“There she is.” Lady Meade leans on the fence.
Her daughter is riding a striking gray horse in the distance, galloping across the field.
“Cordelia!” she yells, waving at her. “Cordelia! Over here!”
She hears the cry and spots us, turning the horse in our direction. As she gets closer, I’m surprised to see a smile on her face, not sickly or forced, a real one. She looks genuinely happy. Jonathan’s proposal story makes a lot of sense.
“She’s always loved horses,” Lady Meade explains, as though reading my mind. “She’s much more comfortable around animals than people. I think she got that from me.”
Cordelia slows and trots over, slightly breathless, strands of hair loosely falling from under her riding hat, her skin glowing from the exercise.
“We’ve been looking for you,” her mother says, stepping up onto the lower rung of the fence to lean over and pat the neck of the horse, her expression softening, crinkles appearing around her eyes as she smiles broadly. “Hello, darling.”
She’s speaking in a much more affectionate tone to the horse than I’ve heard her use with anyone else, including her children.
“I told you I was going out,” Cordelia says, swinging her leg over and jumping down from the saddle with elegance and ease. “I see you made it, Emily.” She sounds impressed.
“She got an earlier train.”
“Is that right?” The horse nudges her but is ignored, so pushes past her to get a stroke on the nose from Lady Meade.
“Lady Meade has given me a wonderful tour of Dashwell,” I say, looking back past the stables at the house. “Your wedding is going to be magical here.”
It’s a cheesy comment and the sort of thing I probably shouldn’t say in front of someone as cynical and miserable as Lady Cordelia Swann, but it’s the truth. I spent the last forty-five minutes trailing after Lady Meade in complete awe as she took me round the maze of grand rooms, each as fascinating as the last, and each with its own treasures and history.
The guest room in which I’m staying—one of many—is practically bigger than my flat, with a giant four-poster bed in the middle of the room and windows framed by red velvet curtains, tied with golden-tasseled cords. When I walked in earlier with my old wheelie case and looked out at the view over the private walled garden, the lake and hills beyond, I was lost for words.
After showering, changing into a fresh dress, and reapplying my makeup, I wandered down the corridor outside my room, lost until Lady Meade appeared, ready to give me a tour. I was shown the rooms that tourists enjoy: the state dining room; the banquet hall, its walls covered with priceless works of art; the grand ballroom with a sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling to light the mosaic tiled floor; and the various libraries filled with row upon row of first editions lined up on shelves protected by glass.
We then moved outside, as the marchioness was keen for us to find Cordelia sooner rather than later, but she promised I’d see the rest of the house and the private quarters before dinner. She informed me that we’d need to change our shoes before going outside, as it was a bit of a walk and, thanks to the earlier rain, a little muddy. She led me through a door marked PRIVATE and down some plain back stairs into an old boot room in the part of the house shut off from visitors.
This quickly became my favorite place in the house, because it was the first that felt like it belonged in a family home. Old wax coats hung from hooks lined up along the wall, and there were so many pairs of boots lying around, I had quite a selection to choose from. She found me a pair in my size, and as I shook off the cobwebs lining the top, she threw me a rolled-up pair of socks from a basket by the door, before donning some old boots herself.
Strolling past the walled garden, she explained that she didn’t want to disturb the visitors in there at the moment and she’d make sure I saw it later, as she was rather proud of the planting she’d done over the summer.
Her face lit up as we approached the stables, so it was no surprise when she made the comment about Cordelia getting the love of animals from her.
“Oh, and I must show you my chickens,” she said earlier, as I was introduced to the naughty donkey that had knocked down the fence that morning. “They’re delightful creatures. Wait until you meet Lord Cluck! You’ll be very taken with him.”
Whether or not this weekend would be a success, I was grateful to have seen a different side to the marchioness. If only the same would happen with Cordelia. Perhaps in this different setting, she’d reveal her softer side, too.
Although she looks physically repulsed at my use of “magical” to describe her wedding, so perhaps not.
“Are you coming back to the house now?” Lady Meade asks her daughter, letting the horse nibble the palm of her hand. “We have a lot to discuss and your father is a little anxious. Your brother also needs to have a word about dinner.”
“I’ll come up once I’ve put Tony away.”
“The horse is called Tony?” I blurt out, unable to hide my amusement.
Cordelia shoots me a cold, hard stare. “Yes. Why? Do you have a problem with that?”
“No! It’s an … unusual name for a horse, that’s all.”
“What would be a usual name for a horse? Let me guess,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’d name your horse something like Sparkle or Rainbow or Magic.”
I know she’s mocking me but she’s probably right, so I shrug.
“Tony is named after Tony McCoy,” she says, and when I stare at her blankly, she looks at me as though I’m the stupidest person to walk the planet. “Tony McCoy? One of the greatest jockeys of all time?”
“He sounds very talented,” I say, stroking Tony on the nose as he comes to snuffle at my jacket for any hidden carrots. “He must be very happy to have such a beautiful horse named after him.”
