Bramley continued: “He says he saw yesterday’s article about the auction and would like to discuss a business proposal with you.”
Petey and I exchanged brief glances. Curious, I took the call on the new phone line in the hallway. Armando said he’d been devastated to read of my financial straits and asked if I was looking for investors to help get things back on track. I was so touched, I could have cried. Then he dropped the number he was willing to invest, and I blubbed like it was the first day of boarding school.
“Actually, I do have a project you might be interested in,” I said.
The doorbell rang, and I watched Bramley shuffle through, palms pressed to the side of his head. Before long he shuffled back with something in his arms.
Ten minutes later we were all in the kitchen again.
“It looks like the riding school is on,” I said, to whoops of applause from Mum and Petey—and the sound of air being sucked through Bramley’s teeth. “Assuming we can raise enough from the art sale to keep the place, that is. Who was at the front door, Bramley?”
“Mrs Howes, from the village, my lord. She delivered a casserole.”
“A casserole?”
“It’s a kind of stew, my lord.”
“Yes, I know that. But why?”
“I think she thinks she’s helping, my lord.”
The phone and the doorbell rang constantly all morning. The phone with people offering promises of help, the door with people from Newton Bardon inexplicably bringing cakes, pies, lasagnas, and curries. The phone rang again as I was boiling the kettle for tea, but as I’d sent Bramley back to bed, I was forced to answer it myself.
“Buckford Hall!” I announced theatrically.
“Is that Lord Buckford?” a woman’s voice asked.
“’Tis I!”
“I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Zoë. FromThe Love Manor.”
“Of course!” I said, but I didn’t.
“I want in. I am in love with your brand, your message, and I want to collab.”
Zoë was apparently a travel blogger, and she had more than two million followers on TikTok and Instagram. She wanted to film a tour of Buckford—and she wanted me and Petey in it.
“My followers love to explore new places. You’ll have visitors from all over the world.”
“The house isn’t open to the public, I’m afraid.”
There was a horrified silence on the end of the phone.
“Are you absolutely insane?”
“With these genes? Highly probable. The fifth baron was a noted lunatic?—”
“You’re sitting on a gold mine. People are gonna want to see where that swoony knight in shining armour declared his love in front of the whole world. Open those gates and start charging.”
I liked the sound of that. Not least because she said I was swoony. I mean,swoony? Gosh! So I agreed to the “collab” and thanked her profusely. I was busily re-boiling the kettle and wondering whether the Old Gatekeeper’s Cottage could be turned into a ticket booth when the kitchen doorbell rang. As I’d answered my own phone so masterfully, I felt emboldened to have a go at the door. It was Andy, from the village.
“You know you’re welcome to use the front door?” I said. “It’s got a lovely big knocker.”
“Cheers, William. I prefer the tradesman’s entrance.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t like big knockers?”
Andy’s belly laugh rattled the teacups.
