Chapter 10
10
F leur closed the door on Patrick’s car and looked up at the stunning house in front of her—a 15th-century country house turned into what looked from the outside like the most amazing hotel ever. Bring it on. One thing Fleur knew was that this was not some grotty lodge on the side of a motorway trying to pretend it was good at hospitality or even had an inkling of what that was. She knew what the inside of a motorway hotel looked like, through grim experience, that was for sure.
She looked over at Patrick. ‘Oh my gosh, this looks amazing. How did you find this?’
‘I can’t tell you.’ Patrick laughed. ‘Sworn to secrecy! Nah, it was through the National Trust work we’ve been doing.’
A few minutes later, after going through a thick timber door with a massive brass handle, Fleur looked around at the low ceilings painted in a beautiful dark green. Panelled walls stretched around to small sitting rooms, with a map room flanked by gigantic lamps and blue velvet furniture was placed just so in every available nook and cranny. She poked her head into the main bar area, wallpapered in a floral pattern, a lush palm plant in a stone pot and a beautiful old white fireplace with a gilded mirror over the top. Beautiful antique furnishings sat around by the dozen—plush embroidered chairs with intricate designs, dark wooden cabinets, and a stunning old bar stocked with a plethora of neatly arranged bottles. A large potted fern reached towards the ceiling and on a picture rail, old photos and paintings jostled for space. Our Champo had arrived.
Deep wallpaper hues and an insulated old-world luxury seemed to welcome Fleur as framed artwork and nautical paintings adorning the walls called out for guests to come and have a nose. Everything shouted history, sophistication, old-school England and elegance. A lit fire crackled away to itself, a low-key warmth enveloped and an odd clink of glassware and quiet chatter from guests here and there created a low, pretty ambience with a slow, easy undertone of classical music playing softly in the background.
Fleur took a deep breath, trying to work out what she was smelling—an earthy aroma from the plants, a faint scent of aged wood, leather feels from the furniture, and a whisper of smoky, dark warmth from the fireplace. A touch of vanilla and oak lingered here and there. She stood still, just gazing at the setting, the quiet luxury, and the feeling of nostalgia wrapping her in a massive hug. Talk about nice. Who needed Hawaii when you could have a slow evening drink beside a crackling English fire in an old 15th-century house?
After checking in at reception and being told that their room was actually in the old servants’ quarters, Fleur and Patrick went through a labyrinth of flagstone-floored corridors with very low beamed ceilings until they arrived at a dark timber staircase. Beautiful sconces on the walls let light drop onto the stairs and a huge lantern with small rose-coloured silk tassels hung down from an overhead beam. Our Fleur was in her element.
Opening the door to room number ten, Fleur gasped as she walked in. What they hadn’t realised when they’d booked was that the room was a premium room, and after Fleur had stepped through the doorway as Patrick clicked the door shut behind them, she gasped. The room was bathed in the glow of gorgeous bedside lamps, and everything welcomed with an understated, whispered elegance of days gone by. Fleur sighed at the moody warm grey on the walls and how the room seemed to have made the world outside hush and go away for a bit. Crisp white linen and perfectly plumped cushions in tones of slate and dove wrapped the huge bed, a perfectly placed, neatly folded throw graced the foot of the bed, and against the far wall, an old empty fireplace stood beneath a huge round mirror that caught the light here and there. As downstairs in the map room, the scent in the air whispered—a comfy, easy layering of age, lavender and a shed load of care. Beeswax polish on antique furniture, the promise of fresh linen, and something faintly earthy and smoky here and there mingled with a trace of chamomile coming from a small hidden diffuser on top of the dresser. Brass fittings looked back at her everywhere, and as Fleur ran her hand over the bed, she couldn’t quite wait to get in and drift off to sleep. All of it was perfect. Patrick had done well. Not grand or ostentatious or gold or glitzy; just beautifully, quietly English, elegant, classy and all around perfect. Stealth wealth oozed from just about every inch.
Patrick wandered further into the room, turning in a slow circle as he took it all in. ‘Well, this is better than I expected. I thought I’d booked a nice hotel, not a BBC period drama set. We’re about three seconds away from a butler appearing with a candle and some deep, dark family secrets. I’m getting Bridgerton vibes.’
