A Hopeless Romantic Part 9

"Mum," Angela said. "Don't be mean."

Mary smiled wickedly. Laura felt cross with her suddenly. It was irrational, she knew, but she wished Mary wouldn't do it. She looked at her dad. He pushed his chair back as if to stand up, in a rather defeated way. She took a deep breath.

"So, Dad," she said suddenly. "Where would you like to go tomorrow, then? If it's still raining? There's enough of those bor-er, I mean, big stately homes around here. Which one was first on your list? We could take a picnic, go for a walk, wander round the house. Make a day of it."

"Er," said George. He looked astounded.

"What?" said Angela, who was standing up, holding the salad servers in one hand and the bread in the other.

"Laura?" said Mary, moving forward in her chair. "Darling, are you okay?"

"Yes," said Laura, trying not to sound impatient. "I'm just asking, Dad, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

George's face turned pink again, but this time with pleasure. "Well, Laura, that's a very interesting question, love."

"Is it?" said Mary, sitting back again. "Is it really? Ask yourself, George, my dear man, is it?"

"Granny," said Laura warningly. She looked at her dad again. "Come on, where shall we go?"

"Well," said George Foster slowly. "If I had to pick one to kick things off with, I'd say...Chartley Hall."

"Lovely," said Angela. "Ooh, it's beautiful there. We haven't been there for ages, have we? Didn't they have a toy soldier festival a few years ago?"

Mary slapped her hands to her cheeks.

"Yes," said George. "And they used to have that lovely fete in the summer. Super. With the miniature train you could ride on? You and Simon used to love it. We went in '86. And '87. Do you remember?"

"Vaguely," said Laura. All their summers at Seavale blended into one for her these days, but her parents seemed to recall each and every one with the precision of an Exocet missile.

"Well, you'll see tomorrow," George said. "It's one of the great houses of England. Of anywhere. Beautiful. Inigo Jones. Finest collection of Hogarth's work in private hands. The library-all carved by Grinling Gibbons. And the most incredible books, a set of Austen first editions, of Henry James. The-was it the seventh Marquis of Ranelagh? A bibliophile, it consumed him." He cleared his throat. "Landscaped grounds...beautiful, just beautiful. In its heyday"-his eyes glazed over, and he reminded Laura almost of St. Teresa in her moment of ecstasy-"ah, it was the great house for miles around, its own kingdom, you know. The Needhams-there was no family like them in the area, no one at all."

"Why's that, then?" asked Angela, picking up the place mats.

"Well-more of everything than anyone else," George said simply. "They survived the Civil War, emerged with all their money intact, and they built themselves this great house to demonstrate it. They were a terrible lot to start off with. Brigands, extortionists. They made their money in the 1300s as debt collectors; then they married into money, then more money, then more, till they were the Needhams of Chartley Hall and everyone else had long forgotten they were thugs. Then Charles II's great mate, Thomas Needham, he was given the marquisdom. Mainly for letting Charlie have his mistress, I understand." George chuckled in an all-boys-together way, delighted at this behavior; then realized he was on his own and coughed. "So, yes. More money, more power, more of everything. The most glittering marriages-they married well, the Needhams. The greatest prizes-there was a Michelangelo plaster cast in the ballroom, till they sold it to pay off the-ooh, now, what was it? Which marquis? Nineteenth century, anyway. Terrible gambling debts, bad business."

"Hm," Mary said. "I remember the chap who was there when we went. Flew planes. He still alive? He was getting on a bit, wasn't he?"

"Yes, died two years ago. Terrible business, what happened to him. Broken man."

"Why?" asked Laura.

"Wife left him. Ran off with someone. Can't remember who, someone in the family. Big scandal, it was."

"His brother," said Mary. "His brother, Frederick."

"Really?" said Laura. "Blimey."

"She was the film star, Vivienne Lash," Mary continued. "You wouldn't remember her, Laura-she was big in the late fifties, sixties. Beautiful. It was this very high society match, the marquis and the actress. But, yes..." Mary pushed her gla.s.s backward and forward between her fingers, then looked around at them all. "Nice girl. I knew-I thought he couldn't have been much fun. Not a very nice chap, I hear. So she ran off with the brother, never saw her children again."

"Extraordinary," said Angela. "How could she do that to them?"

"Well, she was in love," said Mary, slightly sharply. "She would have done anything. And they weren't babies, they were grownups, I seem to remember. I met Vivienne and Frederick once, several years ago. They were-lovely."

Mary and Xan had met everyone. "Did you?" said Angela, refusing to be cowed. "Still-"

"Anyway, it's not him now," George interrupted his wife. "Died a couple of years ago. It's his son, Vivienne's son. Young chap. I saw her there once, you know. She was absolutely lovely. Stunning."

