Читать книгу Mansfield Lark - Katie Oliver - Страница 17

Chapter 8

The Locksley Arms Tap Room was all but deserted at 11:45 as Gemma and Dominic sat down at the bar to wait for Lady Mary.

‘Whisky for me, mate,’ Dominic told the bartender, ‘and a Bloody Mary for the lady, please.’

‘Make it two Bloody Marys,’ Lady Mary called out as she joined them at the bar. She laid her clutch down and added, ‘A rather appropriate drink, under the circumstances, isn’t it?’

‘Mum!’ Dominic stood to give her a quick embrace and turned to Gemma. ‘Gemma, this is my mother, Lady Mary Locksley. Mum, this is Gemma Astley.’

Gemma smiled and extended her hand – her nails were newly manicured and painted ‘Foxy Fuschia’ to match her suit – to the slim older woman in the elegant tweed suit. ‘It’s nice to meet you, your, erm… ladyship,’ she stammered.

‘Oh, Lady Mary, please! No need to stand completely on ceremony.’ She seated herself on the barstool Dominic held out for her and crossed one slim leg over the other. ‘Have you been waiting long? I thought I was a bit early.’

‘No, we only just got here,’ Dominic answered as the bartender placed their drinks on napkins in front of them. ‘Where’s my father? Getting off some target practice with my picture on the bullseye?’

‘He’s with your brother, overseeing the shearing.’ She stirred the celery stick round in her glass and added, ‘I do wish you’d make a tiny effort not to discuss family matters, Rupert – especially not in front of—’ she paused ‘–outsiders.’

‘Gemma’s not an outsider,’ he snapped.

‘I only meant that she’s not a member of the family,’ his mother responded, unperturbed.

‘It’s okay,’ Gemma said, and laid a quelling hand on Dominic’s arm. She turned to Lady Mary. ‘I know all about Dominic and his dad,’ she informed the older woman. ‘I told Dominic, ‘It’s not right not to get on with your dad. Your family’s everything.’ I convinced him to come here and try and patch things up.’

‘How commendable.’ Lady Mary gave her a chilly smile and turned back to her son. ‘Did you know that Natalie is here?’

‘Natalie Dashwood?’ He set his whisky down abruptly. ‘Here in the hotel – or here in the village?’

‘She’s staying at Mansfield. Her car broke down last night and she needed a telephone.’

‘That’s bad luck,’ Dominic said. ‘Is the car being fixed?’

‘Apparently the part’s been ordered but won’t arrive until Wednesday.’ Lady Mary took a sip of her Bloody Mary and added, ‘I invited her to stay as long as she likes. We adore Natalie, you know,’ she told Gemma airily. ‘She’s a lovely girl. She and Rupert have known each other for yonks, they practically grew up in each other’s pockets—’

‘That was ages ago, Mum.’ Dominic’s voice was low but firm. ‘Nat and I are through.’ He put his arm around Gemma’s shoulders and squeezed her reassuringly. ‘I’m with Gemma now.’

Lady Mary pressed her lips together. ‘Yes, I can see that. Tell me, Miss Astley–’ she turned an enquiring, guileless gaze on the girl ‘–where exactly is your family from?’

‘Essex,’ Gemma said.

‘I would never have guessed,’ her ladyship murmured.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Dominic demanded.

‘Oh, nothing,’ his mother said with an arched brow, ‘it’s just common knowledge, isn’t it, that most Essex girls like flashy designer clothes, gaudy jewellery, and fake tans. Of course, Gemma’s nothing like that.’

Dominic locked eyes with his mother, but was spared a reply when the maître d’ appeared.

‘Your table is ready, Lady Locksley.’

‘Thank God,’ Dominic muttered to Gemma as they rose, drinks in hand, and followed the maître d’ and Lady Mary into the dining room.

‘Your mum hates me!’ Gemma hissed in his ear. ‘She thinks I’m a tart who’s after your money.’

Thankfully Dominic was spared a response as the maître d’ – who looked uncannily like Basil Fawlty – seated them in a small, private dining area. ‘Monsieur Heath will not be disturbed by the paparazzi,’ he said with a sniff.

‘Thanks,’ Dominic said. ‘Appreciate it.’ When the maître d’ left, he leaned forward and hissed, ‘Since when did the Locksley Arms become French? Poncey arsehole.’

‘Oh, Rupert, I’ve missed you,’ his mum said with a smile. ‘Now,’ she added briskly as they opened their menus, ‘what shall we have for lunch?’

