I was one of those viewers he talked of.
Big Brother
fisticuffs,
Love Island
drunken flings… It made good telly, didn’t it, and it was something to chat about the next day at work? I blushed.
‘But Edward – you are being true and honest to yourselves, at least. The Baron is putting on a show.’
‘True? Honest?’ he muttered and – oh, no! – Edward held his head in his hands. ‘If only you knew,’ he muttered in a strained voice. ‘The continual… If only I could tell one person… My life is just a…’ A tortured pain in his eyes, he looked up.
‘What is it?’ I asked gently. ‘Please, let me help.’
He opened his mouth but closed it again. ‘Apologies, Cousin. Ignore me – it’s just sometimes the pressure…’
My eyes felt wet. I’d rather see him all arrogant than torn like this.
Edward got to his feet and paced up and down. ‘Can Applebridge Food Academy really compete with medieval banquets?’ he said, back to his normal controlled voice. ‘Father still isn’t happy about the classes eventually becoming residential. It took me long enough to convince him that car boot sales were worth it for the income.’ He sighed. ‘Over the years, I’ve had to persuade him to become more pragmatic. I’m always looking for new ideas. We can only host around fourteen events on the land per year without planning permission. If we don’t win the competition…’
‘As Charlie Chingo pointed out, cookery programmes are all the rage,’ I said, noticing for the first time the dark circles under Edward’s eyes. Funny. I’d only ever thought about the upside of owning a stately home and never considered it could be a burden that could give you sleepless nights. Croquet on the lawn, cucumber sandwiches, diamonds worn to dinner, that’s what I’d imagined – not family expectations, leaky roofs and disastrous debts. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I said softly.
He smiled at me. ‘You really think so?’
I nodded.
Edward rubbed the back of his neck and eventually straightened. ‘Of course. I’m sure it will. Don’t you worry.’
‘If you ever want to talk…?’
‘That’s kind, Cousin, but really there’s no need.’ He was back into formal coping-mode. ‘It was an early start today. Mr Thompson had to show me some fencing that’s desperate for repair, right at the bottom end of the estate. I’m probably just tired. Do excuse my whining.’
My stomach squeezed. Like it or not, I longed to cheer up this uptight, stubborn… goddamn good-looking noble. Yet I guessed he wouldn’t want to watch trashy TV or gorge on chocolate, and probably didn’t own a Wii or karaoke machine. I gazed outside for a second. It was dark now.
However, in the dim corner of the room, on a bottom shelf, I spied a flat green box.
‘Would you care to join me in a game of Scrabble?’ I said. That would at least take his mind off things.
‘What—now?’ His brow furrowed. ‘I should check the weather forecast for tomorrow, and set up more buckets if rain is due.’
‘Worried I might beat you?’
‘What utter tosh!’ His mouth twitched. ‘Okay then. You’re on.’
I fetched the box and cleared some stationery from the desk. Then I set up the board and grabbed a pen to mark the scores. We both selected our letter tiles. Edward began. ‘DECEIT’ was his first word. I bit my lip. Was that fate telling me that he’d eventually uncover my true identity?
Forty-five minutes later we were neck and neck. The floorboards creaked outside the door as someone went upstairs to bed. PROFIT, RANK, ACCOUNTS and HUNT were some of his words, but nothing compared to the one which got me my highest score. I remembered it from a previous game with Abbey – MUZJIK, a Russian term for a peasant. Although I doubt Edward was impressed with the rest of my words, which included TIT (the bird, of course) and BUM (sorry, but needs must).
‘You aren’t allowed that. It’s slang for a body part,’ Edward had said with a smile.
Victorious, I’d shaken my head. ‘Sorry. I checked this once when playing with Ab…my lodger Gemma. It’s a proper word that means lazy person or vagrant.’
‘She must be quite clever, this Gemma,’ he said.
I smiled nervously. ‘Um…’ What would Abbey say?
‘You get on well, living together?’
I smiled. ‘People sometimes mistake us for each other and yes, I suppose in several ways we are rather like sisters… Brothers are super, but as well as dear Rupert,’ read that as annoying Tom and banged-up Ryan! ‘I would have loved a female sibling.’
A curious look crossed Edward’s face for a moment and I could have sworn he mumbled, ‘Me too’.
