Country Pursuits (20 page)

Later, after they'd phoned Angus's relatives, the couple sat down to an exquisite supper of oysters and lobster, followed by strawberries dipped in rich dark chocolate sauce. Neil, the butler, discreetly washed up and left, and Angus carried Camilla upstairs to the bedroom. He'd even sprinkled red rose petals on the bed. There, he made tender love to his future bride. (As tender as a big oaf like Angus could manage.) Afterwards, holding Camilla in his arms, he took her hand in his and looked at the ring, turning it this way and that so it caught the candlelight and sparkled.

‘Camilla Aldershot! That has a good ring to it, don't you agree?'

‘Yah, deffo,' said Camilla, laying her head against his chest.

‘I can't wait to make babies with you,' Angus declared, before he drifted into a happy sleep.

Camilla, on the other hand, spent half the night lying there awake. It was meant to be one of the
happiest moments of her life. So why did she feel so empty inside?

‘You're engaged! Oh my God!' squealed Harriet, throwing her arms around her best friend. It was the next morning and Camilla had popped into Gate Cottage on her way home to tell Harriet the news. They were standing in her small, charmingly rustic kitchen, which looked out on to the garden. ‘How does it feel? Is it any different?' asked Harriet excitedly.

‘To be honest, it all feels a bit weird,' Camilla admitted.

‘Oh, it's bound to take some getting used to,' Harriet reassured her. ‘So you'll be moving to Highlands Farm?'

Camilla nodded. ‘I guess so, but not for a while yet. There's so much to do! We're going to set the date for next summer.'

‘Let me know if there's anything I can do to help,' offered Harriet. Camilla eyed her for a second. ‘Well, there is, actually.' She took her friend's hand. ‘Darling Hats, how do you feel about being my matron of honour?'

‘Oh my God!' squealed Harriet for the second time in ten minutes. ‘I would love to!' They hugged each other again, Harriet jumping up and down in excitement.

‘What's going on here, then?' A deep voice came through the open window. Jed was standing outside, toolkit in hand.

‘Oh Jed, Camilla's just got engaged!' cried Harriet. ‘Isn't it wonderful?'

His mysterious green eyes clouded over.
‘Marriage is a load of crap if you ask me.'

‘Jed!' reproached Harriet, shocked.

He was still staring at Camilla. ‘Whatever makes you happy.' He shrugged and walked off.

‘What on earth has got into him?' said Harriet.

IT WAS THE
SCBA Committee's first official meeting since everyone had been given their roles. After the glorious sunny start to July, it had now been raining solidly for two days, so everyone retreated to the biggest living room at Fairoaks. It was west-facing and looked over the garden. Rivulets ran down the window panes, while Clementine's normally glorious flowerbeds had been turned into a muddy, sodden mess.

Everyone had much more pressing things on their mind than the weather, however. Clementine was still reeling from a phone call she had received that morning from Coutts bank. A mystery benefactor who wished to remain anonymous was donating a million pounds to the fund. When Clementine told everyone there was a stunned silence.

‘That is fucking a-mazing!' cried Calypso eventually. ‘Sorry, Granny Clem, but it is! Who the hell is it?'

Clementine tried to look as if she disapproved of her granddaughter's language but failed miserably. ‘I agree with your sentiments entirely,
darling!' she said, eyes twinkling. After a brief discussion about who the benefactor could be, with suggestions ranging from Paul McCartney to Prince Charles (‘after all, Highgrove is only down the road, really'), to JK Rowling and even the Sultan of Brunei, Clementine insisted they moved on.

Calypso was bursting to bring them up to date on her progress. As well as inviting every young Honourable and titled amongst her friends and acquaintances, it looked like the entire Goldsmith clan would be attending. Calypso was also ‘like, totally new best friends' with Kate Moss's PA. ‘Hopefully she can talk to Kate about it. Just think if she comes . . .' After much begging and pleading, Calypso had also persuaded Annabel Trowbridge, features editor for renowned glossy magazine
Soirée
, to put a piece about the ball in their November issue, pinpointing it as
the
social event of the Christmas calendar. ‘So, like, we have got to make this the best thing ever,' said Calypso dramatically. ‘Or I can never show my face in SW3 again.'

