Chapter 13
Chapter 13
“I f I hadn’t seen news footage of flooded streets and submerged cars,” Ellie said, “I’d never guess parts of the countryside are waterlogged. It’s a gorgeous day for a drive.”
“The Milver Vale didn’t suffer as badly as nearby areas,” Dan replied, “despite the river breaching its banks.” Decreasing speed, he eased his Jaguar into a different lane. “This car spends more time in lock-up than on these streets. An expense I’m willing to bear. No faffing about with train schedules if I want to visit Gloucestershire to see my father and Brian, or decide to drive somewhere for a fishing weekend. And it’s convenient when Martin summons me to Stanwell.” His foot pressed the brake pedal as he joined the line of vehicles waiting for the traffic signal to change.
While he stared straight ahead, she angled her gaze just enough to study his profile. Dark-rimmed sunglasses enhanced his movie-star looks. His fingers tapped the black leather steering wheel, indicating impatience.
“After Hannah left London,” she said, “I watched Forsaken Fortune again and streamed all the episodes of Tender Treasure. I’m excited about staying in the house where they were filmed. But I wish we weren’t going there because of an emergency.”
“Martin will insist on giving you the complete tour, from cellar to attics. He’s steeped in the history and lore of the place. Because it isn’t open to public view, he relishes any chance to share his vast knowledge.” He tilted his head in her direction, saying, “You’re in charge of the radio.”
Taking this comment as evidence that he was disinclined to converse when behind the wheel, she fiddled with the presets until she landed on a classical station.
Speaking over the strains of a violin concerto, he said, “I suppose orchestral music puts you in a dancing mood.”
Ellie smiled. “It depends on the piece. Rafe can listen to anything and make a ballet. Although I collaborated with George on my burlesque routines, he devised most of the choreography. With input from Zack.”
“How are the innkeepers?
“The first batch of guests arrives in just over a month. They swear they’ll be ready. Zack sent me photos of the house, inside and out.”
“It’s your project as well,” he pointed out. “You financed it.”
“Not entirely. And I don’t care if they fully repay what I loaned them. Without George and Zack, Stella Nue wouldn’t have been the worldwide sensation she so quickly became.”
“Your philanthropic spirit is unusual for a person your age.”
“I benefited from other people’s generosity as a young dance student. Before Daddo sold his company, I relied on scholarships for summer dance intensives. I couldn’t disappoint organizations or individuals that supported me by not pursuing a career. Good preparation for a profession that’s nothing but pressure. All the time.”
“Were you ever tempted to do something else?”
“I was too determined to prove myself. I felt driven to work hard enough to overcome my physical defect.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In every respect but one, I matched the standard for ballet. Ideal height—short, with long legs. Small bones, stable weight. But when I hit puberty, I developed more flesh on top than a dancer is supposed to have. And it’s impossible to deflate a full bust by dieting. Because I was talented, City International very grudgingly put me on the roster of soloists, and occasionally cast me in principal roles. But the artistic director and his minions never stopped treating me as inferior.”
“That must have rough.”
“I was pretty fed up by the time Harry encouraged me to audition with him at the summer theatre. He wanted me to switch to acting. Halfway through the season, on a horrible day, I woke up a wife and went to bed a widow.” She drew a sustaining breath. “Rafe assured me Ballet Bruxelles would be a safe space, that I’d be happy dancing there. And I was. Until I wasn’t.”
“Did you experience the catfights and rivalries portrayed in ballet movies?”
“They’re real, though rarely as toxic as you’ve seen on the screen. Close friendships, even if somewhat competitive, are more typical than feuds. I’ve known Melinda since we roomed together one summer in New York, and she’s still at CIB.” She laughed. “When I interviewed burlesque queens for my student thesis, an examination of the New York scene in the middle of the twentieth century, I heard crazy stories. Itching powder in pasties. Sabotaging stage props. Antics that stemmed from a combination of insecurity and outright jealousy. A lesson in the seamy side of show business.”
“Yet it didn’t deter you.”
“The season after Rafe retired, I left Ballet Bruxelles and went home to Birchmont. I had no idea what to do next. One of my interview subjects had kept in touch with me. Her nephew managed a club in Hoboken, New Jersey, and was looking for a stage kitten. That sounded like fun, and in neo-burlesque my figure wouldn’t hold me back. After a few months, I put together my own act for the revue. George and Zack helped with choreography and costuming. It was a lark. Then I got completely sucked in.”
She lapsed into silence, aware of his concentration while navigating his way out of central London to the motorway, and used her phone’s map app to trace their route. Beyond Basingstoke, he left the busy M3 for the A303. The landscape opened up, revealing vistas of green meadows and low, rounded hills where sheep grazed. White daisies bordered the roadside and fields were carpeted with bright yellow flowers.
When she asked if it was a crop, he answered, “Later in the year, the seeds from those plants will be harvested and pressed to make an oil used in cookery or for industrial purposes. There’s a rapeseed processing plant in the Milver Vale, one of several area businesses that Martin helped develop.”
“What’s he like?”
“The opposite of whatever you envision a stuffy English aristocrat to be. For a start, he refrains from using the title. He thinks of himself as an ordinary bloke. Who just happens to own a street in Mayfair and a chunk of Somerset and a global investment company. He’s hardworking. Self-deprecating. Intensely attached to his region, although he wasn’t raised there. Devoted to Hannah and their son, and utterly enchanted by them. As he will be by the baby, when it arrives.”
“You’re describing a friend more than a boss. Or a landlord.”
