An Eligible Bachelor (17 page)

But by the time she got home it was late and, exhausted from barely having any sleep the night before, she fell asleep watching
Heartbeat
on the portable telly in her bedroom with Ted curled up next to her and didn’t wake up until eight the next morning.

It was a mad scramble to get Ted to school on Monday morning. Racing around trying to find either of them a pair of matching socks, Honor couldn’t believe she had slept so soundly, given the traumatic events of the weekend. Eventually Ted was dropped off and she made it back to the solace of her little kitchen to drink a cup of calming camomile tea and take stock of the chaos that had become her life. She had the whole day to herself, as the craft centre didn’t open for lunch on a Monday.

She was just about to sit down when there was a knock on the door. Hoping against hope that it wasn’t more trouble, she answered it to find a slender, elegant woman standing on the doorstep. Honor recognized her at once – she’d seen her coming in and out of Eversleigh Manor on any number of occasions. But what on earth was Madeleine Portias doing knocking on her door?

‘Honor McLean?’

Honor nodded and Madeleine held out her hand.

‘Madeleine Portias. I hope you don’t mind me not phoning first. I got your address from your advert in the ball programme.’

‘Oh. Oh yes – wasn’t it your son who bid for the cake? Did you want to order it now?’

‘No, no. It said in your advert you do other catering.’

‘Well, yes. Not on a grand scale, though.’ Honor spoke
with a note of caution, wondering if Madeleine was about to ask her to do the wedding.

‘I think you might be just the person I need to help me out of a tight spot.’

Intrigued, Honor stood to one side to usher Madeleine in.

‘Come on in. I was just making camomile tea, if you’d like one.’

Honor led Madeleine through into the kitchen and pulled out a stool for her to sit on, then flicked the kettle back on. Meanwhile, Madeleine explained her predicament, outlining her plans for the country house weekends.

‘I’m the last person to admit defeat, but I think I’ve overestimated my capabilities. I’d really like to try and delegate some of the catering. I can manage the main courses, because it’s not as if I have to do something different every week. I can stick to what I know – pheasant, duck or venison. It’s the other extras – the little things that are going to make a difference – that I worry I’m not going to have time for. And you’d be perfect.’

‘So what exactly are you looking for?’

Madeleine extracted a list from her pocket and took a deep breath.

‘Nibbles to go with drinks when they arrive. An easy pudding for Friday night. A homemade soup and homemade bread for Saturday lunch. Cakes and biscuits for Saturday tea. Starters and a fancy pudding for Saturday night. And petits fours. And often there will be a cake – people are going to be celebrating birthdays and anniversaries. And I could do with a hand in the kitchen on the
Saturday night – someone who knows what they’re doing.’

Honor hesitated.

‘It’s an awful lot of work. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it on, on top of everything else. And I’ve got a little boy…’

Madeleine leaned forward eagerly.

‘You can do most of it in advance. You can use our kitchen for preparation and storage. Or you can do it at home and bring it in – whichever you prefer. You’d really only need to be there to help with the main course on the Saturday night – you’d be finished by eight thirty or nine. Your little chap can watch a video on the sofa…’

Honor took the list off Madeleine and tried to take it all in.

‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t have a clue what to charge for a start…’

‘I thought I’d pay you a flat weekly rate. Say… a hundred and twenty pounds? You can bill me for the ingredients separately. And you can work at your own pace.’

Honor turned the proposition over in her mind. The amount Madeleine was offering was generous and, even better, at least she would know exactly how much money she could rely on coming in each week. The craft centre was inconsistent: she hated the fact that some days she’d be thrown into a panic, while others, like today, she was left with nothing to do. Or worse, as sometimes happened, tied to the kitchen for a measly batch of shortbread or two quiches which weren’t really worth the bother of getting her pots and pans dirty. With this proposition she would know well in advance how many she was catering
for. She could plan what to do, make better use of her time. And she thought it might be quite good fun. She’d passed the manor house so many times and wondered what it was like inside. Of course, she’d be downstairs rather than upstairs. But what else did she do on a Saturday night? Bugger all. She might as well be earning money and Ted wouldn’t mind watching a video.

