Marcus took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. This was a tough one. The budget was tight. He knew his role would involve editing and directing, as well as being the person who made the documentary happen. Not only was he going to be the producer, he’d have to act as manager, accountant, visionary and entrepreneur. All were talents of his – he knew that – but this time it was different. This time it was personal. Any outsider, not really knowing Marcus Devlin would assume he was an aloof character, a dark, brooding Heathcliff figure, that kept all his emotions in check, and to a degree they would be right in this assessment. But deep down, in the pit of his soul, lay torrid feelings of anger and the driving desire to correct the unforgivable injustices that had blighted the one person he had loved unconditionally, his mother.
It had been nine months since she had died. He had been there from the very beginning of her diagnosis. The cancer had raged through her body cruelly, giving him only a few short months to love and look after her, to tend to her every need. How could he cram in all he wanted to say and show her how much he cared in that short time? It was impossible. As soon as Marcus had learnt of his mother’s cancer, he had tried to make time stand still. He had stopped all he was doing, backing out of a programme he had just started to make. His mother came first, it was that simple.
It had always been just him and her. Anne Devlin had been a single mother and had been fiercely protective of her only child. Being single, pregnant and from England hadn’t been the best of starts in a small village in Roscommon, even though she had called herself ‘Mrs’ Devlin and worn a wedding ring, claiming her young husband had been killed tragically in a car accident. Anne had family in Ireland and an auntie had originally taken her in as long as Anne pretended to be a ‘widow’. No one was going to bring shame to her doorstep, particularly family. As a result, Marcus grew up believing his father had been killed. It was only in the dark hours of early dawn, nine months ago, that he had learnt differently. His dying mother’s last breaths had told him the truth: his father was very much alive and living in England. Marcus had been stunned, but equally appalled that he had never met or known him. Anne’s faint whispers had explained why. He was married. He was well known, a somebody, with a title. Marcus strained to listen and absorb every last detail, his heart racing. The fury had started to build at that moment, and had gathered momentum ever since. His mother had been fooled, used and then conveniently disposed of. It had been straightforward to research the name she had given him, especially as he vaguely recognised it in any event. Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake of Treweham Hall.
By the time Marcus had buried his mother and recovered some form of normality, plus digested the revelation of his parentage, it was too late to pursue the matter. Exactly a month after Anne Devlin died, Richard Cavendish-Blake had followed suit. Marcus had spent restless, sleepless nights plotting how he would confront the bastard, expose him, make him pay, only to read one lazy, weekend morning, whilst poring over the Sunday papers, that Tobias Cavendish-Blake was now Lord of Treweham Hall, following the sad loss of his father, the late Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake.
Marcus had been duped, robbed of the opportunity to look his father in the eye and tell him exactly what he thought of him. He was incensed with the injustice of it all. How could people like that not be held accountable? How could he get away with it? Well, he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter how long it took. He was a patient man, but he would have his revenge if it killed him.
The way the resentment had eaten away at him had affected his health, but one day the perfect opportunity had landed right in his lap. He even wondered if his mother was helping him from above, such was the timing. He was approached by a bigwig from the BBC, wanting to make a documentary. He had an idea in his head, which Marcus leapt on. As soon as the words ‘quintessential English village life’ were spoken, Marcus’ reaction was unusually animated, and so positive in fact that the idea had blossomed quickly into a real project. Marcus had bust a gut getting the finance together from individual donors, foundations, companies and arts funding to get the show on the road, and at breath-taking speed. It all seemed to fall into place. Having contacts with the kind of people that could make things happen had proved invaluable; that and the fact they wanted to help Marcus, after seeing him off the scene so long with the loss of his mother. He was both admired and respected. Then when Viola had actually suggested Treweham he was speechless, but relieved that he wasn’t going to have to find a way to steer his team in that direction. Again, his thoughts turned back to his mother and how she must be looking down on him and helping him.
Marcus had researched the village for himself, hiding inconspicuously in the background, witnessing the mayhem that had surrounded Tobias Cavendish-Blake’s wedding. Staying at The Templar had been ideal as it had put him right in the centre of the action – not to mention the added bonus of meeting Finula.
