Chapter 40
William
Nothing could have wiped the smile from my face, but Bramley was trying.
The coffee was practically strychnine, my dippy eggs were cooked right through, and every time I called his name, I was met with the sharp sound of air being sucked through teeth.
If I were a betting man, I’d have said my humble retainer was hungover.
“Fun night in the village, Brammers?” I asked, feeling jovial despite the sub-par petit-déjeuner.
Bramley put the heel of his hand to his temple before responding. “Yes, my lord.”
“Could I trouble you for a couple more eggs, dear fellow? Not that these aren’t delicious, but I’ve got a bit of DIY to do later, and I thought I’d save them to bash in some nails.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Mum drifted in, resting her hands on my shoulders and kissing me on the head.
“Morning, darling!”
Cue the sound of teeth sucking.
“Your aura is different today. You seem happy.”
She knew. Of course she did. How did she always know? She twisted around me to see my face, lifting my chin towards her.
“Oh!” she said. “Oh, William, I’m thrilled for you.”
“Mum, please don’t.”
“I told you the great goddess was sending you a blessing. Was it passionate?”
“Please don’t ask that.”
She ran her fingers through my hair. “When your father and I used to make love—”
“Dear God, stop, you horrendous woman.”
“Very well.” Mum shrugged. “Ooh, coffee.”
She sat down beside me and poured herself a cup.
I considered warning her it was strong enough to give her generalised muscle spasms and respiratory failure, but Mother was an old hippie.
There wasn’t a naturally occurring drug her body hadn’t metabolised in industrial quantities. She reached for a grapefruit.
“And where is your lover this morning, darling?”
In fact, I’d left Petey sleeping soundly while I went in search of sustenance.
It turns out making love all night really burns up the calories.
By seven o’clock I was so ravenous I considered boiling my own eggs, before coming to my senses and waking Bramley.
I showered, got dressed, and left Petey a note in the secret drawer of my father’s old desk: I love you, I love you, I love you. I am yours, forever. WW. xxxxxxx.
“If you mean me, I’m right here,” Petey said, his voice coming from the doorway.
His hand rested on my shoulder, sending electricity sparking through my body.
He pecked my cheek. Well, I wasn’t having that.
My lips were on his in half a second—my hand in his hair, pulling his mouth down onto mine.
It was only Mother wistfully sighing that reminded me to choose decorum.
When I finally released his face, Petey didn’t look as thrilled as I’d hoped.
“It looks like Gary Ashworth got his front page after all.”
Dread washed through me, my mood crashing to earth. Petey held his phone, screen shining. Why couldn’t the bloody papers leave me alone?
“What does it say?”
“They’re very excited about having ‘exclusive pictures of the social media sensation everyone is talking about.’”
“Exclusive pictures?”
“They must have had a photographer there yesterday too.”
The telephone rang, and Bramley made the sucking sound again before answering it.
“If that’s the press, tell them to sod off,” I said.
Petey Boy dropped into a chair and rattled off a few key phrases from The Bulletin’s article: “KNIGHT AND GAY!” “SUITOR OF ARMOUR,” “Bisexual Baron Buckford’s romantic love declaration,” “happy couple in battle to save historic family home.”
Bramley cleared his throat, phone receiver buried in his apron. “It’s Mr Armando Conti, my lord.”
“Who?”
Petey frowned. “Last seen duelling Jonty on the Great Lawn.”
“Ah.”
Bramley continued: “He says he saw yesterday’s article about the auction and would like to discuss a business proposal with you.”
Petey and I exchanged brief glances. Curious, I took the call on the new phone line in the hallway.
Armando said he’d been devastated to read of my financial straits and asked if I was looking for investors to help get things back on track.
I was so touched, I could have cried. Then he dropped the number he was willing to invest, and I blubbed like it was the first day of boarding school.
“Actually, I do have a project you might be interested in,” I said.
The doorbell rang, and I watched Bramley shuffle through, palms pressed to the side of his head. Before long he shuffled back with something in his arms.
Ten minutes later we were all in the kitchen again.
