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PROLOGUE
‘I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife!’
I can hear the vicar’s words, but he seems far away, as if he’s in another room. All I can see are James’ piercing blue eyes gazing into mine and, as he leans in for our first kiss as a married couple, my heart feels like it’s going to explode with love. I can barely hear our guests clapping and whooping over the blood rushing through my ears. It’s taken us just over three years to get to this point from the day we met. I’d been dragged along to a rugby match by one of my school friends, who was mad keen on one of James’ team mates but didn’t want to go on her own. I was a bit pissed off when she abandoned me in the bar afterwards in order to give Harry her full attention, but James noticed me sitting on my own and came over. We got chatting and that was that. We dated for two years before he proposed over dinner at Wiltons in Jermyn Street, and pretty much every spare moment in the last twelve months has been taken up with planning our wedding.
I wouldn’t call myself a Bridezilla, but I have put a lot of work into making sure that everything is perfect today. Organising weddings and events is my day job, so it wouldn’t have looked very good if my own wedding wasn’t up to scratch, especially as many brides could only dream of the budget I had. We kneel down and I can hear the vicar saying some words of blessing, but my mind is now working through the schedule for the rest of the day, going over it to make sure there isn’t anything I’ve forgotten. It’s pointless, I know; there’s nothing I’d be able to do to fix any problems now, but I just find it reassuring to run through the checklist and not find any gaps or pinch points.
James leads me over to our seats and the vicar starts his sermon. It’s not bad, actually. He’s repeating some of the stories that we told him about how we met and what we enjoy. I’m relieved, as I was worried it would be a long religious rant like we used to get in school. I’m not religious at all, and most of our guests aren’t, so that would have been wasted on us. In fact, I would have been quite happy getting married at a castle or some other picturesque venue, but James’ parents insisted that a church wedding was the only way to get married ‘properly’. To be fair, it does look very pretty in here with all the flowers, and the ancient church building will make a lovely backdrop for the photos after the service. I relax and glance down at the wedding ring glinting on my left hand. I can’t believe I’m actually married!
After the sermon, we traipse into the room at the side to sign the registers, and I beam with delight as the photographer takes his shots. I was lucky enough to be able to book Toby Roberts, who does the photos for quite a few of the celebrity weddings you see in magazines likeHello!He was much more expensive than any of the other photographers I looked at, but he’s the best, so it was a no-brainer. Once Toby has all the shots he wants, we form up into the procession for leaving the church. James’ hand clasps mine firmly as the vicar asks the congregation to put their hands together for Mr and Mrs Huntingdon-Barfoot, and we step out into a barrage of flashes as everyone tries to get a picture of us. I feel that I could literally explode with happiness.
As Toby takes more pictures after the service, I find myself thinking about what’s to come. The reception should be amazing; we’ve got a Michelin-starred chef in charge of the food, and Dad’s wine merchant has worked hard with us to get the right pairings for each course. And then, tomorrow, we’re off to the Seychelles on honeymoon. Two weeks of sun, sand, and delicious sex before we move down to Devon, where James’ family owns a substantial amount of land. I’ve already seen the house we’re going to live in, a perfect little cottage on the farm. It’s a bit run down at the moment, but I’ve got big plans to renovate it.
I can’t wait to start my new life.
1
FOUR YEARS LATER
It’s official: I hate the bloody Aga.
I know most people who have them swear by them, but I seem to spend most of my time swearing at mine. I wasn’t exactly an experienced cook when I moved here, but the Aga has had it in for me from day one. After my first attempts resulted in food that was either burned to a crisp or still raw, I bought various Aga books and tried to get my head around the mysteries of this completely uncontrollable cooker. It steadfastly refused to be tamed, despite my efforts, and has become ever more temperamental to the point we’re at now, where it’s impossible to predict whether it will be hotter than the sun and burn everything, or so cold that you can’t even boil water on the hotplate. To be fair to it, I suspect it needs a good service, but James tells me there’s no money for luxuries like that, so one of the farm hands comes and pokes and prods it for a bit every time it goes wrong, and it limps on.
Except for today. Today, when I have to bake and deliver two Victoria sponges to the Women’s Institute for the village fête tomorrow, it’s decided to go out completely and it’s stone cold. Bastard thing. There’s no way that I’m prepared to incur our WI president’s wrath by letting the side down, so I reluctantly lift the phone handset and dial my mother-in-law.
‘Hello Sophie, this is a surprise! Is everything okay?’ she trills.
On the surface, I get on fine with her, but there’s an uncomfortable undercurrent; I’m convinced she doesn’t really like me, but every time I’ve brought it up, James says that I’m imagining things and that she adores me. Nevertheless, I’m always wary around her.
‘I’m really sorry to bother you, Rosalind, but the Aga’s gone out and I really need to get these cakes baked so I can deliver them to Pauline. Is there any possibility I could borrow your oven for an hour or so?’
‘Of course, darling! I’ve just taken my cakes out, so it’s all yours. What a bore for you, though. Have you told James? I’m sure he can get Tony to look at it for you.’
