Country Pursuits Page 2

  The pills had helped, but not as much as the family’s biannual trip to their holiday home in Barbados, where the sun, bright colours and warm climate had lifted Tink out of her black cloud. Shortly after returning home to England, she had become severely depressed again, and, after a family summit and much soul-searching, Johnnie and Tink had decided the only thing to do was to move to Barbados permanently. After all, Caro had left home years ago and at twenty-seven and nineteen respectively, Camilla and Calypso had been more than old enough to live by themselves.

  Their parents had bought them No. 5 The Green, a gorgeous, three-bedroomed chocolate-box cottage on Churchminster’s beautiful village green. It had been ideal for Camilla, who was working two mornings a week as a secretary for an upmarket surveyor’s in Cheltenham, and a perfect base for Calypso, who had been about to study History of Art at Bristol University. The girls had been devastated to see their parents go, but they had hated seeing their bright, breezy mother reduced to such a sad, listless shadow. Besides, they were still only a short walk from their granny, Clementine Standington-Fulthrope, who was Johnnie’s mother.

  All three daughters were very different in character, even though they looked alike with their blonde hair, soulful hazel or brown eyes and – until Caro had fallen pregnant – identical slim, full-bosomed figures. Caro was kind and sweet, Camilla was the more practical, sensible of the three, and Calypso . . . well, she was the wild one, with a spiky attitude, impetuous nature and anti-establishment views. Being the youngest, she was often indulged by her family, and had grown up to be a very controversial young woman.

  As Camilla was finding out right now. Again.

  ‘You can’t give up your job!’ she wailed down the phone to Calypso. ‘You’ve only been there three months!’ After graduating with a Third, Calypso had taken a year off and spent most of it sunbathing with her friends on various beaches around the world. On her return a few months ago, her parents had delicately suggested she might find a job, and Calypso had ended up working at an art gallery in Brighton. But, apparently, she’d had a huge row with the owner of the gallery over her bad timekeeping and had told him where to go. Camilla suspected she’d actually been sacked, but Calypso was much too proud to admit to that. And now, she informed Camilla, she was coming to live with her again.

  ‘But have you thought it through?’ asked Camilla, looking longingly round her little cottage. She had done it up so perfectly since Calypso had moved out, and now the thought of her sister coming home and unleashing her messy ways all over the Laura Ashley furniture was making her faintly queasy.

  ‘Have you told Mummy and Daddy?’ An angry babble erupted from the phone. ‘OK, I was only asking. I’d better get your room ready, then.’

  She replaced the receiver with a sense of foreboding. Her sister was temperamental at the best of times, but now she sounded positively unhinged. Camilla had a feeling that, in two days’ time, hell would be unleashed on quiet Churchminster.

  On the other side of the green, at Fairoaks House, Clementine Standington-Fulthrope was deadheading the narcissi in one of her many flowerbeds. Clementine, seventy-six, known as Granny Clem to her three granddaughters, was a formidable, energetic woman, often spotted taking her black Labrador Errol Flynn (on account of his whiskers) on his daily five-mile walk.

  The Standington-Fulthrope clan had lived in the village for generations, and the family was seen as the unofficial royalty of Churchminster. Clementine was the head of the Standington-Fulthrope Committee (SFC), which had been founded by her husband’s great-grandmother Augusta over a hundred years ago. Money raised by the SFC was spent, amongst other things, on keeping the village church maintained, and providing funds for the nearby children’s home. In her time, Clementine had organized many a sponsored walk and charity function, calling on all and sundry to get involved. Often brusque and imperious, she did not suffer fools gladly. But under the prickly facade there was a good heart, and she adored her granddaughters, keeping a watchful eye on them in her son’s absence.

  Clementine was a tall, handsome woman with steely grey hair neatly pulled back in a bun – a hairstyle she hadn’t changed since 1957. Today she was clad in her usual uniform of navy-blue waxed jacket, green Hunter wellies and Jaeger cashmere jumper, set off by an impressive pearl necklace her parents had given her as a coming-out present for her debutante ball.

