Chapter 55
‘He expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do.’
Ihad never seen myself like this. Not this version of Florence Elliot: sitting before a dressing table in one of The Black Horse’s new guest rooms, perched on a velvet-covered stool with her reflection staring back from a gilt-edged mirror.
The face in the mirror was mine, yes, but also not mine.
My grey eyes were more defined. My hair was swept up in a Regency-style twist, pinned into place with military precision, and my make-up had been done by a woman who Tania had bribed on a moonlighting basis from the BBC.
I looked like a version of myself who could weather anything, even the launch night of a pub reborn from the ashes.
The sapphire-blue gown shimmered in the light, its Empire waist fitting snugly beneath the bust while the silk fell in soft folds to the floor.
The stays beneath made breathing a careful business.
I exhaled slowly, trying to calm the restless flutter of nerves in my chest. Outside, the early autumn air drifted in through the open window carrying on it the smell of freshly cut grass, and wood smoke from the cottages down the lane. A loud snort carried up from below.
I leaned out, surprised. Igor was in the back garden, leading a massive chestnut horse down the ramp of Minna’s luxury horsebox.
The horse’s chestnut coat gleamed like copper, its muscles bunching and rolling with every movement.
It tossed its head, snorting again, and pawed at the gravel like an impatient guest.
For the thousandth time that day, I wondered if we’d lost our minds with this launch idea.
It had been Dom’s brainchild, this Pride and Prejudice themed opening night, complete with horses, top hats, and candlelight.
At the time, I’d laughed and called it ridiculous.
Now, with guests due in less than an hour, it felt downright dangerous.
‘Florence! Drinks incoming!’
The door burst open and Dom swept in, all manic energy and charm, with a video camera guy in his wake as if he were hosting a documentary. In one hand, a cocktail shaker rattled with ice; in the other, two frosted martini glasses.
‘The Black Horse’s signature cocktail,’ he announced with a flourish. ‘I figured you’d need a hit before we start releasing the livestock.’
‘Livestock?’ I repeated.
‘Our steeds. Dirty’s the only way to head into the abyss,’ he said, pouring out two cloudy martinis and handing me one.
I took a sip, the briny olive and vodka biting down my throat.
Before I could reply, Tania swept in through the doorway, emerald-green silk hugging every inch of her figure. She looked like a walking advertisement for Regency decadence.
‘Christ,’ Dom muttered, momentarily struck dumb. ‘You’re terrifyingly gorgeous.’ He thrust the cocktail shaker at me like a microphone. ‘Any final words before the Darcys start galloping up the road?’
‘May they not fall off,’ I said dryly, rising with some difficulty. The dress was heavy, voluminous layers and petticoats I hadn’t realised would require both strategy and core strength just to stand.
We paraded through the pub together, me clutching my martini like a talisman. And for a moment, I forgot my nerves. Because the pub was perfect.
The walls in the main bar were a soft, dove grey. Exposed brick fireplaces, scrubbed clean and glowing in the candlelight. The deep peacock velvet banquettes gleamed against the wood floors we’d sanded by hand. Above the bar, the antique brass chandelier caught the light like liquid gold.
The Merian botanical prints I’d splurged on lined the walls, a riot of detail and colour that felt both historic and fresh. They were worth every penny.
In the snug, Mum and Dad were already seated near the fireplace, fully committed to the theme in full Regency dress, courtesy of Tania.
Mum was in a lilac empire-waist gown with delicate lace sleeves and a matching bonnet, Dad in breeches and a waistcoat, looking faintly alarmed by the top hat that sat next to his pint.
Rocky, once a scrappy rescue dog, now something close to a pub mascot, was sprawled across a rug at their feet, wearing the ridiculous ruff Alice had insisted upon for the night.
He looked deeply unimpressed but dignified nonetheless.
As Dom and I wandered over, Mum clapped her hands together. ‘You two have pulled off the impossible,’ she said, with a grin. ‘I hope you realise that.’
Dad raised his glass. ‘Proud doesn’t quite cover it.’
We clinked glasses.
Alice arrived through the side door in a cloud of crimson silk, hair piled high in intricate curls.
She paused, took one look at me, and whistled.
‘Bloody hell, Flo,’ she groaned. ‘You look like you just walked out of a BBC drama. I feel like a trussed turkey in all this. Next party, we’re doing the 1960s. Kaftans. Daiquiris.’
