A Surprise Christmas Wedding

The doorbell dinged and an elderly man with a stick walked in. Wilf Carman was over ninety and had piloted a glider into Normandy as part of the D-day landings, as he never ceased to remind everyone, not that Lottie minded.

He waved his stick. ‘Hello, young lady! I still remember when you were Dotty Lottie.’

‘Morning, Mr Carman.’ Lottie smiled, but did wish he wouldn’t use her school nickname every time he saw her. He’d been caretaker at the school when she’d first started at the village primary. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Irina stifling a giggle behind the post office screen.

‘Have you found a nice young man, yet?’ he said.

‘Not yet, Mr Carman. Why? Are you offering?’

He let out a cackle. ‘If I was sixty years younger. I cut quite a dash in my RAF uniform, you know.’

After listening to him reminisce for a few minutes, and then begin to tell Irina the latest news about a branch of his family who lived in Cornwall, Lottie had to excuse herself as she needed to get back to work.

She walked towards her car, parked on the small car park by the lakeside café. Ducks and geese waddled around, picking at scraps. Woodsmoke spiralled out of the chimneys of the village, where the stone and slate-roofed cottages huddled around the pub and church looked as if they were straight from a Beatrix Potter tale.

Lottie drove out of the village, past the café, mountain equipment shop, gallery and pub until the houses gave way to the open fellside, edged with dry-stone walls. The Herdwick sheep had been brought down off the fellside to the lower fields now and were gathered in fields near the farms. They munched away as she drove past, their winter fleeces shaggy and marked crimson to make them easier to identify. Lottie had often thought they were the punk rockers of the sheep world and her nieces delighted in finding the most colourful.

It was a crisp November morning, with the sheen of frost still lying on the grass and bracken. The road out of Langmere twisted and turned for over a mile until the entrance to the Firholme estate appeared, marked by two huge stone pillars topped with two creatures that had once been griffins but whose faces were now weathered away and covered with orange lichen.

After passing the ‘Welcome to Firholme’ sign and the visitor car parks, the big house itself came into view.

Lottie never ceased to be impressed by how beautiful it was, and how spectacular the setting. In fact, everything about the Firholme estate had been designed to make a statement, to impress and wow visitors. The house had been built at the turn of the twentieth century as a ‘gentleman’s residence’. Its original owner had made his money from cotton mills, and every aspect, from the elaborate oak panelling and stone fireplaces to the grand staircase, was designed to impress guests and business associates with his ‘self-made’ wealth.

It was set in the middle of a large estate whose grounds stretched from the shore of Derwentwater right up to the high open fellsides, with gardens, outbuildings, cottages and woodland in between.

Lottie continued beyond the visitor car park and turned down a small track marked ‘Private’ until she reached a pair of semidetached cottages, situated a few hundred yards below the house and screened by a small stand of trees.

Back in the day, they’d been deliberately built well out of sight of the main house so its owners would never have had to see their workers’ humble cottages. That suited Lottie because it gave her privacy from the visitors and some demarcation between her working day and home life.

Each cottage had a postage-stamp front garden bordered by a low beech hedge with its own gate. She left the car outside the one called ‘The Bothy’, noting there was no sign of the muddy pick-up truck owned by her new neighbour. Jay Calder, Firholme’s newly recruited estates manager, had only moved in a week or so before.

Lottie had seen him standing beside his pick-up when she’d popped back to her cottage in the middle of the morning. He’d been unloading his possessions and had no one with him apart from a friendly black Labrador. She’d introduced herself, and when she’d asked him if he needed anything, or any help, he’d politely but firmly muttered, ‘Thanks for the offer, but I am fine.’

She’d walked back to work, with a sense even at this early stage that Jay wasn’t going to be the most sociable of neighbours. That was his business, of course, but she was unable to shake his image from her mind. Somehow, she’d expected a homely older man, not a good-looking guy around her own age. She could only wish him good luck if he didn’t want to be noticed. With his handsome face and physique, in a small community like Firholme, which was fascinated by any newcomer, he’d have a hard time not attracting attention.

