Who Needs Mr Willoughby?. Katie Oliver

and purple heather…and blue skies adrift with clouds as puffy and white as the eiderdown that covered her.

      And although the room was lovely, with a lavish, old-fashioned charm that was impossible to resist, she still felt a pang of loss at the thought of the bedroom – and the home – she’d left behind.

      “Where’s Elinor?” Marianne asked as she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet dangled at least six inches from the floor.

      “Overseeing the packing. You know how organised your sister is, always planning ahead and managing the finances.” Mrs Holland sighed. “Such as they are.”

      “It’ll all come right, mum, don’t worry. Ellie’s great at financial…stuff. She’ll get it all sorted. At least we’ll have a place to live in the meantime, and I’ll soon have a job.”

      “A job? I’d much rather you both found husbands. I won’t lie about that.”

      Marianne laughed. “I doubt we’ll find husbands up here,” she said as she went to the window and curled up on the cushioned sill. “Unless we marry a farmer, or a sheepherder.”

      “There’s no shame in marrying a farmer. Perhaps Lady Violet can introduce you to a few eligible young men of her acquaintance –”

      “No, thank you,” Marianne retorted. “I can only imagine the sort of boring old aristos she’d consider “suitable”. No way.”

      “Oh, well, time enough for all of that later, I suppose. I’ll ring you when our plans are firm. Elinor’s sold her horse to one of the neighbour’s farms so we can buy train tickets to Northumberland.”

      Dismay swept over her. “Ellie sold Jingle? But she loves that horse.”

      Elinor and the bay stallion were inseparable from the time their father presented him to her on her fifteenth birthday. She rode him nearly every day and groomed and curried the animal herself. She’d worked at the dress shop in the village on weekends to help pay for Jingle’s oats and tack and farrier bills.

      “She won’t show it, of course,” Mrs Holland said with a sigh. “You know how stoic your sister is. She hides it, but I know she’s upset. Still – needs must. We can’t afford the care and feeding of a horse any longer, not that we ever really could; we need the money to pay for our train fare and moving expenses.”

      There was a knock on the door.

      “Someone’s here,” Marianne said. She eyed her phone’s power indicator and saw it was down to one bar. “Plus my mobile’s about to die. I’ll call you later, okay? And give Ellie my love.”

      “Of course I will. And don’t forget to call us.”

      “I won’t,” she promised, and ended the call.

      She was bent over, with her knickers-clad arse in the air as she plugged her phone into its charger, when another, sharper knock followed the first, and the door opened.

      Marianne gasped and whirled around, crossing her arms ineffectually over her bra as she did.

      “Miss Holland,” Lady Violet chirped as she peered around the edge of the door, “so sorry to interrupt – are you decent?”

      “Um…yes, sort of. Come in, please.”

      She came in and shut the door after her. “Are you coming down to breakfast, dearest? Only it’s half past nine and Mrs Fenwick won’t hold the buffet over much longer. She’s a dragon about promptness.”

      “Sorry. I’ll be right there, promise.”

      “Quite all right. I don’t want you to miss breakfast.” She eyed the girl’s bra-and-knickers clad body with barely disguised envy. “What I wouldn’t give to be young again! To have a trim figure and all of my life before me once more…all those pretty clothes…all the parties…all those handsome young men…”

      Marianne scrabbled through her rucksack and withdrew a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and stepped into the jeans. “Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Lady Valentine. Everyone’s always trying to fix me up with someone,” she added, “or asking when I plan to get married and how many children do I want to have. It’s beyond tiresome.”

      “Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sorry.”

      Marianne paused with one leg thrust in her jeans and regarded her hostess in dismay. “Oh, it’s okay – I didn’t mean any offence, Lady Valentine–”

      “Lady Violet, please. None taken, I assure you. As one gets older, one tends to forget the downside of being young. Now, please do hurry so that you might have breakfast before Mrs Fenwick puts it all away.”

      ***

      Midway through her eggs scrambled with salmon and a piece of toasted granary bread, Marianne paused to sip her orange juice and studied the dining room in amazement.

      She and Lady Violet were the only two sitting at one end of the runway-length table. A hunt board against one wall was laid out with a lavish buffet of eggs, smoked haddock, porridge and fresh berries, as well as locally made honey and sausages and stacks of oatcakes and toasted bread.

      It was enough food to feed twenty people.

      “Won’t you have some fried mushrooms and tomatoes?” Lady Violet inquired. She eyed her guest’s plate with a frown. “You ought to eat more than that. You could stand to gain a bit of weight.”

      “No thank you,” Marianne demurred as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “It’s berries and Greek yoghurt for me most days. Now, if you’ll excuse me –” She pushed her chair back and grabbed her mobile. “I think I’ll take some snaps of the breakfast buffet to share on my InstaPost feed before Mrs Fenwick takes everything away.”

      And she began, with great care and intensity, to frame photos of the silver loving cup arranged with red and yellow roses, the stacked linen napkins, the antique silverware and the perfectly poached haddock on its Limoges platter. To get a better angle, she dragged one of the side chairs forward and knelt on it.

      “What on earth are you doing?” her ladyship asked, one hand resting against her chest in surprise.

      Marianne didn’t look up. “Taking photos. I’m documenting my time in Northumberland and posting pictures online.”

      “I never heard the like, taking photos of one’s breakfast to post online to a bunch of – of strangers! Is that a common thing these days?”

      “Oh yes, it’s a thing,” Marianne assured her as she returned the chair to the table and resumed her seat. “Actually, I’m surprised you’re not on InstaPost yourself. Since you’re a famous romance writer, and all. It’s a great way to promote yourself.”

      “Oh – do you know about my books?” Lady Violet flushed with pleasure.

      “I’ve got His Lordship’s Touch on my mobile right now. I started reading it yesterday.” Marianne grinned. “Phwoar! And that Lord Selkirk –?” She fanned herself. “He’s hot.”

      The woman’s flush deepened and she let out a trill of laughter. “You put me to the blush, Miss Holland.”

      “Marianne, please. No – it’s brill. I can’t wait to finish it and read all the rest. I admit, though,” she admitted, and leaned forward over her plate, “I expected one of those flowery, old-school books. You know – all blushing virgins and brooding heroes and things that go bump in the night.”

      Lady Violet tittered. “Well, I can assure you – the only things that go bump in the night in my books, my dear, are the hero and heroine!”

      Marianne grinned. “I doubt mum would approve.”

      “Well, I certainly don’t condone such behaviour in real life, mind,” the baron’s widow hastened to point out. “A young lady