By six o’clock, guests began pouring in. Some came in full costume; breeches, waistcoats, the lot. Others cheated, throwing on white shirts or lacy shawls. One man, for reasons known only to himself, had come as Batman.
Waiters circulated in breeches and riding boots, balancing trays of Ben’s canapés. The pub was a blaze of candlelight and chatter. The press hovered by the bar.
‘Right,’ Dom’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie he’d handed to me earlier. ‘Time for the grand entrance. Get everyone outside.’
We herded the crowd into the front courtyard, gravel crunching underfoot. A hush fell. Then, from down the lane, came the steady thunder of hooves.
The riders appeared like a fever dream: Dom at the front, top hat askew, followed by a ragtag cavalry of villagers who had somehow transformed into dashing Darcys and cheeky Bingleys.
Minna appeared driving a carriage, Igor beside her, hanging on to his hat as she sped along. They pulled up to whoops and applause.
And then, hooves again. Louder. Heavier.
I turned.
Out of the dusk came a single rider on a black horse, moving like a shadow. The horse’s hooves struck the gravel in slow, deliberate beats. The rider sat easily in the saddle. He wore a tailored coat, with a top hat tilted just enough to look rakish.
The horse drew closer.
I saw the line of his shoulders. Dark curls escaped the hat.
I caught my breath.
It was Lachlan.
He looked absurd and magnificent all at once, reining in with effortless control. He dismounted, long legs hitting the ground like he’d been doing this for centuries. He gave a small bow. The crowd went wild. Cameras flashed. Someone actually swooned.
Before I could even blink, Lachlan tossed his jacket onto the saddle, unbuttoned his jacket, pulled off his boots, and – oh no.
He ran barefoot across the road and dived straight into the village pond.
The roar from the crowd was deafening. Someone yelled, ‘Encore! Give him a beer!’ Alice was laughing so hard she nearly toppled over.
When Lachlan emerged, drenched and smouldering, his shirt clinging like something from a particularly dangerous fantasy, I knew two things:
This launch was officially legendary.
I was in trouble.
Later, the marquee glowed under strings of fairy lights. The dance floor was crowded with Elizabeths and Darcys. The scent of spiced cider, wood smoke, and candle wax lingered in the air.
After countless press interviews and chats with guests I finally sat down at a table near the bar, my feet throbbing in the satin slippers I’d already mentally burned.
Alice appeared with a bottle of espresso tequila and poured us both an indecently full glass. ‘To you, Flo,’ she said. ‘And to The Black Horse.’
I was halfway through a rambling monologue about the durability of velvet in high-traffic pubs when I felt a shift in the air around me.
I looked up.
Lachlan stood there, his clothes now dry. His curls clung to his forehead, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked tired and utterly at ease, which made me even more nervous.
‘May I, Florence?’ he asked, gesturing to the empty chair beside me.
I nodded. Alice slipped away. He sat. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The noise of the party swirled around us, laughter, someone shouting about Darcy’s breeches, but we were caught in some quieter orbit.
‘I tried to get back earlier,’ he said finally. ‘The flight was delayed.’
‘You swam in the village pond,’ I replied.
He smiled faintly. ‘Seemed appropriate.’
‘And you can ride. Really ride a horse.’
‘Childhood transport in the Highlands.’
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, my mind scrambling. ‘Why did you come back?’
He tilted his head slightly, watching me. ‘To see this. To see you. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, his voice low.
‘The money. The fifty thousand. Dom wasn’t meant to tell anyone, but I want you to know, it was me.
I wired it from Dubai when the storm damage hit.
I couldn’t let all of this’ – he gestured around the room – ‘fall apart. Not when you’d fought so hard to build it. Not when it mattered this much.’
‘Why?’ I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
‘Because I believe in this place,’ he said, simply. ‘And because I believe in you.’
The words landed like stones in a still lake, the ripples spreading through me. Something deep in me shifted. Silence stretched between us again, but it wasn’t heavy. It felt like something waiting to be said.
‘Florence,’ he said, finally. ‘I smell like pond water, but–’
‘Lachlan,’ I whispered. ‘Stop talking.’
He leaned in and kissed me.
And for a moment, everything – the candles, chatter, months of sweat and plaster dust – fell away. It was just us.
Alice and I had once made a Darcy List, this wasn’t it.
This was better.
Real, messy, warm. Forged through compromise and respect, rather than fantasy. The heartbeat of something real.
Something that, perhaps, had only just begun.
THE END