Lucinda had taken on the role of chief organizer for the fun run. She had done a marvellous job, handing out leaflets from the back of her Range Rover in Bedlington's market square one lunchtime, and personally marching into the
Bedlington Bugle
editor's office one day to bully him into running a front-page story on the fun run. As a result, over three hundred people had entered, most of them raising money towards the SCBA fund; and it had been sponsored handsomely by the rich patrons of
the district. The plight of Churchminster had reached beyond the hedgerows and fields of the village.

Lucinda herself was walking on air, anyway. After weeks of heavy flirting her sweaty private workout sessions with Henry had moved up a gear. Yesterday afternoon had unexpectedly culminated in him taking her on the stretching mats for the most energetic, passionate shag of her life. Years of self-conscious sex with the lights off had flown out the window and she'd ridden him like Frankie Dettori riding the winner at Cheltenham. Afterwards, they'd had to go round picking up all the exercise balls that had been kicked round the gym in the throes of passion. Lucinda was expecting to feel racked with guilt afterwards, but to her surprise, she didn't. For the first time in so many years, she felt alive. Caro had even remarked on how well she was looking when she walked in.

‘Oh, it's just this new wrinkle cream I've got, it's been working wonders,' she lied.

‘You must tell me what brand it is, you look marvellous!' Caro had said admiringly, and Lucinda had smiled and hastily changed the subject. She felt she practically had the word SEX tattooed across her forehead.

On a more mundane note, tickets were now going on sale for the ball, with ten people to a table for dinner. Using money from the Standington-Fulthrope Committee fund, Harriet had managed to secure all the tables and chairs from an events firm in Bristol. The firm, sensing some lucrative
future business with the calibre of guests attending, was delighted to be involved, and had offered a hefty discount, even promising to supply people for free to set the ballroom up.

Angie Fox-Titt was still putting the feelers out in the antiques world. Through an old friend, she had secured a much coveted two-week work-placement with an uber-cool designer who had been the darling of London Fashion Week. Some adoring parent was bound to snap it up for their darling Tabitha, fresh out of a textiles course at St Martins, she explained to the rest of them. Even more exciting was her Tiger Tomlinson connection. Tiger was a billionaire entrepreneur, and many years ago his wife Candy and Angie had given birth in the same private hospital, right next door to each other. They had struck up a firm friendship and stayed in touch ever since. Angie had been on the phone to Candy at the Tomlinsons' palatial mansion in Mustique and told her about the SCBA. Candy, an ardent fundraiser herself, thought it was a ‘simply super' idea. Provided Tiger gave it the go-ahead, Candy offered their own private island in the Bahamas for a week's holiday for a party of ten. The island, a two-by-five-mile stretch of paradise, had been named by
Traveller
magazine as one of the most luxurious holiday spots in the world. You couldn't just buy your way on; you had to be personally invited by the Tomlinsons. As far as an auction prize went, it was social dynamite. ‘Angie, that is
wonderful
!' exclaimed Clementine. Even Calypso looked impressed.

Poor old Freddie wasn't having as much success. He had heard nothing from Nigel since he'd been round to Byron Heights.

‘Do you think he'll do it?' asked Clementine anxiously.

‘I honestly don't know,' replied Freddie. ‘He was going to be my lead to Mick Jagger as well . . .' He trailed off.

‘Look, I'm still going to try and get a big-name DJ,' offered Calypso. ‘I'm sure it will come together.'

‘Just hate to let the lot of you down, blasted unreliable rock stars,' said Freddie gloomily. ‘You've all done such a bloody good job so far—'

‘So have you!' interrupted his wife. ‘We'd all be drinking tap water if it wasn't for you sorting out all the booze and bubbly.'

‘Hear hear!' piped up Caro. But Freddie didn't cheer up until Clementine asked Brenda to go down into the cellar to bring up a magnum of his favourite champagne. After the group had stopped for a glass, Freddie's spirits lifted. ‘I'll get that Cornwall man if it kills me!'

‘There's no need to go that far, Freds,' said Clementine.

