Country Rivals Page 5

  ‘It’s not that easy. Roxy has only just started riding, and,’ Lottie floundered, looking at Rory for help, wondering just how to explain that the three-year-old might not quite be ready to star at an international horse show. Whereas she often had doubts, Sam had none. She was an unstoppable force, totally confident of her own ability to conquer the world.

  ‘Bit of a challenge for next year, Sam. Have to see how it goes, won’t we girls?’ Rory supplied.

  Sam gave him a hug. ‘Oh, you’re so sensible and clever, isn’t he, Lots?’ She kissed him. ‘The best godfather in the world, isn’t he Roxy, babe?’ She giggled. ‘The godfather, oh that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Aww and it’s so nice of you to bring the horses inside. I mean it’s parky out, freeze the balls off a …’ She put a hand over her mouth and laughed again. ‘Listen to me, and in front of the kiddies.’

  ‘The horses aren’t supposed to come in the house.’ Lottie frowned in Rory’s direction.

  ‘Aren’t they babe? Well, why?’

  ‘Worwy said Lady Lizbet would let us.’ Roxy was now fed up of sitting on the motionless pony and spotting a way back onto centre stage went for it. ‘Catch me.’ And before anybody could stop her, she’d flung her leg over the pony’s withers and launched herself in her mother’s direction.

  ‘Isn’t she priceless? Bless.’ Sam kissed her daughter on the head. ‘Shall we take your little pony back to his bed, then?’

  ‘And then go shopping for nice sparkly things for him to wear?’

  Sam, who could never say no to a good shopping trip, especially one that included anything that sparkled, grinned. ‘Course we can, princess.’

  Lottie was pretty sure that it was impossible to buy a diamante bridle in Shetland pony size, and totally impossible to buy anything horsey with diamonds on. Pretty sure. But then she’d never seen a shaggy mongrel wearing a diamond-encrusted collar and an Armani jumper until Sam had rehomed Scruffy. Oh, what would the dogs’ home think of him if they could see him now?

  ‘Come on.’ Roxy tugged experimentally on the reins and the pony turned his head the other way. ‘Naughty horsey.’ Sam might be blond, busty and blingy (in her own words) but she was also ‘bloody determined’ when it suited her, and Roxy, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s genes by the bucket load. Heading round to the other side, she pushed.

  Rupert sighed, then yawned, showing a good set of teeth, and shook his head and neck with such vigour that he showered Roxy with what Lottie hoped was shavings, and not as she suspected, dried flakes of mud and poo. Then he rested a back leg as though to demonstrate his complete lack of interest.

  Roxy waved a finger. ‘I’m vewy disappointed in you.’ Lottie tried to keep a straight face, but one glance in Sam’s direction and she knew she couldn’t keep it up. Rupert the pony, sensing that his fun might be over, didn’t want to leave the party. ‘Uncle Worwy, make him move.’

  ‘Has your mummy never told you that boys don’t like bossy girls?’

  ‘Mummy tells Daddy she’ll,’ she grimaced, concentrating, ‘make him beg for more and he likes that. It makes him do his big smile.’

  ‘Roxanne!’

  Lottie and Rory, who had never heard Sam call her daughter by her full name, tried to avoid looking at each other.

  ‘When did you hear that?’

  ‘When you played horsey in your bedwoom. Now I’m playing horsey widing too.’

  ‘Rory maybe you should make him move?’ Lottie didn’t dare wait to hear what Roxy might come out with next.

  The thing was, Rupert didn’t want to move. Not even with Rory pulling, Lottie and Roxy pushing, and Sam waving the bowl of sugar lumps in front of his nose.

  ‘Hang on.’ Lottie was out of breath. ‘Idea.’ She held a hand up. They all waited until she could speak. ‘Backwards.’

  And so Rupert departed Tipping House in reverse. He very nearly got stuck in the doorway when he sped up, taking Sam with him, and nearly made her the filling in a sandwich between his hairy bulk and the door jamb, but pretty soon he was surprised to find himself at the top of the stone steps.

  ‘Don’t bring him in again, Rory. Please,’ Lottie begged, hoping she didn’t sound a complete spoilsport.

  But Rory was too busy putting Roxy back in the saddle to hear. ‘Ready to go, Alice?’

