Ringing sounds out from behind me and the chatter dies down. I turn around with a sigh, intending to make my way back to the kitchen before the speeches kick off, but I see that my entrance is blocked by Lady Berkeley and a man I assume must be her husband, Viscount Peter Berkeley. They’re standing at the top of the steps to the Great Hall and Philippa isknocking two champagne flutes together to command everyone’s attention.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ Lord Berkeley says loudly. He’s wearing a sharp navy suit with a white handkerchief poking out of its breast pocket. His hair is more salt than pepper, but he’s quite handsome. ‘Might I just say a few words …’
I back up into the warm sunshine and try to ignore the stinging in the balls of my feet as Lord Berkeley addresses the crowd. Could I take off my shoes for a minute while everyone is distracted? I move closer to one of the topiary columns I was trimming earlier and try to balance my tray of empty glasses on one hand as I bend down to slip off my shoes. I almost groan out loud as my bare feet sink into the grass. Christ, that’s heaven.
‘Rebecca, come here,’ Lady Berkeley calls, and I straighten up in time to see her urging one of the guests to join her on the steps.
A sleek light-blonde bun rises up out of the sea of heads, and Philippa Berkeley smiles warmly as the woman, who looks to be about my age, takes her place on her left. Her eyes are dancing and she seems amused, as though she’s trying not to lose it laughing. Despite how I feel about this crowd, I like the look of her. Is she Philippa and Peter’s daughter?
I still know very little about the family I’m working for, and don’t really care too much; I’m here for the garden, not the people.
Lord Berkeley beckons to another guest. ‘You too, son.’
‘Put a ring on it, Berkeley!’ a posh twat heckles as a man with dark blond hair climbs the steps.
‘I think we can all agree that my parents are an inspiration,’ the man replies.
Why do all these people have cut-glass English accents when they live in Wales?
‘But I’ll put a ring on it when I’m good and ready,’ he adds, and my breath catches at his playful tone, even before he’s glanced over his shoulder at the heckler in the crowd.
I catch a glimpse of his profile and stop breathing.
No. It can’t be.
‘Come on, Ashton,’ Philippa Berkeley prompts merrily, opening her other arm to bring him into the gap between her husband and herself.
My heart pounds in my ears as Ashton Berkeley turns around and faces the dozens of guests standing before him.
Holy Mother of fucking God, it’s Ash.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s like watching an earthquake play out on screen: the empty champagne glasses on my tray begin to shiver and shake so violently it’s as though the ground is moving. The glasses knock together, making a tinkling sound, and a few people in front of me turn around to look at what’s causing the commotion. And then it’s like a ripple effect, a wave of attention, which all too quickly reaches the people on the steps.
I see him glance my way briefly, and in the split second before he does a double take, I wonder if I’m mistaken, if he might be a lookalike or a long-lost twin. But then his eyes clash with mine, and his face freezes with shock.
I stare back at him, a mirror image of disbelief. His hair is shorter, not as shaggy or wild, but a few strands still fall carelessly into his eyes. He’s wearing a fitted white shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal the edges of his collarbone, and his skin is golden, his cheekbones high, his jawline sharp.
It’s Ash. It’s Ash. But how can it be? How canthatman up onthosesteps bemyAsh, my easy-going, salt-of-the-earth Ash? What’s happened to his accent, his attractive Welsh lilt? Whoisthat posh impostor?
The statue comes to life just as I back away, trembling,glasses chiming. Peter Berkeley has begun talking again and people have faced forward to listen, paying no more heed to the incompetent waitress at the back. As carefully as I can, I set the tray on the ground before I drop it. My hands have turned to jelly, but it’s my heart I fear for the most, it’s beating so hard and fast. I look back over at the steps in time to see Ash break free of his parents, the crowd surging as he pushes his way into the throng, but I don’t wait to see what happens next.
I make it to the rose garden before I hear his voice.
‘ELLIE!’ he shouts.
It almost brings me to my knees. I feel as though I’m having an out-of-body experience as I slowly turn around and see him striding towards me in a panic, his hand held up, begging me to wait.
‘Ellie,’ he says, coming to a stop a couple of metres away. ‘It’s you! It’s really you.’
‘Who are you?’ I ask in an appalled whisper, shaking my head. I can’t comprehend his upper-class accent. I’m vibrating with shock. What’s going on?
‘Ellie, it’s me. It’s Ash. Lisbon. Six years ago,’ he says desperately, misunderstanding my horrified bewilderment.
‘I know who you are,’ I reply unsteadily. ‘But I don’t knowwhoyou are. You live here? This is your home? Your name is AshtonBerkeley? Those are your parents?’
He looks tormented as he gives me a single measured nod.
