Doubting Abbey (16 page)

Roxy and the cameraman had rushed over, not even stopping to carry over their equipment.

‘What did we hit—an iceberg?’ I’d muttered, glad to see my only injuries were a grazed knee and elbow. Finally, Nick managed to tame the mower and bring it to a halt. Forget
Driller Killer
, Manic Mower would make an ace horror film. Luckily, Jean hadn’t actually seen what had happened or he really could have been fired for such reckless driving.

‘Wowsers,’ Roxy had said with a giggle as the dumbstruck cameraman helped me to my feet.

‘You, um, like that Kate Winslet movie then,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t it have been safer to recapture this scene on one of the many cruises I’m sure you must go on?’ Once again, she dissolved into giggles. ‘It was so cool. Who would have thought that Miss Abigail Croxley, I mean… That was real rock ‘n’roll!’ Roxy gazed at my knee, a worried look on her face. ‘Um, are you sure you’re okay, Abbey? That was quite a fall.’

My chest had tightened as the now familiar guilt took hold. If only I could tell her the truth and say: ‘I’m not bonkers. You don’t need to worry about me. This is all part of a plan to win.’.

‘I’m fine. Thank you. It was, um, an accident. I stood on the lawnmower to thoroughly enjoy the estate’s views and the engine suddenly sprang to life. There was little Nick could do. I, um, stretched out my arms to provide some sort of balance…’ I cleared my throat. ‘I assume it goes without saying that neither of you will mention this to anyone or on the Internet…’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘And if you must show the footage, please edit out the ending, which is close up.’

Reluctantly, Roxy and the cameraman nodded. Then I made my excuses and, despite the initial aches and pains, headed back inside to my four-poster bed for a lie-down.

Thank God I didn’t sleep on the top floor, like the staff, along the Long Gallery – I couldn’t have coped with all those relatives in the portraits glaring at me for risking their reputation. Fingers crossed they understood that I was fighting the good fight for their sakes.

Later in the afternoon, the Earl and I finished off our tour of Applebridge Hall. I tried to find the words to warn him about my bonkers antics, but it was impossible.

‘You’ve practised your cooking today, Abigail?’ said the Earl gruffly, seated in his usual high-backed chair. Tonight he’d spurned tea and Kathleen’s yummy chocolate-dipped shortbread for a glass of brandy and, of course, his pipe. ‘Miss Diamond rang me today, once again ranting about yesterday’s cooking.’ He put down his drink and chuckled. ‘That’s quite an achievement you pulled off, ruffling her feathers. Normally she’s jolly calm about everything.’

‘Kathleen’s helping me to, um, conquer my nerves before tomorrow’s lesson,’ I said. ‘She’s a real treasure.’

The Earl nodded. ‘My wife used to call her that.’

Kathleen blushed. ‘This shortbread was the Countess’s favourite biscuit.’

‘Along with your Dundee Cake,’ said Edward and offered the cook another cup of tea.

‘Hmm, and you make a mean whisky fudge,’ added Mr Thompson.

‘Here we go, at last,’ said Nick, glancing at the screen as the theme music to our show played. He took off his iPod, just as his phone rang. Edward glared at him and he switched off his mobile.

I sat on my hands. Hopefully, no one in the room would realize that it was me on the lawnmower with Nick. The Marwick Castle footage came first, featuring a corporate team-building trip, now that the weekend’s hen party posse had left—cue professionals dressed in combat gear doing paintballing, fencing, archery and shooting.

‘Now tell me, Baron,’ said Charlie Chingo, from the screen. ‘Since broadcasting that hen party in your dungeons on Saturday, I believe you’ve had a lot of business enquiries?’

The Baron clapped Charlie across the back, cheeks bulging more than ever.

‘Och, he’s a smug so-and-so,’ muttered Kathleen.

The Baron looked straight into the camera. ‘What’s not to like?’ he boomed. ‘All you guys and gals out there, come to Marwick Castle for the time of your life. It’s the recession – everyday life is tough. You deserve to treat yourselves to a day or two of opulence. Feasts with tables of meat joints, breads, fresh fruit and pickles and cheese… Beer on tap and wine in huge goblets… Hunky waiters and waitresses whose sole aim is to treat you like kings and queens. During the day play paintball in the forest or learn how to shoot clay pigeons. There’s no class system at Marwick Castle. Dosh is the only thing you need here to enjoy pursuits normally reserved for the stuffy aristocracy.’

‘What a berk.’ Edward clenched his fists. ‘I didn’t realize we were watching the adverts.’

