Platinum Coast. Lynne Pemberton
was about to demolish some of Dorothy’s wonderful apple pie.’
‘No. You’ll have to come at once or it will spoil. Please, Daddy,’ the girl implored.
Stephen looked over Victoria’s shoulder at Christina, his eyes apologetic.
‘I’ll be two minutes. Don’t eat all the cake.’
She smiled. ‘You’ll have to be quick!’
‘What about your cinnamon and apple pie, Mr Reece-Carlton? I haven’t stood in this hot kitchen baking all day for it to go to waste,’ the housekeeper shouted.
‘Oh, shut up, Dossy. You know you love baking, whether it gets eaten or not,’ Victoria shouted back.
‘I’ll spank your hide, you cheeky little monkey.’ She pointed a chubby finger at Victoria, who dragged her father out of the kitchen without so much as a glance in Christina’s direction.
‘I’ll eat it, don’t worry,’ Christina said, helping herself to a large slice of apple pie.
‘Thank goodness someone will.’ The housekeeper sat down next to her and poured herself a cup of tea, shuffling her ample bottom into a more comfortable position.
‘How long have you worked here?’ Christina asked.
‘Too long, I think sometimes. Especially when that imp Victoria plays me up.’
She helped herself to a huge piece of fruit cake. ‘I came to work here when my eldest, John, was fifteen. He’s twenty-eight now.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Nigh on thirteen years. Mr Reece-Carlton hasn’t had the house all that time, mind you. There was the Naughton family before that. Americans they were, a funny lot, only came here a couple of times a year. And before them there was Lady Somerville, a lovely old lady. It was her who employed me originally. I’d only been here about six months when she upped and died. My old man used to joke and say it was my pea and ham soup that killed her off!
‘Then, when Mr and Mrs Reece-Carlton bought the house in 1976, they asked me to stay on.’
She took a noisy gulp of tea and slopped a little onto her pinny. ‘Mrs Reece-Carlton was a real lady, very generous too. It was so tragic.’
She stopped speaking abruptly and quickly stood up as she heard Stephen’s voice in the hall, followed by girlish giggles.
Victoria raced into the kitchen. ‘Daddy’s promised to take me to the gymkhana tomorrow, Dossy, so could you make us a picnic lunch?’
‘Of course I’ll make a picnic, with all your favourites.’ She fondly ruffled the top of Victoria’s dark head then nudged her, eyes shifting to Christina sitting awkwardly at the table, watching the cosy scene.
‘Would you like to come to the gymkhana?’ Victoria asked, her tone flat and lacking any enthusiasm.
‘As long as I can have egg sandwiches in my picnic’
Victoria noticed the glance she exchanged with her father and her eyes narrowed. So they had already been on a picnic together? She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.
Going to the fridge, she poured herself some orange juice and then sat at the breakfast table, so close to her father that they looked glued together. Stephen edged away a little, feeling uncomfortable, but Victoria slid closer to him once more.
She glanced at Christina from under thick black lashes and announced, ‘I wouldn’t bother coming to the gymkhana if I were you.’ She helped herself to apple pie then went on, ‘Unless you absolutely love horses, you’ll be bored to death.’
She turned to her father for confirmation. ‘Won’t she, Daddy?’
‘I really think that’s for me to decide, don’t you?’
Christina forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile as she stared into Victoria’s flinty gaze, aware for the first time of the strong resemblance to Stephen when he was deep in thought.
The girl continued staring at her whilst she ate her apple pie. ‘It’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Victoria, if Christina would like to go to the gymkhana, she can. I personally think she would enjoy it.’
Victoria poked out her tongue at her father.
He tapped the end of it with his finger. ‘Put that away. You don’t know where it’s been.’
She giggled and poked her tongue in and out rapidly whilst Stephen pretended to try and catch it.
Christina stood up. ‘Sorry, but I must use the loo.’ She glanced at Stephen.
He jumped up. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ He pulled Victoria’s pony-tail as he passed the back of her chair. ‘See you later. Miss Reece-Carlton.’
‘I’m going down to the stables. Come and join me there,’ she said.
‘Thanks for the tea, Dorothy, it was lovely – especially the fruit cake. Just like my mother makes,’ Christina called across to the housekeeper, who was taking a can of dog-food out of the pantry.
‘My pleasure. I like folk who eat well and appreciate my food.’
They left the kitchen and Stephen picked up Christina’s bag before leading the way up a wide, dark oak staircase.
She almost slipped twice on the highly polished stairs, and noticed that the uneven floor creaked with every other step as she followed Stephen past walls lined with paintings in ornate gilded frames.
He stopped at an arched, oak-panelled door which he flung open to reveal a medium-sized room with an elegant Regency four-poster.
The room was wallpapered in a yellow and blue flowered print, and the two colours in toning shades were reflected in the bedspread, curtains, cushions and upholstery.
There was a tiny beamed bathroom en suite with a white tub and a small antique sink. The towels were blue with lemon edging, and there were several pots and jars containing bath oils, soaps and cotton wool.
Christina emerged from the bathroom to find Stephen standing next to a small lead-paned window sill and looking out over the garden. It was planted in Old English formal style with smooth, green lawns divided by stone-flagged paths and neat hedges within which the richly stocked herbaceous borders burst with colour. It seemed to end at a high screen of neatly trimmed, spiralling topiary.
‘What a magnificent garden,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it, except in films.’
‘This is only half of it. Come on, I’ll give you the guided tour of the grounds. Put on some suitable shoes and follow me.’
He waited patiently whilst Christina unzipped her bag and found a pair of trainers which she quickly pulled onto her stockinged feet.
He took her hand and they left the house by the front door, meeting Muffin, the spaniel, panting on the doorstep.
‘Come on, Muffy,’ Stephen called as they set off down the drive. Muffin slumped down in the warm porch and dropped his head on his paws, ready for a snooze.
‘He must have been down at the stables with Victoria all day,’ Stephen commented. ‘He usually comes back exhausted.’ They walked round the side of the house, down a set of old brick steps to a narrow path where they had to walk single-file. The path twisted through a vast rose garden where Old and New English Roses, floribundas, miniatures and hybrid teas blossomed in every shade from white and palest lemon to deepest pinks and crimsons. The garden was heavy with scent.
‘There are over fifty different varieties in here. My wife had this garden planted specially. It was her pride and joy. She was a keen gardener,’ Stephen said in a soft voice.
‘What about you?’ asked Christina.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got green fingers; I love to see it looking beautiful,