Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy Read online

  ‘My name’s Mia Wild. You must be Alice. I introduced myself to your headmistress, Mrs – Fatterbury is it?’

  Alice heard one of the nearby villagers snigger and hastened to correct her.

  ‘Fratterbury – it’s Mrs Fratterbury.’

  ‘I explained that I’ve moved to the village and was wondering if there was someone who could show me around. She suggested you and I said you looked perfect.’

  ‘Oh! Of course, I’d love to. So,’ she fought hard to be nonchalant, ‘you’ve just moved here?’

  ‘Yes, I’m renting Ivy Cottage. Do you know it?’

  ‘Ivy cottage – yes, lovely! At the end of Drove Lane. Have you got a job near here?’

  The edges of Mia’s lips twitched.

  ‘No. I’m here about the advert.’

  Chapter 2

  Henry de Beeble shook his head at his older brother. ‘What I don’t get, Bob, is why the jobs section? Why not Lonely Hearts?’ Henry had always felt sorry for Noblet being saddled with the – to his mind – embarrassing family name, and had switched to calling him Bob from the age of fifteen.

  Noblet swirled the ice cubes around in his gin and tonic. He and Henry were sitting on the terrace which ran the full length of the back of the Hall. The vast lawn spread out before them, shaded here and there by magnificent cedars. As he gazed out past the lawn and meadows towards Eve’s Wood and the village in the valley below them, Noblet seemed to be musing on the question. Henry knew that he probably wasn’t musing on it at all, but grappling with some knotty problem to do with Wilkie Collins’ use of the semi-colon. Turning his face up to the sunlight and closing his eyes, he prompted:

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘What? Oh! Sorry, Henry – miles away.’

  ‘The ad – I was asking why the jobs section?’

  Noblet drained his glass before slamming it on the table.

  ‘Because I don’t want to get married. I want a housekeeper-cum-estate-manager. But Mother is insisting children be involved, so at the last moment, I had to change the job title to “wife”.’

  Henry laughed.

  ‘It isn’t funny, Henry. It’s alright for you. Mother isn’t hounding you to get married and pull your socks up and run the damn estate. You get left alone. I’m getting it in the neck day and night; she’s like a dog with a bone. You know she’s moved out – well, she says she won’t lift a finger to help look after the place anymore. She says I need a wife and heirs and she won’t help me until they appear. I’m going crazy, Henners!’ He picked up the empty glass, knocked it back, got hit in the face by a slice of lemon, and put it down again. ‘I don’t know anything about taxes and budgeting and God knows what else they keep on at me to make decisions on!’

  ‘And you think your wife will? Unless you’re planning on proposing to the Chancellor of the Exchequer you might be disappointed.’

  ‘I don’t intend she should know it all straight away. Of course not. But if I marry, Mother says she’ll lend a hand until we’re able to stand on our own two feet. Or should that be four feet? Anyway, until then the place could go to rack and ruin because I sure as hell don’t know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Mother would never let it come to that.’

  ‘You’ve not seen her lately, old man! It’s like an obsession.’ He lowered his voice and glanced around. ‘I’m not sure that she’s not gone a bit… you know… loopy.’

  ‘Yes. I can see the difficulty. With Mother, it would be so hard to tell.’

  ‘Well I’m glad it’s all so entertaining for you,’ said Noblet, his tone petulant. ‘You could at least take it seriously.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I am grateful, old man. Did you have plans?’

  ‘I was going to take Saskia to a new exhibition of what is known as “street art” – graffiti to you and me - in a converted abattoir in Shoreditch. She’s reviewing it for the magazine.’

  Noblet looked askance at him and Henry laughed.

  ‘So, yes, I was pleased to get out of it. And you sounded desperate.’

  ‘Desperate and in need of Dutch courage.’ Stepping over to the doors into the drawing room, he poked his head inside.

  ‘More booze, Sally!’

  ‘Get a pen and paper while you’re there, Bob,’ said Henry. ‘We need to sketch out a plan of attack.’ Noblet disappeared inside and reappeared a few moments later followed by a wiry old lady in an apron, carrying a tray.