Over at Byron Heights later that morning, the atmosphere between Devon and Nigel was slowly returning to normal. After their argument, Nigel had retreated to his wing of the house, and the pair hadn't crossed paths for two days. Bloody-minded as he was, Devon wasn't going to apologize, and it was only when Nigel offered to cook him conciliatory buckwheat pancakes for breakfast that things
had started to thaw. They hadn't spoken about the fight, but secretly Devon was still reeling from Nigel's words. He'd been shocked at the outburst from his usually mild-mannered PA, especially as a lot of it had hit home.

To prove that he
wasn't
turning into a complete hermit, Devon decided to go for a walk. Since he'd moved in, the nearest he'd got to exploring the local countryside was a few laps of the garden. Shouting to a surprised Nigel that he was off out, Devon dug out his old panama hat – the one that made him look rather raffish and handsome – and set off.

At last the rain had stopped and it was now a beautiful day. Outside his house Devon turned left on to the road, the verges framed by sturdy stone walls the colour of honey. On the lawn by Hollyhocks Cottage, home to Brenda Briggs, a big ginger cat lay stretched out, dozing. As Devon passed, the curtains twitched and an excited shriek came from inside. The noise made the cat jump up like it had been scalded and it shot off over the wall. Despite himself, Devon laughed, feeling slightly flattered. ‘Still got the magic, you old dog,' he said to himself wryly. Meanwhile, inside, a palpitating Brenda Briggs was being fanned back into consciousness by her bemused husband and a copy of the
Bedlington Bugle
.

Devon carried on walking. The smell of cut grass lingered in the air and he breathed in deeply. An old biplane hummed gently in the cloudless sky above him; otherwise the countryside was restored back to a quiet, lazy serenity.

God, it's good to be alive, thought Devon. He felt a sudden surge of creativity flash through him,
something that hadn't happened for a long, long time. Devon smiled wistfully. Those days were far behind him. Weren't they?

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a black horse rounding the corner at a fast trot and nearly trampling on him. Devon jumped up on the verge with a yelp. He was scared stiff of animals, and this huge beast looked like some horse from hell, all flashing eyes and flaring nostrils.

‘Watch where you're bleedin' going!' he shouted at the rider. He put his hands up to shield his eyes from the sun and get a good look. There, looming above him, looking impeccable in snow-white jodhpurs and a blue velvet riding hat, was the elegant blonde from the drinks party.

‘Firecrest, calm down!' Lady Fraser ordered the horse, as it started pawing the ground.

Devon stared at her. She was just as lovely as he remembered, her light blue eyes looking down at him imperiously.

‘It's you,' he finally managed to say, immediately feeling a complete fool. He took a step towards her, and quickly jumped back when Firecrest's nostrils flared menacingly at him. ‘Er, you were at that party at the rectory?' he asked, from the safety of the verge.

‘Yes, I was,' said Frances crisply. Devon thought she sounded like Joanna Lumley.

‘I'm Devon. Devon Cornwall,' he offered. ‘I've moved into Byron Heights.'

‘I know,' she replied, and her face relaxed slightly. ‘One can't help but hear everyone's business round here. I'm Lady Frances Fraser. I live at Clanfield Hall.' She motioned her head slightly
towards the fields at her left. ‘I'm sure you've heard of it.'

‘Er, yeah,' lied Devon. He couldn't stop staring at this aloof, regal woman.

Frances, despite her cool exterior, was trying desperately to think of something to say. That hat made Devon look irresistibly dashing. ‘So, I hear you've been asked to sing at our ball?' she asked.

‘Your ball?' said Devon.

‘Yah. It's being held at Clanfield. We haven't hosted a function since the African orphan night, so I'm rather looking forward to it.
Are
you going to perform?' she asked rather bluntly, inwardly cringing at how gauche she must sound.

Devon's mind was all of a flutter. She looked so sexy in those jodhpurs, the tight fabric emphasizing her long, slender thighs. ‘Er, I haven't decided yet.'

Frances gazed down at him. ‘It would be wonderful if you could. I mean it.' She blushed momentarily and corrected herself. ‘I meant
we
mean it.'

Devon plucked up the courage to give her a rakish grin. ‘I'll think about it. Not promising anything, mind.'

Firecrest started whinnying impatiently, pawing the ground again with his giant hooves. ‘Please do consider it, you would be a wonderful addition to the evening.' Frances smiled at him, and the smile softened her demeanour and made her look younger and prettier. She gathered up the reins. ‘Goodbye, Mr Cornwall.'