‘It’s like something out of a film,’ Holly James breathed as the hire car proceeded down a lengthy, tree-lined drive and emerged from the shade and into the sunshine.
Cleremont sprawled before them on a knoll overlooking gently rolling hills, lush now with early summer greenery. Holly lowered her window and thrust her head out to get a better look, breathing in the scent of roses and honeysuckle and listening to the sound of silence, and felt as if the heat and traffic of London they’d so recently left behind was nothing more than a bad memory.
Slightly below and to the left of the house she glimpsed a folly, and a lake with swans gliding serenely on the surface. Cleremont was enormous and had doubtless seen a thousand sunrises and as many sunsets; the late afternoon sun now warmed and softened the Jacobean façade.
‘It’s let out to film companies on a regular basis,’ Hugh Darcy remarked as he negotiated a rut in the drive. ‘My parents and brother live in a small section of the house during production. The rest is taken over by shouty directors and cables and lights, and actors with overinflated egos.’
‘Oh, you mean like Ciaran?’ she joked. Instantly she wished she hadn’t, when she saw his jaw tighten and his smile fade at the mention of the film star. Hugh’s was such a handsome, serious, noble face that she couldn’t bear him to mar it with a frown.
‘Yes, exactly.’ As the Mercedes drew closer to the house, he nodded in the direction of sound and equipment trucks parked on a gravelled side lot. ‘There’s a production on now. My mother abhors having them here. She throws a huge cocktail party the instant they leave and invites everyone in South Devon over to celebrate.’
‘And when the filming ends… what then? Do your family rattle around in this ginormous place by themselves?’ Holly asked as Hugh brought the car to a stop before a sweep of stone steps that led to the entrance.
‘No.’ He opened his door. ‘There’s an estate cottage adjoining the property, the dower house. They stay there.’
‘Dower house?’ Holly echoed, staring up at the enormous stone façade before her with a sinking sensation. What, exactly, she wondered, had she got herself into?
‘It’s where the lady of the house goes to live when her son – the heir – marries and brings his bride home to Cleremont. As I’ll do with you, eventually,’ he added, and leaned across the seat to kiss her.
Holly kissed him back and threaded her fingers into his thick, dark hair, then drew reluctantly away. ‘Do you mean to say that we’ll live here, you and I, after we’re married?’
‘Not straight away, no. We’ll live in London, I expect, until…’ He paused. ‘Until such time as my father passes on, at which point I inherit the title, and then this great pile of stone becomes my responsibility.’
She eyed him. ‘You don’t sound too happy about that.’
‘Of course it’s not something I like to dwell on, my father’s death,’ he said, ‘nor am I enamoured with the idea of taking on ownership of this place.’ He frowned. ‘Owning a house like Cleremont is a huge responsibility. It’s like having a relative with an outstretched hand and an unrelenting need for cash. You want to say “no, enough”, but you can’t. Duty compels you to find a way forward, to keep the roof repaired and the salaries paid and the gardens maintained, as well as keeping the money coming in to pay for it all.’
‘What about location fees?’ Holly asked. ‘For films.’
‘They don’t pay as much as you might think,’ he said as he got out of the car. ‘As the film companies like to point out, the publicity Cleremont receives in return is invaluable.’
‘Yes, I suppose people come here in droves after seeing Cleremont on the screen,’ she agreed as her gaze swept over the imposing Jacobean façade. ‘Where is the dower house, exactly?’
‘Behind those trees, over there.’ He waved an arm to the left. ‘Grandmother lived there until she died.’ He opened the boot and began unloading their luggage. ‘Now my family stay there, unless they’re entertaining guests or hosting a hunt, so they can live normally, without the worry of tour groups or film crews or journalists seeing the reality behind the “stately home” façade.’ His smile was wry.
‘How strange it all is,’ she mused. ‘When I first met you, working at my father’s department store, I thought you were the most pompous ass I’d ever met, and you thought I was a fashion-obsessed bird-brain. Now, here we are… about to get married. Isn’t life funny?’
Before he could reply, the front doors opened and a man and woman emerged. The first thing Holly noticed was their perfect posture.
The second thing she noticed was a young man, hands thrust in his jeans pockets, standing behind them. He had ginger hair and, unlike the others, a wide and welcoming smile on his face.
