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Authors: Pippa Wright
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a curtsey.
The duke appeared next to her and shook my hand too, with hearty bonhomie rather than condescension. Now that they were closer, I could see that both of them were older than I had first thought;
the candlelight had flattered them both into seeming much younger. He was probably in his early fifties, with a slightly receding hairline and a florid complexion set off with a mustard-coloured
cravat. His tweed jacket could have belonged to his father’s father and, judging by the frayed leather patches on the elbows, probably had. His red trousers were spattered with mud and what
looked like a dog’s pawprint.
The duchess seemed to have stepped out of an entirely different story; her accent may have lost any American inflection, but her appearance loudly announced her origins. She could have been any
age from thirty-five to sixty, as she had that slightly immobile face that spoke not of youth but of cosmetic assistance. Her blonde hair was highlighted and blow-dried and not one strand dared to
wave out of place. Her manicure was immaculate. Although I had to admire her dedication to her appearance out here in the wilds of Derbyshire, I unkindly wondered if she knew that such grooming
instantly excluded her from full membership of the aristocracy, despite her title. She would have to get a bit of dirt under her nails to truly belong here; to buy some of her clothes from
agricultural shows, like the Duchess of Devonshire, instead of from Net a Porter. As someone who did not fit into this world myself, an observer rather than an insider, I was finely attuned to
others who had got it a little bit wrong, and I felt an instant sympathy for her that even her condescending ways could not extinguish. The duchess’s shrewd eyes picked up on this
immediately, one outsider recognizing another, and her welcoming smile froze into a rictus of distaste; clearly she preferred her guests to be awed rather than sympathetic.
Lance’s not fitting in, however, did not count. He was not trying to blend in; nor to suggest that he belonged here in any way. He was a thrilled and awed tourist and his enthusiasm was
contagious. While the duke and duchess stood stiffly like paper cut-outs from a book, Lance whisked me through the hall.
‘Now you spoke to Martha, right? I loooooove Martha, she is entirely amazing. Devastated not to meet her. The piece you’re doing is romance, romance, romance, right? And what better
day to do it than Valentine’s Day?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I said, glad to have been forewarned. The duke and duchess had restored the house, which had been allowed to fall into disrepair by his disreputable father, at
vast expense. Now they had to pay for it and they planned to do that by offering Seaton Hall as a venue for weddings and other large events.
‘So I thought we’d start off with the chapel – which I have done out in some darling little lights – and then some pictures in the walkway, which we’ll need to have
finished before the light begins to go, and we’ll finish off with more shots and an interview with Sacheverell and Bibi in the hall. Right?’
Just as he was whisking me out of the door at the far end of the hall, the duke cleared his throat.
‘I say, Miss Carmichael, we haven’t even offered you a cup of tea. Shall I ask the kitchen to send one up?’ he called, his voice ringing in the empty room.
Lance sighed dramatically and exchanged a look with the duchess. ‘Darling, there is no time for tea,’ the duchess said, supposedly to her husband, but with a warning look in my
direction that left me in no doubt I should not even think of saying yes. It seemed clear to me that I was a means to an end to her; she wasn’t about to waste time offering me refreshments
when there was work to be done.
‘Oh no, thank you, I’m fine,’ I said quickly, and the duchess offered me a tight smile before leading the duke away up the stairs. ‘I love the curtains!’ I called,
far too
The duke appeared next to her and shook my hand too, with hearty bonhomie rather than condescension. Now that they were closer, I could see that both of them were older than I had first thought;
the candlelight had flattered them both into seeming much younger. He was probably in his early fifties, with a slightly receding hairline and a florid complexion set off with a mustard-coloured
cravat. His tweed jacket could have belonged to his father’s father and, judging by the frayed leather patches on the elbows, probably had. His red trousers were spattered with mud and what
looked like a dog’s pawprint.
The duchess seemed to have stepped out of an entirely different story; her accent may have lost any American inflection, but her appearance loudly announced her origins. She could have been any
age from thirty-five to sixty, as she had that slightly immobile face that spoke not of youth but of cosmetic assistance. Her blonde hair was highlighted and blow-dried and not one strand dared to
wave out of place. Her manicure was immaculate. Although I had to admire her dedication to her appearance out here in the wilds of Derbyshire, I unkindly wondered if she knew that such grooming
instantly excluded her from full membership of the aristocracy, despite her title. She would have to get a bit of dirt under her nails to truly belong here; to buy some of her clothes from
agricultural shows, like the Duchess of Devonshire, instead of from Net a Porter. As someone who did not fit into this world myself, an observer rather than an insider, I was finely attuned to
others who had got it a little bit wrong, and I felt an instant sympathy for her that even her condescending ways could not extinguish. The duchess’s shrewd eyes picked up on this
immediately, one outsider recognizing another, and her welcoming smile froze into a rictus of distaste; clearly she preferred her guests to be awed rather than sympathetic.
Lance’s not fitting in, however, did not count. He was not trying to blend in; nor to suggest that he belonged here in any way. He was a thrilled and awed tourist and his enthusiasm was
contagious. While the duke and duchess stood stiffly like paper cut-outs from a book, Lance whisked me through the hall.
‘Now you spoke to Martha, right? I loooooove Martha, she is entirely amazing. Devastated not to meet her. The piece you’re doing is romance, romance, romance, right? And what better
day to do it than Valentine’s Day?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I said, glad to have been forewarned. The duke and duchess had restored the house, which had been allowed to fall into disrepair by his disreputable father, at
vast expense. Now they had to pay for it and they planned to do that by offering Seaton Hall as a venue for weddings and other large events.
‘So I thought we’d start off with the chapel – which I have done out in some darling little lights – and then some pictures in the walkway, which we’ll need to have
finished before the light begins to go, and we’ll finish off with more shots and an interview with Sacheverell and Bibi in the hall. Right?’
Just as he was whisking me out of the door at the far end of the hall, the duke cleared his throat.
‘I say, Miss Carmichael, we haven’t even offered you a cup of tea. Shall I ask the kitchen to send one up?’ he called, his voice ringing in the empty room.
Lance sighed dramatically and exchanged a look with the duchess. ‘Darling, there is no time for tea,’ the duchess said, supposedly to her husband, but with a warning look in my
direction that left me in no doubt I should not even think of saying yes. It seemed clear to me that I was a means to an end to her; she wasn’t about to waste time offering me refreshments
when there was work to be done.
‘Oh no, thank you, I’m fine,’ I said quickly, and the duchess offered me a tight smile before leading the duke away up the stairs. ‘I love the curtains!’ I called,
far too
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