  Behind her loomed Fairoaks, a tall, imposing Victorian building, softened by beautiful, sweeping gardens. Clementine had lived alone there since her darling husband Bertie had died from an unexpected heart attack two decades ago. The gardens had become her pride and joy. Apart from a local boy who came in to cut the grass, she looked after the entire plot herself, which included six apple trees, climbing plants, and a deep, glossy pond with ornate stone fountain. A well-known presence at the Chelsea Flower Show, Clementine opened her gardens to the public for a small charge every summer, with all donations going to the SFC Fund.

  ‘Anyone home?’ A familiar voice cut across the still morning air. Clementine looked up to see Caro carefully manoeuvring Milo’s pushchair through the wrought-iron gate. It was a rather chilly February day, and the little boy was wrapped up in swathes of blankets.

  ‘Darling, how nice to see you!’ Clementine stood up from the gardening mat, pulling off her gloves.

  ‘Hello, Granny Clem.’

  Caro walked over and gave her a kiss. She looks terrible, Clementine thought, taking in the wan complexion and dark circles under Caro’s eyes. Although she had been delighted to have her back in the village again, Clementine privately worried that her granddaughter was too isolated. And Caro had become very defensive recently whenever Clementine offered to help with Milo. It would be a lot easier if Sebastian actually spent some proper time with his wife and son instead of staying in London and gallivanting off on all those blasted work trips, thought Clementine archly. But she often had to remind herself that Caro was a grown woman; she didn’t want her silly old grandmother poking her nose in her business.

  Milo let out a happy gurgle, and Clementine’s face softened.

  ‘Where’s my favourite great-grandchild?’ she said, walking happily towards the pushchair.

  ‘He’s your only great-grandchild,’ Caro pointed out with a smile, as they made their way inside the house for a much-needed cup of tea.

  Chapter 4

  FRIDAY DAWNED, AND Sebastian yawned as he walked in through the doors of Harwells Bank at 7.04 a.m. It was one of the biggest, most prestigious corporations in the financial world, but Sebastian was feeling anything like work at that precise moment. Sabrina had kept him up till four in the morning, wanting to be shagged every which way senseless. Sebastian enjoyed sex as much as the next red-blooded adulterer, but he had to admit he was worn out. He was almost looking forward to going home for a change, and falling asleep on Caro’s soft bosom.

  To Sebastian, there was absolutely nothing wrong with having a wife and mistress. Most of his friends were doing the same, and as he had never been faithful to a woman in his life, he had no intention of starting now. Spurned by his father, Sebastian had spent his formative years shuttling round various countries as his glamorous mother Evie had fallen in and out of love with different suitors. He had grown up in an environment completely free of morals, respect and mutual affection. Eventually he’d been sent away to boarding school, staying with his flighty mother in the school holidays, wherever she happened to be in the world. He had never respected her, and it was fair to say he hadn’t respected a woman since. A psychologist treating him on the couch might have put his caddish behaviour down to his peripatetic, insecure childhood. But it was simpler than that. Sebastian was just a complete shit.

  Sebastian had married sweet, trusting Caro because she could give him an heir and provide a comfortable home, but that was where their union had stopped. And so, when, two years earlier, he had met Sabrina at a drinks function, he had instantly known they’d end up having an affair. A model by occupation, Sabrina
often graced the pages of Hello! magazine in sumptuous ‘at home’ shoots. She was a well-known face on the Belgravia circuit, and was used to Arab businessmen spending thousands of pounds on taking her out for the evening. Like Sebastian, she loved money, power, glamour and sex. They really were a perfect match.

  Back in Churchminster, someone else was feeling the effects of sleep-deprivation. The central heating in Harriet Fraser’s cottage had broken down sometime around two in the morning, and she had spent the remainder of the night wrapped in pyjamas and four jumpers, shivering madly. Forgoing her normal morning shower, Harriet threw on her old cords and fleece jumper and tramped up to the main house to ask for some help.

  At the age of thirty, Harriet had left home. Sort of. What she had actually done was move from Clanfield Hall, the grand estate home of her parents, Sir Ambrose and Lady Frances Fraser, and down the drive to Gate Cottage, a small stone two-up two-down at the estate’s entrance. For someone who had grown up in a house with corridors so wide it took five minutes to jog across them, Gate Cottage couldn’t have been more different. Harriet adored it. For the first time she was her own boss and she also loved the peace and quiet.

