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‘Ahh. And Dominic has the final say?’
‘Certainly not. But he can be quite sniffy at times and he is rather strong-willed when he puts his mind to it.’
‘I wonder where he gets that from?’ He hadn’t thought he’d actually verbalised the words, but it appeared he had.
The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘One has to know what one wants. But he is slightly too, what is the word? Conservative for my taste. He is a dressage rider.’
She said it as though it explained everything, which to Jamie it didn’t. Knowing very little about horses and absolutely nothing about dressage riders.
‘Precise, controlled. The boy sorted all his books alphabetically and his cars into the most orderly of rows when he was a child.’ That didn’t help much either. ‘Re-stabled all the horses one day because they weren’t in any kind of size or colour orientation. The head groom was not amused.’
‘Ahh.’
‘He was very young though. He appears to have grown out of his most faddy tendencies. Too many fancy notions and picky habits aren’t good for a boy. Poncey. Not quite sure where he gets it from, his father was nothing like that. If anything upset him he’d go out and shoot.’
‘And so Dominic helps you run the place?’
‘Oh heavens above, have you not listened to a word I’ve said? Dominic is my son, but Charlotte, my granddaughter, runs the estate.’
‘Ah, so Charlotte is Dominic’s daughter.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, lips pursed. ‘Dominic is Charlotte’s uncle.’
‘Oh. But shouldn’t he …’
‘The Stanthorpes have never liked to stick to the normal order of things; we do things our own way. Tipping House is never passed to a male heir, it is inherited by the eldest female and sadly Charlotte’s mother, my daughter Alexandra, died in rather unfortunate circumstances. One day all this will be Charlotte’s. You really do need to do your homework, young man.’
Jamie frowned. He’d thought taking a few pictures and selling the idea to Seb was all he needed to do. But it appeared not. The longer he was here though, the more he realised it wasn’t just that he needed this job; he actually wanted it. He wanted to peep into the life of Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe. To make her smile.
‘And so Charlotte is in charge?’
‘I rather think I am in charge.’ Her tone was dry, but there were the crinkle lines of laughter around her eyes again. ‘But she is responsible for running the estate and raising the necessary funds.’
‘She’s the one who set up the business here, as a wedding venue, isn’t she?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘And one of the punters started the blaze, so she’s knackered.’
‘Knackered is a word I’d reserve for an altogether different usage, young man, but she is in rather a predicament. Most of the bookings were over the summer months, so very few had to be cancelled. But she should now be taking bookings for the spring after next, and how can she? These young girls look around and want everything to be perfect, and that is not going to be achievable for quite some time.’ She sniffed. ‘These insurance investigators are quite tiresome. And without the income one is very much back to square one.’
‘Even if you get it fixed up?’
‘A place like this costs a fortune to maintain and that is something that, sadly, we don’t have. That young fool of a bank manager is already starting to twitch, silly boy. But I’m sure things will sort themselves out, although I might well shoot the next person who arrives with a buy-out plan.’
‘Why not just sell the place?’
‘Sell?’ She raised both eyebrows. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Over my dead body. If they think they can turn this village into a safari park or giant amusement arcade they have another thing coming. The Marquis of Bath and that Aspinall chap have a lot to answer for, putting ridiculous ideas into people’s heads. You will never see a pride of lions here during my lifetime. Utter tosh and nonsense. Right, I’m sure it’s past your bedtime. Your push bicycle is by the front door.’
‘Push …?’
‘The police called in to say they’d seen it propped against the south wall,’ she raised an eyebrow and he tried not to smile. ‘Some chap saw you climb over, but they knew better than to follow you. More than one policeman has been peppered with shot on this estate. By accident, of course, mistaken identity and all that. One of the gamekeepers went to collect it while I brought Bertie to sniff you out.’
‘You knew I was there? You didn’t find me by accident?’