Lottie went inside, changed into her suit, slicked on some lip gloss and hurried up to Firholme House where she’d arranged to meet her boss for a ‘quick chat’. Knowing Shayla Kendrick, Lottie knew it would be anything but quick, and definitely not just a ‘chat’.

‘Now, what Firholme really needs is a big juicy, lavish wedding that we can slap on the website and shout about on social media. The bigger, the better! We need a showpiece!’

Lottie’s boss threw her arms out like a diva on the last note of an aria. Shayla Lambert was clearly inspired by the grand setting of the ballroom of Firholme House. It was at least the fifth time that week Shayla had uttered this line in one form or another. She’d rescued the estate from near bankruptcy and was dedicated to turn it into a must-visit destination for events and weddings.

‘Well, the Valentine’s Week wedding fair will give us a huge boost,’ Lottie replied. ‘And I’ve secured several features in the bridal magazines from now right through to late spring.’

Shayla gave her an encouraging smile. ‘And that’s all good …’

‘Plus, we have the festive season coming up,’ Lottie pointed out. ‘The Edwardian Christmas evening will bring in lots of visitors and some may book other events. There’s a team-building day in the grounds and at least three big company Christmas parties.’

‘I know. I know you’ve worked very hard so far and I can’t believe how fast you organised that autumn antiques fair last month or how you managed to persuade all those performers and stallholders to take part in the Edwardian night.’

‘Most of them were contacts from when I worked at the Lakeland Hotel,’ Lottie said. ‘With a little persuasion, most were happy to add an extra date to their schedules – even if it is a new event at an untried venue.’

‘I knew you’d pull a rabbit out of a hat. That’s why I was so keen to poach you, but we do need as many showcase events as we can to make up for the start to the year.’

‘We’re definitely getting lots of enquiries …’ Lottie said, thinking of how long the nights had become, and how often she woke to autumn fog shrouding the view that Firholme was famous for.

Shayla smiled. ‘What you’ve achieved so far is great …’ Lottie waited for the ‘but’ …

‘If we could get a truly amazing wedding before Christmas, it would be such a showcase for Firholme, not to mention the revenue would help see us through. We really need to persuade people to come back in their droves.’

Lottie nodded in all the right places. Shayla was a dynamic and exciting boss to work for, if a little overoptimistic at times. Despite this, the fact remained: it was Lottie’s job to get the wedding calendar filling up, although she thought there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of securing one with Christmas only seven weeks away.

‘We should definitely set up a photo shoot with all our bridal suppliers. We can show couples that Firholme is a fantastic place for a wedding whatever the season,’ Lottie said, keeping the conversation positive. ‘And that nowhere could be more romantic or spectacular for their big day.’

‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ Shayla said with a sigh of awe. ‘Even if I do say so myself.’

Despite the huge challenge ahead, the gloss of owning Firholme clearly hadn’t worn off for Shayla and Lottie didn’t blame her. Steps led up to the grand vestibule where double doors opened onto a drawing room, morning room and a ballroom complete with chandelier and three sets of double doors out onto the terrace. Even on this autumn day, the lake glittered in the valley, its surface reflecting the fells rising up on either side, with dark forests giving way to hills, which were still russet with bracken.

While it didn’t operate as a hotel, the ten bedrooms were perfect for accommodating wedding guests, parties and conferences. The numerous smaller rooms, hidden away at the rear of the building, were used as extra kitchens, and for storage and services. It always amused Lottie that the moment you opened a grand door onto a ‘working’ part of the house, the lavish wall coverings and parquet floors were replaced by the grey plaster and flagstones the servants would have been accustomed to.

Over the years, Firholme had been through various incarnations, including serving as a nursing home and a rather run-down hotel, until Shayla had bought it that summer and injected a load of cash to turn it into a prestige events and wedding venue.

It gave Lottie a good feeling to think that the house now provided jobs for twenty full- and part-time staff and many seasonal workers, plus accommodation for key staff like herself. She also liked to think about how Shayla, a self-made woman, now owned it and was determined to help her justify the investment and hard work that had been poured into restoring it.

