Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Fucking hell.
We get up early the next day, much to the annoyance of our teenagers. Oddly, despite being a literal, legal adult, Lucy is the worst. She groans in protest. Throws a pillow at my head. I’m certain Becca and I were far more mature at her age and it’s not my memory playing tricks on me. We eat breakfast together around the oak table, and for the first time in my marriage I’m happy that we only have orange juice on offer.
Apparently, I have Josie Edmunds to thank for our following daytrip to the Ickworth Estate, which is billed as ‘An Italianate Palace in the Heart of Suffolk,’ and is the seven-hundred-and-fifty-year-old former home of the Hervey family. It’s a magnificent piece of architecture, the building and grounds alike riddled with history. We spend most of the day there, exploring the house, marvelling at the rotunda, and wandering the gardens before stopping by the tearoom for a cup of tea and a scone.
It's a good day. I enjoy myself. To my surprise, even Lucy appears glad she got out of bed. “Can you imagine being one of those servants down there under that rotunda though?” Lucy says, back at our cottage, our day out still on her mind. “Knowing those posh bastards are living the high life right above you?”
“Lucy!” Becca shrieks.
I look down, try to hide the grin that’s growing wider by the second on my face.
“It’s true. Like, I get not everyone’s equal. Poor people sweep up after the loaded, tale as old as time. But you can at least treat the people waiting on you like fellow humans. If you’ve got bigarse chandeliers, at least share your electric so they can have a bulb instead of a candle, you know?”
“They did modernise things for the servants eventually,” I interject. “Around 1910, if I remember correctly. Heating. Bathrooms. Lady Theodora Hervey, I think it was. I read it on a pamphlet.”
“Bet she didn’t invite them to get their groove on upstairs over a good buffet and some decent tunes though, did she?”
I start laughing. “No, I imagine she didn’t.”
“Oh, balls!” Becca’s sudden yell startles us all. Even Ben, who’s sitting on the other side of the open patio doors, looks up from his phone. “We didn’t get a gift for tonight.”
“A gift?”
“For the Edmunds’. We can’t go to dinner empty handed.”
“Well…” Can I? Is it really this easy? “I could call Emmett. Say we can’t make it.”
Becca looks me up and down like I’ve just suggested I take a massive shit in his wife’s rabbit stew, not politely decline an invitation. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll just nip to the shop.”
“You can’t buy them a gift from their own shop, Becs.”
“There’s more than one shop in Suffolk, Will.” She shakes her head, makes a pfft sound.
“I’m with Dad!” Ben calls into the house. “Dude sounds weird!”
“It’s just the farmer accent,” Lucy calls back.
“Bloody hell, quiet, you two,” Becca snaps. “They could be walking past or something. I think it’s a charming accent actually.” She seems to pause, purse her lips as though she’s contemplating. “Does Laurence Cole speak like that?” she asks, genuinely flooring me. His name in her mouth feels like a punch to the gut. “I’m trying to think of that movie he was in, what was it now…Black Meadow. That’s it. No, no, he was American in that, I’m sure he was.” The longer she talks, the more it seems like she’s having a conversation with herself.
“Laurence is Scottish,” is all I say.
“No.”
I nod.
“Bloody hell, he’s good, isn’t he?” I assume she means the accents, though I can attest to much more.
I nod again. “Guess so.”
“Just goes to show you never really know these people, do you. You think you do, with what you read about them and see in interviews, but…hold on…I’m sure I’ve seen him on Graham Norton’s show. He wasn’t Scottish then, was he?”
What do I even say to that? “I’m fairly sure he will have been.”
“Is Emmett not family, then? Mustn’t be, I suppose.”
Hell, Becs. Give it a rest. I’m dreading dinner. “I don’t know.” It’s an honest answer. I suspect they’re half-brothers, but I don’t know for sure, and I really don’t want to discuss it anymore.
“Well, Emmett’s not Scottish.”
I just shrug. “Do you want me to go and find a gift?” I offer, willing her to say yes. “I assume a bottle of red will do.”
“Aw, will you? It’ll give me longer to get ready.”
Thank God. I feel like I’m choking. I need to get out. I walk over to my wife, peck her cheek. “Won’t be long.”
In the car, I roll the windows all the way down, allowing the breeze to slap my cheeks. I don’t drive for long before pulling into a layby. I need a minute to remember how to breathe before I search for the nearest shop on my maps app.