne echoed. She felt stupid with tiredness after travelling all day; it was only the cold that kept her awake.

“Theodore, my dear departed,” Lady Violet explained. “Everyone called him Tuppy. No idea why, but I’m sure there was a reason, once upon a time…”

Marianne made no reply. She had a vague impression of a hulking pile of stone looming up before them as they reached the front door. All she really wanted at the moment, she realised as she hid a yawn behind her hand, was to crawl into bed under masses of blankets and sleep, preferably for the rest of the summer…

The door swung open.

“Welcome, Lady Violet,” the woman who opened the door said. She nodded at Marianne. “Hello, Miss Holland. I’m Mrs Fenwick, the housekeeper. Bertie,” she called out sharply over her shoulder, “come and fetch the ladies’ luggage upstairs, please.”

“I’m gan as fast as ever I can,” he grumbled. A man – Marianne assumed he was Mr Fenwick – gave the two of them a brief nod and bent to pick up their luggage. “Where to?”

“Please show Miss Holland to one of the guest bedrooms at the end of the hall,” Lady Valentine replied as she made her way up the stairs with Marianne and Bertie trailing behind her. “I assume they’re all ready?”

“Oh, aye. The purple room, then, is it?”

“As long as it’s not the red room,” Marianne said.

But her reference to
Jane Eyre
and
The Shining
elicited no reply from either Bertie or Lady V, and she fell silent.

She was far too tired to talk, anyway. Her brain felt like day-old porridge.

At the top of the stairs the hallway stretched off in two directions. After depositing his employer’s luggage in a room on the right, and after Marianne bid Lady Violet a polite goodnight, Bertie turned and led her in the opposite direction, down the left side of the hallway to a door at the far end.

“Here t’are, miss.” He opened the door and set her rucksack down on a chair just inside. “It’s off I go nae, divvn’t you kna, so I’ll say goodnight to ye.”

Marianne stared at him blankly. She didn’t know if it was her sleep-deprived brain or just a Geordie language barrier, but she didn’t understand a word he’d said.

“Um…okay. Thanks, Mr…Bertie.”

But he was already gone.

With a sigh Marianne shut the door and sagged back against it. She knew she ought to take a shower, but decided it could wait until morning. With another yawn she stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and crawled, shivering, under the thick pile of blankets on the bed.

Within seconds, she was asleep.

***

The ringing of a bell woke her late the next morning.

How quaint
. Sleepily, Marianne opened her eyes and stretched, like a contented feline, in the patch of sunshine that painted her bed with stripes of golden light. There must be a church nearby.

The ringing came again, and she shot up in bed as she realised it was her mobile phone. Bloody hell, but she’d forgotten to charge it last night…

“Hello?” she croaked as she grabbed the mobile from the nightstand and held it to her ear.

“Marianne!” her mother cried. “Did you arrive safely? You never called.”

“Sorry, mum. I only just woke up…we got here late – very late – last night.”

“Good. We were a bit worried when we didn’t hear from you. Is it very nice there?”

“I didn’t get much of a look round last night,” Marianne admitted, and lowered her voice in awe as her glance swooped around the room, “but my bedroom’s
brill
.”

She admired the four-post Jacobean bed piled high with white and purple duvets, and the cushioned window seats, perfect for curling up with a book, that looked out over hills thick with yellow gorse and purple heather…and blue skies adrift with clouds as puffy and white as the eiderdown that covered her.

And although the room was lovely, with a lavish, old-fashioned charm that was impossible to resist, she still felt a pang of loss at the thought of the bedroom – and the home – she’d left behind.

“Where’s Elinor?” Marianne asked as she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet dangled at least six inches from the floor.

“Overseeing the packing. You know how organised your sister is, always planning ahead and managing the finances.” Mrs Holland sighed. “Such as they are.”

“It’ll all come right, mum, don’t worry. Ellie’s great at financial…stuff. She’ll get it all sorted. At least we’ll have a place to live in the meantime, and I’ll soon have a job.”

“A job? I’d much rather you both found husbands. I won’t lie about that.”