Loud chimes cut through the wall from the Low Drawing Room next door – from the spooky-looking grandfather clock. Yikes. Eleven? I’d completely forgotten about Googling Nigella and Delia and there were only…I swallowed hard…ten hours to me playing teacher. Applebridge Food Academy was to open at nine a.m. sharp.
‘Would you mind terribly if we picked this game up another time, Edward? I didn’t realize it was so late and must go on the computer to check a few things for tomorrow’s cookery lessons.’
‘Who’s worried now?’ he said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘I’m clearly going to win.’
‘I doubt that. Although you do have a decade’s knowledge above me. My youth puts me at a disadvantage.’
‘I’m not on a Zimmer frame yet!’
‘You check weather forecasts,’ I said and shook my finger at him. ‘No one under forty does that. What next? Discussing arthritic knees? Declaring mobile phones are the downfall of our society?’
We grinned at each other. It was only a board game, but the first indication that stuffy old Edward knew how to have some sort of fun.
I stood up and turned to the door, my gaze falling on the bookshelves to the right. Halfway up was about a one metre length of pastel and pink book spines. I walked over and pulled out a book. It smelt flowery, as if the last person to read it wore a lot of perfume.
‘Sophie Kinsella! Marian Keyes!’ I said, scanning the shelf. ‘I love these books! Um, as well as the classics, of course.’
‘They were Mother’s. Crime and any sort of romance were her novels of choice.’ He jerked his head. ‘On the opposite side of the room are my childhood books. We’ve the whole Beatrix Potter series and I grew up thinking I was Christopher Robin.’ He shrugged. ‘Borrow books any time you want, Cousin. Or read at this desk, if you prefer. Father doesn’t much care for the media people and often seeks refuge in here as well.’
‘That’s very kind,’ I said and tried to imagine him as a little boy, with curly blond hair. Serious, he’d have been. I doubted he ever got a detention or less than a grade A.
‘So.’ He stood up. ‘The computer. Will you find your way down to the cellars okay?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I sat still and fiddled with my watch.
‘What is it?’ he said.
Slowly I met his gaze. ‘I hope I don’t let the family down tomorrow, Edward.’ Better warn him—just in case the cooking went pear-shaped.
Abruptly he stood up, as if jolted back to reality by the potential whiff of failure. ‘We’re relying on you, Abbey. The future of Applebridge Hall is at stake. Remember, strong Croxley women never lose that stiff upper lip. There’s a torch in the cupboard to the right of the cellar entrance. You might need it to find your way back to your bedroom if you are the last up and we’ve switched off the lights. We don’t leave them on unless we have to. It’s all about cutting costs.’ Any warmth in his eyes had now evaporated. ‘Until morning, Cousin.’
He was right. I had to get a grip and find that stiff upper lip Lady C liked talking about. If Abbey could help war orphans, the least I could do was cook in front of a camera. Still, talk about a lack of sympathy! I could have done with an encouraging hug or, at the very least, a squeeze of the arm as he brushed past me and out of the library. But then Edward wasn’t touchy-feely. In fact I couldn’t even imagine him cuddling a girlfriend. Like those hunks from
The Vampire Diaries
, he’d probably rather suck them dry first…
Mmm, thinking of sexy vampires, I could imagine kissing Edward’s cherry-coloured stubborn lips that not nearly often enough curved into a smile…
Urgh! No. That was mega wrong. I mustn’t ponder his snogability if I was to keep up this charade of us being cousins. I shook myself and, with new determination, slipped out of the library and made my way along to the west wing kitchens.
Mr Thompson was still up, sitting at the pine table, gun laid next to a small glass of whisky. He muttered something about trespassers before tilting his hat at me and going outside. I grabbed the torch, switched on the cellar lights and made my way down to the little desk and chair positioned next to rack after rack of wine.
Despite the warm day, I shivered slightly – through cold or fear for tomorrow who could tell. I took a deep breath. How difficult could it be, throwing together a few ingredients? Billions of people did it every day, all around the world.
I pressed the button and the computer sprung to life. I thought about Nick and his kiss and how I only had two weeks to sex up Applebridge Hall. Instead of typing in Nigella or Delia, I typed in Facebook and entered my password. There I was, in my account, under my mum’s name, Eleanor Goodwin. Not Gemma, cos this weird ex once cyber-stalked me, sending virtual voodoo dolls.