‘What do you think I am? This estate stretches for miles, and I can’t see in the dark at my age, can I?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Be careful on the bicycle, you look a bit tipsy. Unlikely to meet any traffic but the ditches can be hazardous I’m told.’ She stood up. ‘Can’t have you killed just before Christmas can we? Your mother would never forgive us. Oh, and watch out for ghosts and wolves.’ And he was pretty sure that it was the whisky that made him think she’d winked.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_2eb547ed-5058-56ef-9178-ae11c1987d34)
‘Faster Worwy, faster, faster.’
Charlotte ‘Lottie’ Steel jumped as the unexpected shrill scream echoed down the hallway and her needle came unthreaded, and disappeared between the floorboards. ‘Bugger.’
She shut one eye and peered down the crack, wishing that they could afford to send the horse rugs to the local saddlery for mending. Impoverished landowners might be expected to make do and mend (and she definitely was impoverished), but sewing was really not her thing. She just wasn’t very good at it. She was much better at whitewashing the stables, if she was honest, and at least then she’d not be using her fingers as pin cushions.
In fact whitewashing, and mending fences, were the type of thing she’d spent most of her time doing before she’d discovered that one day she would inherit Tipping House – and in the meantime was expected to manage the day-to-day running of the estate, and remove as much of the responsibility as she could from her elderly grandmother. Not that Elizabeth considered herself either elderly or in need of assistance. It was rather Lottie who thought she needed help, especially since her wedding business had gone up in smoke, leaving them once again struggling to make ends meet.
But it was hard to imagine now that she’d ever thought she could belong anywhere else. When she was a child she’d always imagined that one day she’d follow in her father, Billy Brinkley’s, footsteps and enter the world of show-jumping (or at least groom his horses and be the one that educated the youngsters), and then when she’d moved in with Rory she’d imagined herself supporting his eventing career and chasing off his female fans, and the very last thing that had ever crossed her mind was that she would instead live a life rather more along the lines of her aristocratic grandmother Lady Elizabeth and her Uncle Dominic. Although whilst it all sounded rather grand, the reality was anything but. And at times she quite honestly found it hard to believe she was related to them, even if she did feel she would die rather than give up her beautiful, but demanding, inheritance.
Whitewashing and mucking out stables, she decided, came to her much more naturally than balancing spreadsheets and sewing.
‘Giddy up, horsey.’
A shrill whinny stopped her short and she forgot all about needles.
Her husband, Rory, could often be seen cantering around Tipping House with their goddaughter, little Roxy, riding on his shoulders, but he couldn’t whinny like that. That sounded far too authentic. Lottie scrambled across the room on all-fours and leaned out of the doorway.
It was indeed a horsey, or rather a very fat Shetland pony, coming down the hallway.
‘No Woxy, I mean Roxy. Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Lottie exclaimed. For a moment one of the portraits swung on the wall as the excited child caught it with a flailing arm before it came to a rest at a rather jaunty angle. ‘Stop, stop. Rory, stop before Great Uncle Albert falls off the wall.’
Rory stopped. The pony didn’t. It ambled on past him, reached the end of the lead rope and ground to a halt a couple of feet short of Lottie. Stretching its stubby neck out, it peered down at her through long-lashed brown eyes before snorting and showering both her and the hall rug with spittle. Roxy, who was perched like a cherry on a cake, lurched in the saddle, then giggled.
‘Lot-tie.’ Her blond curls trembled as she waved her hands in the air in an enthusiastic greeting and she bounced on the saddle. ‘Look at me, look at me, me and Alice have got weal horseys and I’m in my best pwincess dwess. Look, look.’ But Lottie wasn’t looking at her. She was staring at her devastatingly dishy husband and trying to keep the cross look fixed on her face.
Rory. Gorgeous, fit Rory. Clad in the tightest of breeches and sloppy polo shirt, despite the cold winter air. He tipped his head to one side and grinned, his tawny-brown eyes alive with mischief. ‘What are you doing down there, darling?’
Rory Steel loved the children, the children loved him, and as his best horses had been turned out for a rest and the ground was far too hard for jumping, he’d been glad of the diversion that a bit of baby-sitting offered. And he also loved his scatty but occasionally bossy wife, Lottie. In fact, when her assertive side emerged he found her totally impossible to resist, as that glint in her eye worked wonders for his libido. Not that he ever had a problem that way.
