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HETTIE PUT OFF REPLYING to Grace’s invitation for as long as she could. She was hosting an engagement party for Ted and Anju, but Hettie didn’t much fancy the idea of trying to celebrate anything in the same room as Alexander. It was too harsh a reminder of how different everything had been when the engagement had first been announced. Celia would be there too, of course. She was someone else Hettie hadn’t had to face since the break-up. Hettie pointed out these uncomfortable facts to Grace, but Grace wasn’t listening. ‘You’re my friend, and a friend of the family, plus Anju wants you to come. It’ll be lovely, and anyway, you and Alexander are talking again.’
‘Hardly!’
But Hettie felt cornered. She would have to at least put in an appearance. She’d make sure she saw Ted and Anju, and then steal away on the excuse of her broken leg. Pretty good get-out, even if she would be out of plaster by the date.
Fiona was going. ‘And they invited you? How very magnanimous of them.’
Tiff opened her mouth to bite back on Hettie’s behalf, but Hettie shook her head and sent a warning look to stop her. The last thing she needed was Tiff and Fiona at loggerheads.
Nor did she really want Fiona informing Tiff of the reasons why it was magnanimous of the Meltons to include Hettie in their plans.
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HETTIE WAS SURPRISED that Fiona was still turning up at the yard. Whatever you thought of the girl, she got on with the job with surprising efficiency, and she usually left straight away, which was a relief, unless Gregor was there or when Hettie taught the children of one of Fiona’s cronies. Fiona liked to hobnob with the pony-club mothers. She spoke loudly in a way that made Hettie believe she was showing off her rightful position as part of the upper-class set, to highlight Hettie’s own exclusion from it. She would have laughed at that behaviour from anyone else, but Fiona still got under her skin.
The first of the pony-club mothers who’d contacted Hettie before Gregor’s celebrity endorsement still brought her daughters for weekly lessons. Lizzie was old-school, genteel aristocracy and totally devoid of snobbery. A good friend of Grace’s, Lizzie probably wasn’t, Hettie suspected, fond of Fiona, but her schooling in social matters was such that she was never less than polite.
Lizzie delivered her daughters and their ponies to Hardacre in a battered grey trailer, pulled by a much-abused Defender. She also brought her son. Oscar, older than his sisters, was a young teenager facing challenges. Most of the time he was calm, but every so often something unsettled him. On those occasions Lizzie returned to the car with him, to soothe his distress.
Oscar liked to be near the horses. Lockie caught his attention, and the horse appeared to like Oscar. The two would stand either side of the gate, calmly observing each other. Hettie kept an anxious eye on them. This side of the gate was fine, but she couldn’t let him go nearer. Lockie was too unpredictable. Her plastered leg was proof of that.
On one particular morning, Oscar did climb through the rails.
Hettie called out to Lizzie and pointed.
Oscar was through the fence before Lizzie had time to move.
Lockie lifted his head, more startled by Hettie’s shout than by Oscar’s arrival.
Fiona, coming back from her ride, took in the scene and halted her horse. ‘Oscar,’ she said calmly, catching the boy’s attention, before dismounting and holding the reins in his direction. ‘Will you please lead Cob back to his stable?’
Lizzie had been walking towards her son, but now she paused. There was a tense moment while Hettie, Lizzie and Fiona watched to see what would happen next. Oscar looked at Lockie, and then at Cob. The seconds moved slowly until Oscar made his decision.
He climbed back through the fence, took the offered reins and rested his face against the solid expanse of Cob’s piebald shoulder. Three women breathed out with relief.
From then on Fiona timed her visits to coincide with Oscar’s. Slipping a halter onto her father’s most placid hunter, she passed the rope to Oscar, and stayed close by his side while Oscar and Cob clopped circuits of the yard.