  Clanfield Hall was very quiet as well, today, she reflected as she arrived at the top of the main drive. It was nine o’clock, but the morning mist hadn’t lifted yet, and the vast lawns were shrouded in an ethereal white cloak. The gardens were historic and breathtakingly landscaped, the pièce de résistance a huge, ornate fountain in front of the house. Rumour had it that Queen Victoria had once bathed her feet in there during a summer party.

  A hot bath was foremost on Harriet’s mind as she skirted round the east wing of the house to the back, and in through the kitchen entrance. There she found Cook, busy decapitating a dead pheasant.

  A cheery, red-faced woman, Cook had been in the family’s employment since Harriet was a little girl.

  ‘Miss Harriet, what are you doing here so early?’

  ‘Blasted heating’s broken down again,’ said Harriet gloomily, shaking her muddy wellingtons off by the door. ‘It’s got to be the fourth time in the last year. Do you know if Jed’s about? I need him to take a look at it.’

  ‘I think he’s out by the lake, fixing some fencing,’ replied Cook. ‘Now then, do you want breakfast? I could do your favourite pancakes . . .’

  Harriet looked down at her bulging waistband. ‘I’m meant to be on a diet.’

  ‘Just a few,’ said Cook conspiratorially, whose motto in life was ‘If it moves, feed it.’

  ‘Oh, go on, then!’ said Harriet, with a cheeky grin. ‘Just don’t tell Mummy. Speaking of which, where are they?’

  ‘Her Ladyship is in the drawing room, Sir Ambrose is in his study,’ informed Cook.

  ‘I’d better go and say hello, then,’ said Harriet. ‘Can you hold off on the nosh for a bit, Cooky?’

  She left the warmth of the kitchen and padded down the long, wood-panelled corridor to the drawing room. The house had been in her father’s family for three hundred years, and family crests adorned the walls, alongside creepy looking portraits of her ancestors. A meek and mild only child, Harriet had found growing up at Clanfield Hall a daunting experience. She had much preferred hanging out with Cook and the other staff in the cosy servants’ quarters, than with her parents in the huge chilly rooms ‘front of house’.

  Harriet arrived at the drawing room door and tentatively pushed it open. Her mother was sitting in a Regency chair by one of the room’s huge windows, reading. Lady Frances Fraser was a well-preserved woman of fifty-one, her slender figure encased in a silk shirt and long tweed pencil skirt. As always she was immaculately made-up, with her blonde hair pulled up in a chignon. She looked up as her daughter walked in.

  ‘Have you put on weight, Harriet?’ Lady Fraser never failed to comment on her daughter’s weight, even if she’d only seen her the day before.

  Harriet edged into the room. ‘No, Mummy, I’ve been on my diet. Honestly, I’ve been really good . . .’ She thought of the pancakes and blushed guiltily.

  ‘Hmm,’ her mother offered up her cheek, which Harriet kissed dutifully. ‘Maybe we should get you a personal trainer as well.’ Lady Fraser loved her daughter, but despaired at having produced such an ungainly, overweight lump. In contrast to her own sleek blonde hair, Harriet’s was a brown, frizzy mess she usually scraped back in a ponytail that looked like it was exploding out of her head. The famous Fraser cheekbones were hidden beneath red, chubby cheeks. In fact, the only thing Harriet had going for her, as Lady Fraser often pointed out, were her calves and ankles, which stayed enviably slim no matter how much weight Harriet piled on.

  Frances was twenty years her husband’s junior and had given birth to Harriet when she was only twenty-one. Afterwards, due to a medical complication, the couple were told she would be unable to have any more children, and with this news Sir Ambrose’s hopes of carrying on the family line had been dashed. Once he’d got over the shock, some years later, he had gone about trying to marry Harriet off to any blueblood available. Harriet’s debutante ball had been the most horrific evening of her life: her frame crushed into an unflattering taffeta dress, and every eligible young bachelor firmly giving her a wide berth. Harriet had retreated behind a wall of books ever since, and much preferred a dashing hero in a Mills and Boon novel to real life. As a result, and to her complete mortification, she was starting her third decade still a virgin.