Fleur laughed, slipped off her shoes and padded over to a plush overstuffed armchair in the corner, running a hand over the fabric. ‘I’m fine with that as long as the butler also plys me with calories, preferably in the form of scones, fresh cream and homemade jam and ideally, no ghosts.’
‘What, you don’t fancy a bit of a haunted country house vibe?’
‘Absolutely not. I don’t have the energy for a four-hundred-year-old duchess wailing about her lost love at three in the morning.’ Fleur joked.
Patrick chuckled, making his way to a set of double doors on the far side of the room and reached for the brass handles. ‘Hold that thought. Let’s see where this leads.’
He swung open the doors, and a rush of fresh air spilt into the room, carrying the smell of salt, the lake, and damp earth. A small wrought-iron balcony stretched out, overlooking a patchwork of rolling fields, distant hills and little copses of trees dotted on the horizon. The only sounds were the rustling of the trees and the occasional bird.
Fleur followed him and rested her elbows on the railing. ‘Oh, wow. Okay. You have outdone yourself. You have officially peaked. There is no topping this.’
Patrick grinned. ‘I thought you wanted Hawaii, ha. I’ll be adding this to my list of greatest achievements.’
‘You’ve excelled.’
‘It seems that way. We’re here now, and that means no cooking, no alarms, and definitely no responsibilities. Just a couple of days of lounging about, eating far too much, and pretending we belong in this sort of place.’
‘Pretending?’ Fleur scoffed. ‘I was born for this level of luxury. I’m going to start carrying around a tiny porcelain teacup and making vaguely condescending remarks about the weather.’
‘Speaking of tea...’
Fleur followed Patrick back inside as he started rummaging through the tea-making facilities. ‘Do you think they’ll have normal tea?’
‘This place is fancy. More like hand-plucked artisan leaves infused with the essence of morning dew.’ Fleur giggled and flopped onto the bed, watching as Patrick lifted a polished wooden box from the shelf. He flipped it open and groaned. ‘I was joking but...’ He held up a sachet. ‘Organic jasmine and elderflower with a whisper of bergamot.’
‘Tragic. That’s not tea in my book.’
‘Wait, there’s hope.’ He rifled through the box again and pulled out a more familiar packet. ‘Ah-ha! English Breakfast. The one true tea.’
‘I was about to start composing a strongly worded letter. Gosh, look at this place. There’s a fireplace in the bedroom and the bedding is so crisp, I can actually hear it when I move. Fleur stretched out across the covers, the material cool against her skin. ‘It’s the sort of bed where you want to merge with it and become one with the duvet. My new identity will be Bed Lady.’
‘Well, Bed Lady, your tea is ready. Shall we enjoy it on the balcony, like the posh, refined individuals we are?’
Fleur giggled. ‘Shall we discuss poetry? The finer points of literature?’
Patrick handed her a cup of tea. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of whether it’s socially acceptable to order three desserts at dinner, but sure, we can start with poetry.’
On the balcony, they sat on the iron chairs, the sky a dusky blue, a few streaks of pink and orange fading beyond the horizon. Fleur nodded. ‘This was a good idea. We needed this. A few days of pretending the real world doesn’t exist. No emails, no stress, just good food, long walks.’
‘Yup.’
‘I’ll be eating all the complimentary biscuits and stealing the fancy soap from the bathroom.’
Patrick grinned. ‘A flawless plan.’
Fleur smiled. The hotel was nothing short of glorious. For now, that thing called reality could wait.
T he next day, Fleur was sitting in an old vintage lawn chair under an umbrella on a terrace outside the hotel. She’d had a lovely stay so far and was now sitting outside with a pot of tea and a two-tier cake stand filled with finger sandwiches. Patrick had gone for a swim in the supposedly heated outdoor pool. Our Fleur had given that a miss. Sitting with her book, eating cucumber sandwiches and topping up her tea every now and then, she was lost in a bit of a world of her own as she watched wedding preparations in a bandstand-style pergola about a hundred metres away from her. She idly observed a group of mostly men making their way to the bandstand, chatting away, laughing and then standing around with drinks in their hands.