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ALEXANDER INVITED RUBY to Ted’s engagement party, and she’d spoken of little else since he’d mentioned it. It was endearing, and she was sweet, easy to be with. He walked to the Hall through the gardens. A second bloom of roses tumbled over the Michaelmas daisies in the borders, and his mother was there, sketch pad in hand, as she endeavoured to catch the last blossoms on paper before their petals dropped.
‘Mother! I was heading up to offer my services at the Hall, but if you’re out here Grace must have everything under control.’
‘We’re waiting for them to finish building the marquee. The children are helping, so it could be a while. Come sit with me instead.’ She put down her pad, and patted the bench beside her. ‘It’s so lovely out here.’
‘Lucky with the weather, this late in the year. He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. The weak sunshine displayed the grounds at their best, gentled by the light, the manor rising up in faded glory. ‘You love this place, don’t you? Honestly, Mother, it’s beyond me why you won’t move back.’
Celia took his hand and held it in her lap. ‘Now, Alexander, don’t start on that. I believe you do know very well—’
‘Because you made Father a promise! Well, he’s hardly likely to know.’
‘I would know. That’s enough, let’s not spoil the day. I’m here now, aren’t I? Tell me about you instead. You seem happier since your holiday, and I gather we’re meeting Ruby tonight. How lovely! An engagement party for Ted, in James’s house, and you’re bringing your new girlfriend along.’
‘Well, hardly.’ Alexander shifted uncomfortably. He was bringing Ruby, but his mother was making that sound like more of a deal than it was, and her statement rubbed on a raw point: there was James, happily married, with that great bunch of kids; Ted, about to celebrate his own engagement; and him, stuck in the middle, stumbling between one-night stands and a train crash of a relationship. ‘Ruby’s just a date.’
And yet he knew now, if he hadn’t always known, that he wanted what James had, and what Ted was creating. Family, children, a future to build for. He just didn’t know how the fuck to get there. Clearly not self-service shagging. And no more train crashes either. Which ruled out passion of the heart-twisted, obsessive sort he’d felt for Hettie.
He squeezed his mother’s hand. ‘Yes, I am happier. You shouldn’t have to worry about me. I know I can be—’
‘Hush.’ She squeezed his hand back. ‘You’re my little soldier, Alexander. It’s my job to worry about you.’
He felt warmed by her words, even if this was becoming slightly awkward now. He cleared his throat and stood up. ‘Well. There must be something I can do in the house.’
What he’d learnt in Porth Wen was that simple was best: friendship, compatibility, no expectation. Ruby was... Ruby was what? Practice? God no, that sounded awful. Ruby was a nice girl. With common interests, parents who were still married and no serious baggage, Ruby was safe. He strode with purpose, climbed the front steps two treads at a time. If he was happier, it was because he was finally taking back control of his life.
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THE PARTY WOULD BE held in the dining room, with the French doors open to link to a marquee in the garden. There would be champagne on arrival, followed by a buffet and dancing into the early hours. James had distanced himself from the weeks of planning. Practised as he was at listening to Grace enthuse about the details, he was able to respond with the appropriate noises without actually hearing what was being said.
The ploy had bitten him today; he’d made the mistake of showing surprise when the marquee vans turned up, and commented that it was late in the year to have a marquee, and that the workmen would make a god-awful mess of the garden. He was crossing the hall on the way to his study when Alexander walked in. Grace was shouting behind him, ‘I must have told you about the marquee a hundred times, James!’
Artie and Fred had been given the task of handing out canapés at the start of the party. Georgia had worked out that she was missing out on something, even if she didn’t know what, and was playing up to her mother’s distraction with a crusade of naughtiness. Just before Alexander arrived, she’d drawn on the walls of the dining room with felt-tip pen. Catching sight of Georgia’s snotty, red-eyed face and the violent scrawling on the recently hung, exclusive damask wallpaper, Alexander stepped up to avert Grace’s further meltdown.
He swept the toddler up. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it, Grace. You get on with whatever it is you need to be getting on with.’ Georgia hiccupped in his arms, and buried her snotty nose in his jumper.
