Lizzie Marshall's Wedding (4 page)

‘Hmm! I seem to remember that you learnt early on that there are certain skills you
do
have; like making money and getting girls to fall in love with you. I believe that had more to do with you abandoning the tool-shed than any doubt in your own abilities.’

‘I believe I simply found better uses for my hands.’ He sprawled on the sumptuous sofa, still grinning.

‘And look where that finally got you. Would you like some tea?’

‘I’d love some.’ He watched his mother head towards the kitchen. He would have offered to make the tea but he knew she wouldn’t let him. She liked to maintain her independence.

She stopped in the doorway and half turned back to face him. ‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to say for some time, I prefer your hair like that, not slicked back as it was when you were at the bank. You’ve made a few changes since then.’

‘All for the better I hope.’

Margaret ambled into the kitchen, filled the kettle then switched it on. ‘Speaking of Lizzie, have you heard from her recently?’

Max shifted uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t know we were speaking of Lizzie. I thought we were speaking about a money-pit in some East Sussex back-wood.’

‘Beckleston village is not a back-wood, I can assure you darling, and the Hall, I think you’ll find, rather than being a money-pit may well turn into a money-spinner. Your father said I could always spot a sure thing.’

Max couldn’t argue with that. He’d heard his parents’ rags to riches story enough times to know it by heart. His mother had been the financial genius and his father was smart enough to know it, and follow her lead.

Margaret Bedford had persuaded her husband to invest his meagre earnings, first, in stock and later in property and they’d made a killing from both, often when others were losing money hand over fist.

Royston Bedford often told his son, it was his mother’s brains that had got the family where they were and it was his mother’s brains that Max should consider his best inheritance. The fact that Royston had worked on all the properties himself and turned crumbling wrecks into little palaces enabling them to sell for many times the price the Bedfords had paid, Royston himself, considered of little importance.

Margaret returned with a tea tray, full, as usual of cakes she’d baked, and bearing the teapot she had used for afternoon tea, for as long as Max could remember.

‘Well, have you?’

‘Have I what, mother dearest? And when are we to venture on this expedition to the back-woods?’

‘Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me, my boy. And don’t think you can avoid the question by changing the subject. Have you heard from Lizzie recently?’

‘Funnily enough, I have. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, my dear ex-wife has told you the good news too.’ He took the cup of tea she held out to him and grabbed a chocolate éclair from the tray.

‘Use a plate, Max.’

He grinned, taking the plate she handed him and bit into the éclair. ‘Delicious as always, mother.’

‘Thank you dear. So ... is it ... good news?’ Margaret put her cup to her lips and waited, eyeing her son over the rim.

‘Yeah, I think so. It is as far as Lizzie’s concerned, and Jack’s a really nice, if somewhat too easy-going for my liking, kind of guy. I think they’ll be happy together. I hope so. She deserves to be happy.’

‘And you? Don’t you deserve to be happy too?’ She sipped her tea.

‘I’m very happy. This chocolate éclair is so good I may have to have another.’ He winked and grinned at her.

‘I’m serious Max.’

‘I know you are. Don’t worry about me. I’ll admit it’s taken me a while, but I’m over it – and I’m over her. I have no one to blame but myself, anyway.’

‘That doesn’t make it any easier darling. I didn’t think Lizzie would be getting married again so soon after your divorce. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t your fault, because we both know it was, but I hate seeing you unhappy.’

‘I’m not. Honestly. I’m really not.’

‘So, which woman are you currently
not
being unhappy with? Or is that plural?’

Max smirked. ‘Okay, so I see a lot of women. I tried the marriage gig and it didn’t work. I’m in no hurry to try it again. And, we’ve been divorced for two years now, mum, so Lizzie’s hardly rushing things.’

‘I still can’t believe how that all came about. Fate really does play the strangest games.’

‘I don’t believe in fate. That implies we don’t have free will. I think we make our own choices and hope it turns out for the best. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.’

‘Well, that’s as may be but you’re not getting any younger Max. Don’t you think thirty-seven is a little old to be playing the field? I’d like to have a house full of grandchildren in the not too distance future.’

