Saturday’s regatta in Longbourne proved to be even more crowded than the previous week’s event. Every car in South Devon looked to be parked along the streets or jammed in the car parks; pedestrians crowded the pavement, and bicycles and scooters zipped past.
‘At least Daddy didn’t ride his bicycle,’ Charli said, and gave a dramatic little shudder as they staked out a spot on the beach and spread their towels and set up chairs. ‘It’s so embarrassing when he does.’
‘It’s good exercise,’ Lizzy pointed out. ‘You should try it sometime.’
‘I’m sure the only exercise Charlotte favours,’ Emma said with a smirk, ‘is the lateral variety, with a boy.’
Charli, who’d normally have thrown back a cutting retort, was far too preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow’s cruise on the Meryton to care. Would Ciaran win the race today?
She hoped so.
She’d seen him aboard the sailboat, talking to the captain as she and her sisters walked past the marina, and he’d lifted his hand to wave at her. He’d looked gorgeous, muscled – but not overly so – and fit, with his chest defined against his polo shirt, and his arms and legs lightly bronzed and sheened with sea spray.
Perhaps she’d made a mistake, turning him away.
Well tomorrow, as Scarlett O’Hara had once so famously said, was another day.
Charlotte frowned. She didn’t have a bikini to wear on the yacht, thanks to Daddy and his ridiculously old-fashioned rules; but the red swimsuit would do, especially if she pulled the straps (and the top) down just a bit – strictly for sun-bathing purposes, of course…
‘…I said, do you want an egg sandwich?’ Lizzy was asking her, an expression of annoyance on her face. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘Yes,’ Charli snapped. ‘I’m bloody listening to you. And yes, I’d like an egg sandwich.’ She caught it as Lizzy tossed it at her and unwrapped the waxed paper. ‘Thanks.’
‘What’s got you so cranky?’ her sister asked as she dropped down onto a beach towel and bit into her own sandwich.
‘Nothing. I just didn’t want to come here today, that’s all.’
‘But why not? I should think you’d welcome a chance to eye up Ciaran Duncan all afternoon, and cheer him on.’
‘I do. And I will. But I can’t keep lusting after film stars and boy band singers for ever, Lizzy.’ Charlotte chewed her egg and bacon sarnie with a moody expression. ‘I want someone real, not someone I can never have. Someone I can go riding with, or talk to, or – or share a Chinese takeaway with after a date. I want a real, proper boyfriend.’
Lizzy was silent.
‘But I’ll never meet anyone here,’ she went on, scowling as she glanced at the colourful bunting and crowds of people everywhere. ‘Not with every boy in South Devon afraid to touch me because of Daddy. They must think he has a direct phone line to God, and that he’ll send them straight to Hell if they so much as kiss me. It isn’t fair. I’ll die a virgin.’
‘I think,’ Lizzy said slowly, ‘that Daddy’s overprotective because you’re the youngest… and he’s not quite sure what to do about you, now that Mum’s gone.’
Charli cast her a perplexed glance. ‘Do about me? What do you mean?’
‘He doesn’t know how to cope with you,’ she said. ‘I mean, think about it – Emma was already out of her teens and I was sixteen when Mum died. We got through the worst ravages of puberty on her watch. But you… you’re still coping with boys and sex and all of that angsty, hormonal stuff, and Dad doesn’t have a clue how to get on with you. So he overreacts.’
‘Oh. I think I see what you mean.’ And she did. Poor Daddy. He was only a man – and a former vicar, at that – trying to cope with three stroppy daughters, one of them oversexed and constantly hormonal. She felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for him.
‘If it were up to him,’ Lizzy went on, ‘I’ve no doubt he’d lock you in a tower and throw away the key until you’ve either gone to uni or got married, whichever comes first.’ She smiled. ‘In the meantime, he’s doing the best he can. He does love you, Charli.’ Her smile faded. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
Charlotte nodded and laid her sandwich, half-eaten, aside. ‘I guess. Maybe you could talk to him? Ask him to loosen the noose a bit?’
Lizzy eyed her in consideration. ‘I might do. But you have to do your part as well.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Show him he can trust you,’ she said. ‘Quit sneaking out of your bedroom window, for one thing. Earn his trust and he might allow you a bit more freedom.’
‘Do you think so? Really?’
‘Well,’ Lizzy said tartly as she finished her sandwich and crumpled the waxed paper wrapping, ‘you have nothing to lose by trying, do you?’
And Charlotte was forced to admit that her sister had a very good point.
***
As she settled into a folding beach chair next to Hugh, Holly’s gaze wandered past the crowds of people and bunting and the tall ships’ masts in search of the Pemberley.
The sky was blue and cloudless. Gulls circled and called, and the freshening breeze carried with it the scent of the sea and – typically for Longbourne – the distinctive odour of chips and sun cream as well.