Lottie had helped Shayla plan how the space would be used for weddings. Guests would gather for champagne on the terrace if it was warm or the drawing room on cold or wet days. The brides would enter via the vestibule with its elaborate oak staircase, before walking up the ‘aisle’ in the ballroom for the ceremony itself. Later, the space could be transformed for the reception and party.

Shayla raised her eyes to the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling in the ballroom. ‘I do think a photo shoot is a great idea. We could even make it a video,’ she said.

‘Even better. I’ll set it up right away,’ Lottie said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve also been thinking about the Christmas decorations for the house and working on a colour scheme.’

‘Really? Great minds think alike …’ Shayla cut in. ‘So have I! I’m very excited about …’ She opened her large handbag and pulled out a grey object. ‘This! I thought we could have a minimalist theme throughout Firholme this Christmas. Everyone’s doing understated chic these days. Well, what do you think?’

‘Um. It’s definitely very … understated,’ Lottie began, thinking the bauble in Shayla’s hand looked the same colour as the old long johns her grandad kept to clean his shed windows. She couldn’t visualise the drab decorations adorning the Christmas trees of Firholme.

‘Exactly what I thought.’ Shayla clapped her hands together. ‘Now, take a look at these samples I ordered from the web.’ She handed Lottie a black snowflake decoration. ‘They do a complete range in steel, charcoal, gunmetal and if we do think we need a bit of bling, they do a new line of pewter tinsel …’

‘Pewter tinsel?’ Lottie said. ‘That’s um, different.’

‘Yes. I can’t wait to see them on the Christmas trees. How lucky are we to have our own Christmas tree plantation? It was the icing on the cake when I bought the place, a valuable source of revenue at a quiet time of year. And how lovely to tell couples we have our own home-grown trees and greenery for their winter weddings.’

‘We’d need to get the Christmas trees and decorations in place earlier than planned if we want a photo shoot,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ve already arranged to meet Jay Calder up at the plantation this morning to talk about the Christmas tree sales opening day so I’ll ask him about the trees for the house at the same time.’

‘Great.’ Shayla smiled. ‘Have you had much contact with him yet? I expect you two will be chatting over the garden fence already.’

‘We’ve said hello a couple of times and I’ve seen him out walking with his dog, but that’s all.’ She smiled. ‘I expect he’s still settling in. He doesn’t know us yet.’

Lottie was being charitable. Jay had given her the briefest of nods and a polite but brief response to her attempt at conversation.

She’d also received an equally brief reply to her email requesting a meeting about the Christmas tree centre. She’d heard music through the wall and the dog – Trevor – barking from time to time, but there had been no sign of visitors. If he wanted his privacy, she respected that. She guarded her own private life just as keenly after all that had happened to her over the past year.

‘I think he likes to keep himself to himself,’ Lottie said.

‘I’m sure you can draw him out of his shell. He comes with very good references. We were lucky to lure him away from Greythwaite Hall.’

‘I hadn’t realised he’d been working in such a big estate.’ Lottie was impressed. Greythwaite Hall was a large stately home in the northern Lake District with far bigger acreage than Firholme; Jay must surely have been earning more there.

‘Yes, quite a coup to get him – you too, of course,’ Shayla added quickly. ‘I’m gathering a great team around me. I never thought we’d find anyone suitable for estates manager, and they don’t tend to move around once they’ve got a place they like, but Jay said he wanted a fresh challenge and, of course, we were able to offer on-site accommodation. I think he’d been renting a little flat in a town and was desperate to live in the countryside again.’

‘I can see why Firholme would appeal to him,’ Lottie said, thinking of the rugged, tousle-haired guy she’d glimpsed around the site or striding off towards the high fells, with his dog at his side. Generally when she’d seen Jay, he’d had his head down, giving off every signal that he didn’t want company or to engage in small talk. ‘I get the impression he’s quite shy though,’ she added, to dampen down Shayla’s expectations of being able to turn him into a party animal overnight.

‘If anyone can draw him out, you will.’ Shayla’s eyes glinted. ‘Let’s face it, it wouldn’t be a hardship. He’s so fit … in every sense of the word.’ She sighed. ‘Fifteen years too young for me though, quite apart from the fact I’m his boss.’