“It looks like the riding school is on,” I said, to whoops of applause from Mum and Petey—and the sound of air being sucked through Bramley’s teeth. “Assuming we can raise enough from the art sale to keep the place, that is. Who was at the front door, Bramley?”
“Mrs Howes, from the village, my lord. She delivered a casserole.”
“A casserole?”
“It’s a kind of stew, my lord.”
“Yes, I know that. But why?”
“I think she thinks she’s helping, my lord.”
The phone and the doorbell rang constantly all morning.
The phone with people offering promises of help, the door with people from Newton Bardon inexplicably bringing cakes, pies, lasagnas, and curries.
The phone rang again as I was boiling the kettle for tea, but as I’d sent Bramley back to bed, I was forced to answer it myself.
“Buckford Hall!” I announced theatrically.
“Is that Lord Buckford?” a woman’s voice asked.
“’Tis I!”
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Zoe. From The Love Manor.”
“Of course!” I said, but I didn’t.
“I want in. I am in love with your brand, your message, and I want to collab.”
Zoe was apparently a travel blogger, and she had more than two million followers on TikTok and Instagram. She wanted to film a tour of Buckford—and she wanted me and Petey in it.
“My followers love to explore new places. You’ll have visitors from all over the world.”
“The house isn’t open to the public, I’m afraid.”
There was a horrified silence on the end of the phone.
“Are you absolutely insane?”
“With these genes? Highly probable. The fifth baron was a noted lunatic—”
“You’re sitting on a gold mine. People are gonna want to see where that swoony knight in shining armour declared his love in front of the whole world. Open those gates and start charging.”
I liked the sound of that. Not least because she said I was swoony.
I mean, swoony? Gosh! So I agreed to the “collab” and thanked her profusely.
I was busily re-boiling the kettle and wondering whether the Old Gatekeeper’s Cottage could be turned into a ticket booth when the kitchen doorbell rang.
As I’d answered my own phone so masterfully, I felt emboldened to have a go at the door. It was Andy, from the village.
“You know you’re welcome to use the front door?” I said. “It’s got a lovely big knocker.”
“Cheers, William. I prefer the tradesman’s entrance.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t like big knockers?”
Andy’s belly laugh rattled the teacups.
“How’s young Matthew this morning?”
“Won’t shut up. You’ve created a monster.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I offered Andy elevenses, and we sat at the kitchen table, tucking into the fine apple turnover Mrs Craddoch had delivered.
Andy scooped four heaped teaspoons of sugar into his tea.
“Half the village has been here this morning, offering their support,” I said. “It’s all very touching.”
Andy cleared his throat. “I expect they’re wanting to help. On account of the estate’s money troubles. Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“You haven’t brought a casserole, have you? Only we’re full to the gunwales.”
“I wanted to speak to you about the estate’s financial problems.”
My chest tightened.
“We wondered if you were planning to sell the village?”
“Oh gosh, no. My family has always felt the village was rightfully part of Buckford. So if you’re worried I’ll sell it to the Blunts, I never would.”
“Actually, William, we were hoping you would sell it to us.”
“Oh.”
“We know you need the capital, and to be honest, we’d like the security—the peace of mind—for ourselves, for our families. I’d like young Matthew to be able to inherit a house, like you inherited yours.”
Not sure I’d wish that on the lad, I thought.
I swigged my tea as Andy made his case. He was here representing all eighty tenants. Most wanted the option to buy their cottage, though not all could afford it right away.
I looked into Andy’s hopeful face. The people of Newton Bardon had been so loyal and so wonderful to our family over the years.
They’d put up with Grandfather’s proclivities and my father’s eccentricities, and now they were enduring my incompetence.
This community was their home as much as it was mine and my family’s. But…
“Let me think about it,” I said, a knot forming in my stomach. “I need to speak to my accountant.”
“That’s all we can ask, William. We know you’ll always do the right thing by us.”
No pressure. Andy downed his tea in one manly gulp and put his mug on the table, his face a beaming smile. I smiled back, but I’m afraid I had to force it.