‘There’s Harry,’ she told Hugh as she spotted the Darcys’ yacht, and pointed.
Hugh’s younger brother stood mid-ship, shouting at someone halfway up the mainmast, and Holly shaded her eyes against the early sun as she followed his gaze upwards.
She frowned. Wasn’t that – Billy?
It was. The boy, clad in madras plaid shorts and a T-shirt, clung to the mast like a monkey and made his way back down to the deck.
‘Is this a private party, or might I join you?’
Holly tore her attention away from Harry and the activity aboard the Pemberley to find Lady de Byrne standing before them, a straw bag in hand and her sunglasses firmly in place. She wore a bright pink trouser suit.
Hugh stood. ‘Hello, Lady Georgina. Please, have a seat.’ He reached out to the pile of wooden sling-backed chairs and folded one open. ‘Here you are.’ He set the chair down between himself and Holly and helped his godmother into the seat.
‘Has the regatta begun yet?’ she asked once she was comfortably settled, scanning the sea of masts and rigging. ‘I should hate to miss anything.’
‘No, it hasn’t started,’ Holly told her. ‘Soon, though.’ She gave Lady Georgina a polite smile. ‘Have you brought your daughter along with you?’
‘Imogen’s here,’ she confirmed, ‘although she’s not, thank goodness, with me.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘She came along with our houseguest, Oliver Slade, and they went to get something to eat before the race begins.’
‘Is he enjoying his visit?’
‘I hardly know. I’ve scarcely seen the man since he arrived.’
Hugh frowned. ‘Did you say Oliver Slade? I can’t think why, but the name is familiar to me.’
‘Believe me,’ Lady de Byrne assured him, ‘he’s no one you’d ever have occasion to meet. The man is dreadful. He wears loud ties,’ she added, and shuddered. ‘One can only imagine where Imogen met him. He claims it was at the Marquess of Cavendish’s country estate, but I find that very difficult to believe.’
Hugh was about to ask her why that was so when the blue ‘P’ flag went up, snapping smartly in the wind.
‘Only four minutes until the start of the race,’ he told Holly and Lady Georgina.
‘It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it?’ Lady Darcy exclaimed as she and her husband joined them. ‘I do hope Harry wins!’
‘Well, we’ll soon find out.’ Hugh stood again and unfolded two more chairs and set them up, and they all leaned back in anticipation and waited for the race to begin.
Holly could barely contain her excitement. The class flag was lowered and the race was officially underway.
In between nibbling on cold lobster salad and sipping at white wine with the others, she leaned forward to follow the progress of the six yachts with avid interest, borrowing Hugh’s binoculars now and then to get a closer look.
Just as in the finals race, the other yachts entered in the contest trailed well behind the Meryton and the Pemberley. Both vessels were neck and neck and had been from the moment the flag dropped.
‘Who do you suppose will win?’ Holly asked as she leaned over to return the binoculars to Hugh.
‘Honestly? It’s anyone’s guess. The Meryton’s a keen competitor and she’s lightning fast. I hate to say it, but Harry’s crew faces a tough job of it just to stay ahead.’
The sky, earlier so clear and blue, had gradually darkened to a dull, pewter grey as rainclouds began to move in; but thankfully, the rain held off as the yachts raced back across the bay, sails billowing as they sliced through the waves, bringing them ever closer to the finish line.
***
Emma took the binoculars from Charlotte, who had them trained on the Meryton.
‘Give those back!’ Charli protested. ‘I was watching the race.’
‘You’re watching Ciaran,’ Emma retorted. ‘Besides, you’ve had them long enough. It’s my turn.’ She held the binoculars to her eyes and scanned the shoreline.
‘Who are you looking for?’ Lizzy asked as she took a packet of chips from the beach tote. ‘The yachts are on the water, not the sand.’
‘I’m looking for Daddy,’ she replied, and frowned. ‘I don’t see him anywhere – oh, wait… there he is.’ The binoculars came to rest on Mr Bennet, sitting cross-legged on a blanket under a striped beach umbrella. He’d rolled his trouser legs up; and despite a liberal application of sun cream, he was already turning faintly pink. Beside him she saw the picnic basket, and a woman sitting opposite.
‘Can you see her?’ Lizzy demanded, and reached for the binoculars. ‘Can you see Araminta?’
Emma dodged her. ‘Not really. Only her back, and it’s ramrod straight.’
‘What’s she wearing?’ Charli asked, and sat up from her prone position on the beach towel. ‘Let me have a look. After all, she might end up as our stepmother one day.’
Her older sister shuddered. ‘Let’s hope not.’ Dutifully she handed over the binoculars.
