 Stately
Pursuits
Hetty’s mother thinks that looking after Great-uncle
Samuel’s crumbling stately home while he is in hospital will
be just the thing to cure Hetty’s broken heart. Hetty doesn’t
mind; at least she can be miserable in private.
But ‘private’ is a relative term in a
village whose main concern is the goings-on at the big house. Particularly
when you are the only person available to thwart Great-uncle Samuel’s
Awful Heir and his nefarious plans to turn his inheritance into
a fun fair.
Pitchforked into the community’s fight to preserve
the manor, Hetty has no time to wallow. In fact, once she has shared
her troubles with one neighbour (Caroline: a very understanding
shoulder, despite her glamorous appearance and impossibly long legs),
and cast an appreciative eye over another (Peter: equally long legged,
but offering rather more practical help), she wonders if her heart
is irretrievably broken after all …
Prologue
Hetty was humming to herself as she drove up the rutted track to
Alistair’s cottage. It was a house she loved, a true gem.
It had genuine casement windows with diamond panes, a little porch
guarding the studded front door, and gingerbread woodwork under
the eaves. Hetty would have liked to live in it for ever and longed
to see it in summer when the roses that tangled up the side of the
building would fill the air with their sweet scent. To Alistair
it was an excellent investment.
She parked her car carefully behind Alistair’s Porsche and
got out, pulling a box of groceries from the back seat. She’d
brought all his favourite food: cheeses, single Gloucester with
nettle, from a specialist cheesemonger in Covent Garden, some wild
Scottish salmon, which she had queued half an hour for, and some
handmade chocolate truffles. In a freezer-bag she had some ice-cream
she had made herself. It was the only way she could afford to give
him his favourite kind, and she did like to spoil him.
She’d made excellent time. It was still only ten o’clock.
They had the whole, wonderful weekend to be alone together, and
although it was January, and the weather was bleak, Hetty loved
winter walks, followed by hot buttered crumpets in front of the
fire as a reward. She’d bought those, and butter, in case
Alistair had forgotten.
Using her key as usual when they travelled down separately, she
let herself in, put down her box, and called ‘Alistair? Are
you in?’ She knew he was, because his car was there, and he
wasn’t an early riser at weekends. He might still be asleep,
his soft, floppy hair tumbled across his cheek, his eyelashes long
and curly, giving him a schoolboy innocence which was quite lacking
when he was awake. For a moment she wished she hadn’t called,
but had just tiptoed up so she could wake him with a kiss. But it
was too late.
‘Come up,’ he called, obviously awake, probably surrounded
by newspaper. ‘I’m in bed.’
Hetty smiled indulgently, wondering whether he’d stayed in
bed so he could welcome her there, or was just having a lie-in.
She knew he had had to go to a dinner party, unofficially business,
which was why he’d been unable to bring her down. If it had
gone on late, he would be tired. She climbed the twisting staircase,
lifted the latch of the bedroom door and went in.
There was no heap of half-read Saturday supplements snuggling up
to Alistair. Instead, a tall, slim, blond woman, several years older
than Hetty, and several aeons more sophisticated, appeared to be
offering him entertainment.
The couple did not spring guiltily apart on Hetty’s entrance,
as convention demanded. They stayed together, Alistair’s arm
curled defiantly about the woman’s shoulders.
Hetty stared, unable to make sense of the picture before her, which
was made more bizarre by the feeling she had that they were waiting
for her. Hetty almost expected them to leap out of bed and tell
her she’d won some mysterious prize. But they didn’t.
They stared back, Alistair looking smug, and the blonde more than
a shade uncomfortable.
Hetty’s disbelief of the obvious melted, leaving behind the
sensation that a bad attack of flu was about to claim her. Her head
swum, the floor tried to pull her to it with alarming strength.
She realized if she wasn’t careful, she would faint.
Cover Illustration: Mary Claire Smith; Calligraphy:
Stephen Raw
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