Country Rivals. Zara Stoneley

been sorely disappointed.

      The heroes that had clambered out of the fire engine bore no resemblance to the hose-wielding hunks who were raising money for charity: no nudity (covered by helmets or otherwise), no cheeky grins, no offers of a fireman’s lift. In fact, totally covered up they looked more like her dad than Mr January, February, or March.

      The first lot had very efficiently put the blaze out and the second lot had poked around, grimaced, and written notes.

      She would never look at a firework or bonfire in the same way again.

      ‘Are you listening, Charlotte? I do sometimes wonder how you get anything done with your head in the clouds.’ Elizabeth tapped her stick impatiently against the table leg.

      ‘It’s not in the clouds.’ Lottie, brought back to the present abruptly, decided to change the subject. ‘Why did you really buy Alice a pony?’

      ‘The girl needs to get in the saddle – nothing wrong with a bit of responsibility.’

      ‘It’s cold, wouldn’t it have been better to wait until the weather warmed up?’

      ‘No point in putting things off, and ponies are too easily ignored when they’re turned out to grass.’

      Lottie sighed and wondered if it was too early to crack open a bottle of wine. ‘She’s only three years old, Gran.’ Although she was three going on thirty, but that was irrelevant.

      ‘Nearly four, by my reckoning, so she’s got long enough legs. And you can stop raising your eyebrows, young lady, she’s tall enough to sit astride. No good these little podgy toddlers, roll straight off a pony.’

      ‘Did you ask Amanda first?’

      ‘I think it’s time for a G&T, don’t you? Then I can tell you all about this nice young man I’ve invited for you to meet. Ah,’ she paused, ‘that must be him now, his name is James and I want you to be nice to him. I told him to come straight up. I do like punctuality.’ She gave Lottie, who usually raced in at the very last minute, a pointed look.

      Lottie wanted to do more than raise her eyebrows; she wanted to lie on the floor and scream. ‘How come you can hear somebody coming in and you don’t hear a word I say when I’m explaining why you can’t afford to bet on the horses? And,’ she paused, wondering if it was worth wasting her breath, but decided to crack on anyway, ‘buy the girls ponies.’

      ‘I look at it as speculating, Charlotte. And I didn’t hear him, I saw Bertie cock his ears.’

      Lottie glanced down at the fat Labrador, who was flat out at Elizabeth’s feet, his paws twitching as he ran after rabbits in his sleep, little snuffles of excitement ruffling his lips every now and then. ‘Of course you did, Gran.’

      From the moment he walked into the room, Lottie realised that it was going to be hard not to like James, with his willing-to-please but slightly awkward air. He was lanky, with a lopsided verging-on-cheeky grin and slightly too-long hair (in fact to Lottie’s eye he had a definite forelock). His jeans, which no doubt should have been skinny, had plenty of room in them (and looked like he’d rolled down a hill), his hoody hung off his frame and the outfit was finished off with Converses that were green-smudged.

      If he had been a horse she would have had to wrap her arms around his neck, kiss his nose and tell him what a clever boy he was, and assure him that everybody would love him once she’d fed him up. As it was, kissing noses might have been misinterpreted.

      Elizabeth was frowning at her – no doubt she’d read her mind again. Lottie frowned back trying to convey the message that she really, really wasn’t about to kiss anybody’s nose.

      James hadn’t noticed; he was staring at the floor. God, the poor man; here she was trying to weigh him up with her best imitation of Elizabeth’s shrewd look (although Rory always asked her if she’d got something in her eye when she tried it on him) and he no doubt thought she was some haughty lady of the manor. She’d never get to grips with the whole aristocratic thing, which Gran and Uncle Dom did so well, she’d rather hug people.

      ‘Love the stars and stripes.’

      Okay, he didn’t think she was haughty. Failed on that front, again. He was staring at her socks not the woodworm-riddled floorboards. ‘Clever to avoid convention and split them up.’

      ‘I never wear matching socks. Stars and stripes should be kept apart.’

      ‘Stars and stripes? You are not an American are you?’ Elizabeth peered at him more closely. ‘So hard to tell these days, you youngsters all sound the same. Nobody enunciates, even when one has been to a decent school.’

      ‘Gran!’ But Lottie knew it was useless trying to stop Elizabeth’s tendency towards Prince Philip-isms.

      Elizabeth gave her a look, intended to silence her, and then cleared her throat. ‘James, this is Charlotte, who is in charge of our fundraising.’

      Lottie loved the way that in one sentence her gran had managed to lower her status to that of occasional help.

      ‘It isn’t going too well at present, for obvious reasons.’ Incapable, occasional help. ‘She’s also my granddaughter and runs the estate.’ Better. ‘And will one day inherit it.’ She’d put a slightly unnecessary emphasis on the ‘one day’ Lottie thought (she could well sympathise with Prince Charles), but she grinned. Whatever Gran was plotting, it at least did have her in the position of heiress-in-waiting and not the home help. ‘Although, of course, she won’t inherit the title. This, Charlotte, is James Shilling. I found him in a rhododendron bush and he says I don’t know his mother.’ Elizabeth considered it her duty to know everybody within a twenty-mile radius, and everything about them.

      ‘Trilling.’

      Lottie stared at him. What a peculiar thing to say.

      ‘It’s Jamie Trilling, not Shilling.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘And it’s Jamie. Everybody calls me Jamie not James.’

      ‘Well, why didn’t you say so, young man? Speak up, no use mumbling.’

      He sighed, he obviously had said it before, but Elizabeth only heard what suited her. Lottie tried not to smile, more likely she’d done it on purpose not misheard him. Reducing him to loose change, and old currency at that.

      ‘That explains it, no Trillings round here.’ She frowned. ‘So where do you come from, young man?’

      Jamie suddenly looked worried and Lottie could sympathise. Elizabeth knew just how to make somebody feel that their dream deal was inches away, that she valued their opinion, only to dash it with one carefully worded statement and then look at them like they were an alien life form. ‘Well, I …’

      ‘We’ll discuss that later. Now, tell Charlotte why you’re here. Speak up, now, we can’t sit around here all day.’ She waved an imperious finger and waited expectantly for him to perform.

      * * *

      Jamie looked from Elizabeth to Lottie and back again and felt like he was in front of a firing squad. This was worse than any interview he had ever had, not that he’d had many. She changed tack more often than a boat heading into the wind; Lady Elizabeth was unlike any old woman, well any woman, anybody, he’d ever met before.

      He’d spent several hours on the internet after meeting her, desperately trying to find out more about the Stanthorpes and the Tipping House Estate, but had largely drawn a blank. In fact, he’d discovered more when he’d popped into the Tippermere village shop to buy a newspaper on the way over.

      The woman in there had been quite chatty and had insisted on filling him in on the history of the church and local pub, as well as some rather colourful tales about Rory (that’s Lottie’s husband, such a naughty one he is), Billy (and that’s her father, the tales he could tell, won a gold medal at the Olympics, he did), a guy called Mick (he really had a soft spot for our Lottie, he did, but I reckon they’re more like brother and sister) and an Australian