‘Hugh,’ the woman exclaimed, and drew her son forward. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come home.’
Her hair was cropped into a stylish mid-length bob, and was a rich, maple syrup colour, and Holly realised where the young man behind her had got his own more gingery shade. She wore a navy voile shirt tucked into a twill skirt, and low-heeled but fashionable shoes.
Hugh’s father – for Holly assumed the elegant, lanky gentleman with grey hair in khakis and a pale pink polo shirt was Lord Darcy – clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘Welcome home, Hugh,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thank you.’ Hugh turned to Holly and slipped his arm around her shoulder. ‘Father, mother – I’d like you both to meet my…’ He stopped. ‘I’d like you to meet Holly James.’
She glanced at him in surprise. Why hadn’t he told his parents they were engaged?
‘Welcome, Holly,’ Lord Darcy said as he took her hand in his. ‘A pleasure.’
‘Thank you. I’m pleased to be here. What a lovely home.’
Hugh’s mother extended her hand. ‘Lady Sarah Darcy. Welcome to Cleremont, Miss James.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Darcy. Call me Holly, please.’
But Hugh’s mother had already turned away to introduce the ginger-haired young man. ‘This is my youngest son, Harry. Harry, Miss James.’
‘Holly, please,’ Holly said again, with just a tiny trace of pique.
‘Welcome, Holly. It’s a pleasure.’ Harry took her hand in his and leaned forward to peck her cheek. ‘Bit of advice?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t fight mum. She always wins.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ she murmured, and returned his smile.
‘Had you any trouble driving down?’ Hugh’s father enquired when the introductions were complete and they trooped inside. ‘The tourists are out in full force, I regret to say.’ He glanced at Holly. ‘Makes going anywhere round here in summer a nightmare.’
‘Traffic wasn’t bad until we reached Torquay Road,’ Hugh replied. ‘Evidently the circus is setting up in town for a couple of weeks.’ He turned to Holly. ‘The coastline here in South Devon draws a lot of day trippers and tourists, especially this time of year.’
‘It does indeed,’ his father observed as he led the way across a cavernous entrance hall and into a drawing room. ‘They call this area the “English Riviera” for good reason – we have warm weather, beaches; even palm trees. Unfortunately, commercialism has invaded Longbourne, our local seaside village, as well. It’s become nothing but wall-to-wall chip shops and supermarkets. Sun cream and Chupa Chups. Rubbish.’
Holly trailed behind the others, scarcely aware of the conversation or Hugh’s hand resting at the small of her back as she took in her surroundings.
The drawing room was immense, larger than the entire first floor of her parents’ house in Chipping Norton.
And it was stunningly, breathtakingly… gorgeous. Muted sunlight came in through tall mullioned windows and illuminated the rich velvets and faded chintz of the various settees, cushioned club chairs, and tables with clawed feet arranged throughout the room; a pair of King Charles spaniels lay on the rug, sleeping near the hearth. The walls were covered with portraits.
‘That,’ Lady Darcy said, following Holly’s gaze to one of the largest and most striking of the paintings on display, ‘is a van Dyck. It’s a portrait of the first earl.’
Holly nodded. ‘It’s lovely. I’ve only seen photographs of paintings like this. And what a beautiful room,’ she added. ‘How very lucky you all are to live in such a place.’
‘Lucky?’ Lady Sarah’s eyebrow rose skyward as she sat down on the edge of a sofa angled near the fireplace. ‘Believe me, my dear girl, luck has nothing to do with it. It’s a privilege to live here at Cleremont.’
Holly paled. ‘Oh – of course it is. I didn’t mean –’
‘Would you care for refreshment?’ Her ladyship turned to Hugh and patted the cushion next to her. ‘Sit, darling,’ she commanded. ‘You must be famished after that long drive down from London.’ She glanced at Holly. ‘Both of you.’
As Hugh and Holly assented that they could definitely do with something, Harry took a tray of drinks from a servant who appeared at the door and came forward to hand them out.
‘Pimm’s Cup,’ he said in a low voice as he handed a glass, adorned with a slice of lemon and a wedge of cucumber, to Holly. ‘Drink up,’ he added with a wink and a quick glance at his mother. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ll be needing it.’