Page 11 of A Change of Location
Her fond and familiar reference to his lordship did not escape Hannah’s notice. Was this attractive and trusted employee also his girlfriend?
The ringing telephone demanded Poppy’s attention. “Milverston Estate office, Poppy Deane speaking.” She tapped her fingers firmly against the desktop, listening, then said, “Well, I do appreciate your informing us, but Lord Milverston isn’t available for an interview.” After a brief silence, she said calmly, “No, I’ve nothing to share. Sorry.” With an intimidating frown, she stated, “That isn’t a subject about which I care to speculate. No, I’m not his lordship’s public relations person. He’s got no PR. I’m afraid I really must ring off now. You’ve caught me during an important meeting.”
After the call ended, Hannah told her, “I’m flattered.”
“I always say that when badgered by the press, even if I’m sitting here alone. More polite than ‘bugger off.’”
“How’s the reception on mobile networks around here? Is there consistent internet service?”
“Exceptional. Superfast connectivity via standard broadband and fiber. We’re located in a small-scale commuter belt between densely populated towns, and within an hour’s drive of Bristol.”
After another half-hour Hannah stepped out of the office. She had accepted Poppy’s invitation to a tour so she could take her own photos.
She paused in the stable yard, so absorbed by her surroundings that she easily erased the persistent rainfall and the anachronistic elements in the scene—her red rental car and the gray Volvo, the charging station and electrical wiring. Faint neighs from the horse barn carried her backwards through time. Here, as elsewhere in her travels, scenes from the film script took shape in her mind. She could imagine the characters coming to life in this place.
I haven’t seen enough, not yet, she cautioned herself.
She needed to explore Stanwell House, looming so tantalizingly close. Even from this vantage it looked promising, but until she saw the rooms she couldn’t tell whether it would suit the production team principals. She didn’t want to begin her challenging new role in defensive mode.
Returning to the Latimer Arms she inspected the hotel bar—beamed ceilings, fireplace, row of taps—and peered into the restaurant—snowy tablecloths, brass candlesticks, busy floral wallpaper. The menu offered such temptations as spring lamb and river trout. She was hungry enough to order both.
Her room, abundantly furnished with oak and chintz, suited her. She was about to unzip and open her roller bag when her phone rang.
In his hearty voice, the Marquess of Milverston hoped that her accommodations were satisfactory.
“Very. No complaints whatsoever.”
“You got the flowers?”
“Um—” She spotted a vase containing branches of apple blossom. “Thanks.”
“You’ll see the whole blooming orchard tomorrow. And lots more.”
She was struggling to come up with a response when he invited her to dinner.
“Aren’t you in London?”
“At the house, barely a mile away as the magpie flies. Don’t turn me down this time.”
“This time? When did I—oh.” His post-party offer to feed her, which she’d declined. Then, as now, his energy and enthusiasm had been incompatible with her weariness.
But when she recalled his engaging grin, his smoky gray eyes—and that title—she couldn’t refuse. How often did she get a chance to dine with a genuine aristocrat? Never. What’s more, it was his job to impress her instead of the other way round. Perhaps he’d already killed a fatted calf or sheep. Or trout.
“When should I come round to collect you?” he asked.
“That depends on whether you’ll take me as I am. I haven’t even unpacked.”
“Be there in ten minutes.”
***
Desperate to erase visible effects of her day in the damp, Hannah made a valiant effort to tame her rain-frizzed hair. She refreshed her make-up and checked her jacket and slacks for creases. From the depths of her precisely packed bag, she extracted heeled shoes—unworn since London—sacrificing comfort for an increase of inches and exposure of her latest pedicure. Familiar with the pervasive chill of big English houses, she grabbed her wine-colored pashmina before hurrying down to the lobby.
A disappointingly ordinary black car idled near the door. Neither a Jaguar nor a Rover, it was manufactured domestically by Vauxhall and confirmed her suspicions about Lord Milverston’s precarious finances. A familiar scent indicated that one of his regular passengers was canine.
Cheerily he inquired, “What’s your impression of the Milver region?”
“Terrible place to shoot a film. Too much rain.”