"Right," said Laura, wanting to say, "Get on with it, Dad!" but instead she said firmly, "Wow, sounds great, Dad. Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," said George, looking round the cozy room. He rubbed his hands together. "And, Mary, we need to talk about the plans for Sat.u.r.day, you know. What you want to do. Angela and I are going to buy the food on Friday. We need to prepare."

"Oh, yes we do," said Mary, her eyes twinkling at him. "Preparation is key, my dear boy."

"I've got to ice the-" Angela broke off suddenly, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh. Nothing."

"Ooh," said Mary. "The dreadful suspense, my heart is in my mouth. What can you be talking about, darling?"

"Er," said her daughter. "Nothing. I'm icing-nothing."

"Great," said Mary. "How jolly. Just remember, I hate green food coloring with a pa.s.sion. Thank you."

chapter fourteen.

L aura woke up on Wednesday morning, forgetting where she was. She lay there in her light, airy bedroom, listening to the sound of the waves breaking as the gradual rush of memory slid into her waking brain. She got up and pulled up the blinds, to be confronted with a beautiful sunny day. The storm of the previous night had blown all the clouds away and the sun was dancing on the sea; there was a faint breeze, and the beach huts were already showing signs of life, colored doors open, windbreaks being erected. Laura's heart lifted.

Then, out on the terrace, she heard her parents having breakfast with Mary and discussing departure times for their expedition to Chartley Hall, and her heart sank again. Oh, Lord. It was one thing to cheer Dad up by encouraging him to reenact the National Trust guide at the dinner table; it was another to actually go with him to one of these places, just to keep the peace. Sure, she had liked them a lot when she was smaller. She especially liked the daydreaming you could do, pretending this beautiful silk-wallpapered room with its enormous bed was yours, pretending this marble staircase with the huge sculpture at the bottom was what you had to descend each night in a huge crinoline, skirts swaying from side to side as you greeted your guests, then were danced off onto the moonlit terrace by your husband, the terribly dashing Baron of...something. Or was that a scene from Regency Buck? She couldn't remember, and wouldn't, especially now that all her Georgette Heyers were probably languishing in an unecological landfill somewhere.

Anyway, it was nice to imagine, but quite another thing to have to pretend to enjoy now that she was twenty-eight, and actually basically thought stately homes perpetrated the myth of an outmoded cla.s.s structure on British society and kept people like her dad firmly in his place, thinking they weren't good enough for other people, like the Sandersons. Apart from anything else, the idea of trailing round after her parents all day while they went "ooh" and "aah" over some boring carving in a library was dire, not to mention too depressingly embarra.s.sing to imagine. She could stay at home with a good book; she had found an old Lord Peter Wimsey mystery on the bookshelf the night before and was looking forward to settling down with that for the day, perhaps outside if the weather held. No more romances for her.

She got dressed and went out to the terrace, and there was her dad, his head bobbing up and down enthusiastically as he pa.s.sed his mother-in-law the milk.

"Aha, Laura! Morning! We thought we should set off in about an hour, what do you think, Laura?" he said, munching on toast and brushing imaginary crumbs absentmindedly off his rather bald head.

"Morning, love," said Angela. "Come and have some coffee, I've just made it. Do you want toast?" She stood up. "I'll get you some, do you want some?"

"I'm fine," Laura growled. She cleared her throat. "I'm fine, Mum, I'll get it," she said, rather more lucidly.

"So, Laura," said her dad jovially. "Looking forward to our trip today, love?" He waved his guidebook at her.

"Yup," said Laura, reaching for a mug and pouring herself some coffee. "Look, Dad, the thing is...I was thinking. Do you mind if...if I don't come today?" She yawned in a deeply unconvincing way. "I'm really tii-iired. Aaah. I didn't sleep well. And I don't feel well."

Her parents looked at her.

"Also, I've got to do some work," she finished. "For the-the thing next week. My meeting. So, I really have to, actually. And-"

"Laura," Angela interrupted, holding her hand up as if to prevent her from speaking further. "Let me give you a piece of advice."

"Sure," said Laura meekly.

"If you're going to make an excuse, only make one excuse," said her mother sternly. "Don't make four. It makes it terribly obvious that you're trying to get out of something."

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are," Angela said. "Never mind, dear. If you don't want to come, just say so. We're hardly going to be heartbroken, you know."

Laura looked at her dad. He didn't look heartbroken, of course. He did look quite sad, though. Laura shifted in her seat. She didn't want to go. She was twenty-eight! She didn't have to go if she didn't want to go and-she wasn't going to go, that was it. Silence fell upon the group.