‘There’ll be an accident before you know it,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘Rifles are a serious business, not to be handled in between pints of beer.’

‘Silly bugger, that Baron chap,’ said the old Earl. ‘He’ll soon destroy anything worth preserving about that castle.’

‘Your son, Harry, has some wild party games up his sleeve, I believe,’ said Charlie Chingo’s voice.

While the Baron talked, louder than a town crier, the camera panned the large room the interview was being held in. A variety of swords hung from the grey stone walls. There were stuffed animals, plus coats of arms.

‘I wasn’t sure whether to show you these,’ said Jean to everyone, cheeks red as she passed around a handful of celebrity magazines. ‘They came out today,’ she said. ‘I was in the corner shop and saw the Honourable Harry Gainsworth’s face stare out from every cover.’

‘I seem to remember he was a popular lad in the qualifying heats,’ said Kathleen. ‘Canny face.’

Hmm. He had a mega popular fan page on Facebook. I’d been on the computer today and taken a peek at how much people were chatting about me and Nick. Plus I’d bobbed onto Edward’s blog. It almost read as if he was enjoying writing his e-diary and chatting to some pretty weird strangers.

Edward snorted as he turned to a photo of the Baron’s son in nothing but a crown and pair of designer Y-fronts. With his fake tan, white teeth and playboy good looks, I could see why he was their ‘Torso of the Week’.

‘Oh my God… um, goodness,’ I said, reading an article. ‘Next weekend this Harry is inviting his new celebrity friends to the Castle for a party. How do we compete with that?’

‘Who’s going?’ said Nick.

‘Dodgy Dirk, the lead singer from, um, some new rock band.’ I fought to keep the excitement out of my voice. Hot or what? If I wasn’t stuck here, I’d deffo watch the show anyway, to drool over Dirk in paintballing overalls and gorging on lush food. ‘Also several cast members from one of the soaps.’

‘A publication called
Top Shelf Totty
contacted me to do a photo shoot,’ said Edward, cheeks flushed.

‘Really! How aw…’ awesome! ‘…
aw
ful,’ I said. ‘Although it would have been terribly good publicity.’

‘You think so, Cousin? Me, wearing nothing but an apple in front of…’

My eyes widened. Kathleen and Jean giggled. Mr Thompson shook his head with disapproval. The old Earl tutted loudly.

‘This house was awarded to my family for their efforts protecting this country,’ said the old man and stood up. ‘Four hundred years later, is this what’s it’s come to? My son, a grown man, stripping down, butt naked, in front of the nation?’ He headed for the door. ‘I can’t watch any more of this tosh. I’ll be downstairs, in the library.’

We sat in silence until the door clicked shut, itself sounding like an ancestral tut.

‘Sorry, My Lord,’ said Jean. ‘I didn’t mean those magazines to upset His Lordship.’

Edward offered her another biscuit. ‘Nonsense, Jean. Father has a strong constitution. It’s best that he knows exactly what’s going on and what it takes to win this competition. I’m sure he’ll watch the rest of this on catch up. If nothing else, he very much enjoys seeing the panoramic shots of our estate.’

I glanced sideways as Edward sat back down on the sofa, shoulders sagged. He was staring vacantly at the floor’s worn rug.

‘Charlie Chingo’s just been splatted with red paint,’ said Nick with a snigger. We looked at the screen. Marwick Castle’s antics really were mega good telly. Poor Edward’s shoulders sagged further. The programme cut to commercials and we flicked through the magazines again.

‘And just when we thought things couldn’t get worse,’ I muttered as Charlie Chingo came back on screen and introduced my cookery lesson from yesterday. The camera focused on Nick as he’d squeezed my hand just before the lesson had started, to wish me luck. Next to me, on the sofa, Edward’s body stiffened.

‘Um, thank you once again, Nick,’ I said to the room, ‘for hurrying upstairs to fetch one of my homeopathic calming pastilles and discreetly putting it in my palm. I couldn’t have got through the morning without it.’ Despite my innocent tones, Kathleen gave me a funny look.

The footage moved on to my demonstration and a bubble of laughter inflated in my chest. Oh, come on! Well, it was funny, me trying to work out how to use that garlic press. At first I’d thought it was a tin opener. As for Miss Diamond’s face when the smell of burning apples filled the air… Look at me shaking my dressing like a manic cocktail maker doing the Macarena!

‘Tell me when it’s over,’ I mumbled, not daring to watch any more. It was so baaad, I felt an irrational urge to giggle.

