Page 90 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
She thought of the paintings displayed in the house, the various couples she could recall. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
March could be the magnificent Thornhill painting on the stairs, and April should hint at Easter, maybe with a view of the tree-lined avenue with the church in the distance. They could show the house reflected in the silent fountain. The parkland in summer. The parterre garden. The Orangery. The house reflected in the pool, with the last of the water lilies. Apple trees in autumn could be perfect for October. A black-and-white shot of the gardens, hinting of winter. Then the Christmas shot of the house, taken from beside a fir tree strewn with a few gold and red baubles to give festive flair.
“So basically I want you to prowl around the house and gardens and get what you can to create the vibe that fits our brand. In addition to the two licensed shots we already have, we need a further ten shots to use, so make sure you get plenty more that we can choose from.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled. “You know I appreciate you, Drew, don’t you?”
“I know.”
She left him to it, then returned to her office via the gift shop. Now that George had returned to London, Poppy’s mother, Delia, had volunteered to take her place, but Delia wasn’t as savvy with knowing when things needed to be replaced. After checking the stock—the postcards needed replenishing again—Liv returned to her office and resumed her work.
Several hours and one apple for lunch later—these heritage Worcester Pearmains were delicious—she was lost in planning for the Regency Ball. EJ was wonderful in helping create the ticketing site, but they needed images to sell the vision. And the Orangery was scarcely in a state of loveliness.
She went on her own prowl, taking photos of anything that cried Regency to her: fans, an artistic shot of the library with its wall of books, a crystal perfume bottle, candles. Another of the dining table, another one through the paned glass overlooking the park. They might not be of Drew’s quality, but they evoked a certain era that fit the vibe she was hoping for. She returned to the main entrance, thankful for their new signs, which Patricia had begrudgingly redone, before chatting briefly with Cara and Gary, the two house stewards on duty today. “You don’t happen to know anyone with a supply of Regency-era attire?”
Gary rubbed his nose. “I have some London connections who have worked as costume designers on films. I could ask them.”
“Really? That would be amazing.”
Cara looked at her. “Veronica mentioned something about a Regency Ball.”
“We want to do a fundraiser for the Orangery roof. And as mentioned in our last meeting, funds are frozen, which makes it really hard to do anything.”
“You don’t want to do a GoFundMe campaign?”
She sighed. “I don’t know what will make people support us rather than anyone else who is also asking for cash. People often need to feel like they’ll get something out of it, more than a warm, fuzzy feeling.”
Cara nodded. “Have you investigated heritage grants?”
“It’s been one of those things I don’t have time to do. Patricia had said she would, but nothing has eventuated.”
“I have some time. If you give me the paperwork, then I’ll do what I can.”
“God bless you! That would be amazing.”
Seeing there were few house visitors at the moment, she took Cara into the office and explained what they had. Cara promised to look into it; then a visitor to the Hall arrived, necessitating her departure.
A knock came at the door. Drew. “Liv, have you got a minute?”
“Always.”
“Can you come outside? I’ve had an idea.”
She really didn’t have that many minutes, but she should keep him happy. She followed him outside to the garden, to the fountain, and he instructed her to sit on the bench that Liam had made.
“I know you’re always wanting more pictures that show thePride andPrejudiceconnection, so I wondered about having someone look at the house with the famous fountain bubbling away.”
“You want me? Shouldn’t you have a model?” Except a model would cost money they didn’t have.
“I thought that white shirt made you look like you’re from another time.”
She plucked the lacy sleeve. “That’s because itisfrom another time. This used to be my gran’s.” And despite being from the eighties, its soft folds and lace were romantic, and a definite contrast to the T-shirts and jeans she normally wore. Well, she still wore her jeans. A girl had to be comfortable, after all.
“So, I want you to face the fountain. Actually, can you put your hair up in a bun?”
“A chignon, you mean?” That was the correct Regency term, she believed.