Popping a finger sandwich into her mouth every now and then and pouring from the teapot, she studied a wedding coordinator who clearly had everything under control going about her business. After twenty or so minutes, a jumble of happy guests began to arrive, the men from before now ushers, stood, greeting people and directed them to chairs on a lawn underneath a beautiful old vintage-style canopy. Fleur watched as men in suits with buttonholes and women in pretty English floral dresses and fascinators perched in their hair gathered in twos and threes, chatting and laughing as they waited to take their seats and for the ceremony to begin.
Fleur was thoroughly enjoying herself; having a smashing time enjoying a personal bird’s-eye view of the goings-on of a quintessentially British wedding. To her far left, she could see the other side of the party—the bride, and a couple of bridesmaids in pale green dresses with flowers in their hair, and the father of the bride standing, sipping champagne under a similar bandstand-type pergola, clearly getting ready to make their entrance.
It looked like such a lovely occasion, Fleur thought to herself. The pomp and ceremony of it all fluttered around her head, making her feel happy to be part of something she wasn’t invited to but just felt like she was. Shifting slightly in her chair, she adjusted her position under the large cream umbrella as she poured herself another cup of tea. The delicate clink of china accompanied the hum of conversation drifting over from other hotel guests scattered across the terrace and little patches of sunshine dropped dappled light on the old stone pavers. Warm, but fresh country air, brought the kind of day where the cut grass smell lingered and a little spontaneous breeze every now and then pushed a swirl of rose petals up from the flowerbeds.
Fleur had an almost perfect view of the wedding unfolding on the lawn below. From where she sat nestled on the terrace with her book, tea and cake stand, she had her own secret vantage point—an observer of a gorgeous day that wasn’t hers, her voyeurism radar twitching nineteen to the dozen. The bride and bridesmaids had disappeared momentarily under the white fabric draped bandstand-style pergola, a harpist played something very romantic and Fleur watched as the groom stood greeting a few new arrivals. His best man stood beside him, nudging him now and then, making a joke that Fleur couldn’t hear but could guess from the grins was laced with nerves and banter.
It was, in every way, a classic English country wedding; white wooden chairs arranged in neat rows on the lawn, a floral arch at the front where the ceremony would take place, pretty flowers, floral dresses, men in suits and mothers in pastels. Hotel staff moved discreetly around the edges, checking details, adjusting decorations, and ensuring everything was just so.
Fleur took a bite of a sandwich and watched as a few late arrivals hurried across the grass, heels sinking slightly into the ground, clutching tiny beaded handbags and straightening the skirts of their dresses as they rushed to find a seat. She smiled at the familiarity of it all; how very, very nice. She’d been to enough weddings to know how they went—the hushed excitement before the bride arrived, the anticipation, the whispered compliments about the dress, the slight stiffness of the vows spoken in front of so many people, the unfurling of the day into champagne, gossip, laughter, dancing, and someone’s uncle embarrassing himself on the dance floor.
Her mind drifted to her own wedding to Ben back in the day. It wasn’t a memory she thought about often, not because it was particularly painful anymore, more it was a story she’d long since closed the book on. As if she’d put it away in one of her notebooks. However, watching the wedding unfold, the ritual of it all wiggled her memories and her thoughts drifted back in time.
She had been young, naive and stupid and had believed so very much in the grand idea of it all—the certainty that love was enough, that saying the vows meant something, that it would be forever and ever and ever. Except it hadn’t been, not at all. Except it had done nothing other, really, than disappoint. As she took a sip of tea and watched one of the bridesmaids fiddle with the back of the bride’s veil, she wondered fleetingly if she would ever do it again. The father of the bride said something, making them all laugh and Fleur felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. A strange melancholy for a life that hadn’t happened mixed with an almost smug realisation of what she had now.
The harpist changed songs, a new tinkle drifted through the air, and the wedding coordinator gave a discrete signal. Fleur sat up straighter and shifted back in her chair, watching as the guests quieted, heads turned towards the pergola, and the bride took a breath and prepared to step into her new life.
‘Best of British’, Fleur whispered to herself. ‘You’re going to need it.’
As she sat back, she thought about Patrick and smiled at what she had now. It was good enough for her.