Page 13 of A Change of Location
Leading her through a dining room of daunting grandeur, he continued, “Our main security chap is on hols, but his substitute must be somewhere about the place.”
“You have a bodyguard?”
“Oh, no, not me. My value is negligible. It’s the contents he protects—Old Master paintings, antique furniture and silver, French porcelains. Portraits and miniatures in jeweled frames. Not that we’ve had any serious issues at Stanwell. But rural crime is endemic, unfortunately.” He indicated the array of bottles lined up on a mahogany cabinet. “Gin, whisky, sherry, wine?”
“Wine, please.” A risky request, her stomach was hollowed out by hunger. She perched on a Chippendale style sofa—certainly genuine—and examined her surroundings. A crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, and her feet rested on a carpet woven with swags and garlands reflecting the plasterwork motif overhead. Stroking Ariel’s fluffy neck, she said, “I need to look at your rooms in the daytime, to make a thorough assessment.”
“You will, in the morning,” he assured her, busy with tongs and ice. “Afterwards, Poppy’s going to tour you though the villages and show you some highly presentable farmhouses. Later in the day, when I get back from Newbridge, we’ll take you to one of the pubs. No better place to sample our local culture. And color.”
When he presented her wineglass on a round silver tray, she said, “What a letdown, not being served by a Carson. Or Jeeves.”
“My man is either faffing about in the kitchen, or he already retreated to his private quarters. I’m cooking, by the way. The dough is already prepared and waiting. You don’t mind pizza?”
“Love it.” She hoped she wouldn’t keel over in the time required to make and bake one.
“Ron’s official title is house manager,” he explained. “The rest of Stanwell’s staff is decidedly international. Nico, his assistant, is Greek. Freya, the housekeeper, was born in Norway. Gosia, our daily maid, came from Poland. Kateryna, a Ukrainian refugee, helps with whatever needs doing after classes—her college in Kyiv provides remote learning. Shona, in charge of our horses, is Scots and deeply proud of it. The cook, head gardener, and two under gardeners are English.”
“How many horses?”
“Mine, Poppy’s, and two lodgers. We’d take in more, but most people here have their own stabling. Do you ride?”
“When I’m at home.” Which she rarely was, by intent. “Years ago, I had my own pony. Now there’s only Rascal, Mum’s gelding.”
“Ours need regular exercise. If you’re so minded.”
She shook her head. “No gear.”
“Borrow Poppy’s. She’s got loads. Her one extravagance.”
Hannah laughed. “If you think I’d fit into her clothes or her boots, you’re awfully unobservant.”
“My faith in female ingenuity is massive.” Seating himself, he crossed long, corduroy-clad legs. “Did you locate any hot location prospects during your travels?”
“I’m still evaluating,” she answered carefully.
With phone and digital camera, she’d taken as many as a thousand photos and had recorded video of exteriors, interiors, and landscapes. She had filled her notepad with information gleaned from her agency liaison and managers of historic properties. Specific spaces lingered in her mind—a ballroom here, a kitchen there. One particularly attractive Cotswold village frustrated her by being too popular and crowded in the summer, probably unwilling to close off its famous street to traffic. The remote northernmost regions posed insurmountable difficulties—transit time and dubious weather.
“I suppose you carry a copy of the script.”
She nodded. “The current draft. Mostly I rely on a breakdown of scenes, annotated with my notes taken from the novel’s narrative descriptions of places.”
“I’m reading it,” he announced. “The day after your party I headed to the bookshop in the Row and interrogated its manager till we worked out the title. Forsaken Fortune. Who’ll play Rosalind?”
“I’m not supposed to say. But just between us, when I met with the casting people in their Soho office, they were very excited.”
“You should use that bosomy Australian bird who took her kit off in a movie I saw on Channel Five.” He named a blockbuster from four summers ago, targeted to fourteen-year-old boys.
Hannah required no further proof of heterosexuality. “I never saw it. Our British director—”
“Sir Owen Parry.”
She nodded. “According to him, Hollywood A-listers will object to the nude scenes and the sex. They tend to be protective of their bodily assets. Except when dressing for awards shows.”
“When you make your movie here at Stanwell, I’m keen to watch them shoot the hayloft scene. Steamiest pages in the book. So far.”
“No onlookers. Just the director, camera and sound, and the intimacy coordinator.”
He left his chair to tend the simmering fire. “I don’t object to spectators when I’m performing. Come and be a witness while I prepare your dinner.”
