Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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to offer, but you’ve enough to do today. I’ll catch the bus at the end of Langley Lane. I’ll see you next weekend, and don’t forget, my cousin will be with me.’
‘Yes, I know, M’lady. I’m really looking forward to seeing Princess Diana again, and so is Melly. I’ll have everything ready, don’t you fret. I know she likes the Lavender Suite, and it’ll be prepared for her. By the by, I sent Rosemary out to walk Lada, and to cut some flowers for you to take to London. You’ll find her in Frances’s Garden. When you leave will you send her up for lunch please, M’lady?’
‘Yes, of course. And the flowers were a lovely thought, Val. Thanks. Cheerio.’
‘Goodbye, M’lady, and have a pleasant journey.’
Francesca hurried back to the circular hall, glancing at the Victorian grandfather clock in the corner as she did so and realizing she was running late. She picked up her small overnight case and her shoulder bag and went outside, walking rapidly along the paved terrace and down the stone steps at the end of it.
In the distance Francesca could see Rosemary and Lada, the little Bichon Frise puppy Victor had given her in April. Francesca had wanted to call the dog Enchilada, and although Victor had been highly amused, he had said the name wasn’t appropriate for such a pretty little girl. And so they had compromised, agreeing finally on the abbreviation Lada. The dog, now almost six months old, had become Francesca’s shadow, trotting after her devotedly wherever she went. Both she and Victor had become extremely attached to the white ball of fluff, and he had insisted she bring the puppy with them this weekend.
The sunken garden was centuries old and had been designed and built by the Sixth Countess of Langley, the renowned Frances, whose great beauty had been immortalized by Gainsborough and Romney, and to whom Francesca bore such a striking resemblance. For this reason it was often referred to as Frances’s Garden, and today it was ablaze with rafts of intense colour, and aromatic with the scent of June roses, the lavender that grew in profusion along the borders and the delicate mingled fragrances of the perennial summer species now in riotous bloom.
A smile glanced across Francesca’s face as she drew closer. Rosemary, Val’s ten-year-old daughter, was walking Lada around the paved garden paths on the leash, looking sedate and important, a large bunch of roses and other flowers clasped tightly in her free hand.
‘Hello, Rosemary,’ Francesca said. Lada immediately went into paroxysms of squeaking, jumping up and down excitedly and pawing at the skirt of Francesca’s lime-green cotton frock. ‘Goodness gracious me, Lada, anyone would think I’d been gone a whole month instead of only an hour,’ Francesca laughed, patting the puppy. She said to Rosemary, ‘Thank you for walking the little one, and also for picking such a lovely bouquet.’
Rosemary beamed, handing her the flowers. ‘I made sure I got the best for you, Lady Francesca, just like me mam told me, and I wrapped ’em ever so careful like in newspaper, and tied ’em with string.’
‘So I see, and you’re very efficient. Come along, dear, I’m in a hurry.’
‘Yes, Lady Francesca.’
A thick door of aged wood, overlaid with decorative metalwork, was set in the brick wall at the opposite end of the sunken garden, and it was towards this that Francesca and the little girl now walked, with Lada bouncing along between them. When they reached it, Rosemary bent down and hugged the white puppy affectionately. ‘Be a good girl, Lada, and come back ever so soon. I’ll miss you,’ she whispered. She gave the leash to Francesca with obvious reluctance.
Turning the old iron key, Francesca gazed down at Rosemary. ‘Lock the door after me, dear, and then go up to the castle. Your mother has lunch ready. And don’t dawdle.’
‘No, I won’t, Lady Francesca. Ta’rar then.’
‘’Bye, Rosemary.’ Francesca tugged the old door open and stepped out into the driveway, waiting until Rosemary had relocked it before striking out in the direction of the imposing wrought-iron gates at the back entrance of the castle grounds. Since this area of Langley Park was strictly private, she was startled to see a man and a youth sitting on the low wall bordering grazing pastures on one side of the driveway. Francesca paused when she drew level with them, noting that they looked unsavoury and scruffy.
‘Excuse me,’ she said politely, and went on with some firmness, ‘this part of Langley Park is not open to the public. You probably don’t realize it, but you are trespassing.’
Looking her over swiftly, the man said, with a small snicker, ‘Ever so sorry, yer ladyship. We didn’t know. We was just about to ’ave our picnic.’ He glanced at several large tattered brown paper bags on the wall. ‘If yer insists we move on, then I expects we’ll ’ave to …’ He paused, regarding her through watchful eyes.
Francesca frowned, feeling churlish and mean. It was such a glorious summer day and people like this, so obviously from one of the nearby industrial cities, hardly ever got the opportunity to breathe the clean air, enjoy the loveliness of the countryside. She said, in a slightly milder tone, ‘I am sorry to have to ask you to leave. However, this is a private area of the estate, and anyway you’d be much more comfortable if you went up to the castle courtyard. There’s a small café which serves hot and cold drinks, and ice cream. You can have your picnic there.’
The man shook his head. ‘Can’t afford nuffin like that, Lady Francesca.’ He laughed. ‘Brought us own grub and us own tea, that we did. Still, perhaps we’d best shove off then.’
‘Oh never mind,’ Francesca responded hurriedly, relenting. ‘You can stay here this time. If you should come back, please use the public areas of the park.’ She smiled at the youth, feeling sorry for him. He seemed so undernourished and sickly, and then her smile faded. He was glowering at her with hostility in his pale cold eyes. Francesca turned away with a small internal shudder, noticing, as she did, the binoculars on the wall, immediately thinking how odd it was that these two should own such an expensive item.
The man, conscious of her close scrutiny, followed the direction of her gaze, and said, ‘We’re bird watchers, Lady Francesca. My Jimmy won them there opera glasses in a school competition. He’s a right born naturalist, my Jimmy is, yer ladyship.’
‘How very nice.’ Francesca inclined her head. ‘Well, enjoy your picnic.’
She hurried off, instinctively tightening her grip on Lada’s leash, frowning as she almost ran down the driveway, anxious to get to Victor who would be parked in Langley Lane. She found herself shivering despite the warmth of the radiant sunshine, and admitted she did not like the look of the two men at all. But there was not much she could do about them just now, even if they were poachers as she suspected. There had been a spate of excessive poaching in Langley Park, and on neighbouring estates, in recent months, and her father had pressed several of the villagers into service as temporary wardens to patrol their lands. If Jimmy and his father ran into one of them they would have serious trouble to contend with, not to mention the village bobby, and possibly the West Riding county police.
She wondered how the two disreputable characters had managed to get into this private part of the grounds, and she expected to find the new padlocks on the back gates broken. To her immense relief this was not the case when she reached the entrance. Once outside in Langley Lane she took great care to secure the padlocks again, rattled the gates to make sure they held fast, and dropped the spare key Kim had given her into her shoulder bag. She peered through the wrought-iron railings, focusing on the two men sitting on the wall. They appeared to be eating their lunch with unconcerned nonchalance. Perhaps she had been mistaken after all. They were probably quite harmless. Nevertheless, when she rang Kim from London that evening she would mention the incident, alert him to the possibility of poachers roaming the vast estate.
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