After a quick search I soon found a fan page for
Million Dollar Mansion.
Uh oh – my heart raced. Here came one of my adrenaline rushes, cue doing something impulsive. On automatic, I joined the group, deciding that the public needed help in spotting the signs of the aristocrat and gardener’s mega unsuitable romance. The rumour-mill needed a shove into motion, regardless of what Edward or the Earl might say. I took a deep breath and typed:
Hello all – amazin’ final, isn’t it? Has anyone noticed the sizzling chemistry between gardener Nick and Abbey, the Earl’s la-di-da niece? I could have sworn they were in the background of that shot in the kitchen tonight. Talk about getting close! When they first met, she reminded him of their time together in the flower beds… Naughty, naughty! Wonder what that was all about? Perhaps we should rename Miss Croxley, Lady Chatterley. Open your eyes, guys. It’s obvious. We’re in for a scandalous Show-mance
!
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Sunday 2
nd
September
‘Comments’
11.45p.m.
It’s taken me the best of half an hour to read all your comments regarding tonight’s show. Thank you for the feedback, even the, um, many comments about Marwick Castle.
BustyfanDownton
, I’m glad you and
Lovehotnoble
have settled your differences, since you’ve now decided to root for the other side – or the, erm, ‘bloomin’ buff’ Baron’s son as you describe him, aka Harry Gainsworth. Just a word to the wise, Marwick Castle may appear colourful and exotic but, as with people, first impressions don’t hold for ever.
Cupcakesrock
, sorry to disappoint that we aren’t, in fact, opening a coffee shop. But, yes, I’ll certainly suggest to my cousin that she themes one lesson around how to cook biscuits, brownies and banana bars.
Drunkwriter
, thank you for penning another poem, this time with only a single swear word. It’s, um, encouraging to know you’re a fan of Applebridge Hall, despite not believing that we’ll win the show. In fact, I deemed one verse particularly crude and you accuse me of deleting it for its favourable Marwick Castle slant.
What tosh! I fear nothing from our hedonistic opponents and as proof shall post your words, with asterisks suitably inserted. Apologies to all those who may be offended and, out of respect for my cousin Abigail, first thing tomorrow it shall be removed.
A noble female fainting in the orchard
Won’t compare with debauched hen nights
,
Flying onions ain’t much better
,
Whereas lobbed medieval spears win the fight.
Watching your Ps and Qs
Frankly does in my head
,
To win or not to win? If that’s the question
,
You’re well and truly f**cked, Ted.
Quickly moving on, you have now all heard the news of Applebridge Food Academy. Tomorrow my cousin shall hold her first lesson. Tonight she and I played Scrabble. It was…nice, relaxing, a distraction from the difficulties of the day. I…I wish she could visit Applebridge more often.
Abigail may not have been wearing Playboy ears and I certainly didn’t get drunk and dance with a stuffed grizzly bear. But we talked and got reacquainted because, everything else aside, family is what matters. And, as this programme progresses, I hope you’ll all see past the surface and eventually feel a modicum of the…the fondness I have for Applebridge Hall—a wonderful home and historical site.
Goodnight, all.
Miss Abigail Croxley was murdered in the kitchen with the corkscrew by one of three suspects - Reverend White, Professor Parker or Miss Diamond.
Well, honestly – is it just me, or didn’t my first three students sound exactly like Cluedo characters? Plus they stood a mega good chance of killing my – or at least Abbey’s – reputation, if this first cookery lesson was no good and their dishes turned out rubbish. I stared around the whitewashed room. At this moment, fending off some assassin seemed preferable to cooking in front of the nation.
‘Is that the last of the ingredients, Miss?’ said Kathleen as she entered the room from her back kitchen. She carried a box of apples, still covered with dew. ‘I sent Nick out early to the orchards.’
I nodded, breathing in the smell of bleach as, despite Kathleen’s protests that she could do it, I’d given the work stations a quick clean. I’d also double-checked the items the three students would need.
Despite protesting that I was after the natural look, at that moment Roxy darted forward and brushed on a last bit of rouge. Apparently I looked ‘peaky’. To be honest, dog-rough would have been a more accurate description – the price for staying up until four in the morning. After Facebook, I logged onto YouTube and must have watched Delia break eggs, fry meat and chop vegetables a billion times.