Empty Nest (2 page)

In the library, I made straight for Vesta and Akash, who stood on the fringe of the guests, all about Linus's age—a few decades past my thirty-seven years. They gathered on either side of the mantel—women talking with women, men with men—because the fireplace, large enough for all of us to stand in, put out enough heat to boil a kettle at ten paces. Thorne, weaving his way round the room delivering drinks—graceful as a dancer and never spilling a drop—paused for me to take my sherry.

Among the group, all well dressed, but definitely on the conservative side, I looked like a flirty teenager. I tugged again at my hem, wishing I could pull out another inch or two.

Linus stood talking with an expansive bald man with a red beard as untidy looking as the nest of a greenfinch. He stood head and shoulders over Linus. That was not a difficult task—with my heels on, I towered five inches above his Lordship. Still, Linus had a debonair presence with his neatly trimmed mustache and touch of gray at the temples of his dark hair.

I heard them say something about Rupert Lanchester—that would be my dad, an ornithologist with his own BBC television program,
A Bird in the Hand
—and caught an admiring look from the earl with the beard. I didn't mind Linus drawing a little cachet for himself or the estate from my connection. I had already enlisted Dad's assistance for the Fotheringill estate's Boxing Day Bird Count.

I took a sip of my drink just as Linus looked over and caught sight of me.

“Ah, here she is,” he said. All eyes turned as he extended an arm. “Julia, come meet our guests.”

I gritted my teeth, but smiled, took a deep breath, and accepted the summons. Time to make the reason for my presence here quite clear.

“Hello,” I said, sticking my hand out to the beard. “Julia Lanchester. I manage the Tourist Information Center in the village. Have you stopped in to see us? You may be surprised to learn how many events we have planned.”

Linus's eyes widened slightly, but he recovered, made the introductions, and went on to the others.

“Good evening,” I said, with handshake after handshake. “I'm Julia Lanchester. Increasing visitor numbers—that's my job. Isn't it lovely for his Lordship to organize this dinner? He's quite eager for you to know about developments on the estate.”

And so it went, repeating my qualifications, making certain they all knew why I was attending. With that accomplished, I strode into the dining room with confidence.

Not the formal dining room, of course. That ran almost the length of the Hall between the wings and included five sets of French doors that opened out the back onto the terrace, which looked over the formal gardens. It was almost never used—no reason to set fourteen places at a Georgian table that could accommodate one hundred thirty.

No, our party gathered in the small dining room. Here, two rows of candles marched down the middle of the table, causing light to flicker and dance off a portrait of the seventh Lady Fotheringill that hung above the sideboard. Dressed as a shepherdess—as had been the fad of the day—she wore a voluminous white dress, a bonnet tied with a blue satin bow, and a sweet smile. She held a tall crook in one hand, and a lamb nestled in her other arm. She was Linus's grandmother, I think.

I dropped my gaze from the portrait and surveyed the table setting, as Linus gestured and the men held chairs for the women. All breath left my body as I saw the seating arrangement as the guests would see it. Six along each side, with the lord of the manor at the head of the table, and at the foot, where the lady of the house should sit, me.

I knew what Linus was doing, had known since before the day I crossed the threshold with my case in hand. Linus had hopes—hopes that we might enjoy more than a business relationship, regardless of whether I was involved with someone else, which he knew very well I was. But he was a sly one. He had never been overt in his pursuit—preferring to court me in subtle ways. “Mrs. Bugg will help you settle in, Julia.” “Won't you let Thorne find you a driver?” “Mrs. Bugg has prepared cassoulet this evening.” I looked on Linus as my employer, and I considered him my friend—and he was at least as old as my father. But I had difficulty putting him off officially when his courtship took such subterranean means.

Now Thorne held my chair for me and waited. Linus kept standing, as did the other men round the table. “Thank you,” I murmured, and sat. I glanced round at the other guests, remembering no one's name. At least Akash was on my left—but who was this on my right? Tall, thin baronet with leathery skin; his wife must be the woman with the deep tan seated next to Linus.

