‘Owen, how far away are we?’
He wished he could break her of that habit. If Mrs Whitlock heard her, he was for the high jump.
‘Only another fifteen minutes, Miss Becky. And if you don’t mind, I prefer Barkin.’
‘Oh. Sure. Thanks.’
Becky sank back into her seat. Tears prickled into her eyes behind her Fendi sunglasses, but she blinked them back. Damn the goddamn English. She was tired still, and nervous, and he couldn’t even let her use his first name? The Ritz had been soothing - a luxurious bath, a soft white towelling robe, perfumed soaps and decent food - but she hadn’t slept at all. Her body clock was totally off-base. There had been thunderstorms all night, too; lightning and rain driving against her
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windows. It had been relief, when dawn had finally come as she lay awake tossing and turning, to see that the sun was out.
Her aunt had sent her a telegram. ‘Dear Rebecca, welcome to your home. Barkin will arrive to collect you at two. Please do not be late. We look forward to seeing you shortly.’ She had read it five times straight, and still didn’t know what to make of it. Was this what people talked like over here? Her aunt sent Christmas and birthday cards each year, all simply signed ‘Love Aunt Victoria’. And now they were finally going to meet.
She dressed carefully, a white leather mini-suit by Fiorucci and shoes to match, did her make-up very lightly and repacked. God forbid she should be even a little bit late. She missed her friends back home. They’d have made this fun, an adventure. Instead, it was starting to feel like being packed off to boarding school for the first time. The front desk checked her out with impersonal efficiency, and then there was Barkin, the family chauffeur, grabbing her bags and steering her towards a Jaguar for the long drive north. Becky tried sleeping, but it just didn’t work, and conversation was heavy going. Now even the driver wouldn’t let her use his first name.
Her mom’s relatives had always cooed over Fairfield Court, what an incredible place it was, how lucky she was to own it and live there some day. Becky hoped so. She ached for the hot weather in New York why had she ever complained about the summer heat? Watermelon by the pool, boy-spotting on the golden beaches, her friends taking long drives down the coast, raising hell. Fairfield Court was what she got instead, for the rest of her life. And right now she was wondering if it was worth it. o
Her father’s relatives had approached her about a year ago. When she hit twenty-one, she would become the sole executor of her own trust. The house would be hers, the companies would be hers. But there was no need to uproot herself, her uncle’s lawyers had argued. The Lancaster family would make Rebecca a handsome cash offer. Fairfield would go to Mrs Whitlock, the business to her cousin William, and Rebecca could stay in the United States with more money than she would ever need.
They had been surprised when she turned them down. In fact, she had almost surprised herselŁ But Rebecca couldn’t forget, not quite, that she was actually English. She had never known her father, only seen pictures of him - a young, straight-backed man with dark hair and laughing eyes, his arms linked through her mother’s, a face she saw more clearly in her own mirror each day. Her father had left her the house should her brother die. He had wanted his children to have it. He had
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wanted her to have it. And she felt that coming here was fulfilling his wishes.
She had booked the ticket for her twenty-first birthday. No matter if England was damp, and cold, plagued by industrial unrest; a country which was actually contemplating asking the IMF for a loan. Her father’s family company operated from here. And now it was her company.
‘Here we are, Miss Becky,’ the driver said. He made a left, turning through two half-rusted gates next to large stone pillars, from which twin lions reared up; she recognized them from her coat of arms. The car trundled noisily on to a long gravel drive. Becky leaned forward, craning her head, and took her first look at her home.
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Becky gasped.
It was incredible. Like something from the movies. A huge manor house built from warm honey stone rose out of the gravel drive. It had bay windows, latticed with lead, a lavender path leading up to the front door and a great spray of blood-red ivy climbing up one wall. To her right and left lawns stretched away, terraced in one place, punctuated with steps that looked slippery with moss and lichen. There was a tall, ancient wall to the right of the house, covered in glorious wisteria dripping with lilac flowers. The house towered over the wall. It had gables and spikes. Behind it she could see a gnarled orchard of some kind.
‘Welcome to Fairfield, miss,’ Barkin said, with a small note of pride. Becky couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘What’s behind that wall?’ she managed.