Lottie had to smile. It wasn’t the most professional way to talk about a new colleague, but Lottie had known Shayla for years as a friend, even before she’d come to work for her. Despite their age difference, Lottie and Shayla had hit it off when they’d first met properly, at a local tourism awards ceremony. Lottie had been training as a junior events manager at a hotel in the South Lakes and Shayla had been running a rival hotel in the same area.

Lottie had admired Shayla’s drive and Shayla had taken her under her wing and mentored her informally over the years. They’d become friends and, finally, Shayla had headhunted Lottie from her previous job at the hotel to be the events manager for Firholme.

After her split from Connor, Lottie had been equally keen for a fresh start. She’d relished the chance to throw her energy into kick-starting Firholme, to leave old associations behind and have something to take her mind off her heartache and worries about Steph.

‘Oh, hang on.’ Shayla broke off to answer a call. She pointed at the phone, pulled a face and mouthed. ‘Sorry. It’s. The. Mayor.’

Lottie nodded and scribbled a note on a Firholme leaflet in her bag.

Sorting out trees with Jay. Back in half an hour. I’ve borrowed the decorations.

Shayla gave her an ‘OK’ sign and returned to her conversation. Lottie knew that she’d be ages talking to the mayor of the local town, a couple of miles from the Firholme estate. He had ‘verbal diarrhoea’ according to Shayla, and having arranged a recent civic awards evening for him at Firholme, Lottie was inclined to agree.

He got on well with Shayla, however, and had put a lot of valuable business their way. Shayla drew people to her like a moth to a flame. She had a way of persuading people to go the extra mile – and then some – for her.

Lottie scooted out of Firholme House so she could change from her suit and heels into something more suitable for a freezing forest. Her breath misted the air the moment she stepped out of the door, and she was glad it took only two minutes to dash across the courtyard from where the offices were located to the Bothy. When she’d been offered the job at Firholme, accommodation on the estate had been a massive bonus, and every morning, she’d opened her curtains onto magnificent views of Derwentwater and the fells.

Well, maybe not quite every morning, because it did tend to rain a bit, as Lottie was keen to point out to guests, with a wry smile. On this early November morning, however, the highest fell tops, soaring three thousand feet above the lake, were covered with snow. At Firholme, frost spiked the grass and glistened in the morning sun.

Back in the day, Firholme’s courtyard would have been alive with servants and estate workers, hurrying around the stables, laundry and brewhouse, or to and from the kitchen and vegetable garden. In recent years, one side of the single-storey buildings had been turned into offices, an information centre and refreshment kiosk. The other side of the courtyard overlooked the lake, so that had been converted into a smart café and shop with a terrace that made the most of the view.

In the summer it would be packed with visitors but today it was quiet apart from a few walkers with their dogs. All of the walkers were cossetted in down coats and woolly hats, cradling hot drinks, while their dogs lay at their feet, most with their own little jackets.

Through the steamy windows of the café itself, Lottie glimpsed the less hardy souls hunkered down with hot chocolates and Cumbrian breakfasts. From the start of November, the aroma of mince pies, cinnamon lattes and mulled wine had drifted tantalisingly into the offices while Lottie and the rest of the Firholme staff were trying to work.

The Bothy was typical of an estate worker’s cottage, with grey stone walls and a slated roof spotted in yellow lichen. Its windows and door had been painted a subtle pale green, which gave it a cheerful air. The modest gardens were separated front and back by a low hedge and a garden gate, painted in the same green. To the rear of both cottages, there was a small coppice of trees with a rough path that eventually led down to the lake.

Lottie opened the door to the scent of the previous evening’s woodsmoke. The cottage had central heating but she also enjoyed lighting a fire in the sitting room on cool evenings, which could happen any time in these northern mountain climes. To the rear of the cottage was a small dining kitchen, while upstairs there was a bedroom, bathroom and a box room, which was crammed with possessions left over from her life with Connor.

All those hopes and dreams from two years together seemed so far away, and the plans she’d allowed herself to make on that magical week in Cornwall were as cold as the ashes in the hearth.