‘Now, Miss, don’t you fret,’ said Kathleen. ‘Nerves were understandable and you’ve practiced so hard today – that oatmeal was toasted to perfection. I’m sure tomorrow’s filming will run seamlessly.’

‘Yeah, that pheasant you cooked today smelt wicked.’ Nick gave the thumbs-up.

Kathleen let me eat a bowl of your Cranachan.’ Jean smiled. ‘It tasted divine.’

‘I can second that,’ said Mr Thompson’s deep voice. He tilted his Sherlock Holmes hat.

‘Thank you all for being so terribly kind.’ My cheeks felt hot.

‘The Bloody Bull I tried before dinner tonight tasted very decent, Cousin,’ added Edward.

I poured everyone another cup of tea and went to the loo, hoping the
Titanic
scene would be over before I got back. I was riding high on their compliments and didn’t want to come back down to earth. However, no such luck. I walked into the Parlour and my mouth went dry. As I sat back down, Nick and I were on screen, at the top of the hill, just as I clambered onto the tractor. In the jumper and at a distance, to your average viewer, I didn’t think it would be obvious that it was me. However, I’d texted Lady C that afternoon to warn her; said she may not approve of tonight’s show, but for her to trust that everything I did was part of a game plan to win the contest. Without reading, I deleted all the messages she’d already left and then turned off my mobile.

I swallowed hard. On screen I’d just adopted the crucifix pose. I lifted my teacup to my lips, then up in front of my eyes. Jean giggled. Kathleen snorted. I put down my cup. Fuck—I looked ridiculous.

‘Who on earth is that lassie?’ said Kathleen.

Edward jumped to his feet and glared at Nick, who smirked for Britain. Tears of laughter streamed down Jean’s cheeks.

‘This is hilarious,’ she spluttered.

The words ‘Look at me fly’ resounded around the Parlour.

Kathleen shook her head. Jean dabbed her eyes. Mr Thompson leant right forward, to the telly, when that footage suddenly ended.

Eyes ablaze, Edward faced me. ‘Did you take leave of your senses, Abbey? As for you, Nick, good God, man – did you not consider the dangers?’

‘It wasn’t m…’ I began.

Edward snorted. Sigh—there was no fooling him

‘I insisted that he do it,’ I muttered. There was no point trying to convince Edward that it was an accident and that the lawnmower had a life of its own.

‘Good God, woman, why? Not only could you have destroyed hundreds of pounds’ worth of machinery, we could have ended up in court if Nick was injured.’

‘And, of course, Abbey might have been hurt,’ said Nick. ‘I’m sure you were also concerned for your cousin.’

‘Get out of here,’ said Edward to him and scowled. ‘Before I… Go on, leave. Everyone, else… Mr Thompson, Kathleen and Jean – I wish to speak to Abbey. Alone.’

‘Abbey?’ said Nick to me.

Without looking, I could feel Edward glower.

Mr Thompson put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and patted it. They all got up and, as they left, Edward grabbed the remote from the Earl’s chair and flicked off the programme. He paced around the room.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Edward, but—’

‘Surely you aren’t going to attempt to justify such behaviour? You…’ His voice wavered. ‘You could have killed yourself. And what did you hope to achieve? I can’t imagine any other lady I know, like…like Henrietta, for example – conducting herself in such a manner.’

Why did he have to bring
her
into this? My stomach squeezed. But then, he did have a point. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t come up with a suitable excuse. It hadn’t looked remotely lovey-dovey. But boy, had I enjoyed the freedom. I’d found it hard to control my behaviour and speech every single minute of the day since my arrival on Saturday. It had been a bloomin’ relief to do something wild and wacky.

‘And with
him
… The gardener…’ Edward couldn’t even say his name.

‘I never had you down for a snob,’ I said and thought back to one of Lady C’s many lectures. ‘I was always brought up to believe that…that a position of privilege was an honour and that no lady – or gentleman – considered themselves above any other person.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then why do you always sneer at him? If that’s not snootiness, I don’t know what is.’

‘Clearly, in four days, you’ve nailed my personality,’ he said stiffly.

We stared at each other for a moment.

‘Look, if it was me, I would never have agreed to such a daredevil plan,’ he said.

‘So, he should have refused, even though I’d threatened to fire him?’ Well, okay, Nick knew I was joking, but still, technically I’d ordered him to drive that mower or join the dole queue.

‘You did
what
?’ Edward shook his head. ‘But yes, you could have been seriously injured or… or worse…’ His voice petered out to a whisper. ‘I would have lost my job, to protect you.’