A Classy Affair in the Country (Glenbriar #10)

Prologue

Ophelia

February

O phelia Chattan-Blythe slammed the BMW into a gravelled parking area in front of Glenvorneth House. Her blood chilled at the thought of what she might see inside. She gripped the car’s keycard tight in her palm and ran up the wide stone steps to the front door. Why did this remind her so much of the day her grandfather had died? He’d been taken too young and too soon, and so much had been lost. Her father had been thrust into a role he wasn’t ready for, and Ophelia’s childhood had changed irrevocably. She shoved open the heavy door, and it creaked like something out of an old horror movie. Hastening into the small, flag-stoned outer porch and through a large stained-glass door to the main entrance, she called, ‘Hello!’ Like anyone would hear her in this vast house unless they were hanging around the hallway, which, clearly, they weren’t. She shivered as she crossed the worn and faded carpet. One of her ancestors had built this gothic mansion in the nineteenth century and once upon a time she’d seen so much charm and history here, soaked in her grandparents’ stories about the place, and loved its quirks. Those days were unlikely to come again.

Where was her father? If Jacinta’s messages were anything to go by, he was in a bad way. Ophelia couldn’t afford to have him doing anything crazy – like dying. Dramatic maybe, but as heiress to this place, the thought often invaded her mind. She wasn’t ready. Just as he hadn’t been when his father died. And come to think about it, she really couldn’t afford it. Glenvorneth cost an absolute fortune to maintain, but one day she’d have to find a way. Please, not now.

‘Hello!’ she shouted, heading down the hallway that shot off to the left of the grand stairs. A long fancy rug ran the length of it, with side tables up against the walls, covered in antique vases. Ophelia shoved open the double-doors to the main drawing room. She froze in the doorway, staring around at the scene of perfect domesticity. ‘Er…?’

Jacinta, her stepmother, sat on a chaise reading, while her sixteen-year-old half-sister, Francesca, was curled in a window seat scrolling through her phone. Her father, Rupert, was sipping a large whisky, reading a magazine, and chortling to himself. Both Rupert and Jacinta looked up. Warm relief flooded Ophelia at the sight of her father, who looked in perfect health, but she rubbed her forehead. What was going on… or not? Francesca glanced around, almost like an afterthought, then returned to her phone.

‘Nice of you to drop by,’ Jacinta said. Ophelia ignored the hint of a jibe. Water off a duck’s back these days. Jacinta was one of the main reasons Ophelia lived in Edinburgh and had given up living at Glenvorneth. Had things been different, she would have found a way to live on the estate, nurture it and make it into a place for people to enjoy – not just her family. That was how her grandparents had wanted it, but Jacinta had quickly put a stop to that.

‘So, what’s going on?’ Ophelia’s heart was still racing from what was obviously a false alarm, but even seeing her father looking as normal as ever didn’t take away the sense that something wasn’t right. ‘I thought you were on death’s door?’ She frowned at her father before making her way over, planting a kiss on his cheek, then sitting on the edge of an elegant sofa next to his armchair.

‘What?’ He shook his head. ‘Me?’

‘Your message…’ Ophelia turned her attention to Jacinta. ‘It implied he wasn’t going to make it.’

‘Really?’ Jacinta lifted an eyebrow and made an innocent expression. ‘That wasn’t my intention. You must have misread it.’

‘I assure you I didn’t.’ Ophelia pulled her phone from her Dior saddle bag, but before she could open it, Jacinta cut in.

‘Good timing though, because there is something we need to talk to you about. Isn’t there, Rupert?’ She gave him a pointed stare.

‘Ah, yes. This is quite serendipitous, as it’s probably something I should say to you in person, though it’s not easy.’

Ophelia’s stomach lurched. What now? Adrenaline shoved her brain several steps ahead. Was he ill? Or planning on stepping aside and handing over the estate? Or had Jacinta found a way to disinherit her, so that Francesca, or one of her two sons from her previous marriage, could inherit instead? Ophelia couldn’t allow that. Her grandparents had fought hard to ensure the estate would go to her instead of the closest male heir, as happened with the majority of estates. How could she let it go? It might be the easier option, but not the right one.

‘Unfortunately,’ Rupert said. ‘The estate has reached the point of near bankruptcy.’

‘What?’ Her heart sank. That couldn’t be right, surely?

‘It’s so often the way these days. We’re not the only estate in the area that’s struggling. The old workers’ cottages are in a terrible mess. This house needs work and now, with the damage at the stables, things are worse than ever.’

‘What damage?’

‘A roof collapsed,’ Jacinta said.

‘What about the horses?’

‘They were all fine.’ Rupert held up his hands. ‘But we’ve had to stop running the livery as it simply isn’t viable.’

‘And Conker?’ They better not have got rid of her horse.

‘He’s still there, but we had to move him into temporary accommodation.’

