way. The unofficial Lady of the small Yorkshire village was a veritable force of nature, and even the strongest characters in the community cowered under her steely gaze. When Downton Abbey had first aired, many villagers, eyes glued to their screens over their latest knitting projects and cups of tea, immediately saw the similarities and soon, unbeknown to her of course, Agatha was nicknamed the Dowager of Westfield. It was unbeknown to her for obvious reasons: she would kill them if she ever found out. It was so obvious to all who knew her though that the name stuck, and even the meekest of the townsfolk had a good titter at the comparison. Agatha had a sharp mind, a mean tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, and had Mr Mayweather not since passed away, he would have guffawed at the notion himself. Agatha and her dear late husband, Henry, were great presences in the community, and since his passing from a long battle with cancer, Agatha had seemed to have coped admirably well, throwing herself even deeper into village life and the many committees and causes she was patron of and involved in.
Their property was on the outskirts of the town, a beautiful, sprawling nine-bedroom Georgian country house that many a Mayweather had resided in over the years. Her gardens were a joy to behold, and she regularly opened them, and indeed her home, to the general public for the summer, donating the proceeds, after the running costs, to various causes in Westfield. As well as this, she also organised most of the events in the village seemingly single-handed (as she often wouldn’t let people get much of a look-in). One such event was the summer county fair, held in the village of Westfield annually and a great kick-off to their summer months as a quiet, understated but beautiful tourist attraction. With the lambing season beginning, all talk was of the hard work to be done, both on the village farms and for the big event. Agatha’s clipboard was poised, primed and ready to go already and the villagers were all steeling themselves for her firm knock at the doors of their homes and businesses.
As acerbic as Agatha’s tongue was, she was dearly loved in the community and had no enemies amongst her kinfolk. She was the type of woman that you were friends with, immediately respected, admired and also, in secret, were a little afraid of.
Agatha’s morning began the same as every morning, with Taylor, her estate manager, gently rousing her with a cup of English breakfast tea. Sebastian Taylor’s family had worked as butlers for the Mayweather family for generations. As soon as the current Mrs Mayweather had become the lady of the household, she had done away with many of the old traditions and promoted Taylor, who was in fact her childhood friend from the village, and quite often her playground tormentor, to estate manager. Taylor, being a traditional fellow, was more than a little surprised to gain this new title at the age of forty-five, and a battle of wills had ensued. Agatha had won, of course, much to the amusement of her new husband at the time, but Taylor had managed to get his own way in upholding some traditions, such as bringing them their morning refreshments. These days, however, Agatha was secretly grateful for this small act of kindness every morning.
Losing Henry the year before, after twenty years of blissful marriage, had knocked the wind out of her sails more than she would ever own up to, and quite often, waking alone in the ornate four-poster bed, she was more than happy to see a friendly face as she awoke to seize the day.
‘Thank you, Taylor.’ She smiled as she took the ornate cup and saucer, embellished with tea roses, from the tray that he proffered.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, I trust you slept well?’
Agatha rolled her dark blue eyes at her manager. ‘Taylor, really? After all these years, you can’t just call me Agatha?’
Taylor chuckled, ignoring the daily request. ‘We have the summer fair to begin planning today, and the council meeting at 3 p.m., to discuss the permits for the beer tents and the marquees. Shall I be driving you?’
Agatha sipped her tea, her eyes closing momentarily as the sweet nectar travelled down her throat, warming her bones and waking her up.
‘Yes, please, Taylor, and I have an eleven o’clock in the village for the children.’
Taylor suppressed a smile. ‘Of course. I shall get them ready.’
Taylor left the room, and Agatha heard his soft footfalls as he descended the large central staircase. She hauled herself out of bed and padded to the ornate dressing table in her slippers, obviously left there the night before by Taylor. She tutted at his stubborn archaic ways and began to put her face on. Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photo next to her jewellery box. Henry smiled out at her, giggling at something she had said as they stood arm in arm, fresh faces, happy smiles, all decked out in their finery on their wedding day. She smiled and stroked her husband’s face through the glass.
‘Good morning, Old Boot,’ she whispered, using her nickname for him. ‘Busy day today, my sweet.’ She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to the glass. When she had finished applying her make-up, she wandered off to the bathroom to get ready to face the day.
‘Err, gerrof!’ Taylor laughed as Buster licked at his head, sticking his wet tongue down his ear canal. Maisie, excited by Taylor’s reaction, jumped up at his crouched form and knocked him to the floor. Taylor closed his eyes and tried to cover his face as both dogs continued their slobbery assault on him. He tried to get up, and just got licked all the more. ‘Guys, come on now, stop it n—mmmffff!’
Buster took Taylor’s open, speaking mouth as an invitation for a kiss and Taylor found his tongue being massaged by that of a huge, rather smelly dog’s tongue in return. Horrified, he shut his mouth and began reaching frantically into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. Just then, a bellow rang out and both dogs stopped, startled, and sat down, contrite at either side of a very wet and dishevelled Taylor.
‘Children, stop that immediately!’ Agatha was standing on the bottom step of the staircase, looking resplendent in a fitted peach skirt suit, pearly white blouse peeking from beneath, and matching cream cloche, her silvery white curls peeking out from beneath the fabric brim. Her dark blue eyes were shining with anger, and her taut gait made the dogs look to the floor. Taylor chuckled under his breath. Not every day two huge grey Irish wolfhounds looked like scolded children, which of course they were. Agatha, having never been able to have children, had always filled that maternal hole with the biggest, hairiest rescue hounds she could find, and Maisie and Buster definitely took the dog biscuit for being the craziest mutts she had ever given a home to. Agatha called them her children, and treated them as such, and both dogs adored her as much as she did them, although when Henry was alive, he had had to put his foot down and ban them from the bed, which, surprisingly, Agatha hated. She loved to cuddle up with them, but, even now, she honoured her late husband’s wish and they slept in two huge plush baskets in the hall of the house, or laid out like two overgrown rugs in front of the ever-present fire in the drawing room. Brandishing the two thick leather leads Taylor hadn’t noticed on the crook of her arm, Agatha smiled.
‘When you have quite finished, Taylor, let’s get into the car. Many, many things to do today, people to see …’
She wandered to the front door, grabbing her cream leather bag from the hall dresser on her way past, dogs in tow, tails wagging excitedly. Taylor groaned good-naturedly, pulling himself to his feet. His suit now looked like a dog blanket. Lucky he kept a lint roller in his glove compartment, he thought to himself, as he wiped the dog drool from his chin. After locking up the huge front doors, he wandered over to the car, whistling as he walked. Agatha eyed him from the back seat as he got comfortable, and he flashed her a cheeky wink. Colouring, she huffed and returned her attention to the dogs. Taylor held back a grin as they pulled away to the village.
A short drive later, they pulled up at the small parade of shops on Baker Street. Agatha had always loved this little slice of history—the large, ornate mouldings on the shopfronts, the quirky businesses they contained, it was always a favourite place of hers. She remembered running