Rory and Lottie were widely accepted as the dishiest, and possibly the nicest, couple in Tippermere. Where Rory was lean and hard, Lottie was no size zero, but possessed rather unfashionable curves. As a teenager she’d been as leggy as a yearling, but she’d matured into a statuesque (she thought fat) woman, who appealed to the old and young men of Tippermere alike. Her gorgeous thick hair gave her a ‘just out of bed’ look that was irresistible, and her enormous green eyes and generous mouth made her as huggable as she was desirable.
‘Rug-mending. It’s not going too well though.’ She stared at the row of haphazard stitches.
Rory also found her home-making activities quite attractive too. Well, all in all, the longer they’d been married the more he’d fallen in love with the girl.
Lottie gazed up at him and couldn’t stay cross. She never could with Rory, well, not unless he’d been really, really bad. Like the time he’d turned up with a string of horses and organised a jump-off at her father’s wedding, in the marquee, before the cake had been cut.
She fought the smile that was threatening to break out. It had been typical Rory – mad, fun and had signalled the end of the wedding cake. When his horse had landed on it.
Then there had been the episode on the day she’d launched her wedding fayre business. He’d done a runner – and then turned up and proposed like some dashing and romantic knight.
‘I’m not sure you should bring them in the house, even if they are small.’
‘You’re no trouble, are you girls?’ He winked at Roxy, who giggled.
Lottie sighed. ‘I meant the ponies not the girls.’
She had been finding it strangely therapeutic, sat on the floor sewing (even if she wasn’t very good at it). Except when the needle came unthreaded. That was annoying. But maybe leaning out of the doorway was a mistake, with a pony on the loose. ‘Hang on.’ She clambered to her feet, the horse blanket falling off her knee, and Tilly the terrier, who’d been chewing the end of it, let go and with an excited yap launched herself down the long hallway straight at Rory. Who, forgetting the job in hand, let go of the lead rope and caught the little dog. The shaggy pony, sensing freedom, did a swift U-turn and headed for the nearest open doorway.
‘Look, Lottie, I’m widing, I’m widing Woopert all by myself.’ Roxy grinned, forgot about hanging on to the saddle or the reins and clapped her hands excitedly. ‘Take a picture, picture for Mummy.’
‘Crumbs.’ Right now Lottie wasn’t interested in capturing the moment for prosperity, she was more bothered about damage limitation. Sliding in her socks on the polished floorboards, she skidded after her goddaughter, grabbing the lead rope just as the round-barrelled pony opened its mouth to take a bite out of the flower display. The pony retaliated with a loud burst of wind (it could have been worse, Lottie decided, much worse) and Roxy giggled.
‘Is that a new fashion statement, darling? And on the catwalk today we have Lottie in green breeches with purple horse blanket artistically attached.’ Rory had wandered in to the room after them and was now leaning against the pony, one arm around Roxy, looking thoroughly amused.
‘What?’ Lottie glanced down, confused. ‘Oh bugger.’ She was towing the blanket with her. She’d been concentrating so hard on neat stitches that she appeared to have sewn right through the blanket and her breeches. And she also appeared to be towing a terrier.
Tilly, spotting a moving object, had forgotten all about her master, Rory, and had taken chase. She now had her teeth firmly attached to the end of the blanket that had been trailing on the floor.
‘Should we put Rupert back, Auntie Lottie?’ The softly spoken, but perfectly enunciated, words drifted through the chaos and Lottie looked up to see her little cousin Alice (though she thought of her more as a niece, due to the age difference) standing in the open doorway, her dark hair drawn back into a perfect sleek ponytail, a very solemn look pasted across her pretty features.
Although only a few months separated Alice and Roxy, they were as different as night and day. Roxy was a born giggler, the spitting image of her own mother, the gloriously over-the-top Samantha Simcock, with a dash of her energetic footballing father thrown in, but Alice saw life in a far more serious light.
