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“Remind me never to play poker with you, Count. You played your hand very close to your chest.”
“What hand is that?” he asked.
“This place. This little piece of heaven that you’ve managed to capture.”
He looked away, frowning slightly, as though he wanted to disagree with her enthusiasm. “As I said. It was my aunt’s idea. She got bored when she took early retirement. She never married, has no children. She wanted something to do.”
“I thought it was a ruin, Count. I was expecting to sleep on a bed of straw with a tin pail by my head to catch the drips.”
“Probably still an improvement on the Travel Lodge.”
She laughed and threw the lemon in the air, catching it easily before putting it back.
“As long as I can paint, Count, I honestly don’t care where I am. So is the plan to let this place out?”
“As a holiday home. Or for events. Weddings.”
“I’m not clashing with any bookings, am I?”
“Of course not.” He looked away and nodded toward a door in the kitchen wall. “The orangery is through there.”
“This space is incredible,” sighed Pea, arms held out as she walked the length of the airy space. The glass was sparkling, the iron frame-work painted a dazzling white. She felt as though she was bathing in light.
The cracked floor and split terracotta pots and half dead plants she remembered were all gone. Now the building was empty, except for a few green trailing plants in hanging baskets along the walls.
It was stunning.
“It really would be perfect for a wedding,” breathed Pea, twisting her hair up from her sticky neck and letting it fall back. “Something small and intimate.”
“Where’s the hook?” said the Count from where he stood just through the doorway, arms still crossed, glaring up at the blue sky.
“The what?”
“The pole with the hook to open the windows. It’s like an oven in here.”
“I know. I’m going to have to paint early in the morning. Or in my underwear. I often do anyway. It’s easier to wash paint off skin than clothes.”
The Count found the pole in a corner and unhooked all the high up windows, working quickly and methodically, as he always did. His face did look slightly red. And his shirt was sticking slightly to his broad back. The muscles there flexed as he lifted the pole. He was definitely in shape. An angry, glowering shape.
“And it will be the perfect place to host the fundraising exhibition for the campaign!” said Pea.
The Count paused. “What campaign?”
“You know, AFA, Arts for All? You must have heard of it. There’s this government bill to cut arts funding, and to even stop it being a mandatory part of the national curriculum in schools. Can you believe it?”
“Yes. I’m on the House of Lords Select Committee about it.”
“What?! Oh, but that’s perfect! You can make them see sense, Count! Get the bill scrapped!”
The Count set down the pole, leaning it carefully against the wall where it wouldn’t touch the glass. “It doesn’t quite work like that, Pea.”
“But...you areagainstthe bill, aren’t you?”
“It’s a complicated area. The economy has been hit hard. There simply isn’t the money to continue education spending at the same levels—”
“Oh my God!” She stared at him in horror. “But this is art! This is them stopping an entire generation of children from learning about art!”
“School is about equipping young people with the skills they are going to need in life. Maths. Science. Literacy.”