After a moment, Mary said, "Such a nice postcard from Annabel, did I show it to you? She and Robert are really looking forward to Sat.u.r.day, Angela. And she says Robert said to let George know he'll be able to give him a hand with the barbecue, too. Well, that's nice of him, isn't it. I suppose he's remembering George's slight mishap with the grill last year."

Whoa, thought Laura. Whoa, whoa. G.o.d, those Sandersons, they really were the pits.

"G.o.d," George muttered under his breath. Laura could have sworn she heard him say something else much ruder than that, but-no! not Dad, surely? She looked up at him in Foster solidarity, her chin in the air.

"Sure, I'll come," she said. "I just needed to wake up a bit. Great. Great."

"Great!" said George.

Mary smiled, and went back to her paper. "Have a lovely time."

Laura looked at her questioningly.

"I'm not coming, darling," she said serenely. "The garden needs doing and my hip's much better. You'll have a wonderful day without me, I'm sure."

"Hm," said Laura.

They left an hour later, and it was getting on for twelve by the time they turned off the road for Chartley Hall. Away from the coast it was a hot, still day; the trees along the quiet lanes around the house were heavy and green, the only sound a pa.s.sing car or a lazily cooing wood pigeon high in the trees. They drove through Chartley, a small village crammed with B and Bs, shops selling tea towels of the house, and quaint old pubs, and a mile farther along came to the turn. A painted wooden sign, cracked and peeling, stood on a stake, partly obscured by cow parsley and trailing leaves. Laura had to peer to read it:

CHARTLEY HALL.

Home of the Marquis of Ranelagh Built 1650 INIGO JONES HOUSE HOGARTH'S "HAPPY MARRIAGE"

GRINLING GIBBONS IN THE LIBRARY.

PICTURE GALLERY TEA ROOMS GIFT SHOP.

PONY RIDES CASTLE DUNGEONS.

A Fun Day Out For All!

"Here we are," said George, the excitement in his voice palpable. "On we go."

They turned into the drive and crawled slowly down the potholed clay surface, b.u.mping along gently.

"Imagine what it must have been like in a carriage," said Angela, bouncing enthusiastically up and down in her seat.

Laura gazed out the window at the vast expanse of meadow framing the drive. No, she would not imagine what it must have been like in a carriage. That kind of behavior was over for her. Of course, the old her would have been busy thinking up fairy-tale stories. Thinking up some complicated scenario that involved her and her parents being asked to stay for supper, invited to a ball in the house that evening, the young marquis her dad was so excited about asking her to waltz....

Well, there you go. Apart from anything else, she was wearing a faded old cotton skirt and a ribbon-strapped top from Marks and Spencer-that wasn't ballroom dancing gear. She'd seen Strictly Come Dancing. She couldn't waltz, she reminded herself. She gazed out the window at the view unfolding before her. Surely even her new unromantic self could enjoy a view, that was allowed.

The landscape fell gently away, and she could see trees, a stream, rising up to some kind of temple in the far, far distance at the top of a hill. She could smell freshly mown gra.s.s, and she could hear the wind rushing through the trees, even across the wide stretch of open land. The car slowed down as they approached a cattle grid, and drew up beside a tollbooth.

It appeared to be empty, but there was clearly some form of life inside. It was shaking, and m.u.f.fled shrieks and growls were coming from within its narrow, dark interior.

"Morning!" said George jauntily, unperturbed. "Three, please!"

There was silence inside, then a muted coughing noise, and a remarkably pretty girl stood up suddenly. She was a few years older than Laura, with milk-white clear skin scattered with the darkest freckles, dark brown eyes that were almost black, and tousled auburn hair, which she flung out of her face as she smiled at them. She had on a strappy white top and a lot of jewelry, and she played with a thick gold costume necklace round her neck as she said, "Hi there."

Her voice was strangely mesmerizing, slightly transatlantic, slightly posh, slightly offhand. It was low and smoky. She smiled at George, biting her top lip. "How are you?"

"Er..." George looked round wildly, as if to ask his wife for the answer. "Er...I'm fine."

"Good, good," said the vision soothingly. "So...you want some tickets, yeah?"

Something in the bottom of the tollbooth made a shuffling, clunking sound, and the girl giggled huskily and stamped her feet. "Sorry...sorry about that." She glanced wickedly down. "Naughty. Right, then, tickets. Yeah?"

"Tickets..." said George again, seeming entranced by the girl.

Just as Laura was thinking she might have to get out of the car and slap her dad back into rational thought, her mother intervened.

"Three, please."

"Great," said the vision. "Great. How much is that?"