‘Why don’t we give it a trial run? If it doesn’t work out we can think again.’

‘Can I have a think? And phone you this evening?’

‘Better still, come and have a drink. I can show you the kitchen and so on. Say about six?’

‘That sounds lovely.’

Madeleine left, leaving behind a faint trace of Cacherel. Honor sat down in disbelief. What a week this was turning out to be! She wasn’t really sure what to make of Madeleine’s offer, but she was grateful for one thing: at least it had stopped her thinking about Johnny.

Having said that, it was at times like this when the fact she was on her own was never more apparent. She always had to make the decisions, and there wasn’t really anyone she could discuss things with – not things that really mattered. Her mother was always infuriatingly vague about anything important – Honor had known there was no point in even bringing up the MMR jab dilemma with her. So she was used to weighing pros and cons up in her own mind, and was quite prepared to take the consequences of her decisions.

But sometimes it was tiring. Sometimes, she just wanted someone whose opinion she respected to say ‘Go for it!’ Or ‘Don’t even think about it!’

Like this opportunity, for example. Once she’d written it all down on paper, worked out how many hours of her time she thought it might take up, it looked like a very attractive proposition. But there were downsides. What happened, for example, if there was a cancellation? Would she still get paid? And what if the whole venture was a failure, and she was laid off, having given up her arrangement with the craft centre? She’d just be left with the cakes, then, and although they were doing well they weren’t a reliable source of income.

Honor sighed. Sometimes the incredible burden of her responsibility got to her. Not that she resented Ted for a millisecond. But occasionally she felt not exactly self-pity, but a bit wistful; a secret longing for a life where she could share things with someone. Not only the bad bits – she wasn’t looking for someone to dump on – but the good bits too. Like when Ted had been Joseph in the nativity play, and when he’d got his hundred metres swimming badge –

She put her cup down with a bang, telling herself to pull herself together. She’d managed this long on her own, for heaven’s sake. She’d better not go all wibbly-wobbly on Wednesday when Johnny came round, or he’d wheedle his way back into her life in seconds. She felt panicky about his visit whenever she thought about it, and she knew jolly well why.

Because she was looking forward to it.

And she didn’t trust herself.

It was no good. She needed somebody to talk to. She’d give Henty a ring. The secret was going to be out before long, after all, and Henty would be mortified if she
thought Honor hadn’t confided in her. She picked up the phone and dialled, already feeling some relief that her burden was going to be shared. All she wanted was some objective guidance about the best way to tackle Johnny’s reappearance in their life, bearing in mind that the only person that really mattered was Ted, who was not only an innocent bystander but the one who could be most affected in the long term.

Henty’s phone rang and rang. Honor gave it twenty rings before she hung up. On reflection, maybe it was best to keep it all to herself. That was the only way she could be sure of controlling who found out the truth and when – not that she didn’t trust Henty, but you just never knew. Some people found the responsibility of secrets just too great to bear. She might be tempted to tell Charles, and Honor certainly didn’t trust him to keep his trap shut. Least said, soonest mended, she thought, and decided she would wait and see what Wednesday brought.

In the meantime, she prayed that Johnny had grown up enough not to play games…

Henty was in the flat over the stables. She’d rushed there as soon as the children had finally been got to school, to see if it was fit for human habitation. There was no point in organizing a nanny if they didn’t have anywhere decent to put her, and the flat had been empty for years. In fact, it could hardly be called a flat at all – it was just a large room tucked into the eaves, with a shower and loo off. They’d converted it because Charles had thought at one point he might like to work from home, but had decided that it would be too complicated – the bit of paperwork
you wanted would inevitably always be in the wrong place – so it had sat there empty. Now, looking at it, Henty decided it was quite comfortable. She’d turned on the heating and within half an hour it was as warm as toast. A good cleaning session, a lick of paint and a trip to Ikea, and it would be ideal.

