Page 18 of A Change of Location
“You’d think so, but in fact I worked as hard as I’ve ever done. Actually, much harder. So many online meetings filling my diary. Doing the costings for various projects in this area. Watching the price of everything going up and up, and then recalculating. Filling out applications for grant money. Not that I’ve any right to complain. It was harder on Londoners. Half of Latimer Row was shuttered, or as good as. The firms that didn’t trade in necessities or consumables got round to renovating their premises—when they could get laborers and source the materials. What about your job? You must’ve had plenty of pandemic downtime.”
“Liz kept me at Acorn Films, in a different capacity,” she said, following him into another section of the house. “Marketing assistant. Among other tasks, I scheduled press interviews with talent whenever our movies or tv shows were made available for home viewing. I produced a few of them myself. Like you, we went into planning mode, biding our time. We shut down the limited series for ServeFlix, and nearly a year passed before our productions could start again.” After looking at several unused rooms, where dust cloths protected the furnishings, she asked, “Where’s a good spot to photograph the exterior? I’d like to get a panoramic shot of the entire house.”
“You’ll have the best vantage from the drive, halfway to the entrance gate. I’ll take you after you’ve seen the gardens and grounds.”
They exited onto a broad, stone-paved terrace furnished with tables and chairs and benches. At each corner stood an urn of parrot tulips in bloom. A wisteria vine with a broad, twisted trunk hugged almost the entire exterior wall. Numerous pale panicles on its lateral branches promised an abundant display of flowers.
“You won’t mind if I share garden photos with my mother?”
“It would be an honor.”
Long borders of spring bulbs and perennials and roses lined a grass walk leading to the Georgian-era orangery, flanked by large and amply-budded lilacs. There was a dovecot and a water garden and a tennis court. Shrubbery at one end of a flat stretch of ground screened the swimming pool.
“This was once the bowling green. Later, it was used for archery, judging from old photos of Victorian ladies posing here with their bows and arrows. In the 1920s, poolside parties became popular. Not a problem from your perspective, I hope.”
“It’s well hidden.”
“We concealed the solar array that powers the house just as carefully. If I weren’t pressed for time, I’d challenge you to find it.”
“I’ve seen the rooftop panels.”
“Those are only for the stable and a staff flat and offices. And vehicle charging.”
Making their way to what he referred to as the South Front, they met the house manager, a cheery chap in his late fifties, who described himself as Ariel’s nanny.
“And mine, on occasion,” his employer declared. “As you see, Ron, our visitor survived my cookery.”
“One of the best pizzas I’ve ever had,” Hannah volunteered. “And the chocolate sponge with fudge sauce was divine.”
“Jan prides herself on her puddings,” the older man responded.
“Tell Hannah how you’ve put on half a stone since coming here, all because of her cookery. I’m leaving Ariel with you. Sorry, my precious, but you’re not welcome at the Home Farm.”
“Why not?” asked Hannah.
“Harold, the present occupant, loathes lurchers. To him, they’re poachers’ dogs, four-legged gypsies who get up to mischief in the daytime and after dark. When I brought her to live here, I was afraid he’d give notice to quit.” Turning to Ron, he said, “While I’m at my lunch meeting in Newbridge, Poppy will drive Hannah to the other villages and some of the farms and barns. Tonight we’re taking her to a pub. I’m bound to come home rat-arsed.”
“I appreciate the warning, m’lord.” Ron spoiled this Jeeves-like response by grinning at Hannah.
“You can open the front gate for us. I’ll be sure to close it with my remote as I drive past on my way to town.”
She had to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with the long-legged marquess. Craving a jog, she cast envious eyes across his private parkland and pathways.
“We won’t mow until later in the year,” he told her. “Maintenance has given way to a more environmentally sensitive form of land stewardship. Abandoning pesticides and fertilizers, so the grasses can grow and reseed. Planting native trees. Encouraging the spread of wildflowers. This area has become a haven for pollinators.”
“I can see that.” She trained her camera lens on a blue butterfly with white-edged wings, flitting over a clover patch.
When she had all the shots she wanted, she posed her host with his house as a backdrop. He amused her by making silly faces.
“Consider it my audition for the village idiot.”
“I’m not responsible for casting. But it would definitely impress our audiences if we’re able to include ‘Marquess of Milverston’ on the credits.”
“In that case, never mind. Martin Latimer is the name I answer to. Don’t forget.”
“Okay.” His instruction reminded her of the way her mother, famed garden guru Wendy Edney, preferred the anonymity of being Gwen Ballard.
“Let me see.” When she passed her phone to him, he groaned. “I look like one of those chaps cluttering the pages of Country Life magazine. Might I persuade you to delete that?”