  Alice who had been watching the proceedings with interest, nodded. ‘I don’t think he liked going backwards,’ she said solemnly. ‘Once he started he couldn’t stop.’

  ‘Like the wheels on the bus,’ added Rory with a nod. ‘All day long.’ And broke into song.

  ‘Aww bless, isn’t he good with the kids? I can’t wait for you two to have your own.’ Sam winked at Lottie. ‘And you’d make an ace mum. I mean you’ve had all that practice with foals and puppies and stuff.’ She paused. ‘I mean I know it’s not my business, babe, but if you’ve got problems with your tubes I know this doctor.’

  Lottie shook her head.

  ‘You’ve got this lovely big house, you could fill it with kids and hardly notice.’

  Lottie thought she probably would notice, even one little teeny tiny baby. After a particularly drunken night at the pub Sam had shown her all her baby pictures of Roxy, every last one of her through the blooming stage of her pregnancy, and most of the in-labour ones, and she’d thought Lottie was kidding when she said that quite frankly she’d rather have a puppy.

  ‘He would make a lovely daddy, though, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘He would.’ Lottie agreed, which rather took Sam by surprise. But, as she watched the trio of the man she loved and the two little girls make their way to the stables all singing about the wheels on the bus at the top of their voices (well, Alice’s was slightly muted) she suddenly felt a pang. Would she ever make a good mother?

  It wasn’t just Sam who’d dropped heavy hints to Lottie about starting a family, these days it seemed to be on everybody’s mind. In fact she’d started to feel like it was expected, her duty, and if she wasn’t waving an ultrasound scan from the flag-post soon she’d be letting the side down. Even Rory had joined in and that was truly the worst part. She wanted to be there for him, to give him whatever he wanted, support him as he supported her in the running of the estate. But the mere thought of having a baby made her palms go clammier than when she was faced with a bucking youngster and a three-foot hedge.

  So she’d said the same to her husband as she had to everybody else. They didn’t have enough money to feed another family member. Right now, it was all hands to the pump doing the work with the horses themselves. Paying a groom was completely out of the question, so for now the only help was Tab, who worked in exchange for lessons and a horse to compete. She couldn’t afford to have her feet up playing the pregnant mother. Not yet.

  Lottie sighed and clutched the horse blanket to her. The part that really scared her wasn’t being short of money, it was what she’d say when they’d got their lives back on track. Would the man she loved still want her when she admitted that she was prepared to do almost anything except bear his child?

  Chapter 4

  ‘It’s for charity, love,’ said Mrs Jones, admiring Mr August for a lot longer than Lottie thought necessary. ‘Oh my, would you look at Mr July? His helmet’s hardly big enough to cover his meat and two veg.’

  Lottie cringed at the rush of middle-aged hormones the normally restrained shopkeeper was displaying as she waggled the calendar around. ‘There’s something about a fireman, isn’t there, love? I wouldn’t mind being rescued by Mr February and look at the way he’s cuddling that puppy. I don’t know which is more adorable.’ She shoved the calendar under Lottie’s nose. ‘Maybe we need a hot horseman one. What do you think, dear? Your Rory and that lovely Mick. People would pay to see them with only their riding hats and boots on now, wouldn’t they?’ She frowned. ‘And your dad. Although a lot of people have seen him in his undies already.’

  She said it kindly, but Lottie still blushed. It was years, no, decades, since her father, Billy Brinkley, h
ad appeared in the tabloids, but everybody remembered. And brought it up regularly. Even the village gossips. Although she supposed they were a similar age to him. Really, they were all old enough to know better.

  ‘Sorry, love. But your old man was quite a pin up in his day.’ Mrs Jones sighed and Lottie fidgeted, hoping that was the end of the conversation. ‘And he was such a naughty boy, just like your Rory. Must be something to do with all that fresh air and horses, eh?’ She winked. ‘Your mother had her hands full, I can tell you.’

  Please let the ground swallow me up, thought Lottie. Instead the tring of the little bell above the door announced another customer. Bugger, if she wasn’t careful there would be a full-scale debate about what made a horseman hunky and whether Billy was still up for a full frontal for charity.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you, dear? It is for charity and it is the start of the New Year tomorrow. Where does the time go? So it’s your last chance. You wouldn’t want to miss a single day of Mr January would you?’