Ophelia frowned. ‘What temporary accommodation?’

‘The back of Dagmar Ingenfeld’s trailer,’ Jacinta said.

Ophelia let out a sigh. At least Conker was safe, but she’d neglected him for too long. He was in good hands though; Dagmar was the best when it came to anything equine. ‘She’s still working here then?’ They hadn’t laid her off, at least.

‘Not for much longer, the way things are going.’ Rupert dipped his chin to his chest with a hefty sigh. ‘We’ve had to let so many of the staff go. Dagmar still does the horses and Barbara has stayed on as estate manager, but that’s it.’

Ophelia raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s it? Who cooks and cleans?’

‘We manage with the cooking, and we have a cleaner who comes once a week.’

Her father and Jacinta cooked! It must be bad. Even her imagination couldn’t supply images to fit.

‘So… Is there something you want me to do to help?’ Ophelia twisted a silver bracelet on her arm. She ran her own design business, which had become quite successful. It paid for an apartment in Edinburgh, and she’d put some money by, but she couldn’t bail out Glenvorneth.

‘Actually, yes. We have the perfect solution.’ Rupert clasped his hands on his lap and beamed like an over-excited schoolboy.

On the window seat, Francesca looked up with a smirk.

‘What solution?’ Ophelia pressed.

‘I believe there’s a man who could save us,’ Rupert said. ‘His name is James Charlton and his family own Duchan Fayre; you know that wonderful shopping place you and Jacinta both love?’

‘Yes, I know it.’ She brushed invisible lint from her Harris tweed blazer; she’d bought it at Duchan Fayre sometime last year. Everyone in the area knew the place. It was a premier venue for country clothes, homeware, luxury gifts, and food. The restaurant was well known too, and it was situated in extensive grounds, surrounded by hills and waterfalls, all making for a perfect out of-town shopping experience. ‘How can this man save the estate? Is he going to invest in it?’

‘That’s the eventual outcome I have in mind.’

Ophelia frowned at Jacinta. Why was she making that smug face? Something else must be going on here. ‘So how will this investment come about?’

‘That’s where you come in.’ Jacinta fluttered her lashes. Experience told Ophelia that when Jacinta wore an expression that saccharine, something extremely unpleasant was coming.

‘You want me to approach him?’

‘Not exactly.’ Rupert gave a fake little cough. ‘We want you to marry him.’

Francesca sniggered from the window seat and started tapping at her phone, no doubt relaying what her father had said to an entire class of teenagers.

Ophelia got to her feet and shook her head. ‘You want me to marry him? It might have escaped your notice, but this isn’t the Victorian era. Why do I feel like I’ve just walked onto the set of Bridgerton?’ She strode to the window opposite to where Francesca was sitting and stared over the grounds. This was a joke, right? ‘You might not be on death’s door, but you’ve clearly lost your marbles.’

‘Oh, come on, Ophelia.’ Jacinta clapped her hands on her thighs. ‘Think about it. You’re single, and you don’t have to marry him straight away.’

‘Or at all, if you don’t like him,’ Rupert said. ‘But why not meet him and see? You must be lonely living on your own.’

Even if that was painfully accurate, she wasn’t about to admit it.

‘By all accounts he’s a delightful man.’ Jacinta waved an airy hand.

‘Marry him yourself then,’ Ophelia snapped.

Rupert chortled. ‘Now, now. Let’s not be silly.’

Ophelia half closed her eyes at her faint reflection in the window and took a deep breath. Let’s not be silly! That was a good one coming from the man who was proposing to marry off his eldest daughter to the highest bidder.

‘Why don’t you just come up with a business plan?’ Ophelia turned back to face them. ‘There used to be so much more going on here.’ She didn’t want to point fingers, but in the seventeen years her father had been married to Jacinta, and more specifically the ten in which he’d been in charge, everything her grandparents had put into action had fizzled out and died. ‘The estate used to be a hub for community events. Remember the gala days and garden parties? We used to open rooms and show off the costume and furniture collections to the public. Why not start some of that again?’ Before Jacinta even opened her mouth, Ophelia sensed the resistance. Jacinta hated ‘the public’ interfering in her life.

‘We tried that a year or so back. We opened up one summer for a display of costumes, but we barely made a penny.’

‘It can’t be a one off. You have to keep it up.’

Jacinta wrung her hands, pouting, and didn’t make eye contact.

‘We don’t want to do anything that’ll rock the boat too much.’ Rupert eyed Jacinta with a slightly furrowed brow. ‘That’s why we’re putting forward the gentlest solution.’

Ophelia raised her hand to her forehead and pressed her fingertips into it. She forced herself to maintain steady breathing. Do not rise or react. Just stay calm. But really. The ‘gentlest’ solution was her marrying a perfect stranger for his money? Surely there had to be a better way? But what?