  ‘Well, I just came to say hello,’ she said, hovering on one foot.

  ‘Do stand up straight, darling,’ instructed her mother.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ apologized Harriet. ‘I need to find Jed, my heating’s broken down.’

  ‘Again?’ her mother raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her daughter. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why you persist in living in that hovel when there’s a perfectly good wing here for you.’

  ‘I’m fine, really!’ replied Harriet hastily. ‘I’ll get it fixed.’ She turned to go out of the room. ‘I might go and say morning to Daddy as well.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said her mother, returning to her book. ‘The post boy delivered the Daily Star instead of the Telegraph, and he’s in a frightful mood.’

  Her father’s short fuse was legendary: he’d once smashed a priceless oriental vase when his horse lost in the 11.28 at Cheltenham.

  ‘I think I’ll leave it for a while,’ said Harriet.

  An hour later Jed Bantry was standing in the kitchen of Gate Cottage, iron wrench in hand. Harriet, who had ended up having seconds of Cook’s delicious pancakes with maple syrup, was now feeling vaguely sick, and vowed not to eat another thing for the rest of the weekend. She watched Jed as he rummaged around in the kitchen cupboard that housed the building’s heating system.

  ‘The fuse has gone,’ he announced, pulling himself out to face Harriet. The morning sun caught his face, lighting up his chiselled features. Harriet blinked as she was reminded again what a gorgeous man Jed had grown up to be. Jed was the son of her parents’ housekeeper Mrs Bantry. They lived in one of the workers’ cottages at the edge of the estate. Mr Bantry had run off years before ‘with some old tart from the dairy’ as Cook had put it. Similar in age, Jed and Harriet had practically grown up together, worlds apart but side-by-side. Jed was now the estate’s handyman and sometime gardener. He had always been a boy of few words, and even now, in adulthood, Harriet still couldn’t work him out. But they existed in companionable silence, a familiarity that had grown over the years.

  Jed had grown over time, too. Once a skinny, rangy kid, he was now a strapping six-footer with wide shoulders and a lean, muscled physique from doing hard manual work all year round. With a tousled mop of black hair, eyes the colour of faded khaki and a flawless complexion, Jed Bantry could have walked straight off the set of a Hugo Boss advert. Not that he seemed aware of this. All the local girls fancied him madly, but Jed showed little obvious interest in the opposite sex, preferring to spend his time working on the estate or tinkering wi
th his motorbike. Harriet had wondered in recent months if she should start fancying him, too, but her parents would have had a heart attack if she had. Besides, Harriet’s libido was so dead and buried, she doubted any man other than a dashing Victorian hero called Heathcliff Montgomery would ever make her heart flutter.

  ‘I’ve got a spare fuse – I’ll go and get it, then, yeah?’ said Jed, bringing Harriet out of her daydream. She watched him pack away his toolbox, his rock-hard buttocks straining against the material of his overalls.

  ‘Oh, yes, that would be lovely, Jed,’ said Harriet gratefully, giving herself a shake. ‘Thanks awfully.’ She watched him tread off down the path and shivered again. The temperature was reaching arctic proportions, while the waistband of her trousers pinched miserably. In a decisive moment, Harriet decided to kill two birds with one stone, and went to dig out her Davina McCall workout DVD to do in front of the telly.

  Chapter 5

  ON THE OTHER side of Churchminster, Freddie Fox-Titt was inspecting his wife’s overgrown bush. His beloved Angie was a keen amateur gardener and had planted something gooseberry-related by the entrance to the Fox-Titts’ estate. God only knows why, Freddie cursed to himself. It had mutated so much it was in danger of blocking off the driveway. Not good when you made your living hiring out your land for various shooting and fishing parties. This was why he was armed with a large pair of rusty, antiquarian hedge clippers he’d found in Meakins’s shed.

  Unfortunately the gooseberry bush, with its sturdy stems and prickles, was proving quite an adversary. Freddie had been going at it for forty-five minutes and had hardly made a dent. When a branch pinged back in his face and scratched his cheek, Freddie decided enough was enough. ‘Bugger this,’ he said to himself, and turned back to the house, making a mental note to get Meakins in for an extra day that week instead.