  ‘Here you are, boys,’ she trilled. ‘Not too many more, now, Noblet. You know what you’re like – and sitting in the sun too, well…’ She shook her head ominously.

  Sally had been nanny to both boys and stayed on, taking on more and more roles until she had become butler, secretary and occasional odd-job-woman. Cooking was undertaken by a permanent fixture of the name of Martyr. She had once been called Martha, but when a three-year-old Noblet had rechristened her by mistake, the name suited her so well it stuck.

  Noblet took the gin and tonic off the tray and raised it to Sally.

  ‘Dutch courage, Sally! Can’t do without it this p.m.’

  Sally turned to his brother.

  ‘Now, Henry, have you had your lunch?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. You’re skin and bones – I’ll step into the kitchen now and ask Martyr to rustle something up for you.’

  Left alone again, Henry and Noblet settled themselves on either side of the table, Henry with pen in hand.

  ‘The way I see it,’ Henry said, ‘we need to approach this as if it really were a job vacancy. It makes it a lot easier, in a way – we think about what it is that you want from a wife, and then we decide on the best way to whittle down the applicants.’

  He paused and scrutinised his brother.

  ‘That is, assuming that you’re going to go through with this. I mean, this is serious, Bob. We’re talking about other people’s happiness aside from yours.’

  ‘I know – Mother’s.’

  ‘No, not Mother’s! I’m talking about the poor fool who marries you and becomes full-time skivvy at de Beeble Hall. You don’t have to do this, just because Mother’s jumping up and down. You’re a forty-year-old man, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Thirty-nine, thank you very much. Still a way off my half-century yet.’ He took a sip of his fresh gin and tonic. ‘It’s a nice idea, you know, doing what I like and all that. But we both know it’s not realistic. I want to be left in peace to work and Mother’s quite capable of squawking round my head like a ravening harpy until I capitulate. A quiet life, Henry, that’s what I’m after.’

  ‘Let’s hope a wife is the way to get it.’

  Pulling his chair into the table, he set to work again with the pad and pen.

  ‘Come on then, Bob. What are you looking for in a wife?’

  Twiddling his fingers absently in his drink, Noblet said, ‘Lydia Gwilt in Armadale. Now there’s a woman. Flaming locks of auburn hair, ivory skin—’

  ‘And eyes of emerald green?’ interrupted Henry. ‘You’re thinking of “Jolene” by Dolly Parton.’

  ‘I am not! Lydia Gwilt – there’s my idea of beauty.’

  ‘I’ve not read that particular Collins masterpiece, but isn’t she a murderess?’

  ‘I’m not saying I want a woman with her personality,’ Noblet snapped. ‘I’m talking about her looks. Write that down: looks like Lydia Gwilt. Auburn hair. Ivory skin.’

  ‘We might have to widen our criteria. I’ll put “attractive”.’

  ‘Fine, fine, fine. After all, looks don’t matter that much. It would be nice if she could have auburn hair, that’s all.’

  ‘Moving on…’

  ‘It’s a toughie, I’ve never thought about this in so much depth before. What would you put?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant what I’d put – it’s your wife we’re talking about.’

  ‘I know – but it might, you know, inspire me.’

  Henry thoug
ht about it.

  ‘Well, let’s take Saskia…’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ muttered Noblet under his breath.

  ‘She’s dynamic…’

  ‘She is. Very dynamic. You can write down something like “easy-going” on my list.’

  Henry raised an eyebrow and wrote it down, before continuing, ‘She’s also ambitious and successful.’

  ‘She is, she absolutely is. Put down “mellow” and “homebody” on my list.’

  ‘This isn’t your cue to critique my girlfriend, you know.’

  Noblet’s eyes widened in shock.

  ‘I’ve not said a word against Saskia, old boy! This is extremely useful, it’s honing my mind, helping me focus. Carry on, old man, carry on.’

  ‘Forget about my list. Let’s focus on your ideas.’

  Noblet lapsed into musing and gazing again, while Henry ate the sandwich that Sally had brought out for him.

  ‘What do you think I should be looking for in a wife, Henry?’ he asked, eventually.