Marianne laughed. “I doubt we’ll find husbands up here,” she said as she went to the window and curled up on the cushioned sill. “Unless we marry a farmer, or a sheepherder.”

“There’s no shame in marrying a farmer. Perhaps Lady Violet can introduce you to a few eligible young men of her acquaintance –”

“No, thank you,” Marianne retorted. “I can only imagine the sort of boring old aristos she’d consider “suitable”. No way.”

“Oh, well, time enough for all of that later, I suppose. I’ll ring you when our plans are firm. Elinor’s sold her horse to one of the neighbour’s farms so we can buy train tickets to Northumberland.”

Dismay swept over her. “Ellie sold Jingle? But she
loves
that horse.”

Elinor and the bay stallion were inseparable from the time their father presented him to her on her fifteenth birthday. She rode him nearly every day and groomed and curried the animal herself. She’d worked at the dress shop in the village on weekends to help pay for Jingle’s oats and tack and farrier bills.

“She won’t show it, of course,” Mrs Holland said with a sigh. “You know how stoic your sister is. She hides it, but I know she’s upset. Still – needs must. We can’t afford the care and feeding of a horse any longer, not that we ever really
could
; we need the money to pay for our train fare and moving expenses.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Someone’s here,” Marianne said. She eyed her phone’s power indicator and saw it was down to one bar. “Plus my mobile’s about to die. I’ll call you later, okay? And give Ellie my love.”

“Of course I will. And don’t forget to call us.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and ended the call.

She was bent over, with her knickers-clad arse in the air as she plugged her phone into its charger, when another, sharper knock followed the first, and the door opened.

Marianne gasped and whirled around, crossing her arms ineffectually over her bra as she did.

“Miss Holland,” Lady Violet chirped as she peered around the edge of the door, “so sorry to interrupt – are you decent?”

“Um…yes, sort of. Come in, please.”

She came in and shut the door after her. “Are you coming down to breakfast, dearest? Only it’s half past nine and Mrs Fenwick won’t hold the buffet over much longer. She’s a dragon about promptness.”

“Sorry. I’ll be right there, promise.”

“Quite all right. I don’t want you to miss breakfast.” She eyed the girl’s bra-and-knickers clad body with barely disguised envy. “What I wouldn’t give to be young again! To have a trim figure and all of my life before me once more…all those pretty clothes…all the parties…all those handsome young men…”

Marianne scrabbled through her rucksack and withdrew a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and stepped into the jeans. “Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Lady Valentine. Everyone’s always trying to fix me up with someone,” she added, “or asking when I plan to get married and how many children do I want to have. It’s beyond tiresome.”

“Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sorry.”

Marianne paused with one leg thrust in her jeans and regarded her hostess in dismay. “Oh, it’s okay – I didn’t mean any offence, Lady Valentine–”

“Lady Violet, please. None taken, I assure you. As one gets older, one tends to forget the downside of being young. Now, please do hurry so that you might have breakfast before Mrs Fenwick puts it all away.”

***

Midway through her eggs scrambled with salmon and a piece of toasted granary bread, Marianne paused to sip her orange juice and studied the dining room in amazement.

She and Lady Violet were the only two sitting at one end of the runway-length table. A hunt board against one wall was laid out with a lavish buffet of eggs, smoked haddock, porridge and fresh berries, as well as locally made honey and sausages and stacks of oatcakes and toasted bread.

It was enough food to feed twenty people.

“Won’t you have some fried mushrooms and tomatoes?” Lady Violet inquired. She eyed her guest’s plate with a frown. “You ought to eat more than that. You could stand to gain a bit of weight.”

“No thank you,” Marianne demurred as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “It’s berries and Greek yoghurt for me most days. Now, if you’ll excuse me –” She pushed her chair back and grabbed her mobile. “I think I’ll take some snaps of the breakfast buffet to share on my InstaPost feed before Mrs Fenwick takes everything away.”