Max shot her a look of horror but his smile belied his expression. ‘Good God mother. I sincerely hope you’re not referring to your, soon-to-be, country pile. That place must have at least twenty bedrooms by the looks of it. It’d take me years to fill that with my off-spring – if I didn’t die from exhaustion first.’

Margaret beamed at him. ‘Twenty-five, to be precise. You’d better get busy, son.’

‘You’d better find me a wife with good child bearing hips then, mother.’

‘You’re more than capable of finding your own wife Max, and from the amount of women who seem to fall for your, I’ll admit, abundant charms, you’re not lacking in choice.’

Max leant back against the cushions. ‘Finding them’s the easy part. Wanting to keep them seems to be the bit I have trouble with.’

‘That’s because you haven’t met the right one yet. I confess, I did think Lizzie was the one, but even she couldn’t keep your eye from wandering. I don’t know where you get that from. Neither your father or I so much as looked at another person – well, not in that way at least.’

‘That’s because you were perfect for one another – and you were lucky.’ Max sat up and helped himself to another chocolate éclair. ‘And why would dad want anyone else, when you make such delicious cakes?’ He winked.

‘I’ll admit, it was very lucky your father and I met when we did, and believe me, you don’t know quite, how lucky. But that’s what I’m saying. It was fate. The perfect man came along at the perfect time. The perfect young woman is just waiting for you Max – in Beckleston, perhaps.’

‘Yeah right. Can you really see me being interested in a country bumpkin from an East Sussex back-wood? I don’t think I’ll find any Cinderella’s living there mum.’

‘You might be surprised.’

Margaret Bedford was sitting at her desk in the window of the Morning Room in Beckleston Hall, writing yet another list, when she spotted Max walking up the long drive. Something about his demeanour had changed since they had arrived in Beckleston just two days ago and as she watched him saunter towards the house, she wondered what had caused it.

Max had made no bones about the fact that, in his opinion, the purchase of Beckleston Hall was a mistake and had repeatedly found obstacles which should, he had said, make her change her mind, but she had stood firm and, ultimately, seeing that he couldn’t dissuade her, Max had done everything in his power to make the purchase go smoothly. And Max had considerable power and, it seemed, a great many contacts.

Royston, Max’s father had been the same, she remembered, watching her son, but in a slightly different way. He’d had an outward, physical strength and rugged determination and did things himself to overcome obstacles and achieve his goals.

Max was physically strong too, and determined, but there was something in the way he held himself; in the way he spoke to people and interacted with them. He didn’t need to do things for himself; others were only too willing to do them for him. And, over the last few weeks, a great many people had done a great many things, for him.

Obstacles over planning questions had been overcome. Issues with the Title deeds had been quickly sorted out. Workmen had been found at short notice. A wildlife shelter had even been found to look after the ducks whilst the pond was being drained and repaired and all, it seemed, without Max lifting a finger or experiencing a moment’s concern.

Several times though, he had asked whether she wanted to go ahead, hoping she had changed her mind. But she and Beckleston Hall had history and, although she wondered whether she should share her past with her son, she wasn’t sure he’d understand. He had loved his father deeply and might feel that her wanting to return to the Hall was, in some way, a betrayal, so she’d decided to retain her secret. But she was determined to have it and this, Max did understand. He too had come to expect that, if he wanted something, he would get it and the only time that he hadn’t, was when Lizzie had left him – and refused to go back.

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ Margaret said as Max entered the Morning Room from the terrace, via one of the French windows.

He bent down and planted a playful kiss on her immaculately coiffed, silver waves. ‘Am I? What are you doing in the Morning Room, mother, it’s almost three in the afternoon?’ He grinned and sat down on a chair next to her writing desk.

‘Very droll, dear. Yes you are. Did you find anything of interest in the village?’

‘As a matter of fact, I did. Tell me, why is this called the Morning Room but there isn’t an Afternoon Room or an Evening Room? And why is the Drawing Room called that?’

Margaret peered at him over the rim of her glasses. ‘The Drawing Room is where the ladies used to “withdraw” to whilst the men smoked their cigars after dinner but as to the rest, I have no idea. What did you find in the village?’