The polite and shyly pretty Alice was the perfect blend of her parents – Dominic Stanthorpe, Lottie’s uncle, who was precise and perfect in everything he did, and his wife, Amanda, who had always been poised and beautiful. Except when she was pregnant. Now, that, Lottie thought, should have been enough to put anybody off ever starting a family. Except poor Amanda had decided to put herself through the ordeal again and was currently back at the puking stage. Which was why Lottie had offered to look after Alice for the afternoon. Which meant she couldn’t say no when Sam had asked if Roxy could join in the fun, could she?
But what had ever made her think asking Rory to assist had been a good idea?
Except he was great with kids. They loved him. In fact, she thought with a pang of guilt, he’d make a perfect father. How on earth could she ever think about having a family of their own though, when they were penniless and they lived a life of chaos, dashing between horse shows and trying to come up with schemes to keep food on the table?
‘Auntie Lottie?’
Sometimes, Lottie thought, the three-year-old Alice was more mature than the adults in this place.
‘That’s a brilliant idea, Alice.’
‘Rubbish, we’ve only just started.’ Rory gathered the terrier into his arms and grinned. ‘Do you want unstitching?’
The pony, realising that Lottie’s concentration was elsewhere, nudged the vase with its stubby little nose and Roxy giggled as it rocked from side to side. Lottie put a steadying hand out and was glad that most of the stuff in their wing of Tipping House was actually either from Rory’s old cottage, or rubbish. Her life really wasn’t compatible with priceless antiques.
Whilst she absolutely adored her inherited home and could never, ever imagine leaving it, sometimes she thought that life back at Mere Lodge had been so much safer. At Tipping House you never quite knew what disaster was going to befall you next.
It was hard to be dignified, but Lottie was going to do her best in front of the children. Not that she really wanted them to think this was normal. ‘I’m not sure you should have ponies in the house, darling.’
‘Old Lizzie said we could,’ Rory said with a wink.
‘Shhh. Don’t call her Lizzie.’ Lottie lived in dread of the day when her grandmother, Lady Elizabeth Stanthorpe, overheard the diminutive of her name and planned revenge. ‘Or old. You know she hates it. And I’m sure she didn’t say you could.’
‘Oh come on, don’t be a spoilsport. It’s common knowledge that your mother used to ride her pony in here.’
‘That’s different. We’ve got somebody coming to look at the place. What if it smells of horse poo?’
‘Woopert poo, Woopert poo.’
Lottie ignored the little girl, who was now bouncing up and down in the saddle and no doubt increasing the chances of ‘Rupert poo’.
‘The last lot who came to look round said it smelled doggy.’ Lottie felt herself redden at the memory of the very haughty young bride-to-be standing in their magnificent hallway with her nose in the air proclaiming that it was old and smelly and not at all what she’d expected. ‘It doesn’t, does it?’ She sniffed as though to check.
That was the trouble these days. Since the fire, the once-imposing Great Hall had been out of bounds as it smelled strongly of smoke, charred wood and whatever the firemen had used to douse the flames. So, potential customers had to visit the Steel’s own private wing of the house to discuss wedding bookings, which wasn’t quite as clean and tidy as it might have been. Or as sweetly scented. However many bowls of potpourri she distributed. She really should ask the manufacturers of Glade for sponsorship, considering the amount of their products she’d distributed around Tipping House.
But she was fighting a losing battle. Horse rugs seemed to find their way up from the stable yard, because it was far too cold to repair them down there, scattering loose hair and horsey smells as the heat permeated the grease and sweat-imbued fabric. She had to admit, she loved the smell of horses and hay, but she fully accepted that it probably wasn’t what a bride-to-be was looking for on her special day. And that was the problem. Lottie had built up a business selling dreams, wedding dreams. The glossy brochure promised perfection and the numerous articles in Cheshire Life and Tatler portrayed a sanitised version of life in the countryside and the old creaking mansion. When a bride-to-be came to Tipping House Estate she was buying a fairy tale not the rather less-inspiring reality.