Cordelia tugs the reins so that Tony is pulled away from me, then addresses her mother. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
She walks away with Tony in tow, leading him to the gate to the stables. Lady Meade turns to me. “You’re getting to her, you know.”
I frown, worried. “What do you mean? Am I doing something wrong?”
“You won’t let her push you away,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her back to the house. “So, as far as I’m concerned, you’re doing everything right.”
“What a shame Nicole Percy didn’t take to you!” Annabel cries, the champagne almost splashing out of her glass. “She really is the best in the business and Dashwell Hall deserves the best. This really couldn’t be worse! You’re going to be stuck finding anyone by December, Cordy! It’ll have to be a rush job! How ghastly. What ever are you going to do?”
Cordelia looks as though what she might do is punch Annabel’s face.
“What sort of flowers are you thinking for your wedding, Annabel?” I ask quickly, hoping to move the focus away from Cordelia. People like Annabel love talking about themselves, so if you continually ask questions about their life, they think you’re absolutely marvelous without knowing anything about you.
“Oh, I would tell you, but it’s very secretive,” she says, patting my hand. “Everyone wants to know. What I can tell you is it’s going to be simply spectacular. Nicole is a genius.”
Cordelia is gripping her glass so tightly, her knuckles have gone white and I’m worried it’ll shatter at any moment.
“The thing is, Nicole is an artist, not a florist,” she says, her voice inflecting up at the end of the sentence, as if it’s a question. “That’s why the events she does are so different. Everyone can tell that it’s not just anyone who does the flowers, if you know what I mean. It shouldn’t be done in a rush, with money thrown at it. It really is an art form.” She looks at Cordelia sympathetically. “Sorry, Cordy, don’t mean to rub salt in the wound.”
“Nicole is certainly different,” I say, glancing nervously at Cordelia, whose jaw is clenched.
Quite frankly, I’m coming round to understanding why Cordelia told Tom to fuck off when he filled her in on the news of who was coming to dinner. She had a meltdown, insisting that her mum call the evening off. She was on the verge of tears as she ranted about it. I wondered how I would feel if Mum and Dad had Graham Slater over for dinner, and knew immediately: sick. I kind of got it.
Annabel is particularly unpleasant and I’m not sure her sister is much better.
The Earl and Countess of Derrington seem nice but they’re a little pompous and self-important, and meeting them has allowed me to appreciate just how impeccably mannered Lord and Lady Meade are. They may be a little closed off, but having spent a day at Dashwell Hall, I can understand why you might have some walls up. It would be difficult to know who to trust when you live in a place like this. But they’re so welcoming that I’ve started to relax and feel at home, despite being in a stately home so grand that earlier I got lost on the way to dinner and ended up in a random courtyard I didn’t know existed. Luckily, a man who introduced himself as one of the chefs discovered me and pointed me in the right direction.
This afternoon, I told the marquess his house was really something, and he launched into a wonderful explanation of its history and heritage that continued until Jonathan strolled in with a book and asked me if we’d got to the bit in the story when Nicholas’s great-great-grandmother famously danced at a ball with her Irish wolfhound, causing plenty of society gossip about the state of her mind. I was drinking tea at the time and laughed so hard it went up my nose.
By the time Cordelia joined us after putting Tony away, everyone was in a lively mood and seemed excited to start discussing wedding plans. Lord and Lady Meade had put together a list of everything they thought we needed to do and had set things in motion by booking in tastings with available caterers next week.
“Now, we need to start thinking about a photographer,” Lord Meade said. “I’ve had a few recommendations and, Cordelia, you might want to contact them next week, too.”
“I was talking about your wedding with someone at work the other day,” I said, playing the role of enthusiastic friend, “and they mentioned we should see if Clio Vaughn is available! Aren’t you a fan, Cordelia? I think I remember you talking about her.”
“Clio Vaughn?” Cordelia repeated, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Yes, I like her work.”
“Anyway, ignore this if it’s stupid, but I thought I might as well pop her an email to see if she’d do wedding photography and she was really keen! Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump the gun and email her behind your back. In the moment, I thought I might as well,” I said apologetically. “I was emailing some other photographers about a work event and I suppose I was in event-planning mode!”
“Don’t apologize. That’s wonderful, Emily,” Lady Meade gushed.
Cordelia hadn’t said anything, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
“Isn’t she one of your favorite photographers?” Jonathan said excitedly, nudging Cordelia. “We might feature in one of her future exhibitions!”
“Shall I get back to her and say you’d like to meet up?” I asked casually, pretending I hadn’t already booked in a meeting.
“If you wouldn’t mind, thank you,” Lady Meade said.
“Very thoughtful of you, Emily!” Lord Meade enthused, smiling gratefully at me. “Now, Cordelia, on to the car you want for the wedding…”
As the conversation moved on, Cordelia kept her eyes fixed on the table in front of her, determined not to give me a hint of gratitude. But after that she did seem to be in a slightly better mood, a little more positive and involved with the wedding chat.