‘We’re losing money,’ Liam Locksley admitted, his expression glum as Joss Devlin led one of the Cotswold sheep into the shearing shed. ‘It costs more to shear the sheep than we make back in profit on the fleece.’

‘Well, if it’s profit you want,’ Joss said over the hum of the shearers, ‘breed for the meat, not the wool. Cotswold mutton’s the best – even those who don’t like lamb, love it.’

Julia Allchurch wrinkled her pretty nose. ‘And kill all those darling sheep to make roasts and lamb sausages?’ She looked at Liam in dismay. ‘You mustn’t.’

‘They’re sheep, Julia, not pets.’ Liam smiled at her indulgently. ‘You grew up in Warwickshire, just like Joss. You know not to get attached to the animals.’

‘I do,’ she sighed, ‘but I can’t help it. And we only have cattle. Cows are so much less adorable than sheep.’

As she wielded the clippers and sheared the ewe, seventeen-year-old Joss resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Why were boys always so taken in by the prim, ooh-don’t-hurt-the-cute-little-lambs type of girl? She’d never understood it.

Joss sighed. Although the Locksleys had taken her in after her mother died, and although she’d lived at Mansfield since she was six, Joss wasn’t one of them, and she never would be.

She glanced over at Liam as she finished and handed off the shorn sheep’s halter to her brother Rory.

Liam was completely smitten with Julia Allchurch. Too bad his mum was pushing him to marry that awful Bibi Matchington-Alcester. It was plain enough that Liam didn’t love her.

But Bibi was gorgeous, Joss had to admit, in that long-legged, posh-girl way of hers.

Of course – Joss looked down with misgivings at her overalls and moccasins – she wasn’t very appealing at the moment. Julia, on the other hand, was effortlessly perfect. Her hair was dark and glossy, her skin flawless and blooming with health—

Rory called out impatiently, ‘Are you planning on throwing me that fleece anytime today, Joss?’

‘Sorry.’ She tossed the newly shorn fleece over to Rory so he could skirt it, making sure the wool was free of brambles or any other imperfections before he rolled it up, and went to fetch the next sheep from the pen.

‘Who owns the red Maserati?’ Julia asked Liam later that morning. ‘I couldn’t help but notice it when I came over.’

‘It’s my brother’s.’ Liam offered nothing further.

‘Your brother’s?’ Julia echoed, surprised. ‘Do you mean to say Rupert’s come back to Mansfield Hall after eleven years?’

Liam didn’t answer, but a scowl descended on his face and he stalked out of the shed.

Julia, her own face set in determination, followed him and caught at his arm. ‘Liam – tell me what’s going on.’

‘There’s nothing to tell, Julia. He was gone; now he’s back. End of story.’ He made his way over to the low stone wall that ran the length of the drive and sat down.

She sat next to him. ‘But why did he decide to come back? He’s a rock star now, isn’t he? Has he made peace with your father? When can I meet him?’

‘Shit, Julia!’ Liam snapped. ‘You ask more questions than a bloody reporter! I don’t know why he came back. And no, he hasn’t made peace with dad – in fact, quite the opposite. Just because he’s Dominic Heath, he thinks he can swan in here and do what he likes.’

‘Well perhaps,’ Julia ventured, ‘he and your father will finally mend their fences.’

Liam snorted. ‘Don’t count on it. After all, why should he show up after all these years, offer a few words of apology, and be given Mansfield Hall, just because he’s the eldest?’

‘Well,’ Julia said reasonably, ‘as you said, he’s the eldest. He’s next in the line of succession, after all.’

‘But I’m the one who’s spent hours learning about sheep and pasture rotation, not to mention trying to find a way to make this place sustain itself,’ Liam snapped. ‘I’ve poured everything into Mansfield. And now Rupert’s come to take it all away, and he doesn’t even know – or care – about any of it.’

‘Poor Liam.’ Julia put her arms round him and held him close. ‘It really isn’t fair, is it?’

Liam revelled in the feel of Julia’s slender arms around him, and the scent of her hair against his face, and he scarcely dared to breathe. He loved Julia Allchurch, desperately and completely; but she was oblivious.

And unless he could figure a way out of it, he’d end up married to Bibi Matchington-Alcester, the Heiress from Hell, very soon.

‘No,’ he agreed after a moment, relishing Julia’s proximity. ‘It’s not fair at all.’