Page 37 of A Colourful Country Escape
‘Being piggy in the middle while you date some beetle collector chosen by your mother? What a treat,’ she scoffed. ‘Anyway, I don’t have the money for that kind of stuff, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Or a passport. But were those the only things holding her back? After the near-disastrous end to her travelling days with Inkie, she was pretty sure she was just too plain scared. Maybe her world had been shrinking more than she cared to admit.
‘Then perhaps one day you’ll show me the world by way of a business trip, and you can charge it to expenses. If the Carrington Paints colour chart needs spicing up, and you recommend travel as the best way to gather inspiration … ’
‘Well, it was just a thought. None of my business, or anything. But I’d love to see some travel-inspired ranges. Or maybe that’s just silly.’ She shrugged.
‘Not silly at all; you’re an entrepreneur. You should have more faith in your ideas.’
‘I’m sure your mother would be delighted with me interfering with colour schemes, as well as brightening up your online presence. And having business field trips with you. What could she possibly crush next?’
‘She’s not as bad as all that. Look, she even paid a visit to your living quarters the other day. Maybe she likes you?’
‘She all but called me a fleabag! And she was only there to rub my nose in how crummy I am, compared to all of your rich and exquisite matches.’ She sniffed. ‘God knows why she thinks I’d be bothered. Anyway, I’d get on your nerves if we went abroad together. I always seem to.’
Somewhere in the distance, a peacock cried. And with that, the magic spell of the secret garden seemed to be broken.
Ben checked his watch and stood up. ‘Quite. Well, any time we spend together is just a temporary inconvenience. I’m sure Mother will have her way soon enough, and you’ll probably be off to more suitable climes.’
What did he mean by that? Another reminder that she didn’t belong? As she saw him pull a face at the mud beneath his feet, she wondered if he was back to no-nonsense Ben. The man who was far too busy to find his own wife and didn’t want his suit to get dirty.
‘Right, well, I’ll get back to my Facebook faffing. Thanks for the gripping info. Maybe you should share some of that with your mum to help her bag you that perfect wife,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘Indeed. Well, she has some interviews planned to pluck out the most suitable. Maybe you can keep an eye on what she’s up to, now you know all about me. My own schedule’s far too hectic.’
Interviews. For the position as wife? Was he having a laugh? But before she had time to question him he was off across the garden towards the house, like a man who’d said too much.
Lexie gave a sarcastic salute to his back and wondered if the military-precision flowers weren’t his after all.
Chapter 19
Some weeks were definitely stranger than others, but Lexie was fast learning that all weeks spent at Nutgrass Hall would be verging on the edge of ridiculous. Odd was most definitely the norm, and the sooner she accepted it the easier life would be.
Lexie marched across the orchard, checking her watch and cursing the lateness of Mrs Carrington-Noble’s pinafored partner in crime. Mrs Moon might not feel like this morning’s preposterousness, but Lexie was liking her role as unofficial gofer even less. And she didn’t even want to delve into all of the reasons why this whole business felt so wrong.
Two weeks had passed since her weird little chat with Ben in Tom’s secret garden. Since then it had all been going on. Mrs Carrington-Noble had turned up and had actually been vaguely civil. Lexie suspected she’d been coerced into politeness by Ben, and no doubt some emotional blackmail had taken place. The woman had even muttered an apology aboutany perceived hostilities, whatever that meant. Albeit through gritted teeth, stained with blood-red lipstick.
There had been something offbeat about that meeting, Lexie recalled as she stomped across the wet grass. For starters, Mrs Carrington-Noble had apparently just returned from an exotic sunny holiday, yet she’d looked peculiarly pale and dare Lexie say it – fragile?
But now thegrande damewas back with a vengeance and organising this charade. The spectacle that Lexie had been trying her best to play no part in, culminating in this morning’s crude interpretation ofThe X Factorlive auditions.
Mrs Carrington-Noble would apparently be starring as a less orange Simon Cowell, with Mrs Moon pushing the tea trolley. They were holding interviews to find a suitable wife for Ben. Suitably rich, suitably accommodating of this absurdity, and suitably accustomed to beige.
Lexie was becoming adept at suspending her own disbelief at how the other half dared to live. Did having too much money allow you to be excessively eccentric? Suddenly it became OK to wear mustard cords, grow your hair like Boris Johnson or have your mother line up potential wives so you could inherit the family business without too much bother.
‘Urrrgh!’ Lexie narrowly avoided a puddle but skidded on a pile of wet leaves.
Why was she even getting dragged into this? She’d just been flitting along the hallway, when Mrs Carrington-Noble had all but grabbed her by the collar and started bossing her about. Of course, she hadn’t strictly needed to pass by the ballroom on her way to nick a slice of fruitcake from the kitchen, but perhaps she was just a little intrigued to have a backstage nosey. Next thing she knew she’d been tasked with collecting Mrs Moon, so the new Simon Cowell didn’t get her court shoes mucky.
Well, Lexie was trying to embrace the greater good. At least if Ben were married off, Mrs Moon and Tom would be more likely to keep their home. Word had it that Ben would get Nutgrass Hall as a little wedding gift, and he’d surely never turf them out. There. Lexie did hate to think of any creature being stranded.
Lexie finally reached Mrs Moon’s cottage and hammered on the door. Apparently the candidates would arrive at any minute, and heaven forbid Mrs Carrington-Noble would have to arrange her own tea and biscuits.
As Lexie paced from foot to foot at Mrs Moon’s door, her yellow pixie boots trying not to get swallowed by mud, she had one of those curiousdéjà vumoments. What was that racket going on inside, and why did she feel like she’d heard it before? It was like … arguing? Mrs Moon’s voice was one of them. Could that be Mr Moon rowing with her? Should she intervene?
Lexie stuck her face against the front-room window, but the fussy net curtains blocked her view. Of course. This was just like her first Friday night at Nutgrass Hall, when she’d heard that fracas in the kitchen. When she’d entered, Mrs Moon had looked flustered and had straightened her bonnet.
And there she was again, opening her front door and doing much the same.
‘Oh, sorry, dear. I’m late. I was just … Never mind. I should really keep my voice down or I’ll wake Mr Moon. Then we’ll all be in trouble!’ She slammed the door behind her with a force that was sure to wake anybody, and made off across the grass towards the morning’s show.