She changed from her suit into jeans and jumper and hunted for her bobble hat. Since October, when it had been unearthed from her chest of drawers, the hat was usually shoved in the pocket of her coat, or hung on a peg in the hall of her tiny cottage. However, it was nowhere to be found and she didn’t have time to waste, so she ran upstairs to get her new one from her bedroom.

She had to stand on a little folding stool, a gift from her nieces, to reach the top cupboard of the wardrobe, but the red hat was there, tucked away at the rear of the cupboard. ‘Hurrah!’ she said, pulling it out.

As she stepped down, hat in hand, a scarf and a card fluttered onto the carpet.

She gave a little intake of breath when she picked it up. She hadn’t even known she’d brought it with her when she moved to Firholme, but it must have been wrapped in a scarf or tucked inside some clothes. She obviously hadn’t been able to throw it out.

She picked it up. The front was a watercolour of the cove in Cornwall, with gulls scudding across wet sand, reflecting the sky at sunset. The rear had a simple message in neat, restrained handwriting, so even and level, it could almost have been written with the aid of a ruler.

The message wasn’t restrained; it was heartfelt.

Lottie,

Thank you for saying yes,

You’ve made me the happiest man alive,

All my love forever,

Connor xx

Lottie sat down on the bed, before reading the card again. Over a year later, those words still had the power to cut the ground from under her feet, and leave her turning over bad memories in a fruitless quest to understand how their relationship had turned from blissful to disastrous so suddenly.

Even though she should have thrown the card in the bin, it was impossible not to recall those heady times and wonder if they’d all been a deluded dream.

Chapter Two

‘I’m sorry. I’ve done something unforgivable.’

Connor’s words, on the doorstep that dark September night, rushed back to her, along with all the memories of the misery that followed in the hours and months afterwards. They were like dust and litter she’d swept out of the door, now blowing back in her face on an ill wind.

She’d never forget Connor’s face; so white and drawn that her first fear was that he was ill or his sister or mother were. He looked up at her and said two words: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry about what?’

He threw his keys on the table. ‘I’ve done something unforgivable.’

Her stomach turned over. ‘What do you mean? Have you had an accident?’ He must have run someone over, she thought … a child … ‘Oh my God, sit down.’

‘No. I – I … There’s no way of saying this that can excuse me or soften the blow, but I care for you too much to live a lie, or make you live a lie.’ Lottie’s skin had prickled with unease, with dismay at that word. ‘Care?’

‘I care a lot for you. I’m very fond of you but … you tried to warn me when I asked you at the beach.’

‘What do you mean? I tried to warn you?’

‘You said it was unexpected – out of the blue – and you’re right. When we came home, even before – walking in here and realising what marriage truly means: a lifetime of commitment. You deserve nothing less, Lottie, and I should never have let myself be carried along by the idea of it.’

She couldn’t believe he was passing the responsibility for his cruel act to her. What had happened to him during these few days away? What had changed his mind?

‘I can’t inflict myself on you, Lottie. It isn’t fair. God knows, it’s killing me to be the one to hurt you like this but it’s better I do it now, before things go too far. I’m sorry, truly I am, and I realise there’s no coming back from this. I’ll pack my bags.’

‘But why? Why have you changed your mind?’

‘It’s for the best,’ he said wearily. ‘There’s no other reason. Best I end it now before everyone knows.’

‘Is there someone else? Did you meet someone in Scotland?’

‘No!’ His tone changed to something like anger, though Lottie later realised it was guilt. ‘I just … can’t make the commitment you need. The commitment you deserve. This time away has made me realise that. I’ve woken up to reality and the reality is that I’m not the man you need and I should never have led you to believe I was. I got carried away …’

‘B-but you can’t just change your mind. I don’t understand.’

He set his mouth in a hard line. ‘I’m very sorry, Lottie, but I have to leave. It’ll be simpler that way. Less painful in the long run. You deserve way better than me.’

That was it. He moved out that night, leaving Lottie feeling like a vase that had been hurled onto a marble floor, the pieces scattered far and wide.