Page 38 of A Change of Location
She cocked a grin. “Lady come in yesterday, carload of city clothes. As I was helping ’er heft them out, she asked did you have peacocks at Stanwell and wondered if you needed zum.”
“Nobody needs them. Or their obnoxious screeching.”
“Too right, and she learnt it t’hard way. ’Er husband and ’er bought that parsonage up to Blampfyde. Before the removers arrived with all their goods, she’d taken in a peacock and peahens to decorate her gear-den. Ready to wring their necks and serve them birds roasted on a platter, she is, but can’t do it without upsetting the kiddies.”
Hannah emerged from behind the loose curtain, a printed cotton shift, a denim mini-skirt, and a selection of colorful tops hanging over her arm.
“Look at all them curdles on ’er,” Agnes said in an admiring tone.
On their way to the car park, Hannah asked him, “What are curdles?”
“Curls. She speaks the broadest Somerset dialect of anybody I know. The BBC or a linguistics professor should record her for posterity.”
While driving to Stanwell, Martin gave an account of his grandmother’s social maneuvers. Alicia was badgering her famously reclusive stepson to host a large party on the eve of the Henley Regatta. And to persuade his elder brother, the earl, to pop over from Italy and make an appearance. “She’s got no chance of getting her way with either one.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hannah reflected. “At the Ritz I watched her prod that poor man in the prince’s direction. That reminds me, the dress and heels I wore that night are still at your flat.”
“You’ll get them back. Hardly a fortnight passes without me being called to London.”
“Is your fete like a wedding? Will I need a fancy hat with a big brim and silk flowers, or a dainty fascinator trimmed with arrow feathers?”
“Not unless you want to be conspicuously overdressed. If it’s anything like past years, we’ll be dodging raindrops for part of the weekend. Or all of it.”
Chapter 12
Hannah placed her left foot in the stirrup and climbed onto the Welsh cob, relishing the familiar creak of saddle leather. Although the groom’s side-zip short boots fit her, the cuffs of a long-sleeved striped tunic nearly reached her knuckles, and the loose jodhpurs didn’t hug her legs. She ran a finger under her helmet’s elastic chin strap, checking the tension.
“Take these.” Shona reached up to hand her a pair of gloves. “Grip-Fast, a smaller size than Poppy’s.”
“Thanks.”
Meg—her mount—boarded in the Stanwell stables while her young owner was confined to a girls’ boarding school. Martin was riding his own horse, a glossy black called Étoile because of the pure white star between her ears. He’d surprised Hannah by turning up in old-school riding attire: polo shirt, olive riding breeches, boots with brown tops. His headwear had a classic peak front, shading his eyes and nose. When he caught her looking, she pretended she wasn’t.
“Ready?”
“Lead on, my lord.”
“Not if you keep using that term,” he retorted.
In Maine, where riding was almost exclusively a female activity, she rarely saw a man on a horse. Husbands and fathers paid for stabling and shoeing and lessons and the fees to compete in shows. And they moaned about the escalating costs. Although Hannah’s dad, who doctored animals large and small, handled equines with calm competence and cared for Mum’s Rascal, Ballard men were genetically aligned with boats and the ocean fishery.
When they reached a lane wide enough for riding side by side, Hannah admitted, “I’m nervous about meeting your mother.”
“I have great faith in your fortitude. You stood up to Alicia, something I find difficult. You were bold enough to discard a boyfriend on New Year’s Eve.”
Forcing a smile, she stared at the gap between Meg’s pointed ears.
Under the influence of the champagne and wine consumed at the Ritz, followed by a nightcap of raspberry liqueur at his flat, she’d unwisely mentioned the episode. She hadn’t explained that Joel’s attitude towards Chase caused the breakup. She wouldn’t do so now. Or ever.
“At least your chap had a date, even if it ended badly. I spent that night all alone.”
She wasn’t going to ask him why, reluctant to express interest in his personal life. Perhaps Poppy had traveled to Portugal to spend the holidays with her father.
Tents and booths and tables had been set up around the perimeter of the village green. On the flat grassland behind The Huntsman’s Horn, a party of men pounded a set of stakes spaced far apart.
Martin’s arm shot up, and they waved back. “Jack Elliston from The Peacock is helping. Not that the pubs are overtly competitive. It’s a friendly rivalry.”
Other volunteers arranged tables and chairs, and an uninflated bouncy castle sat in the meadow. Delivery vans circled the green and wedged themselves between the newly erected stalls. Men and women bustled about, and a trio of mums with toddlers in prams chatted outside a shop.