Of course, that was all destroyed the moment Tom came to join the group and divulged our earlier meeting with Annabel and Georgia. When Cordelia was done telling him where to go, she told her parents she no longer intended to join us for dinner.
I assume Jonathan reasoned with her after she stormed off, because she was there with him, dressed and ready to greet the guests as they arrived. I also noticed Lady Meade go over to her as she came downstairs and gently plead with her to be on her “best behavior.” “Don’t let them get to you,” she said quietly. “Rise above it, darling.”
Now I know why that advice was necessary.
“I’m sure the flowers at your wedding will be stunning,” I say to Annabel, hoping to conclude the conversation on Nicole Percy.
“It’s so much fun planning a wedding, isn’t it, Cordy?” she continues, Cordelia flinching every time she shortens her name. “Although now that yours is going to be a bit of a rush you may miss out on some of the fun. What a pity you can’t enjoy it.”
The cattiness is so blatant, I’m tempted to look for cameras to check we’re not on an episode of Made in Chelsea, with producers encouraging Annabel to provoke Cordelia as openly as possible. I consider escaping this toxic conversation and glance round the room for an excuse. Georgia is laughing loudly over something Tom has said and is touching his arm. He catches my eye and I look away, heat rising to my cheeks.
“What does your fiancé do, Annabel?” I ask, hoping to seem deep in conversation and not distracted by Tom at all.
“He’s in property,” she informs me. “It’s a shame he couldn’t be here this weekend, but he’s so busy at the moment. We’re off on holiday next week, though, thank goodness.”
“Ah, that will be nice,” I say, wondering if she’s noticed that Cordelia has yet to utter a word. “Are you in property, too?”
“No, I’m an artist,” she reveals, put out by my having to ask.
“Wow! What sort of art do you do?”
“I work with charcoal,” she informs me, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. “I specialize in portraits.”
“That’s amazing. Have you drawn anyone interesting?”
“I’ve mostly done self-portraits.”
“Oh. Right.”
“What a shame your wedding has to be inside, Cordy!” Annabel exclaims, before I can pester her any further. “The grounds of Dashwell are so beautiful but a Christmas wedding means all your guests will be holed up inside like sardines! What a pity. A spring wedding would have been delightful on the lawns. I must say, I’m pleased I can have a champagne reception outside and people can enjoy our grounds. How sad you won’t have that yourself.”
“Mmm,” Cordelia says, and downs her entire glass of champagne.
“Goodness!” Annabel laughs, her eyes wide with surprise as Cordelia lowers her glass. “Still into that scene, are you? I would have thought you’d be off it after what happened.”
A strangled sound issues from Cordelia’s throat. Annabel looks at her calmly, no hint of remorse.
“Excuse me,” Cordelia manages, and leaves the room.
Annabel watches her go, taking a delicate sip of her drink, then turning to me to say, “How strange.” She goes to stand next to her sister and join in with her conversation. With no idea as to what just happened, I place my glass on the side and quietly head out of the room under the watchful gaze of Lady Meade.
I hear a door shutting and follow the corridor to one of the smaller, empty drawing rooms, which has a set of doors opening into the garden. Cordelia is standing outside, smoking. “Are you OK?” I ask carefully, coming to join her.
She looks irritated that I’ve disturbed her. “I’m fine. I needed a smoke.”
“I can understand why,” I say. “Annabel’s a bit of an interesting character.”
“You could say that,” she says, taking a long drag.
“She’s jealous.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” she says, exhaling.
“I know.”
“And I don’t need you to come out here to comfort me.”
“I know.”
We stand in silence together as she takes another drag. In between, she chews her thumbnail. I want to ask her what Annabel meant by saying “after what happened.” It had struck a nerve with Cordelia, whatever she was referring to, and I wonder whether she wants to talk about it. But I can’t get the words out to ask.
Instead, I decide to keep things light and try to cheer her up. “Ugh,” I say. “Can you imagine her and Nicole Percy in a room together? Seriously, imagine the bullshit you’d have to put up with, listening to those two in conversation.”
Cordelia tries her best not to smile, but the corners of her mouth twitch.
“They’d be competing with each other,” I continue. “Who could say the most rubbish in the most pretentious words?”
“I’m genuinely not sure who would win,” Cordelia says, and flourishes the hand holding the cigarette. “They’re both so artistic.”
“Both inspired by the world and soil around them.”
“Inspired by the self.”
“The world is but their canvas.”
“Dedicated to creating a concept of sensational harmony.”
She catches my eye and we share a conspiratorial smile. The door opens behind us and Tom sticks his head round.
“Dinner is served,” he informs us, then lowers his voice. “Shotgun not sitting next to either of them. I’ve done my time while you two have been having fun out here.”
He disappears and Cordelia rolls her eyes, taking one last drag on her cigarette and putting it out beneath her shoe, picking up the butt and sticking it into her pocket. I open the door for her as she goes inside. “Thank you,” she says.
There’s something different about her voice and it takes me a moment or two to put my finger on it. It’s because she actually means it.
Progress.