General conversations were struck up around the table. I heard the baronet ask Linus about opening the Hall to the public.

“And you don't mind having them traipse through, peering at the Minton and running fingers along the ebony inlay on the sideboard?”

“I'm delighted to tell the Fotheringill story,” Linus said. “Tenants or visitors, it means that they leave with a closer understanding of the estate.”

“And a tummy full of tea and cake,” I added. “Nuala Darke, who owns the tea room in the village, runs a café here on the open days. She bakes fantastic cakes and scones—she's been mentioned in
Suffolk Magazine.
” Nuala closed the café at four o'clock, and so I rarely saw her at the Hall, but she sometimes left me the last slice of chocolate cake, a kind, generous, and most delicious gift.

“You haven't given up, that's the important thing,” said the baronet. “Not like they did at Netherford.”

There was a moment of silent mourning out of respect for an estate the other side of Sudbury, to the south of us. Linus had told me about it—a few years ago, after three centuries, the family had sold up and moved away, and Netherford House had become a hotel. I couldn't recall its name.

“Villiers,” the baronet's wife said, and shuddered. That's right—Villiers Country Hotel.

“No, we aren't giving up,” Linus said, smiling at me warmly. “We have Julia to thank for many of the grand schemes that will keep the estate running.”

I blushed and grabbed this opportunity to not only give credit where credit was due, but also to solidify my position with his Lordship.

“Linus is being generous—really, it's because of Michael's influence that we've had such success.”
Keep going, Julia, state your case.
Vesta gave me a minuscule wink. “Michael Sedgwick,” I said to the table. “He's Rupert's assistant and a…good friend. Of course, he's involved in Dad's day-to-day schedule as well as helping to set up a new foundation. Keeps him away a fair bit. We don't see nearly as much of each other as we'd like.”

“And yet he came to help you with our summer supper here in Smeaton,” Vesta said.

“More than help,” I said. “He's the one that came up with the idea of the cooking competition in the afternoon—the rules were that all ingredients had to be grown or produced on the estate. What better way to champion the Fotheringill resources? And he's chatted up one of the chefs who's interested in converting an old stable block near one of the hamlets—Great Barkling—into a destination restaurant.”

“Were any of you able to attend the summer supper?” Vesta asked. “It was an enormous success, wouldn't you say so, your Lordship?”

“A triumph,” Linus said, beaming at me. “Thirty-five thousand pounds we raised for the pensioners' housing on the estate. And all because Julia wouldn't take my initial ‘no' for an answer.”

“Our success was due to everyone pitching in,” I said. “Vesta, you managed the children's marquee with more poise than I could ever have summoned.”

“It was well and good I had Michael's help to keep those rowdy boys in line,” Vesta said.

As Akash began a story of Vesta turning the boys—four or five twelve-year-olds with a penchant for pranks—into waiters, my mind raced quickly and surely back to the long summer days leading up to the event. To the time when Michael and I stole as many hours as possible from our jobs to spend together.

I had astonished myself—and my sister, Bianca—at the way I'd persevered through an initial rough spot Michael and I had had when we first met. He hadn't been forthcoming about his previous job with his family's public-relations firm, HMS, Ltd., which had represented a dodgy wind-farm company that wanted to build turbines on a fragile habitat. I had, I will admit, been slightly miffed when I had discovered he'd kept this important piece of information quiet, but he'd explained and eventually we'd sorted it out.

All I asked is that he tell me the truth, as I would tell him. I had said this one afternoon as we lay on a blanket in the tall grass of a glade, well away from the Hall and quite alone. Ostensibly, we were on the lookout for spotted flycatchers—they've had a rough time of it, these summer visitors, and I had told Michael they would make a good segment for my dad's program. Had we seen one that afternoon? I couldn't recall—all I remembered was the sun on my skin and the feel of Michael's lips at the base of my throat. At least, that's where they had started.

A surge of warmth weakened me and a clattering noise brought me back to the moment. I had dropped my spoon into my soup, splattering flecks of pumpkin onto the tablecloth.

