Page 41 of A Change of Location
Hannah divided a scone and applied clotted cream to each half. She accepted the jam pot from Martin, who smiled as she dipped her spoon in.
“Same as us,” he commented, “and the fine folk of Devon. Cream before jam.”
“Mum’s preference. She says it’s prettier with the red on top.”
“I’m not fussed about it either way,” Poppy contributed.
After they polished off Jan’s delectably flaky scones and nibbled the other items, Martin wrapped up his precious Milver Vale cheese and returned it to the refrigerator.
Isobel said to Poppy, “I’m eager to see the new kitchen garden Martin told me about.”
“Conveniently located a few steps away.”
They both stood up. Smiling down at Hannah, Martin’s mother asked, “Won’t you come with us?”
“I’m doing the washing up.”
“Oh no, you aren’t,” Martin contradicted.
“Drying, then.” She opened the cupboard where cloths were stored and removed the top one from the pile.
“Hannah has no capacity for idleness,” he told the others.
“That’s rich,” his mother commented, “coming from you.”
Poppy laughed sharply.
Hannah couldn’t help glancing towards the broad window while she wiped moisture from each plate and cup. Deep in conversation, the two women inspected the herb and vegetable beds. As they made their way across the lawn to a clump of irises, she thought she detected a prospective mother- and daughter-in-law vibe. If Martin stopped his womanizing and settled down with his estate manager, unpretentious Isobel would doubtless rejoice. Poppy, a countrywoman to her core, spent her working days in close proximity to him. Not only at the estate office, but just as frequently at mealtimes in this kitchen. Although she hadn’t stayed overnight since Hannah’s arrival, she guessed that Poppy and Martin were essentially co-habiting.
Why did that sting?
Occasionally he veered into flirtatiousness with her, apparently from habit and without any ulterior meaning or motive. Grateful for his hospitality, she depended on his efforts to jolly her out of bleak moods. Which is why she often wished she could stuff him into her luggage and take him back to Boston.
Chapter 13
An overcast sky marked the early hours of the Flower Fete. Hannah joined Martin and Poppy on a pre-breakfast run, but their phones rang so incessantly she wondered why they had attempted it. Poppy received a call that made her mutter ominously about parking arrangements for horse boxes. She peeled off and jogged away towards Milverston Magna.
Flicking brown strands from his damp forehead, Martin said, “I should go, too. There’s usually some kind of trouble with the sound system. Better work out any issues well before starting time.”
“Definitely, in my professional opinion.”
He loped off, leaving her to follow the dirt track, marked with indentations from their horses’ iron shoes. The steady pounding of her soles against the earth had a hypnotic effect, and the breeze that ruffled the leaves overhead soothed her. Without her earbuds, she could hear every chirp emanating from the hedgerows, and bleating sheep in the meadow. The sun, gradually emerging from behind the clouds, cast faint light onto the bluebells in the beech forest. Farther on, she inhaled the distinctive fragrance of yellow rapeseed flowers filling a vast field that extended all the way to a distant hill.
After a hasty semblance of breakfast, she returned to the festival ground in time to observe Martin’s ascent to the bunting-draped platform. The microphone and speakers were in sync when he declared the fete officially open and offered a brief welcome address that drew enthusiastic applause.
Hannah told Poppy, “I wasn’t expecting a crowd this large.”
“People come from Newbridge and Yeovil and Frome and Taunton. Down from Bristol, or up from Sherborne.” The estate manager was no longer so harried, having solved her horse van crisis. “Did you bring your timetable?”
Hannah reached into the pocket of her charity shop floral shift. “Right here. I’m supposed to meet Isobel at the baking tent in—yikes, five minutes.”
Poppy grinned. “You’ll need more than a three-mile run to get rid of all the calories you’re about to consume.”
Reporting for duty, she confronted an array of beautifully-presented cakes and tarts laid out on long tables. Her fellow judge handed over a scoring sheet and offered a brief tutorial.
“Although appearance and taste are the most important criteria, we can give extra marks for creative presentation.”
They moved past the row of beaming, hopeful bakers—men and women—to make their initial visual assessment of the items on display. Everything looked delicious. Hannah tasted and scored morsels of fruitcake, custard tart, Battenburg cake, Bath buns, jam tart, iced sponge, Eccles cakes, scones, Bakewell tart, profiterole, Victoria sandwich, fruitcake, and more.