“Because he doesn’t treat me like an employee or a tenant.” Eyeing his satnav display, he told her. “We can stop at Barton Stacey services. There’s a petrol station where we can buy a sandwich and a drink.”
Leaving the highway, he parked close to a cluster of buildings that formed what Ellie identified as a rest area, with coffee shop, restaurant, and chain motel. Inside the gas station, she chose a fruit smoothie and examined a tempting array of chocolates and unfamiliar candies. Deciding a road trip was no excuse for a lack of discipline, she selected a packet of almonds and joined Dan, who purchased a sandwich and packet of crisps.
He rummaged around in the car boot, shoving aside fishing gear, and removed a folded piece of canvas.
Spreading it over a damp patch of grass, he acknowledged, “Hardly a picturesque—or quiet—spot for our picnic.”
When they resumed their journey, Ellie continued studying fields and farmsteads. She spied a grouping of tall stone pillars that towered over people scattered around them. “Stonehenge! You didn’t tell me it was next to this highway.”
“Have you never been there?”
She craned her neck as they sped past, keeping the landmark in view as long as possible. “This is my first trip beyond London. Unless you count Heathrow airport.”
“I do not,” he said drily. “High time you broadened your horizons, and experienced the real England.” His hand left the steering wheel for an expansive gesture. “The West Country is the best part.”
“In your biased opinion,” she teased.
“Right. You can take the lad out of Gloucestershire . . .” He trailed off, letting her to complete the phrase for herself.
They had moved onto a narrow road bordered on both sides by white-blooming hedges that he identified as hawthorn. Portions of the grasslands were soggy in places, limiting the available grazing area for sheep and their lambs and dairy cows.
Slowing down to enter a village, he announced, “Here’s Little Milver. The deconsecrated church and its parish hall form the Rural Heritage Center, fortunately sitting on higher ground. The prince presided at the opening ceremony, and ever since it has received accolades and awards.” He slowed down so men carrying shovels could cross from one side of the road to the other.
Farther on, at the bridge over the river, a barrier blocked the road. A man in a high visibility vest walked up to the car, and Dan lowered his window.
“Sorry, sir, nobody’s allowed to pass—safety issue. We’re waiting on inspectors to find out whether there’s structural damage down below. The branches and leaves have been cleared away, and two chaps are bringing over a gurt big seine to catch the bits and bobs floating downriver. We’ve seen kiddie toys. Plastic flower pots. A garden gnome. Where’re you bound?”
“Stanwell House.”
“You can’t get there by Home Farm Lane. Best backtrack to Newbridge and take the main road. That’s what all residents in Milver St. Mary and Milverston village must do, till we get the all-clear for the bridge. Shouldn’t be long. It’s stood strong for centuries, t’isn’t the only flood it survived.”
“Where’s the worst damage?”
“Round about the church, I’d say. If you know the millpond, you’d not believe how it’s swelled. And nor can the waterfowl.”
“You’re sure the main road is clear?” Dan asked.
“Water did overflow the place where it dips, but Newbridge emergency services sent word it’s receded enough for vehicles to pass through.”
Dan backed up the Jaguar to a spot where he could reverse and passed through the village again to access the recommended route. “When we reach the market town,” he said, “you’ll recognize places along the High Street from Forsaken Fortune and Tender Treasure. Minus horse carts and carriages and extras in eighteenth century clothing.” The wheels crunched pebbles and grit deposited by rising waters.
As they crossed over the swollen river, Ellie observed that the bridge did not look new, despite the town’s name.
“Used to be. Three centuries ago.”
The parking lot of an enormous home improvement store was crammed with cars and the customers carrying their purchases—buckets and mops and shovels and others items necessary for clean-up. Near the entry to a roundabout stood a chain motel and a petrol station. Dan took the third exit, signed for Milverston Magna and Milver St. Mary. Ellie was entranced by the verdant pastures and yellow flowered fields, scattered houses with colorful gardens and profusely blooming lilacs. Treetops rose above an extended boundary wall.
“We’re here.” Dan turned at a paved drive marked with two stone pillars and stopped in front of the metal gate, which promptly opened. “Someone’s monitoring the security camera.” The car moved forward and the gate closed. “This is the Home Park.”
They were surrounded by a sea of tall grass and wildflowers bent by the breeze. Ellie leaned nearer her open window to inhale fresh and scented air. Each curve of the drive revealed a cluster of towering hardwoods. She wanted him to slow down so she could absorb the landscape, but the male of the species hated being told how to drive. Another bend revealed the broad building of pale golden stone, and the reality exceeded its on-screen magnificence. In the sunshine, the windows’ diamond-shaped panes glistened like gemstones.
“I can’t imagine what it must be like, living here,” she said.
“You’re about to find out.”
Hannah came down the shallow front steps, followed by a dark-haired man. “Nico will take care of the luggage. Dan, give him your key so he can move the Jag to the stable yard.”
Ellie followed her to an entrance hall with wood paneling and a minstrel gallery at one end, opposite a tall window of clear glass and colorful heraldic shields. Paintings of uniformed horsemen lined the walls, separated by antique swords and shields arranged in intricate patterns.
“Our historic Great Hall,” Hannah explained. “Martin loves showing people around, but you’ll have to wait till he gets back. Richard is still down for his nap. Ron, our house manager, is exercising the dogs. All of which accounts for the present—very temporary—peace and quiet. Would you care for tea, or something else?”
“Tea for me,” Dan responded.
“The same.” Ellie gazed at the broad fireplace, wondering how often it was used, until she felt Dan’s hand on her shoulder blade.
“This way. Keep close, or you’ll get lost.”