It was going to be absolute bliss, thought Henty, to have someone around to help out. It would make all the difference to the children too. She often had to cart them all round in the car when she was picking up one of the others, and they always moaned and protested. But if the nanny was around, they could stay at home while she nipped out. And she and Charles could pop out for dinner whenever they felt like it. Or go to the cinema. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d been to the movies, because it seemed a waste of a babysitter when things came out on video so quickly, but then she never managed to rent the films she wanted to watch. She was always outvoted.

Though all four children were at school, Fulford Farm was a high maintenance household. Not helped by the fact that Charles was very fussy and particular about how the house was kept. Because he had a dust allergy, the entire house had to be hoovered from top to bottom every day, and their bedsheets were changed twice a week. He changed every evening when he got home too, and those clothes always went straight into the dirty bin even though they’d only been worn a couple of hours. Then his shirts had to be ironed in a particular way. There was someone in the next village with an ironing service, and Henty had often longed to offload a mound of laundry,
but Charles would be bound to notice, and quibble and complain. It was easier not to rock the boat.

He was fussy about what he ate as well. Meat had to be bought from the butcher’s in Eldenbury; vegetables from the organic farm shop; cheese from the deli. And he had to have a proper meal every night. Thank God the children had decent school lunches and made do with sandwiches or spaghetti hoops on toast.

Added to all of this was the chore of looking after the horses. Five years ago, when Lily and Thea had started going to Pony Club, Charles had met some of the other parents and been talked into taking up hunting by the evangelical master of the local hunt, who happened to be a woman and far from unattractive. Within twelve months he’d learned to ride, bought himself a horse and the girls a brace of ponies, and joined the Eldenbury hunt. It was, Henty knew, one of his ambitions to become Joint Master, but he still had a long way to climb up the hierarchy. In the meantime, he and the girls hunted most Saturdays in winter, which strangely seemed to lead to an awful lot of work for Henty.

For Charles’s allergy was peculiar, in that he seemed to be able to ride horses, but not muck them out or groom them. Which left Thea and Lily in charge, and it was always up to Henty to chivvy them along, to the extent that it was often easier to do it herself, even though she was terrified of horses. She didn’t mind clearing out the stables once they’d been turned out – it was quite therapeutic – but she couldn’t stand handling the animals. It was the way they threw up their heads or kicked out their hind legs just when you least expected it. But if the nanny
was going to help out there as well… A smile spread itself across Henty’s face as she saw a new life opening out in front of her.

Maintaining the Beresford family had been a full-time job, and until now, Henty had never complained. Deep down she knew Charles was demanding and fussy and a bit of a tyrant, but she’d got used to his ways. As long as you went along with him and let him think he was in control, it was fine. His good points outweighed his bad – most of the time – and he couldn’t help it if he was allergic to dust, and he did work hard. So the least she could do was provide support. Her role, after all, was wife and mother.

Now, however, with the prospect of some proper free time in front of her, Henty was determined to make some changes. She’d been stung yesterday by Charles’s remark about Fleur. As Honor had pointed out, how hard could it be to open a florist’s – especially when your husband had put up the money? But Charles was obviously impressed. Thus Henty was determined to prove that she was more than just a docile little housewife. She might not have a bum the size of a Cox’s orange pippin, but hadn’t she once been the toast of literary society?

Sometimes she found it hard to believe that really had been her. And other people found it even harder, when she revealed she’d had a six-week slot on TV-am giving advice on what to wear to Ascot and Henley. Over the years, Henty had convinced herself that
Chelsea Virgin
had been a fluke, that its success was one of those peculiarities of right time, right place. For after the second instalment of the book, when they’d moved to Fulford Farm
on the proceeds and Henty had become pregnant with Thea, she’d tried to write a third. But away from the source of her inspiration, and bogged down with trying to renovate a farmhouse before the baby was born, Henty had struggled to string two words together. Charles had reassured her that everyone had writer’s block, and the best thing to do was to put her typewriter away for a couple of months. That had been nearly fifteen years ago, and in the meantime her confidence had evaporated into thin air. Henty convinced herself her one-time success had been a marketing con engineered by Charles which had nothing whatsoever to do with any talent she might have…