Grace hesitated, her hands on her hips. ‘She’ll twist you around her little finger, but it’s probably a good idea as I’m about to commit murder.’
‘Right, Gog. You and I have some cleaning to do.’ He prodded her gently in the ribs, she squirrelled deeper into his chest and shook her head. ‘First the walls, and then my jumper.’
Georgia lifted her head; star-lashed eyes wet with tears took in the smudge on his shoulder. Alexander kissed her forehead. ‘Don’t worry, Gog, it’ll all come out in the wash. Shall we get a bucket of water?’
She nodded, and her plump bottom lip wobbled. He bounced her through to the kitchen.
Grace was right, Gog could twist him around her finger with one look at those swimmy eyes, which somehow managed to be both sorry and defiant at the same time. He sat her on the draining board and wiped her face with a sheet of kitchen towel. ‘Where’s the bucket, Gog?’
He found them a scrubbing brush each, filled up the bucket, and they flicked washing-up-liquid bubbles until Georgia giggled.
Alexander smiled. Poor little Gog, she crashed from mischief into disaster, but it was impossible not to love her. Georgia reached for the soggy kitchen towel and tried to wipe his jumper.
‘Thank you, Georgia, good job!’ He lifted her down and picked up the bucket.
They managed to scrub the felt-tip from vivid to muted, and Alexander placed a side table to screen the worst of the damage.
The Hall buzzed now with scurrying workers. Caterers and decorators passed each other in a rush from the drive to the kitchens, flattening a path across the lawn. An occasional smoky grey cloud drifting across the sky caused chary upward glances, but luck held and the clouds moved on without dropping their showers. By four o’clock the scene was set, lighting ready to glitter and sparkle through the night, filigreed chairs and tables in position. The dance floor awaited, the buffet table was dressed ready for the feast to adorn it, and rows of champagne bottles graced chillers hired for the evening.
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HETTIE’S PLASTER CAST had come off three days ago. She was conscious that she sported one white leg, and one tanned. Her thigh still ached, and the doctor had told her not to ride for another month at least. Hettie nodded at him, knowing she’d be on a horse again sooner than that. At least she could drive now and didn’t need the crutches.
Fiona and Bert still hacked out every day for her. Bert, safely astride one of Gregor’s saintly horses, had been whistling to himself ever since his first ride in too many years to count. Tiff, having received daily lessons from Hettie, was beginning to relax her shoulders and un-grit her teeth while astride a horse, but she couldn’t be said to actually be enjoying it yet.
Hettie was immensely appreciative. This small band of people had got her through what could have been a disaster for her business and her future. Fiona dropped her guard and was almost pleasant once or twice. Just a couple more weeks and things would be back to normal. She couldn’t wait to be back in charge.
But she wasn’t looking forward to the Melton bash. She had nothing to wear and high heels were out of the question. She couldn’t wear the red dress again, and anyway she wasn’t in red dress mood. Imo had offered to lend her a gown, but Imo was nearly six feet tall. Tiff must be a size four, and Fiona... well, even trimmed back down to her former curviness, her dresses would swamp Hettie, and she hadn’t offered anyway. Hettie had less than no money with which to buy an outfit. In desperation she upturned her childhood bedroom, found the dress she’d ruined at her very first hunt ball and dyed it a slatey shade of grey in an effort to cover the stains. The result wasn’t entirely successful, the chiffon and cotton picked up the colour patchily and created a murky effect. There wouldn’t be any risk of her stunning Alexander into lusty forgiveness – why was she even thinking that? She was done with him now anyway.
She splashed out on some cheap sparkly flip-flops from eBay, and hoped she could lift the outfit by blinging it up with some jewellery. Not the de Beers pendant Alexander had given her so long ago. She’d broken that circle of trust. She wondered if she ought to return the necklace to him, but the frankness that conversation would have demanded halted her line of thought.
At least her party dress was long enough to hide her piebald legs.