Page 17 of A Change of Location
“Clever and crazy,” she said pointedly. “They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
He was accustomed to her frank criticisms and unbothered by them. Their friendship was at times complicated by the fact of her being his employee, but the rare quarrels and quibbles soon blew over and were just as swiftly forgotten. Three years younger, she was practically as tall as Martin, with long, strong legs. Pretty in a wholesome, healthy way, she had a sprinkling of girlish freckles across her cheekbones and a tiny gold stud in one nostril. As usual, she wore her brown hair tied back in a tail.
Over the past two years she’d proved herself a worthy successor to her father, retired from service and living in sunny Portugal. Her forceful personality and keen intelligence served her well in a traditionally male occupation. Poppy handled her office duties effectively, but every minute at her desk kept her from the task at which she excelled—working with people. In a multitude of ways, she was Martin’s ambassador to a scattered community with conflicting needs and expectations.
Each of the four variously sized villages forming the estate had its distinct identity and appeal. Prosperous newcomers, bolstered by their London salaries, had improved the older and more substantial properties scattered along pleasant lanes leading in and out of Milverston Magna. Its vitality was ensured by the shops, grammar school, the Anglican church, a pair of public houses, and the inn with its restaurant. A short distance from there, a crossroads hamlet consisted of several houses and surrounding farms. Milver St. Mary had its historic parish church and watermill, a farm shop, and plenty of modern suburban-style housing. He and his working group envisioned the cavernous tithe barn as the primary rural skills demonstration area.
Little Milver, victim of a failed industrial estate and the demise of textile manufacturing, was the runt of Martin’s litter. It was also the current focus of his attention and activity, and crucial to his larger ambitions. Believing its spacious, salvageable buildings might be attractive to artisans, he’d begun renovating a vast mill building into studios for painters and potters and craftspeople with gallery and shop space included. The de-consecrated church and unused parish hall would become the heritage center. Planning permission had been obtained for a sensitively designed and attractively priced housing estate.
The moment the petite, curly-headed American had mentioned her film, he’d recognized the potential of placing his section of Somerset before an increasingly heritage-mad and recreation-focused public.
“I’m not seeking your approval, Popster. But I want you to understand what this means to me. To us.”
“I’m beginning to. How does Dan Wheeler feel about your scheme?”
“I haven’t told him anything. And won’t, until we get onto Hannah Ballard’s short list. It’s early days yet, and nothing’s certain.”
As they approached grassy land dotted with grazing sheep and their lambs, they called back the dogs and put each one on a lead. The woolly, bleating beasts bored Ariel, but she was a sight hound and if she sighted something interesting, she’d hound it. And in the process, upset the animals and enrage Martin’s tenant.
Poppy bent to adjust Millie’s collar. “If this movie has gruesome murders and torrid sex scenes, your precious publicity might do us more harm than good.”
“I’ve been reading Forsaken Fortune. Classic stuff. Page after page of love and lechery, birth, betrayal, and death. I’ve made it through the murder trial, and I predict a public hanging will soon follow. There’s a mysterious chap who lurks and limps about, looking and listening. The village idiot.”
“The perfect role for you,” she teased.
“Just what I was thinking,” he said, affecting a hobble. “As lord of the manor, I deserve a walk-on.”
“At the very least,” Poppy agreed.
Chapter 6
Lord Milverston ushered Hannah up and down his carved staircases, in and out of rooms designed for receiving illustrious visitors, elaborate dining, formal dancing, sleeping, and praying. For a historic house still in private ownership, its state of preservation was remarkable. She had no concerns about camera dollies crashing through rotted floorboards.
The man and his dog watched her measure the length and breadth of the rooms. She took digital photos and recorded video. She jotted notes and questions. In rapid succession she saw the Tapestry Hall, the Duke’s Chamber, and the King’s Room.
“Stanwell is a corruption of St. Anne’s Well,” said her host, ushering her into the Long Gallery. “The surrounding lands belonged to an ancient abbey dedicated to her. After Henry the Eighth dissolved the religious houses, the monastic buildings were dismantled or demolished. Except for the great tithe barn near the bridge crossing the River Milver.”
She didn’t refute his erroneous assumption that her colleagues cared about his ancestor Sir Rufus Latimer, who purchased the vast property from the murderous monarch and built his magnificent house from honey colored hamstone, locally quarried. Or the son who added a long wood-paneled gallery for entertaining King James the First in regal style. What mattered to the lighting technician was its size and the number of mullioned windows, and the quality of the light. The set decorator would ask her whether these antique chairs and chests and paintings could be filmed. The sound technicians, she suspected, would be pleased by the mellow acoustics.
While examining the diamond-shaped glass panes, she saw someone on a four-wheeler, zipping through tall grass. In an instant she was tugged back to the twenty-first century.
They went downstairs so she could look at what her guide referred to as the old kitchen. It retained an enormous fireplace and baking ovens. Connected to it was a series of smaller rooms fitted with wooden cupboards.
“Here, in the scullery, Charles the Second dined on fricassee of duck. After his defeat at the Battle of Worcester, he was in danger of being captured and executed like his dad. He disguised himself as a manservant and traipsed through the west of England, seeking shelter from Royalist supporters. He spent the night not very many miles from here.”
“Is there a ghost?” she wondered.
“None that I’ve ever heard about. They’re only necessary if you want to attract the paying public.”
“You must’ve had fun here as a little boy. All the nooks and crannies and hiding places.”
“I lived in Reading, then London, and visited twice a year at most. For complicated—and quite boring—reasons, the estate was legally transferred to me before I was out of my teens. But I didn’t take up residence here until Uncle Rufus died.” He opened a heavy wooden door, holding back until Hannah and Ariel had passed through. “Your images of all my worldly possessions won’t fall into the wrong hands, I trust.”
“Never.” She checked to see if he required further assurances—apparently not.
They cut across an inner courtyard to reach the opposite wing. Stone-paved paths bisected the green grass, and statuary adorned each neat rectangle of lawn.
“So peaceful and quiet here. What a perfect place to spend lockdown.”