The thought of her made his shoulders relax and his mouth curl into a smile. Finula had been the only comfort in all of this, with her blaze of red hair and creamy, pale skin dusted with freckles. To him, she was a true Irish colleen and looked so out of place in England. The moment he had set eyes on her he had felt an overwhelming urge to pick her up and whisk her back to his homeland. Was it another coincidence that her father came from the same county in Ireland as himself? Or could it be another motherly guiding hand, leading him here to The Templar?
Sighing, he stared down at the paperwork in front of him. The bedroom he had booked this time was the largest in The Templar, with a king-size bed, wardrobe, small sofa, and a desk and chair by the bay window overlooking the velvety green fields at the rear of the building. Being at the back of The Templar meant it was quiet, giving him peace to think, as opposed to the front bedrooms, which faced the hustle and bustle of the car park and the pub entrance. Marcus stared at his notes. He was devising a list of people to interview and places to shoot. The top priority was obviously Tobias Cavendish-Blake at Treweham Hall, but how best to pin him down? Reputedly the man hated the press. Then an idea came to him. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
Later that evening, after all the guests had dined, Finula relaxed with a well-earned glass of wine in a small alcove by the bar. Marcus had eaten with the rest of the crew and was ordering a pint of Guinness when he noticed her tucked away. He smiled to himself, collected his drink and made his way over.
‘Hello there, mind if I join you?’
‘No, of course not.’ She indicated for him to sit opposite her. ‘How’s the filming going?’ Finula was burning with curiosity about the whole thing, relishing the prospect of being part of the documentary.
‘Well, we finally start filming next week. At the moment we’re getting a feel for the place, deciding who to interview and where to film.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Marcus tilted his head to one side, as if the idea had just occurred to him. ‘If you’re interested, you could come on a day’s shoot.’
‘Really?’ Finula’s face lit up. He loved the way her eyes sparkled in delight.
‘Sure,’ he nodded. ‘In fact, you know more about Treweham Hall than any of the team so perhaps you could advise us.’
‘Treweham Hall? You’re filming there?’ she replied in surprise.
‘We would dearly love to. The Cavendish-Blakes are local gentry, aren’t they? I believe they are thought very highly of in the village, too.’ He eyed her carefully, not wanting to sound too keen.
‘They certainly are. Tobias is a top bloke.’
‘Is that so?’ Marcus’ eyebrows rose mockingly.
‘Yes, of course. Just because he’s got a title doesn’t mean he’s up himself, you know,’ chided Finula, looking into his deep, green eyes and feeling rather flushed.
Her pupils were dilated, Marcus noticed. He’d once read somewhere that was a sign of sexual attraction. Judging by the way she kept playing with her hair he clearly put her on edge too, though.
‘I’m sure the Cavendish-Blakes are fine people,’ he soothed with a gentle chuckle.
Finula loved the way his cheeks dimpled when he laughed.
‘Well, don’t take my word for it, judge for yourself.’
‘I’d like that very much, if he’ll let me anywhere near.’
‘I’ll ask him,’ she said assertively. Bingo, thought Marcus. ‘If I’m there with the TV crew at Treweham Hall he’d be more likely to agree to it.’
Marcus paused, as if in deep thought. ‘Finula, that would be a tremendous help.’
She liked the way he said her name and gazed into her eyes.
‘How can I thank you?’ He watched her swallow nervously.
‘Er…’
‘How about I take you out for dinner?’
‘That would be nice,’ she replied hoarsely.
‘Saturday? In fact, let’s make a day of it.’
As luck would have it, she had a rare Saturday off, but she’d have told her dad she was off anyway, given the circumstances.
‘Fine,’ she squeaked.
At the end of the evening, as Marcus made his way up the stairs and crossed the landing to his room, he met Viola.
‘Ah, there you are, Marcus,’ she said. ‘Listen, I didn’t want to mention this at dinner in front of everyone, but I think I know a way to get to Tobias Cavendish-Blake,’ she hissed under her breath.
Marcus smiled lazily. ‘All sorted.’
‘What?’ spat Viola.
‘I said, it’s all sorted,’ he replied calmly, crossing his arms.
‘But…’ she spluttered.
‘We should be filming inside Treweham Hall by… the end of the month, I’d say,’ and with that he smiled politely, passed her, unlocked his bedroom door and closed it shut, leaving Viola standing there, jaw dropped in astonishment.
Again! He’s done it again, always a step ahead, she thought with annoyance.