Tony is the mechanical maestro of the farm and, to be fair to him, he does seem to understand how the Aga works. Unfortunately, he’s also a grade-A letch who thinks addressing every sentence to my chest or crotch is perfectly acceptable. I change into my baggiest jumper whenever I know he’s coming round, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference to his blatant ogling. He’s also a little too hands-on for my liking. James says he’s just friendly, but I think he’s a creep.
‘James is next on my list, if I can track him down,’ I tell her. ‘If you don’t mind me dropping the cakes round in a few minutes, I’ll go and look for him while they bake. It’ll take hours for the Aga to get back up to temperature once it’s going again, so it’ll be a microwave dinner.’
‘Poor you. I’d invite you both over, but I haven’t got a thing in!’
She’s a terrible liar. I saw the Ocado van lumber past with her latest delivery only yesterday afternoon. I’m not quite sure how she can afford to keep the big house going, employ a cleaner, and shop at Ocado when James tells me the farm is on the brink of bankruptcy and we have to save every penny we can, but I try very hard not to think about it.
‘That’s so kind of you,’ I lie in return, ‘but it’ll just be James on his own tonight.’
‘Of course it will,’ she purrs. ‘I’d completely forgotten that you’re spending the weekend with your friend.’ She emphasises the last word, as if I’m up to something unsavoury. I’d lay good money, if I had any, on the odds that a supper invitation will be forthcoming to her beloved son as soon as I’m on the train.
I’m looking forward to spending the weekend with my friend Di. I like the sense of space that living in the country brings, but I miss the buzz and hubbub of London sometimes, so a weekend in the capital is going to be a real treat, and well worth the seven-hour return train journey from Down St. Mary. When we first moved down here, James suggested I should have regular weekends in London so that I didn’t feel completely cut off from my old life and, although I don’t go as often as I used to, it’s a tradition that’s persisted. Dave, the only taxi driver in the village, is collecting me at four o’clock to take me to the station. I glance at my watch; it’s two o’clock already, so I’d better get a move on.
‘I’ll see you in a minute,’ I tell Rosalind, and hang up the phone. The cake mixture is already in the tins, so I bundle them into a box and set off up the track to the main house. The Huntingdon-Barfoots, as well as being minor nobility, used to be one of the wealthiest land-owning families in Devon, and the main house reflects their previous status. It’s huge, with twelve bedrooms, enormous formal reception rooms, and servants’ quarters in the attic. It must have been quite a spectacle back in the day but, like everything on the farm, it’s suffered as the money has dried up. As I understand it, James’ ancestors used to get most of their wealth from tenant farmers. The world wars and increasing mechanisation of farming drove the tenants away to other work, and James’ grandfather found himself having to farm the thousand or so acres on his own. To begin with, he did well and the money continued to flow in, but increasing bureaucracy and foreign imports, along with some disastrous financial decisions, have left the coffers bare. When James and I married and moved down here, we had no idea how bad things were. It was only when his father died unexpectedly of a heart attack two years ago and James got his first proper look at the books that we realised the gravity of the situation.
I let myself in through the kitchen door and call out a greeting. It’s never locked during the day, even when Rosalind goes out. Her view is that there’s nothing in there worth stealing, and any burglar who could make it all the way down the half-mile of farm track from the lane, across the yard, and back again without someone spotting them deserves to help themselves to whatever they want. She’s not wrong. Anything that had any value and was easily moved was sent to auction years ago in various attempts to keep the farm afloat. There’s still quite a lot of furniture here, but it’s mostly things that either have sentimental value or just wouldn’t fit in a normal house. The dining-room table, for example, is a beautiful piece of furniture and is theoretically worth a fortune, but you can easily fit twenty-four people around it. Not really suitable for a semi-detached in the suburbs. The floors on the ground floor are mainly polished wood with tapestried rugs that would have been stunning years ago, but are now faded and more than a little threadbare. It’s also cold, even in summer. I don’t know how Rosalind stands living here, but she’s resisted every attempt to move her to somewhere smaller and more practical.
There’s another Aga in the kitchen here, but Rosalind also has the ultimate luxury – a fan oven. I make a beeline for it and turn it on, savouring the ability to set a temperature that I know will cook the sponges perfectly in the twenty minutes the recipe recommends. I’ve brought everything I need for the filling, so I’ll just have enough time to let them cool enough for me to finish them off and drop them round to Pauline before I leave. I notice that Rosalind’s own cakes, a carrot cake and a coffee and walnut, are already in their Tupperware boxes ready to be delivered, so maybe I can earn some brownie points by offering to take them as well.
‘Help yourself to whatever you need,’ Rosalind says to me as she walks through from the hall. She’s immaculately turned out, as always. I’d love to know how she does it. I only have to walk across the yard to get mud halfway up my jeans, even with wellies on. Rosalind, on the other hand, is wearing polished brown brogues with tassels, immaculate dark-blue jeans, and a white shirt under her quilted body warmer. If there was a definition of ‘rural chic’, she would be it.
‘Thanks so much for this. You’re a life saver,’ I tell her, and a small smile flits across her face. ‘I’m just waiting for the oven to get to temperature, and then I’ll pop them in and go and see if I can track James down. I’ll be back before they need to come out.’
‘It’s not a problem, really. I’m glad I could help. If you tell me how long they need, I’ll take them out for you if you’re not back. Let’s just hope he’s not on the other side of the farm!’