  ‘Well,’ replied his brother, wiping his mouth on the napkin, ‘one thing’s for sure – she’ll need to be happy to be bossed around by Mother. If you marry someone too strong-minded it’ll be constant war between the two of them.’

  Noblet shuddered.

  ‘God, no, strong-minded’s the last thing I want. Put “weak-minded”. And underline it.’

  ‘Right.’ Henry took a couple of businesslike swigs from his bottle of beer. ‘So, what we’re looking for is a red-headed beauty with an expert knowledge of employment law who doubles up as a doormat in her spare time. Piece of cake.’

  ‘Be reasonable, Henry. You’re making things too complicated.’

  Noblet hauled himself out of his chair and paced the terrace with purposeful strides.

  ‘All I’m looking for is a nice girl, with a head on her shoulders, who doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty.’

  ‘Good, good – I’m making notes: head must be on shoulders. Dirty hands.’

  Noblet paced past his chair. ‘Someone who likes children, running a home and who’ll get on with Mother.’

  ‘Yes, good, carry on – I’m noting down “mythical being”.’

  Noblet stopped and planted one foot on the seat of a chair like an exasperated cowboy.

  ‘This should be easy for you. This is what you do, day in, day out.’

  ‘Wrong. I’m a headhunter. I lure greedy executives from well-paid roles into even better paid roles. Never have I had to work with a job description which includes a desire to procreate with the employer.’

  ‘Details, details.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

  ‘I do. And that’s what we’ll tell Mother this evening. That we have it all in hand. All it takes is for a few pleasant girls to apply for the job, we pick a couple of good ones, then present them to Mother and ask her to choose the winner. The End. Finis.’

  Pretending not to hear Henry’s roar of laughter, Noblet repeated, ‘Finis!’ before picking up his empty glass and lumbering back into the house.

  Henry stayed on the terrace, enjoying the stillness: something that grew more precious to him each time he came to visit. His London flat, a minimalist warehouse conversion, was never quiet. If it wasn’t noises inside – Saskia’s friends, the phone, music – it was the constant traffic noise. Here, noises soothed rather than irritated. The wind rustling the leaves was like the sigh of the sea ebbing and flowing, and the owl-like sound of a faraway train horn underlined how distant he was from civilisation. Now and then, when the breeze blew from the south, some nasal-sounding megaphone announcements drifted across from the Gently Rising fête. His mother would be there now, doing her Lady Bountiful bit, handing out prizes. Henry got up and stretched. He calculated that he had at least an hour of peace before Lady Caroline returned to the Hall and set out for a wander through the grounds.

  ***

  With no need of the megaphone, Lady Caroline’s strident tones rang out across the school field, deafening Mrs Fratterbury, who was standing at her side. Lady Caroline piqued herself on her public-speaking abilities and had been known to give the Queen the odd pointer on elocution.

  ‘Two hundred and twenteh-five! That ticket wins the set of three guest soaps!’

  ‘That’s me, your majesty!’ gushed an excited voice.

  Lady Caroline’s eyes narrowed with suspicion until she recognised the speaker; renowned local eccentric Lorraine Watford.

  Lorraine was curtseying low to Lady Caroline. Her beady eyes peered over the top of glasses perched halfway down her nose, making her look like a hen who’d accidentally stumbled into a pair of abandoned spectacles.

  ‘Your prize, Mrs Watford.’ Lady Caroline presented her with the soaps. ‘I hope you’re pleased with it.’

  ‘So pink, your highness. Such a lovely fresh smell. Thank you, your ladyness.’

  There was a pause as Lorraine remained curtseying; an ineffable look of feudal devotion directed at Lady Caroline’s right ear. Realising she was stuck, Mrs Fratterbury stepped forward and hauled her away, safely out of touching distance of Lady Caroline.

  Sinead had returned and been persuaded to keep an eye on the white elephant while Alice browsed the other stalls with Mia, who was wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses she’d picked up for a pound from the vintage clothes stall. They would have made Alice look like a worried fly but Mia carried them off with panache. Lorraine beetled past, clutching her pack of pink soaps and muttering under her breath. Mia watched her with interest.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Oh – that’s Mrs Watford.’