Lottie sighed. Real life included the dirty boots that were kicked off everywhere but the boot room, the bits of damp leather that were sponged down, soaped and oiled as they sat by the fire in the evening, spreading a rather unique odour, plus the assortment of gifts that the dogs brought in with them. Some dead, some alive, and some unmentionable.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. Taking bookings for the following spring was all well and good, but would they ever have the money to repair the damage? And what was supposed to happen in the meantime? They’d all but used up the small nest egg she’d accumulated since establishing the business three years previously. The fire had been such awful timing, and her rather naïve assumption that she’d fill in one form and the insurance company would hand over a very large cheque had proved just that. Naïve.
‘It doesn’t smell to me.’ Rory kissed his wife on the nose and took the lead rope from her hand. ‘You worry too much.’ He backed the pony up so that it was no longer straddling the rug. ‘And anyway they aren’t coming, Lots, they rang and cancelled this morning.’
‘They cancelled?’ She looked at him aghast, her throat tightening with disappointment. ‘Oh no, not another one. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Sorry, darling, forgot. They said something about wanting it to be perfect, but really needing to see the place as it was actually going to be, and muttered some tosh about what if it wasn’t ready in time. All the usual guff. Would have told you earlier but one of the horses had barged through the electric fencing again. That horse must have a hide like a rhino, or he just likes the buzz.’
‘Oh damn and blast, what are we going to do, Rory?’ She felt like wailing, but knew there was absolutely no point in collapsing into a pathetic heap. Off the top of her head she had no idea how many appointments had been cancelled, but it was a lot. Too many. The diary was a mass of red crossings out and was beginning to look more like a patchwork quilt than a sign of their success. At this rate, by the time they had the place refurbished and ready to go there would be no business left. They’d have to start from scratch again.
She had long ago accepted that the coming summer was a write-off and belts would need to be tightened (not that a stable full of horses understood that concept), but had been banking on a healthy number of bookings for the following year.
‘This year is going to be hard enough,’ she chewed the side of her fingernail, ‘but we’re completely screwed, sorry, messed up,’ she glanced up at the children guiltily to check if they were listening, ‘if we’ve not got anything definite for next year. I was counting on a full diary from April to September. What am I going to do, Rory?’
‘Cheer up. We’ll think of something, darling.’
‘We’ll fail. Gran will never forgive me. I’ve let her down.’
‘Lottie.’ Rory, noting the dejected tone looked down at her fondly. Although she could come across as totally scatty and disorganised, he’d discovered over the last few years just how strong and determined his wife was, and it was slightly worrying that after keeping her chin up and fighting back since the fire, she was now looking slightly beaten. ‘You’ve never let anybody down. You took this place on and got the business going and you know how proud Elizabeth is of you. We all are. Me especially. You can do this. We can do it. Together.’
‘But what—’
‘Are we putting them back, Uncle Rory? My pony doesn’t like it on his own outside.’
Lottie had all but forgotten little Alice, who was still at the doorway waiting patiently. Just like her mother, Amanda, would have been.
‘Your pony?’ Lottie suddenly noticed that the little girl was clutching a rope firmly with both hands. ‘Your pony doesn’t like being on his own?’ She looked at Rory. ‘You mean there are two? Where have all these ponies come from?’
‘Lady Lizbet bought them.’ Roxy bounced a bit more. ‘I love Lady Lizbet, I love Lady Lizbet.’ She bobbed up and down, and then stopped and grinned. ‘I’m going to be her when I gwow up.’
Rory nodded confirmation. ‘Late Christmas present. She thought it was time Alice started to ride, said she didn’t want her behaving like her mother did around horses.’
‘And didn’t Amanda and Uncle Dom mind?’ Lottie knew only too well how hard Amanda had tried to share Dom’s love of horses, and that she had been totally relieved when he’d said it didn’t matter. Lottie had never, ever, seen anybody look as petrified sat astride a horse as Amanda had been.
Rory shrugged. ‘Not a clue. And she bought Roxy one too. Said it was only fair.’
