AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Of course,’ Rhianna said. ‘The master must have the master bedroom—however inconvenient.’
But at least this boat might keep him at a distance, she thought. Maybe that’s where he was driving off to just now? I can but hope.
‘Well,’ Carrie said tolerantly, ‘you can hardly blame him for wanting his own space. It is his home, after all, even if he hasn’t spent that much time here in the past. And now, to Ma’s horror, he wants it back, and she’ll have to give up being Lady of the Manor.’ She grimaced. ‘Which she’ll hate.’
But she’ll go down fighting, Rhianna thought, remembering Moira Seymour’s bleak gaze meeting hers a short while ago, from the sofa in the drawing room where she’d sat, poised and chilly as ever, in a silence that had been almost tangible.
‘Ah, Miss Carlow.’ The cut-glass voice had not changed either. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey?’ She’d added coldly, ‘Caroline tells me she has put you in the primrose room.’
All the attics full, are they? Rhianna had asked silently. The oubliette filled in?
However, she’d smiled, and said, with her best Lady Ariadne drawl, ‘It sounds delightful, Mrs Seymour. I’m so glad to be here.’
Then she had turned, still smiling, to the woman sitting opposite. ‘Mrs Rawlins, how lovely to see you again. You’re looking well.’
Not that it was true. Widowhood had put years and weight on Simon’s mother, and given her mouth a sour turn.
‘I hear you’re making a name for yourself on television, Rhianna?’ As opposed to soliciting at Kings Cross, her tone suggested. ‘I find so few programmes of any substance these days that I tend to watch very rarely, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Rhianna had echoed gently.
‘Tea will be served in half an hour, Caroline,’ her mother had said. ‘Please bring your guest to join us,’ she’d added, after a brief hesitation.
Rhianna had been glad to escape upstairs to the designated ‘primrose room’, which turned out to be as charming as its name suggested, its creamy wallpaper and curtains patterned with sprigs of the tiny flowers, and the bed covered in a pretty shade of leaf-green.
Moira Seymour might not be her favourite person, but Rhianna couldn’t fault her choice of décor.
Now, she said slowly, ‘Your mother’s bound to find leaving here a wrench. But it’s an awfully big house for two people.’
‘True,’ Carrie agreed. ‘But an even bigger one for a determined bachelor like Diaz. Unless, of course, he does intend to bite the bullet and become a family man.’ She paused. ‘Did you ever see him with anyone in particular? The times you ran across him in London, that is?’
Rhianna stared at her. She said jerkily, ‘Did he tell you we’d met there?’
‘He mentioned you’d been at some bash together.’ Carrie shrugged. ‘Something to do with insurance?’
‘Apex, the company sponsoring Castle Pride.’ Rhianna nodded. ‘But it was a very crowded room, so I didn’t notice if he had a companion.’ My first lie.
‘And you were both at a first night party for a new play, weren’t you?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t recall.’ Rhianna was casually dismissive as she put away the last of her things. She looked at her watch. ‘Now, I suppose we’d better go down to the promised tea. But you’d better explain to me first why the swords are crossed and the daggers drawn. I thought Margaret Rawlins and your mother were friends?’
Carrie sighed. ‘They were never that close,’ she admitted. ‘You see, the Rawlins’ cottage was originally a second home, and Ma doesn’t approve of such things. Cornwall for the Cornish and all that—even though she and Aunt Esther were both Londoners. And the fact that Mrs Rawlins has now moved down here permanently hasn’t altered a thing.’
‘But that can’t be all, surely?’
‘No.’ Carrie pulled a face. ‘When we began discussing wedding plans Margaret opted out completely. Said that whatever we decided would be fine with her. So—we went ahead.’
‘Except she changed her mind?’ Rhianna guessed.
‘And how,’ Carrie said fervently. She began to tick off on her fingers. ‘We agreed on the guest lists ages ago, but each time we put the numbers in to the caterers she came up with someone else who simply must be invited. That’s probably why she’s here today—with yet another afterthought. And that’s not all. She thought the charge for the marquee was extortionate and insisted we get another quote from a firm she knew, with the result that someone else hired the one I really wanted. Then, last week, Margaret asked with a sad smile if “Lead Kindly Light” could be one of the hymns, because it was “my poor Clive’s favourite.”’ She shook her head. ‘It’s beautiful, I know, but hardly celebratory. Besides which, all the Order of Service booklets were printed ages ago.’