‘I’ll have to find some local toff and ask them.’ He leant back in the chair and put his feet up on her desk. ‘Is a parlour, like the one in gran’s old house, called a parlour from the French parler, because people used it to talk in – or gossip about the neighbours, in gran’s case?’

Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘Probably. Don’t put your feet on my desk Max. The soles of your shoes are muddy.’

He put his feet back on the floor. ‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t think there are any local toffs left around here to ask. Why the sudden interest in the names of rooms anyway?’

‘Pity. I suppose, because you have so many rooms called different things. As incoming would-be gentry, I feel I need to find out. Shall I ring for whatshername to get us some tea?’

Margaret put down her pen and twisted in her seat to face him. ‘Shall you what? Would-be gentry. What on earth are you talking about Max?’

He grinned. ‘Nothing mum. Don’t mind me.’ He got to his feet. ‘Would you like some tea? I’ll go and put the kettle on. Remind me, is that the scullery or the kitchen, I need.’

‘What you need my boy, is a clip around the ear.’

His grin turned into a beaming smile. ‘I think I nearly got one today. In fact, I think I nearly got one, twice. Oh ... and I’ve decided I’m going to stay on for a week or so, if that’s okay with you.’ He strode across the room without waiting for an answer. ‘If I’m not back in half an hour, send someone to find me. God alone knows which room I’ll end up in.’

Margaret watched her son march into the hall, with mixed emotions. She was pleased that he wanted to stay but also slightly anxious. Max rarely took time off and whilst he had initially offered to, to help her settle in, he had seemed almost relieved when she’d told him there was really no need, since Victoria would be popping over regularly. So, why the sudden change of heart, she wondered, and what had he meant by that remark about almost getting a clip around the ear? Had someone threatened him in some way?

Even as she thought it, she dismissed it. People didn’t threaten Max. Even at school, he had never been picked on or bullied and he certainly wasn’t the type to get into fights. He could defend himself though, if the need ever arose. His father had made sure of that.

Royston Bedford had been born into the streets of London’s east end, in the days when it was wise to know how to defend yourself. His father had taught him and, although Max had been born into a very different street – there weren’t many gangsters in Esher in Surrey – Royston had taught Max.

So what had he meant? He seemed amused by it, whatever it was and whatever it was had happened twice. He wasn’t joking then, he really had found something of interest, in the village – or someone, and with Max, that could only mean one thing – a woman. She found herself hoping that it wasn’t his usual type but someone a little more like Lizzie.

CHAPTER FOUR

More than five hundred miles away, just outside of the village of Kirkendenbright Falls in the Highlands of Scotland, Lizzie Marshall stood in the kitchen of Laurellei Farm, her bed and breakfast, and, as usual, when she had something on her mind, she was baking.

‘All I’m saying is it’s weird.’ Lizzie’s best friend, Jane Hamilton passed her a mug of coffee then dropped onto the chair next to the Aga.

Alastair, Lizzie’s black Labrador, immediately sat up in his basket and rested his chin on Jane’s knee.

‘Why?’ Lizzie said using the back of her hand to push a strand of wavy brunette hair out of her eyes.

‘Why? Because Max is your ex-husband, that’s why! I know you’re still friends and I know Jack likes him – which is also really weird in my opinion, but that’s beside the point – you can’t have your wedding at your ex-husband’s house!’

Lizzie took the dough she’d been mixing, and slammed it down on the table. ‘I don’t see why not! Although, it’s not his house anyway, it’s his mum’s, and I don’t think it’s at all weird that Jack likes him; Max is a really lovely guy.’

‘And I’m sure hundreds of other women agree with you – okay – I won’t get on my “Max is a womaniser” soapbox, but come on, he was your husband and Jack’s your fiancé – it’s weird!’

‘It isn’t! Lots of ex’s get on really well together. What’s weird is why I listen to you when I know how much you dislike Max!’

After a few seconds of silence Jane said, ‘Are you going to beat that loaf to death?’ She gave her friend an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t dislike Max; okay, he’s not on my Christmas card list and I wouldn’t trust him with my sister, if I had one, which I don’t, but this isn’t about whether I like Max or not, this is about you getting married to someone you met whilst you were still, officially, married to Max. There are hundreds of places you could have your wedding. Why choose your ex mother-in-law’s house?’