kindness that night. Goodbye.’
When Joss reached Dorchester on Sunday, she skirted it, as directed, and after a few miles turned off on a minor road which took her straight into the rolling, deeply cleft terrain familiar to fans of Thomas Hardy novels. With time to spare she drove slowly, to appreciate her surroundings, but eventually spotted a sign for Eastlegh Hall, home of Francis Legh, who, she’d discovered from research beforehand, was the ninth Baron Morville to live there. Joss turned in through a pair of beautiful gates and drove along a carriageway that wound through tree-dotted parkland for a considerable distance before approaching a rise crowned by Eastlegh Hall, which gleamed in pale, Palladian splendour in the sun.
Hugh’s friend would have very little trouble letting this beauty out for conferences, or anything else, thought Joss, impressed. She walked up a flight of shallow stone steps to the terrace, and crossed to the pillared portico, where large doors stood open, giving a view of a lofty hall with a pair of carved chests and a pedestal holding an urn overflowing with fresh flowers. She lifted the ornate knocker on one of the doors, then waited on the threshold, admiring the burnished dark wood of the graceful double staircase, and eventually a slim, well-dressed woman emerged from a door at the back of the hall and came hurrying towards her.
‘Miss Hunter? Lord Morville apologises for being held up. He suggests I show you over the house while you’re waiting. I’m Elizabeth Wilcox, the housekeeper.’
‘How do you do?’ Joss smiled warmly. ‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’
‘We’ll just take a quick tour,’ said Mrs Wilcox. ‘Lord Morville will show you the rest after lunch.’
Joss followed her guide through a series of beautiful rooms hung with paintings, a formal drawing room with pale yellow walls and gilt and damask furniture, a double-cube salon, a ballroom with a painted ceiling, and a dining room with sweeping velvet curtains, swagged and tasselled in gold, and a table long enough to seat thirty at a push. The grand staircase led to a long gallery hung with more paintings, and formal bedrooms with four-posters.
‘Few stately homes are able to offer overnight facilities of the type available at Eastlegh. We even have central heating in some parts,’ added Mrs Wilcox proudly. ‘Installed by Lord Morville’s American grandmother.’
‘It’s all very impressive, and so well kept,’ said Joss with respect.
‘Thank you. I’m lucky to have a good team.’ The housekeeper smiled, gratified, then looked at her watch. ‘Now I’ll show you how to get to the farm.’
‘Farm?’ said Joss, surprised.
The other woman smiled regretfully. ‘Lord Morville no longer lives in the house. He moved into Home Farm when his father died.’
Following the housekeeper’s directions, Joss drove past a formal knot garden and skirted a maze, then drove along a carriageway through woodland until a large house with barleystick chimneys came into view above box hedges which enclosed its gardens in privacy. Joss parked the car, then opened a tall wrought-iron gate and followed a paved path through beds filled with roses. Before she could knock on the massive oak door it was flung open by a fair, smiling man in jeans and checked shirt.
‘Lord Morville?’ Joss smiled. ‘I’m Joscelyn Hunter.’
‘Francis, please,’ he said quickly, holding out his hand, grey eyes friendly in a long, attractive face easily recognisable from some of the portraits in the Hall. ‘Sorry I wasn’t on hand when you arrived, Miss Hunter. We were sorting out a problem with the latest booking.’
Wondering if the ‘we’ meant Lady Morville was on hand, she smiled, liking him on sight. ‘I’m usually Joss.’
‘Then Joss it shall be.’ He led the way through a square, stone-flagged hall into a sitting room with panelled walls, comfortable chintz-covered furniture and a massive stone fireplace. He waved her to a chair, then crossed to a tray of drinks. ‘What can I give you?’
‘Something long, cold and non-alcoholic, please,’ said Joss, smiling, pleased that the long journey had dictated her choice of clothes. Her fawn linen trousers and plain white shirt were in perfect keeping with her casually dressed host.
‘I thought we’d have lunch first,’ he said, handing her a tall ice-filled glass. ‘Then we can go back to the house and you can ask what questions you like. Or you can ask some now.’
‘I was surprised to find you don’t actually live at Eastlegh,’ said Joss. ‘Did you find it strange, moving to a much smaller house?’
‘Not in the least.’ He grinned. ‘When I was young I was never allowed in the state rooms anyway, and the bedrooms here are a damn sight more comfortable than my old room over at the house.’
He looked up as a young woman came into the room. ‘Ah, Sarah, this is Miss Hunter from the Daily Post.’
Sarah was composed and dark-haired, and oddly familiar, with a swift, charming smile. ‘Hello. I’m Sarah Wilcox.’
Not Lady Morville, then. Joss smiled and took the proffered hand. ‘Hello. I assume I’ve just met your mother.’
‘Yes. She loves showing Eastlegh off to visitors.’
‘Between them the Wilcox family run my life,’ said Francis. ‘Elizabeth is housekeeper, as you already know. Her husband Alan acts as butler when necessary, and helps me run the estate, and their frighteningly well-qualified daughter here is my House Manager and executive right hand.’ He turned to Sarah with a coaxing smile. ‘Change your mind. Have lunch with us.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said regretfully, ‘but I promised to share the family roast for once. I’ve heated Mrs Wyatt’s soup for you. The vegetable flan is in the warming oven, and the rest is just salad, cold beef and cheese.’
‘What would I do without you, Sarah?’ he said warmly.
She smiled at him serenely, and turned to Joss. ‘Francis will give you my extension number, so if you need any further information just ring me and I’ll provide it.’
‘A lot better than I can,’ said Francis wryly.
Joss thanked her, then watched thoughtfully as Francis escorted his attractive right hand from the room. Sarah Wilcox might not be Lady Morville, but it was plain to the onlooker, if not to His Lordship, that she would like to be.
When Francis got back he topped up Joss’s glass and told her Mrs Wyatt was the lady who looked after him during the week. ‘I fend for myself on weekends, but when Sarah heard you were coming for lunch she insisted on organising it. Very efficient lady, young Sarah.’
‘A very attractive one, too,’ said Joss.
Francis looked blank. ‘Sarah? Yes,’ he said, surprised. ‘I suppose she is.’
‘Is this actually a working farm?’ asked Joss.
‘Not any more. I won’t bore you with politics, but we gave up farming a few years ago as no longer feasible. But we do a roaring trade in shrubs and bedding plants, and every type of herb imaginable—and people come from miles around to buy Sam’s organic vegetables.’
‘Who’s Sam?’
‘Used