  ‘Just the er, pint of milk and, er, yes, okay one of these.’ She grabbed the calendar. ‘For charity, of course.’ Maybe if she took it with her that would be the end of it, and after all that the fire brigade had done for her, the least she could do was show some support. If they hadn’t been on the scene within minutes of the blaze being spotted, the whole of Tipping House (and guests) could have been barbecued, not just the main entertaining rooms.

  ‘Hang on, hold your horses, love, is that the last one?’

  She hadn’t moved fast enough. The booming gruff tone was instantly recognisable. Her father.

  Lottie glanced up and he was standing there, large as life, in his boots and breeches, blue eyes twinkling. His thinning sandy curls were damp against his head from the riding hat that he’d just taken off (which luckily meant his horse must be tied up outside, so he wouldn’t be there for long) and his arms were folded over his rather stout frame.

  ‘I hope you’re not planning on pinning that up in the bedroom to give the lad some competition.’ He guffawed.

  Mrs Jones joined in. ‘You’re a card, Billy. We were just talking about you, weren’t we? Those were the days when I couldn’t put the newspapers out on a Sunday morning without seeing your body.’

  ‘Dad!’ Lottie felt vaguely nauseous. The conversation about her father’s naked butt (and, yes, it would get onto that if she hung around) was bad enough. I mean, who wants to even acknowledge their parents have bodies, let alone ones that have been lusted over by the nation? But for him to even hint at anything going on in her own marital bedroom was just plain weird. Cringe-worthy.

  Mrs Jones obviously thought it was hilarious though.

  ‘I’m only getting it because it’s for charity,’ Lottie protested.

  ‘Yes, well you can stop looking, love. Come on,’ he waved a hand, ‘give it here. I need that if it’s the last one.’

  She found she was gripping it more tightly than she’d expected when he tried to take it. ‘What do YOU want with naked firemen?’

  ‘It’s a surprise for Tiggy.’

  Oh God, now he was dragging her step-mum and their relationship into this. ‘Here.’ She shoved it at him. ‘Don’t say another word.’

  ‘After a younger man is she, Bill?’ There was what sounded suspiciously like a girly giggle from Mrs Jones, who appeared to be flirting outrageously as she leant her elbows on the counter, displaying an ample cleavage. ‘Always a place in my bed for you if you need it, my darling.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Lottie put her hands over her ears and hummed.

  ‘Tigs took a shine to Mr February. She said she’s thinking of doing a bit of painting again and I haven’t got the time to pose for her, have I now, Molly?’ Billy winked at Mrs Jones, then looked back to his daughter, who was studying the bars of chocolate avidly. ‘Want me to buy you some sparklers while I’m here, love?’

  Lottie looked at him, startled. Was that some kind of euphemism? Did he think her and Rory’s love life needed a boost? Was Sam now responsible for the corner shop stocking vajazzle kits as well as superior fake tan?

  ‘We always had them when you were a kid. Thought the sprogs would want some.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Sparklers for little Alice and Roxy? Fireworks? To see the New Year in with, Lottie. I know Rory’s stocked up with more fireworks than they’ve got on the Thames, but a few of these never go amiss, do they?’ He tapped the packet she hadn’t spotted on the counter. ‘I’m sure young Roxy could put a few to good use.’

  ‘Oh God, yes, of course, thanks, got to go. Happy New Year.’ She grabbed both packets of sparklers that Mrs Jones was now holding out, made a lunge for the pint of milk and was out of the shop faster than a starter at Aintree.

  Her father’s guffaws echoed round the shop as the door slammed shut behind her, and if it hadn’t been for Harry’s whine of surprise she would have forgotten all about the spaniel and left him still tied to the hook under the window.

  ‘Cripes, Harry, they go sex mad after a certain age.’ She would have actually quite liked to have had a closer look at the fireman’s calendar, but no way was she ever going to mention it again. To anybody. ‘Come on, Harry, we’re off to Sam’s to talk about something sensible like acrylic nails and boob jobs, and pick up the nibbles for tonight.’