Charlotte held them up and wrinkled her nose as she located her father and his picnic companion. ‘Ugh! She’s wearing a flowery, sort of muumuu thingy. It’s hideous.’ She paused and added, ‘I can just make out the side of her face. It looks a bit… puffy.’
‘Let me see that.’ Lizzy grabbed the binoculars away from her. She frowned. Sure enough, the woman’s cheek did look a trifle swollen.
‘The binoculars are for watching the race,’ Emma said sharply, and snatched them back from her sister. ‘Not for spying on Daddy. Oh, dear,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t like the looks of that.’
‘Don’t like the looks of what?’ Charli asked. ‘Did you see Araminta’s outfit, then? Or was there a bit of…’ she grimaced. ‘Parental PDA?’
‘No public displays of affection, thank God,’ Emma said, and shook her head. ‘No, something much worse. See for yourselves.’ And with that, she handed the binoculars to Charlotte and Lizzy.
***
As the yachts raced nearer to shore, the handful of seagulls Holly had noticed earlier, circling and wheeling idly around the tall ships’ masts, had grown in size, until a flock of perhaps a dozen or more birds gathered and swooped in the Pemberley’s wake.
‘Oh dear, what’s going on?’ Lady de Byrne said, and shaded her eyes. ‘It looks like something out of a Hitchcock film out there.’
Holly grabbed the binoculars from Hugh and anxiously scanned the water. Sure enough, seagulls swooped and dove at the Pemberley’s mast, shrieking and covering the deck and the sides of the ship with ugly white splatters of gull poo as the crew shouted below and darted back and forth.
‘What’s happening?’ she cried as the Pemberley lagged ever so slightly and the Meryton surged ahead.
‘It’s those seagulls,’ Hugh exclaimed. ‘For some reason, they’re attacking the Pemberley’s crow’s nest.’
A moment later, a ripple went through the crowds as the speakers crackled to life.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! The Meryton has just crossed the finish line to win the tenth annual Longbourne Cup regatta race!’ the announcer declared, and the crowd went wild with cheers and clapping. ‘Congratulations to Captain Hodgson, Ciaran Duncan, and the Meryton crew!’
‘What happened?’ Holly asked as she turned to Hugh in dismay. ‘Harry and Captain Kearns had the lead, and they were doing so well! The Pemberley should’ve won that race.’
‘I don’t know,’ Hugh said, his words grim. ‘But it’s plain their loss was down to those bloody damned seagulls.’
***
It wasn’t until later, after Ciaran and his crew had posed for pictures with wide grins and claimed the regatta cup and prize money for their own, that Harry finally had a chance to climb up the main mast to investigate the crow’s nest.
What he found there disgusted him. It wasn’t so much the load of gull shit dried all over the mast, so thick that he’d changed into his diving suit beforehand to protect himself, that filled him with outrage.
No, it was what he saw inside the crow’s nest that infuriated him.
Cardboard containers, empty now and splattered with gull crap, were wedged into the space – containers that, judging by the grease stains still visible under the splatters of bird feces, had only recently held French fries – the sort sold at the dozens of pop-up chip stands erected to accommodate the regatta crowds.
How in the hell had they got up here?
More importantly – who put them there?
Harry climbed back down the mast, careful not to slip on the splatters of gulls’ poo as he went, and jumped on to the deck. He looked down at himself in disgust.
He was covered in bird shit.
‘Well?’ Kearns asked as he approached, his face creased with concern. ‘Did you find anything up there?’
Briefly Harry relayed what he’d seen. ‘Send someone up straight away to take photographs. We’ll need proof.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ The captain shook his head. ‘I’ll get someone up there right away. You go and get cleaned up, and I’ll get the crew started scrubbing down the deck.’ He paused. ‘Is there anything else you need me to do?’
‘Yes.’ Harry’s expression was grim. ‘I want you to wait for me. After I shower, we’re showing the photos of that crow’s nest as evidence to the committee and filing an official grievance. If not for those gulls, and those bloody chips, we’d have won that race, fair and square.’
‘Aye, that we would,’ Kearns agreed. He frowned. ‘But what I don’t understand is why those birds didn’t attack that food right off. Why didn’t they go after it sooner, afore we left the dock?’
‘I’m guessing whoever did this covered the chips with something that stayed put until we ran into the headwinds coming back… most likely, a bit of tarp. Once the tarp blew away, the gulls saw the fries and had a field day – and we had a deck and crew so splattered with gull shit they lost their focus… and the Pemberley lost the race.’
‘It were obviously someone who knows a bit about sailing, and winds,’ Kearns agreed. ‘But who’d do such a thing? Who’d go to such lengths to win a race?’
‘That’s an easy one.’ Harry cast a savage glare at the Meryton. ‘I’ve no doubt Ciaran Duncan is to blame. And before this week is over, I intend to prove it, and take that regatta cup back where it belongs – with the Pemberley.’