Chapter 32
The August morning was hazy and golden as Juliet swished open the heavy curtains from the large bedroom window. She used her little flat above the cookery school exclusively as a studio now and had moved into the house permanently, sharing Léo’s large suite in the new wing.
‘Today’s the day,’ she said, scooping up Ava, who had jumped off the big bed where Léo was now sitting up, and bustled over to Juliet, ready for her breakfast. ‘It feels kind of unreal that we’re finally sending that cookery book out into the world.’
‘Indeed. I think it will all go very well; the book is so beautiful, thanks to your photos and drawings. Are you looking forward to it?’
‘I am. There’ll be a few London faces I haven’t seen for a while, but that’s cool. How about you? Are you feeling okay about the publicity?’
‘Finally, yes. At least this is work, and I’ve got used to my face being out there a bit more thanks to that Instagram page of Sylvia’s.’
Juliet laughed.
‘It really took off, didn’t it? She seems to have some innate knack for social media that none of the rest of us do. Did I tell you she was helping me set up my own page for my flower art?’
‘She’s amazing. I just hope today isn’t too taxing for her.’
‘She’ll let us know if it is, but I think she’s doing really well, isn’t she?’
A note of worry crept into Juliet’s voice. Although her aunt had been coping well through the treatment and now beyond, she knew she wasn’t yet out of the woods. She was beginning to understand why her mother had jeopardised Feywood’s future for her own treatment; when it came to it, you felt as if you’d pay for anything that promised results.
Léo got out of bed and put his arm around Juliet.
‘She’s doing great,’ he said, kissing her and then Ava, so she didn’t feel left out. ‘Come on, we’d better get some breakfast before the circus begins.’
It wasn’t long before everything started arriving, reminding Juliet vividly of the day of her mother’s memorial, which had been very similar with chairs, tables and awnings being traipsed through the house, although this time she hoped that Toby wouldn’t be joining them. His final communication to her had been an actual letter a couple of months after she left London, detailing all her faults and breaking the news that he never wanted to see her again, so please could she leave him alone from now on?
‘Gladly,’ she had said, and threw the missive onto the fire.
‘Are you sure they’re bringing champagne glasses?’ asked Martha for the third time, as she passed Juliet making a neat display of the lovely books.
‘They definitely are,’ said Juliet, grimly hoping that she had, in fact, remembered to ask the catering company to include them.
‘And thank goodness for this beautiful weather,’ continued her sister. ‘It would have been a shame to have had this indoors.’
‘Yes, especially given the state of the place. Do you know when Dad’s going to get going on the roof?’
‘Soon, he says. I think now that he’s regularly putting away enough money the bank has backed off. But you know Dad, he gets distracted.’
Juliet laughed.
‘Seems to run in the family!’
‘Do you mind? Oh dear, maybe I should have spoken to him, got him to get going on it more quickly…’
Her sweet sister’s face crumpled with worry.
‘Not at all,’ replied Juliet, hugging Martha. ‘Don’t worry about it, it’ll all be fine.’
‘I know, I know, I just want it all to be flawless for the three of you, you’ve worked so hard, and the book is so utterly gorgeous, it deserves a perfect introduction to the world.’
She picked up one of the books and leafed through it. Juliet stopped work for a moment to look over her shoulder; she didn’t think she would ever tire of seeing what they had produced. Its title was Feywood: Simple, delicious food from an English country garden, and the matt cover in palest sage green had a photograph she had taken of the kitchen garden at its best last summer, with Léo and Sylvia picking berries and chatting. The book was filled with recipes for Léo’s exquisite quiches, Sylvia’s flower-strewn cakes and Rousseau’s breakfasts. Martha had contributed some simple pesto combinations that she enjoyed making, and even Agnes had given them a recipe for a traditional Oxfordshire Hollygog Pudding: pastry and golden syrup rolled up, cooked in milk and served with custard. When Sylvia had tested the recipe, the family agreed that it tasted surprisingly good but was probably best kept for special occasions. No one could manage more than about three spoonfuls without feeling full, other than Rousseau of course, who finished his up and declared the rest of them lightweights. Juliet had declined to contribute more than a couple of cocktail recipes.
‘Unless you want a method for making inedible scrambled eggs, I don’t think it’s really my milieu. I’ll stick to the illustrations.’
They had asked Frankie several times to send something, but after her last visit to Feywood a few months ago, they had barely heard from her. Sometimes, they picked up bits of information from the internet, and they knew that Dylan’s work was, inexplicably, garnering huge success, but that was all they had to go on to assume she was alive and well.
‘Maybe she’ll come today,’ said the ever-hopeful Martha, placing the book carefully back on the arrangement, where Juliet instantly twitched it into perfect line with the others. ‘You did invite her?’
‘You know I did, but I haven’t heard back. I wouldn’t hold your breath. Look, maybe once all this is over, we can go down to London and see her, assuming they’re still living in the same place.’
Martha smiled.
‘I’d like that. Oh, look, these must be the TV people.’
Juliet looked over to see two women carrying a couple of large cameras and some sound equipment, followed by a man with a clipboard and a third woman who looked as if she were going to Ascot, in a long dress patterned in different shades of pink, with a small, veiled hat clinging for dear life to her lacquered hair. Her heels were sinking into the lawn as she followed the crew over to the small awning they had requested. Comfortable in her light sneakers, Juliet jogged over to them and introduced herself.
‘Ah, hello,’ said the done-up woman graciously. ‘So pleased to meet you. All ready, are we? Good. Philippa here is going to be roaming and chatting to your guests, soaking up the atmosphere, do you see? And I’ll be in here much of the time with Tara, filming little vignettes we can include in the broadcast.’ Finally, she waved at the man. ‘This is Jamie, he’ll make sure everything stays on track.’
Jamie already looked harassed but shook Juliet’s hand.
‘Do you think that Léo and Sylvia would be able to give us a moment? I’m afraid we’re running late already.’
Glad to be out of a similarly pressurised environment, Juliet went to fetch them. Guests were arriving already, exclaiming at the beautiful gardens and keen to meet the authors. Luckily, she managed to find them first, putting the final touches to some of the food that would be set out for people to sample.
‘Can you both come to the TV tent?’ she said. ‘They’re keen to get you interviewed and people are arriving already. Good luck!’
She followed them out and went to mingle, feeling proud of her contribution to the book. She might struggle to boil an egg, but she knew one end of a camera from the other, and she was pleased with the gentle sketches she had done, so different from the waspish newspaper cartoons she was still putting out. Maybe, she thought, her book launch would be next. Fairies of Feywood was finally finished, sent to the publisher just a week ago. She was about to approach some of the guests, when a loudly chattering group led by Pandora James swept through the door, looking around them in amazement as if they had come to Mars, rather than a country house. She recognised a couple of them as London-based ‘foodfluencers’ that Sylvia had heard of and insisted would be smart to invite, and went over to greet them. They all clashed cheekbones with her and said the journey down had been appalling, which she took as her cue to lead them over to the refreshments table where, thankfully, there were now neat rows of champagne glasses. As they walked across, one of the men said:
‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere, you look very familiar. For a moment, I thought you were a friend of Dex Caurruthers, but…it doesn’t seem very likely.’
Juliet laughed.
‘No, I have to say that wasn’t really me.’
And leaving him to his champagne and confusion, she crossed the lawn to find Léo.
*
If Juliet and Léo’s story had you racing to get to the end, make sure not to miss Hannah Langdon’s bestselling book Christmas with the Lords – when Penny answers an ad for a nanny in a big country house, her life is swiftly turned upside down…
Get it here, or read on for an exclusive extract!