And she began, with great care and intensity, to frame photos of the silver loving cup arranged with red and yellow roses, the stacked linen napkins, the antique silverware and the perfectly poached haddock on its Limoges platter. To get a better angle, she dragged one of the side chairs forward and knelt on it.

“What on
earth
are you doing?” her ladyship asked, one hand resting against her chest in surprise.

Marianne didn’t look up. “Taking photos. I’m documenting my time in Northumberland and posting pictures online.”

“I never heard the like, taking photos of one’s breakfast to post online to a bunch of – of strangers! Is that a common thing these days?”

“Oh yes, it’s a thing,” Marianne assured her as she returned the chair to the table and resumed her seat. “Actually, I’m surprised you’re not on InstaPost yourself. Since you’re a famous romance writer, and all. It’s a great way to promote yourself.”

“Oh – do you know about my books?” Lady Violet flushed with pleasure.

“I’ve got
His Lordship’s Touch
on my mobile right now. I started reading it yesterday.” Marianne grinned. “Phwoar! And that Lord Selkirk –?” She fanned herself. “He’s hot.”

The woman’s flush deepened and she let out a trill of laughter. “You put me to the blush, Miss Holland.”

“Marianne, please. No – it’s brill. I can’t wait to finish it and read all the rest. I admit, though,” she admitted, and leaned forward over her plate, “I expected one of those flowery, old-school books. You know – all blushing virgins and brooding heroes and things that go bump in the night.”

Lady Violet tittered. “Well, I can assure you – the only things that go bump in the night in
my
books, my dear, are the hero and heroine!”

Marianne grinned. “I doubt mum would approve.”

“Well, I certainly don’t condone such behaviour in real life, mind,” the baron’s widow hastened to point out. “A young lady should always behave with decorum.”

“Of course.” Marianne took a sip of her tea to hide the smile that still curved her lips.

Lady Violet set her coffee cup back down in its bone china saucer and eyed her houseguest with interest. “What are your plans today, Marianne?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I thought I might explore, maybe take a walk around the grounds after breakfast…”

“Of course you must make yourself at home.” Lady Violet nodded. “I regret to say that I, however, won’t be here this afternoon. I’m off to Edinburgh to visit my dear friend, Lady Campbell. I don’t expect to return for a week or two.”

Marianne eyed her in surprise. A week or two? She’d have seven to fourteen entire
days
of freedom before her mother, sister, or Lady Violet returned. Perhaps she could venture to the local pub for lunch today, she decided, and perhaps she might even meet someone promising.

Of course, most of the males hereabouts were probably rural types who split logs for fun and entered their dogs in sheepherding contests. Still – all of that axe wielding and log-chopping must surely lead to some seriously ripped abs and muscled biceps.

Maybe with a bit of luck, Marianne thought with a quickening of her pulse, she’d lose her virginity to a handsome, strapping north-country bloke who looked just like Jamie Fraser –

“Are you listening to me, Miss Holland?”

Guiltily, Marianne returned to the present, and her place at the dining room table across from the older woman. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Mrs Fenwick and Bertie will be here to see to your needs. You won’t have use of the car, as George is driving me up to Draemar,” Lady Valentine went on. “But there’s an estate car in the garage if you absolutely must go out. The keys are on a peg by the pantry door. It doesn’t go very fast but it’ll get you where you need to go.”

“Thanks. Although I doubt I’ll need it, except to go into Endwhistle for my interview at the veterinary clinic.”

“And when is that, again?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“Very good. Now, you must excuse me.” The older woman removed her napkin from her lap and laid it down on the table. “I need to go and pack a suitcase.” She studied Marianne with a twinkle in her eye. “I know I can trust you to behave yourself and stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“I should hope so,” Marianne said. “I’m not Annabelle, after all.”

“No, but like Annabelle you’re a young woman, and a pretty one, at that,” Lady Violet remarked. “Which proves a much more dangerous state of affairs when it comes to things like temptation and the opposite sex, you know.”

“I very much doubt I’ll encounter either one during my walk,” Marianne said, and pushed her own chair back. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have a look round, and drive into the village later. And I promised I’d give mum a call this afternoon.”