“Julia?” Vesta asked.

“Sorry,” I said, dipping my napkin into my water glass and dabbing at a speck on my sleeve; my face felt as pink as my dress.

Vesta tried again to get my attention. “Did you say that Rupert was working on new episodes?”

Thorne and Louisa cleared bowls and served the main—coq au vin. I took a generous serving.

“They're in Cumbria at the moment,” I said, picking up my knife and fork. “Rupert wants to film a regular spot on predators and has chosen hen harriers for the first one. They'll do sparrow hawks next. Sparrow hawks' numbers have been up and down—and every decline was because they'd been poisoned. On purpose, if you can believe it—gamekeepers using pesticide on bait. Some people have no clue that our actions have a hand in what happens to the health of our countryside.”

“I'll have a hand in their decline if they don't leave our partridges be.” This from the bearded earl, sitting on the other side of Vesta. A woman next to Linus rolled her eyes, as the beard continued. “Every year, forty thousand partridges are released all across Norfolk, and those sparrow hawks go after them so that there are hardly any left for shooting.”

“It's been clearly shown that predator birds have no impact on the partridge population,” I shot back, setting my utensils down before I started using them for emphasis. “More of them are run over by cars than are taken by sparrow hawks. It's ridiculous to blame the birds for what is really human intervention.”

“You say what you want, but they aren't welcome on my estate, and my groundskeeper and my agent know it.” He stabbed a potato and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Poisoning is a despicable act,” I said. “And it's illegal.”

A heavy blanket of silence fell on us, giving me the opportunity to regret my outburst. I did not take it.

“I agree with Julia,” Linus said, and gave me a smile and a nod. “It isn't in anyone's best interest to fight nature, Gordon—not even yours. Times have changed. We must look at our estate management as being stewards, not dictators.”

My eyes pricked with tears of gratitude at his defense.

“You never shoot, regardless, Linus,” Gordon said good-naturedly.

Linus nodded. “There's been no shooting on the Fotheringill estate since my grandfather's time. My grandmother was one of the early members of the International Vegetarian Union here in Britain. She would not condone shooting and, as the story goes, my grandfather would do anything to make her happy. He didn't shoot—my father never gained interest in it, and he passed his disinterest along to me. Although, of course, none of the rest of us joined the IVU.”

Smiles broke the tension round the table, and we resumed our meals.

“Well, not to worry, no shooting when you come on Monday,” Gordon said. I looked down in my lap—remembering now that this was the man who'd invited Linus for some country home event at his estate; Linus had asked me to go along, but it had sounded more social than business, and I had begged off.

“Nigel and I went to the South of France to see the flamingos last winter, didn't we?” asked the suntanned woman. The tall, leather-skinned man next to me nodded with his mouth full.

“Near Arles?” I asked, seizing on the opportunity to set the conversation on a different course. And so we began to speak of birds and holidays, and that carried us through pudding.

“Shall we take coffee in the library?” Linus asked. We all stood, and the group dispersed. I escorted the suntanned woman to the powder room and dropped back by the kitchen to give Mrs. Bugg, now washing dishes, a thumbs-up.

I headed for the library the back way, walking through the morning room toward the corridor, but stopped behind the door when I heard the bearded earl's voice.

“Linus certainly has his hands full with her,” he said.

“Do you say that because she got the better of you at dinner?” a woman asked in a chiding tone. “I say good for Linus—she's a breath of fresh air after Isabel.”

I leaned my forehead against the wall. I had done all I could to make it plain I was merely an employee on the estate, but Linus, although subtle, had made it clear that he thought otherwise. Advantage to the Earl Fotheringill.

In the library, Thorne served coffee amid the murmur of pleasant conversations. Linus stood with his hand resting lightly but possessively on an empty wingback chair, and he looked my way when I walked in. I smiled at him and sat across the room on an upholstered bench beside the beard's wife, hoping to further dispel the fantasies she held about me. Vesta settled on a chair beside us.