‘That’s the kitchen garden, miss. It’s very nice. All sorts of herbs and flowers and that.’
A kitchen garden. A walled garden. Becky felt her mood transformed, as though somebody had waved’a magic wand over her head. It was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen. She half expected Prince Charming to come riding around from the back with his armour properly shiny, mounted on a white stallion. And looking nothing like Richard.
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Becky said. ‘Just beautiful.’
‘Mr and Mrs Whitlock are waiting inside for you, miss. I’ll bring your cases up to your room.’
He climbed out and opened her door. Becky suddenly longed for a full-length mirror. She xvanted to check herself before she met Aunt Victoria. Was her lipstick on straight? Had her mascara blotted? She felt butterflies start to writhe in her stomach. This was Dadd3}’s sister. The first member of her father’s family she’d ever met. Nervously, she walked up to the door and rang the bell, trying not to scuff her white leather shoes.
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There was a pause that seemed like an age to Becky. She heard the bell sounding inside the house. She shifted a little from foot to foot. Finally, there were footsteps clip-clipping down the stairs and over stone, it sounded like. Becky swallowed slightly. The heavy door swung open slowly.
‘You must be Rebecca,’ Victoria Whitlock said.
She was a middle-aged woman in an unflattering, neat, purple suit with a cream blouse. The shapeless skirt cut offat mid-calf. Her hair was coiled into a bun and looked as though it had half a can of hairspray holding it in place. Her lips were coated with a very precise slash of red lipstick, which looked out of place on her pale face. There was a large
string of soft pearls at her neck, and she smelled of violets.
Becky smiled warmly. ‘And you’re Aunt Vicky.’
‘Victoria, please. Yes, I’m your Aunt Victoria. Do come in and see your house,’ Victoria said.
Becky followed her aunt in. She didn’t much look like Daddy, from the photographs. She was certainly a lady. She seemed a little cold, but that was probably just cultural, Becky told herself. She glanced around the entrance hall. Yes, there were flagstones on the floor, and dark, rich wood panelling, and a marble bust on a plinth.., oh, how lovely it was. She wanted to hug herself. Becky found she was wearing a ridiculous grin.
‘This is the library,’ Aunt Victoria said. ‘And this is your Uncle Henry. Do come and say hello to Rebecca, Henry.’
Becky took it in - the huge bay windows ‘looking over a long lawn leading down to a lake, the tall walls lined with leather-bound books with gold letters on the spine. Most of them probably hadn’t been opened in a hundred years. She loved it. There was a short, plump man standing by a card-table covered in dark green baize; his Daily Tele, fraph was lying on a weathered burgundy leather armchair.
‘Uncle Henry!’ she said gaily. Would it be out of order to hug him? Henry Whitlock stared at her. His niece was the most stunning woman he had ever laid eyes on. She was a gift-wrapped parcel of long blonde hair, golden skin, clear eyes and coltish legs that went on for ever. She wasn’t his blood relative, of course. Thank heaven, because he found her attractive. So damn attractive.., and so wrong, all wrong for the family, for his wife, for Fairfield Court. Was this the new mistress of the house, then? Wearing that outrageous white leather skirt? She looked like one of those rock chicks. That skirt was so high round her narrow hips it looked like a belt … and then the military jacket, tight round her waist and slashed low around that golden neck of hers. And the teetering heels, pale against her tan, that threw her slim body
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forward, giving her the faintest suggestion of curves and elongating those already endless legs …
‘Henry,’ Victoria said sharply.
‘Ah, yes.’ He cleared his throat and approached the amazing creature, leaning forward to kiss her cautiously on the cheek. She smelled of baby powder. Henry flushed; his world was not used to being disturbed by desire, not at this stage in his life. He had a dreadful feeling that tkebecca meant trouble for him, and lots of it. ‘Welcome to Fairfield. I hope your journey wasn’t too bad?’
‘Oh, no, it was fine,’ Becky said.
There was a pause.
‘Lovely weather for it,’ Victoria said blandly. ‘Are you hungry, Rebecca?’
‘No, not really. Thank you.’