  * * *

  ‘Have you seen that naked fireman’s calendar that they’ve got in the corner shop, babe? That Mrs Jones was showing me this afternoon; said they were selling like hot cakes before Christmas. If I hadn’t got my Davey I’d be after Mr October, I can tell you.’ Sam pulled her leather jacket more firmly round her. ‘He’d warm me up. Cold enough to freeze the brass bits off a monkey out here, isn’t it, babe?’ She chuckled. ‘Nothing like a fireman’s lift and an ogle at his hose to get you glowing.’

  ‘Sam!’ Lottie glanced over in Roxy’s direction, but the little girl was too busy to hear. She was whispering into Alice’s ear, no doubt trying to get her to collaborate in mischief.

  ‘Aww bless, don’t they look cute together? Roxy with them blond curls and Alice all dark and neat like Mandy. Where is Mand?’ She looked round. ‘She dashed off just after we got here.’

  ‘Loo.’

  ‘Throwing up again? She’s spent more time with her head down the bog this time than she did when she was carrying little Roxy. Poor thing. Would put me off being preggers if it made me like that. I told Davey we should have at least two more, though, and I know he wants a little boy, though he says he’s happy with his girls. Ooh look at Rory and Mick with them big flames, they look like Romans or something, don’t they? But with clothes on.’

  Lottie giggled. ‘They’re torches, for lighting the fireworks, I think.’

  ‘Nothing like a big bang to see in the New Year, is there, babe?’

  Lottie loved fireworks. In fact Bonfire Night had always been the highlight of the year for her – until the last one. She glanced nervously behind her at the large French windows that led from the terrace into the Great Hall.

  Not that a stray firework had started the blaze responsible for destroying a fair chunk of Tipping House and wiping out her business, but if they hadn’t been so busy staring into the dying embers and setting more midnight fireworks off at the end of a very drunken and noisy party, they might have realised that the flames in the window weren’t a reflection of what was going on outside.

  And they might have called the fire brigade before there was the sharp crack of hot glass followed by a rush of black, billowing smoke.

  Sam caught the look and gave her a hug. ‘Sod him, babe. Next November we can pretend the guy on the top of the fire is that toe-rag, burn him at the stake.’

  ‘We’re not sure it definitely is him yet.’ Lottie wanted to be fair and although all indications were that the bridegroom who had been celebrating his wedding at Tipping House on November 5th had, in fact, snuck out of the four-poster bed armed with a match and bottle of spirits, enquiries were still ongoing.

  ‘Well he did s
ay so on Facebook, so it’s got to be, hasn’t it?’

  ‘You can’t believe everything on there.’

  ‘Course you can, love, all the important stuff. I don’t bother listening to the news any more, I just go on Facebook.’

  Lottie did love Sam, even if she could be decidedly un-PC at times. Well that was part of her charm.

  ‘Have you got a date to get it all done up again then, babe? I do miss seeing all those lovely brides here. That one that looked like she was a big fat gypsy was amazing. You know, the one with that glass carriage. Life a fairy tale it was.’

  ‘I miss them too.’ Lottie fought the feeling of gloom. ‘The insurance people are still poking around, and to be honest I’m not quite sure where I’m going to get the money from to get started again.’

  ‘We’ll sort it, babe. We can have another fundraiser, can’t we, Mandy?’

  Amanda Stanthorpe, who had emerged from the bathroom, was looking pale green at the edges and didn’t even have the energy to flinch at the abbreviation of her name. She smiled wanly.

  When she’d first moved to Folly Lake Manor in Tippermere she’d spent most of her time wishing she wasn’t there; she was scared of horses, hated disorder and loathed mud, but after her millionaire husband had died she’d been touched by the support and warmth of her neighbours and now couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Especially after finding a kindred spirit in Dominic Stanthorpe. Marrying him and having his daughter had been the best thing she had ever done. Apart from the actual pregnancy part, of course, which had left her feeling like she’d been fed through a mangle. Repeatedly.

  Amanda was the most organised, demure, and elegant person in Tippermere and Lottie had been in awe of her for a long time. Before discovering that the immaculate exterior was a cover for a shy but extremely kind person. She still found it impossible to believe, though, that the young Amanda had been a geeky, unfashionable kid from the suburbs who created a fantasy world to escape from her loneliness. All she could see when she looked at her Uncle Dominic and Amanda was a perfect couple who could have run the Tipping House Estate with effortless ease, had the Stanthorpes not decided long ago that it should only be passed down to female ancestors.