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Authors: Lucinda Riley
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name? I’m afraid it offends my sensibilities to
hear his extremely unimaginative nickname. Especially as he’s only half Welsh in the first place.’
‘Of course, I apologise, LJ. So his father is Welsh, I suppose?’
‘Yes, as you might have guessed, I’m as English as you. Such a shame that David barely knew his father. Robin, my husband, died in a riding accident when David was twelve, you
see.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ murmured Greta.
‘So was I, my dear, but the one thing you learn, living on an estate such as this is that death is as much a part of life as life itself.’
Greta took another small sip of her gin. ‘You said this morning you used to live in the big house?’
‘We did. David was born there. When the house was taken over as a nursing home during the war I moved out to the Gate Lodge. I decided it suited me much better and never moved back,
especially since—’ LJ stopped suddenly. ‘My husband’s elder brother lives there now.’
‘I see. It looks like a beautiful place,’ ventured Greta, sensing LJ’s tension.
‘I suppose so. Huge though, and the maintenance bills are a nightmare. Cost a fortune to have electricity put in. Mind you, with ten large bedrooms, it served well as a nursing home. It
held twenty officers and a team of eight nurses at one time. Rather came into its own, I think.’
‘So, do you help run the Marchmont estate?’ asked Greta.
‘No, not any more. After my husband died, yes, I did. I looked after the upkeep of the place, which I can tell you is a full-time job. Owen, Robin’s brother, was in Kenya but
returned home when war broke out and naturally he took over the running of things. The farm produced milk and meat for the Ministry of Agriculture and it meant that we here were self-sufficient.
Rationing hardly touched us. It was all hands to the pump then, I can tell you. I worked on the farm from dawn until dusk. Then, when the house was requisitioned as a nursing home, I worked
alongside the medical staff. I know I should be relieved the war is over, but I rather enjoyed all the activity. Feels a bit like I’ve been put out to pasture now,’ she said with a
sigh.
‘But you still help on the farm?’
‘For the present, yes. Some of the young men from around here are yet to return, so the farm manager’s always short-handed. I’m roped in to help milk the cows or hunt for lost
sheep when necessary. It’s quite a big operation, you know. Nowadays, one has to make one’s land pay its way. The milk and meat we produce earn sufficient income to keep the estate
going. Now, that’s enough about me. Tell me about you.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell, really. I used to work with Taff— David, at the theatre and we became friends.’
‘You were one of the Windmill Girls, then?’
Greta blushed and nodded. ‘Yes, but only for a few months.’
‘No need to be embarrassed, dear girl. Women have to earn their living somehow and, until the world wakes up and sees the inner steel of us females, one has to get by any way one can. Take
me, for example. The very model of an upper-class Englishwoman. Even had an “honourable” before my name. Being a girl, I had to stay at home and learn cross-stitch while my brothers
– who in my opinion did not have a decent brain between them – were educated at Eton and Oxford. One’s a drunk and managed to squander the family pile in a matter of years, and
the other got himself shot whilst hunting in Africa.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. He deserved it,’ LJ said brusquely. ‘I’ve spent the past thirty years at Marchmont working in some capacity or another and it’s been the happiest
time of my life. Anyway, we seem to have got back to me again. My fault. I digress all the time. One of my bad habits, I’m afraid. We were talking about you. I don’t wish to seem rude,
but just what is your relationship with David?’ LJ’s aquiline nose almost quivered with
hear his extremely unimaginative nickname. Especially as he’s only half Welsh in the first place.’
‘Of course, I apologise, LJ. So his father is Welsh, I suppose?’
‘Yes, as you might have guessed, I’m as English as you. Such a shame that David barely knew his father. Robin, my husband, died in a riding accident when David was twelve, you
see.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ murmured Greta.
‘So was I, my dear, but the one thing you learn, living on an estate such as this is that death is as much a part of life as life itself.’
Greta took another small sip of her gin. ‘You said this morning you used to live in the big house?’
‘We did. David was born there. When the house was taken over as a nursing home during the war I moved out to the Gate Lodge. I decided it suited me much better and never moved back,
especially since—’ LJ stopped suddenly. ‘My husband’s elder brother lives there now.’
‘I see. It looks like a beautiful place,’ ventured Greta, sensing LJ’s tension.
‘I suppose so. Huge though, and the maintenance bills are a nightmare. Cost a fortune to have electricity put in. Mind you, with ten large bedrooms, it served well as a nursing home. It
held twenty officers and a team of eight nurses at one time. Rather came into its own, I think.’
‘So, do you help run the Marchmont estate?’ asked Greta.
‘No, not any more. After my husband died, yes, I did. I looked after the upkeep of the place, which I can tell you is a full-time job. Owen, Robin’s brother, was in Kenya but
returned home when war broke out and naturally he took over the running of things. The farm produced milk and meat for the Ministry of Agriculture and it meant that we here were self-sufficient.
Rationing hardly touched us. It was all hands to the pump then, I can tell you. I worked on the farm from dawn until dusk. Then, when the house was requisitioned as a nursing home, I worked
alongside the medical staff. I know I should be relieved the war is over, but I rather enjoyed all the activity. Feels a bit like I’ve been put out to pasture now,’ she said with a
sigh.
‘But you still help on the farm?’
‘For the present, yes. Some of the young men from around here are yet to return, so the farm manager’s always short-handed. I’m roped in to help milk the cows or hunt for lost
sheep when necessary. It’s quite a big operation, you know. Nowadays, one has to make one’s land pay its way. The milk and meat we produce earn sufficient income to keep the estate
going. Now, that’s enough about me. Tell me about you.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell, really. I used to work with Taff— David, at the theatre and we became friends.’
‘You were one of the Windmill Girls, then?’
Greta blushed and nodded. ‘Yes, but only for a few months.’
‘No need to be embarrassed, dear girl. Women have to earn their living somehow and, until the world wakes up and sees the inner steel of us females, one has to get by any way one can. Take
me, for example. The very model of an upper-class Englishwoman. Even had an “honourable” before my name. Being a girl, I had to stay at home and learn cross-stitch while my brothers
– who in my opinion did not have a decent brain between them – were educated at Eton and Oxford. One’s a drunk and managed to squander the family pile in a matter of years, and
the other got himself shot whilst hunting in Africa.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. He deserved it,’ LJ said brusquely. ‘I’ve spent the past thirty years at Marchmont working in some capacity or another and it’s been the happiest
time of my life. Anyway, we seem to have got back to me again. My fault. I digress all the time. One of my bad habits, I’m afraid. We were talking about you. I don’t wish to seem rude,
but just what is your relationship with David?’ LJ’s aquiline nose almost quivered with
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