‘Well, it will be supper in half an hour. Barkin has already taken your things up to your bedroom. What I suggest is a bath, and then I will collect you for supper, and we can go over the details of the house to
settle you in. I’m sure you’ll find everything is in order.’ ‘Oh, sure - I wasn’t worried about that, I—’ ‘Excellent.’ Victoria cut her off. ‘Follow me, please.’
Her bedroom was on the second floor.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Victoria said. ‘Just follow the stairs all the way down to the ground when you’re finished. The dining room is
immediately to your left.’
‘Thanks,’ Becky said.
‘And, Rebecca - you may waat to change for supper. What you’re wearing…’ She took a long, disapproving look at Rebecca that made her want to tug her tiny miniskirt down her thighs. ‘It isn’t really suitable. But I’m sure you’ll learn.’ Victoria flashed her niece a quick, pained smile, and left, closing the door behind her …
The bedroom was high-ceilinged, with beams running through the plaster and a huge carved wardrobe of dark wood that looked hundreds of years old. The vast bed was brass and neatly made up, with feather pillows and a vase of fresh roses by her bed. A door opened into a bathroom that overlooked an apple tree covered in moss and lichen. Becky’s cases were at the foot of the bed. She looked out over the large lead-paned bedroom windows at her estate.
The manicured lawns were dotted with small, winding gravel paths that were bordered with flowers of every description; statues here and there, ancient and weather-worn; an orchard, and the other side of that the kitchen garden. Half the garden stretched down to the lake, with
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terraced steps leading from a sundial. Becky flopped down on the bed. It was like living in museum, except it wasn’t one. She could touch everything, run everywhere, pick the flowers, swim in the lake … It had been Daddy’s, and now it was hers.
Becky forgot Brad, and Richard, and all the teenage boys who had broken her heart back home. She fell instantly and completely in love.
Becky pushed her aunt’s behaviour to the back of her mind and ducked into the bathroom. There were dry towels and some tiny bottles of scented bath oil from Floris. No bubbles, but when she poured them into the hot water the entire room was filled with the scent of gardenias and jasmine. She knotted her long blonde hair up on the crown of her head, lowered herself into the water and started to think. Now she was here there were things to do. Papers to sign, all that stuff. She owned a company Uncle Henry and some cousins were running, and that was what would pay the heating bills at Fairfield, so she guessed she’d better check that out. Plus, even though Aunt Mindy promised she’d be over at the end of next month, she had to realize she had no friends here. If she was going to live in England she had to make some. Despite the hot water, Becky shivered as she thought about the driver, and the air hostesses, and her aunt. All so cold. Aunt Mindy had told her about Mom’s legendary parties here. She could do the same thing. She soaped her long legs and started planning - Christmas parties in the Hall, with a blazing fire and crackling pine logs, and a dinner next month with all Daddy’s relatives, maybe a marquee in the garden with champagne and
‘Rebecca.’ There was a sharp rap on the door. ‘Are you in there?’ ‘Yes. Sorry, Aunt Victoria,’ Becky called. She’d lost track of time. She scrambled to get out and swathed herself in a vast white towel. ‘I’ll be right down.’
The dining room was long, impressive and formal. Her aunt and uncle had positioned themselves at the head of the table, flanking Becky’s seat. She hurried in, dressed in a long, clinging blue silk number by
Balenciaga, the most conservative thing in her cases.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Victoria said, making a face to show that it wasn’t. ‘You’ll learn that we do things rather differently here from the way you’re used to.’
‘Sure.’ Becky felt her nerves creeping back. ‘Why am I at the head of the table? You should be sitting here, shouldn’t you, Uncle Henry?’
‘No, indeed,’ Henry Whitlock said heartily, but his smile didn’t reach
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his eyes. Tm not the head of the house any more. You are the owner of Fairfield, Rebecca. You are the hostess.’
A Mrs Morecambe, a wizened old cook, served them supper - a rather delicious roast chicken, with golden brown skin and roast potatoes. There was a side-dish of crisp green beans.
‘These are wonderful,’ Becky said, desperate to make conversation.
‘They’re from the kitchen garden. I planted them in the spring,’ Aunt Victoria said tightly.
Becky saw her opportunity. ‘Of course, of course. You’ve been living at Fairfield all this while.’