Rumours

‘I’m sure your Laura shed a tear or two over you. I know your mother did, at the time.’

‘That was well over two years ago.’

Lydia could see Xander’s discomfort. ‘I always said you should have tracked her down sooner. Said sorry with something sparkly from Garrard’s.’

‘Lydia – she moved to the States and she’s married. You know this.’

‘More fool you.’

‘I have no regrets.’ The Chelsea bun was sticking in this throat.

‘You’re a catch, young man. An eligible bachelor. You oughtn’t to go to waste – that would be a travesty.’

‘I’m not so young these days – I’m heading for forty. Look at all the grey.’

Lydia rubbished this with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Very distinguished. Silver fox, we’d call it. Like my fabulously expensive coat. Which reminds me – it’s still in cold storage. Don’t you go putting yourself in storage, Xander, you’ll grow cold. You’re a whippersnapper – I’m seventy-eight.’

A phone began to ring. There were no modern cordless phones at Longbridge. In fact, there were only three telephones in the whole house; one in the kitchen, one in the staircase hallway and one in the Victorian wing. They listened to it ringing.

Lydia blasphemed under her breath.

‘Why the wretched woman won’t answer the telephone or the door I do not know. I should dock her pay, I really should.’ And she heaved herself away from the sofa, rubbing her shoulder and wincing as she made her way. ‘She’s an atrocious housekeeper, that Mrs Biggins. I really ought to sack her.’

But she keeps you on your toes, Xander thought tenderly, as Lydia left the room to answer the phone. And she’s company. Mrs Biggins and Lady Lydia Fortescue, practically the same age, diametrically opposed backgrounds, together longer than either of their marriages – together, realistically, for ever. He listened to Lydia curtly admonishing the caller for phoning in the first place and then barking something in the general direction of the kitchen where Mrs Biggins was no doubt still ensconced in the Mail.

He’d phone his mum and dad when he was home. They lived, now, in Little Dunwick five miles away and Xander wondered why he always felt compelled to phone them when he’d been to Longbridge. He’d tell them how nothing had changed apart from Lydia growing thinner and Mrs Biggins plumper, that everything at Longbridge was just ever so slightly more dusty than in the days when his mother was nanny to the Fortescue offspring and the house bustled with staff.

Chapter Six

Stella was prepared for it to come and yet, when it arrived, though she knew exactly what it was, she felt thrown. She stared at the envelope and re-read her name and address carefully, underlining the words with her finger, as if to be absolutely sure that the contents were indeed intended for her. It was something she’d applied for, paid quite a lot for; waited over two years for but didn’t want. Not today. Today was about other things, positive things. The Marshalls were due to exchange on Mercy Benton’s little cottage in Long Dansbury – less than a month after viewing it, record time for Elmfield Estates this year. Today, Stella was viewing a large property in Cold Christmas and another in Bengeo. Today the Haddams’ mortgage offer for the house in Bramfield should be through. Today should be filled with all the excitement of here and now, not sullied by then and there. And tonight, parents’ evening (or parent’s evening – Stella was fastidious about the correct position of the apostrophe in her case) at Will’s school and there was nothing more uplifting than being nourished by the warmth of compliments and praise bestowed upon one’s child. So damn you, bloody brown bloody A4 envelope with the franked mail mark and correct address.

But she knew what she had to do. She’d been prepped. She texted Jo.

it’s here. Sx

A moment later, the response Jo had been waiting a long time to give.

do not open – will try to be there by 8. Jxx

She wasn’t expecting Stella’s response.

not poss – parent's eve. Sx

who’s bbsittng? J?

Mum Sx

Jo thought, much as Stella loves her mum, she won’t be opening it with her.

cant do 2moz – Mike out. Soz

Can you hold on til w/end?? Jxx

Stella thought, I’d rather not open it at all.

K. Sx

U ok, babes? Jxx

Yep xx

Everyone had told Stella that, if there was an optimum age when change would have a minimal effect on a child, then she’d taken that decision for Will at exactly the right time in his life. Home. School. Just the two of them. Stella bit the bullet and went for change. Her loved ones had praised her, as if it had been a canny choice she’d systematically made and not the only angst-ridden option she’d felt she had. Actually, the only choice she’d really had was between Harpenden and Hertford and her big brother had made that an easy one, with the cut-price offer of his rental house.

That evening, listening to the teacher praising Will, the feeling of Stella’s heart expanding even more for her popular, industrious and bright little boy was tempered by the presence of the little low red plastic chair empty next to the one on which she sat. It was as if the full impact of all the wonderful words was somehow reduced because it was heard by only one set of ears. Parent’s evening.

Four terms in, she no longer felt conspicuous as the lone single parent in Will’s year. If anything, she was pleased to have moved to a community in which stable family values were strong and she’d grown to enjoy the genuine warmth extended to her. Waiting outside the classroom, busily browsing art folders and maths books, admiring the displays of Words Into Pictures on the walls as if the corridor was an overflow for the Royal Academy, Stella felt happy, lucky, that she and Will were there. He had his little gang of chums – and she was now very much one of the mums.

‘Mums’ night out next Friday, Stella – Will can come for a sleepover if babysitting’s a problem.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Wasn’t Will fantastic in assembly last week! Quite the little actor!’

‘Thank you.’

Much to be very grateful for. Just that hiccup of an envelope at home, waiting to be opened. Its contents already known yet the effect they might have, strangely unfathomable.

* * *

Whenever Douglas Hutton asked to see her in his office, Stella was never sure whether she’d find her boss or her uncle in there. When she was summoned on Friday, the morning after parent’s evening, she just couldn’t tell who’d be behind his desk. Belinda, Steve and Gill eyed her suspiciously; Geoff, though, didn’t look. He liked Stella and had decided early on to turn a blind eye on any rumoured favouritism and focus on his files instead whenever Douglas Hutton put his head around his office door and said, Stella – a quick word.

‘A strange one, this,’ was Douglas’s opening line. He looked at Stella quizzically, as if alternating between seeing her as his niece and as his newest member of staff who was already proving her worth. ‘You’ve been asked for. By name.’

‘Oh?’

‘Really, I ought to be taking this myself – if it comes off. Being head of the company, and more experienced than any of you. And you’ll have to steel yourself – if it comes off – to that lot out there baying for your blood. But whatever I want – and whatever the others won’t want – has no bearing, whatsoever, on what this potential client wants.’ He paused. ‘Are you all right?’

Stella wasn’t sure how to tell him she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. ‘I’m fine. I’m just not entirely sure I understand.’

‘You can’t understand,’ he said gruffly. ‘I haven’t told you yet.’ Douglas was famous for his lengthy scene-setting, whether it was an introduction to a choice anecdote recounted at Christmas dinner or a preamble to a pep talk during Monday meeting here in the office.

‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t think you will be!’ He regarded her with a rare and wry smile. He shook his head gravely, contradicting the gesture with a chuckle. ‘You’ve been sent for – asked for by name. There’s no achievement greater, no seal of approval more valuable, than personal recommendation. That’s what you have. Your reputation precedes you already. From tiny acorns, Stella – from wee little acorns.’

She tried hard not to look confused.

‘That little acorn of a cottage at Long Dansbury may have turned into the mighty oak of Longbridge Hall.’ He fell silent before continuing to himself. ‘Unlikely though. It’s the Fortescue seat.’