Mark didn’t begin his pitch until the meal was almost over. There was port on the table and the remnants of a Northumberland cheese board. They’d decided that everything should be as local as possible. If the Wylam Brewery had made port, they’d be drinking that too. Everyone was relaxed. He stood up and threw a couple more logs on the fire. Juliet watched him from the far end of the table and thought how easily he’d slipped into the role of country gentleman. It was hard to believe that he’d been brought up in a modest semi in one of the suburbs of Newcastle, and that he’d been educated in a state comprehensive. He even looked the part in his rather shabby clothes but fine, handmade shoes. He’d always been a quick learner and had known how to research a character.
His voice was deep and musical; it had been the first thing to attract her. ‘Thanks to all our friends for turning out in this beastly weather. I’m sure you can see what a beautiful place this is, even in midwinter. We’ve decided it’s unfair to keep the house to ourselves. How can we justify all this space just for three people?’
Four, Juliet thought, if you count Dorothy. She thought it rather unfair of Mark not to have counted Dorothy, then realized she’d drunk a little too much, because Dorothy of course had a family of her own.
He was still speaking. ‘We’ve come up with the idea of a novel project that would allow the space and the beautiful landscape to be enjoyed by more people. A theatre, we thought, here in the heart of Northumberland. Opera has Glyndebourne, so why shouldn’t we have an artistic space in the North?’
‘Because up here, it rains all the bloody time!’ A shout from one of his college friends, the words slightly slurred.
‘We’re not talking outdoor performance.’ Mark smiled, but again Juliet could pick up the irritation. He wasn’t a stand-up comedian to be heckled. ‘Not necessarily, though of course with these gardens that would always be a possibility. We’re thinking an auditorium within the main house, as well as a studio space. We’d look to attract good touring companies and to support new local writing. We’re already looking into grant applications, but of course we need match funding. And that’s where you come in. This is your opportunity to invest in this project, to become sponsors and have your name or your organization involved right at the beginning.’ He paused and looked at them all. ‘You didn’t think we’d invited you here just for your company, did you?’ His grin grew wider. ‘Of course not! We need you to give us your money!’
He had them hooked. Juliet could tell that right away. Now he was moving round the table, squatting so he was level with each individual, his face at once earnest and passionate, waving his arms as he described his vision, his grand idea. Charming his guests, making them believe they were special, that they could buy into a piece of the whole thing: grand house, grand family, a piece of history: the Northumberland Reivers. Of course, he did have a vision; it was for a theatre, away from the city. But he’d been truthful when he’d said it was really their money he was after. He’d seen within his first few months in the house that it was crumbling beneath them, and, by then, he’d come to love it as much as she did.
Harriet got to her feet and waved to the room. ‘I fear I’m feeling my age. I’ll see you all in the morning.’
Juliet watched her go. Her mother still had the stamina of a marathon runner. Harriet knew they had to do something to keep the house going, but she thought this talk of money was vulgar and wanted not to be a part of it. Mark was writing names in a notebook. He seemed pleased with the response he was getting. Juliet slipped quietly out of the room and made her way to the kitchen.
Chapter Four
VERA SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE and looked at the mound of pheasant bones, which was all that was left of her meal. The baby was back in the car seat close to the Aga, awake but drowsy. Watchful. Two black Labradors were curled together in a basket. They raised their heads occasionally then went back to sleep. Vera wondered what Hector would have said about her sitting here, in the servants’ quarters, with the housekeeper and the dogs. He’d probably have been affronted and made a scene on her behalf. Vera wasn’t sure what she made of it. Perhaps she should have accepted Harriet’s dinner invitation and sat with the bright young people in the grand dining room, but then she wouldn’t have been so warm or so comfortable. She’d never much seen the point of pride for its own sake. Besides, much of the time she’d been on the phone and she wouldn’t have wanted all those people listening in. Bad enough that she’d been forced to talk in front of Dorothy.
Dorothy intrigued her. The housekeeper had a posh accent, more clipped and regal than Juliet’s. Tall with a rather long horsy face and big feet, but with a certain style and confidence. Perhaps because of that, it was hard to age her. Late thirties? No more than that despite the old-fashioned name. Vera carried her plate to the bin and threw away the bones. Dorothy was already loading the dishwasher with plates from the first course. The teenage lasses had carried