  ‘Day release?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Is she on day release from some kind of institution?’

  Alice laughed.

  ‘No, no – she lives here in the village. She used to work for the council but she’s retired.’

  Alice was finding Mia something of an enigma. She was open and direct, yet had given little away about herself. She was startlingly beautiful and yet either unaware or indifferent to the effect her beauty had on others. Alice couldn’t work her out. But she liked her and found herself talking a lot. From people in the village the conversation turned to Alice herself.

  ‘Have you lived here all your life?’ Mia wanted to know.

  ‘Yes. Well, all my life bar two days – I was born in the hospital in Pantling. And of course, when I was doing my PGCE I had to move away. That was hell. The first month or so I cried every single day, I was pathetic. I missed my family so much – and being here, I suppose. I nearly came home, but Dad drove over one day and talked some sense into me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said… you’ll laugh, it sounds silly, but he said I was like a tulip bulb. Everything always comes back to gardening with him. We we’re stuffing ourselves with scones in a tea shop and I was getting that sinking feeling in my stomach at the thought of him leaving and me having to go back to college. He started talking about gardening, for no obvious reason. He said, “Alice, you have to plant tulip bulbs in winter!” I thought he’d lost it for a minute. “You bury them deep in the cold, dark earth,” he said, “and you leave them there. Eventually, the warmer weather comes and that’s when the bulb blooms. One has to go through the winter months if one wants to bloom in the spring.” He looked hard at me then, to make sure I got it and wasn’t just picking up gardening tips.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Erm, not much. To be honest, at the time it didn’t make me feel much better, but over the next few weeks I’d think about what he said from time to time and it started to make sense. Anyway, sorry. I’ve no idea why I started banging on about that.’

  ‘Because I asked you.’ They’d reached the refreshments tent and ordered some Pimms. As they sat in the shade, sipping their drinks, Alice caught Mia looking at her.

  ‘I want to be honest with you,’ Mia said, eventually, after Alice had tried to start a conversation about the f
ête but stalled and sputtered to a halt. ‘I’ve not told you the whole truth about who I am.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Alice, suddenly anxious.

  All the background noise seemed to fade away as Mia lowered her voice and said, ‘I’d like to keep it quiet as long as I can, so please don’t tell anyone…’

  ***

  ‘Hallo Mother!’ called Noblet.

  ‘Watch what you’re doing, Nobby! That ladder’s a dangerous weapon in your hands.’

  ‘Sorry. There’s a photographer stuck up one of the trees by the lake. Going to get him down.’

  Lady Caroline looked as if she’d been told there was a rat in the soup tureen.

  ‘Tell Fletcher to deal with it.’

  Noblet shook his head. ‘Day off.’

  ‘What is he doing in the tree? I didn’t order a photographer. Did you?’

  Shifting the ladder a little on his shoulder, Noblet set off again across the grass, saying, ‘No, Mother. I don’t know why he’s there. Henry heard him calling for help.’

  ‘Henry’s here? Why didn’t you say so!’ She called after her son, ‘I’ll tell Martyr to hurry tea. Tell Henry to stop worrying about men in trees and come back to the house.’

  Noblet raised a hand in acknowledgement, realised he needed it to support the ladder, staggered a little to the left and a little to the right then steadied himself and continued across the lawn. When he reached the lake, he found Henry, arms folded, staring up into the branches of a tree. Smoke was oozing out through the foliage.

  ‘Filthy habit,’ Henry commented.

  ‘Yeah?’ came a voice from the tree.

  ‘Furs your arteries.’

  ‘Couldn’t give a monkey’s,’ responded the tree.

  ‘Fills your lungs with black tar.’

  ‘Whoop-di-doodle-do.’

  Henry turned as his brother approached. ‘I’m not getting very far with this little toerag. He doesn’t want to talk.’

  ‘About what?’ asked Noblet.

  ‘About anything, but specifically about what he’s doing trespassing on private property.’

  ‘None of your bleedin’ business,’ said the tree.