Lord and Master (30 page)

‘…we have a right to make ourselves heard,' Helen was shouting in the hallway outside the state dining room. The board meeting was due to start in five minutes, and the Marchioness's two daughters had chosen this moment to stage a protest.

Helen was dressed in business attire, a jacket, matching skirt and ruffled blouse, while Isabelle had opted for a silvery wrap dress. Both were holding papers – Luna could see that Helen had a copy of the agenda for today's meeting, and it didn't take too much guesswork to know who would have given her that.

Luna swiftly moved to shut the dining room's heavy oak doors, praying they would stop the noise from travelling to where the board members sat, waiting on the arrival of the Marquess and Marchioness.

The Marchioness placed a placating hand on Helen's shoulder. ‘Girls, we've been through this with you.'

‘Your mother and I are going to make things right for you two,' the Marquess added.

Helen shrugged her mother's arm away furiously. ‘You're just trying to shut us up.' She jabbed a finger in the direction of the door Luna had just closed. ‘They deserve to know the reality of what Stefan is planning. How he's going to change Arborage from a country estate with real links to its heritage into…a theme park.' She practically spat these last two words.

‘Yes,' Isabelle chimed in, eyes brimming with tears. ‘You
say
you're going to make things right for us, Daddy, but how can you possibly compensate us for the loss of our livelihoods? My shop means
everything
to me…'

‘You cannot do this now,' the Marchioness said firmly. ‘It isn't the time or place.'

‘If not now, when?' Helen shouted. ‘When you turf me out of my own stables?!'

‘They are not
yours
,' the Marquess said quietly. ‘That is what you misunderstand, Helen.'

At that moment, Florian appeared in the hallway and everyone stopped talking for a moment. Helen looked towards him expectantly, but if she thought he was going to back her up she was in for disappointment. Her uncle simply glided past them towards the dining room, refusing to meet his niece's eyes. As the door shut behind him, she began to flounder.

‘We…we have a right to be heard,' she repeated limply. But the fight had clearly gone out of her. Sören stepped in at this point and put his arms around her and Isabelle.

‘Cousins, please come and talk with me. Your mother is right that this meeting isn't the place for you to air your concerns, but that doesn't mean you have been forgotten.' He squeezed Helen's shoulder. ‘Please.'

The sisters allowed Sören to lead them away and the Marchioness sagged against her husband, who laughed quietly and said, ‘Nothing like a little family drama to start the day, eh, my dear?'

At a few minutes after 10am, the Marchioness rose from her chair in the dining room and cleared her throat. The assembled board members stopped chatting and gave her their full attention.

‘Our first order of business today is one which has been more than two years in the making: the culmination of Project Mercury.' Lady Wellstone paused and looked around the table. ‘This is probably the last time we will meet in this room. This time next year, as a result of Project Mercury, Arborage will not close to tourists for the two weeks leading up to Christmas – or indeed for any private events in future – so the public rooms will be unavailable to us.' She clasped her hands together and continued, ‘The time has come for Arborage to fully move into the twenty-first century.'

The Marchioness turned to look at her husband and added, ‘John and I have always said that we are but custodians here. We have been fortunate, so fortunate, in the support we have had from all of you, without which none of the changes we are proposing would be possible…'

Project Mercury. Suddenly things were clearer to Luna. The inception of Project Mercury predated her arrival at Arborage; oh she'd heard about it at board meetings, but always in passing, a cryptic footnote at the end of the meeting. It had sounded so innocuous that she'd never thought to question the Marchioness about it, assuming that it was just another restoration effort, or an archive scheme – there were so many of them, it was hard to keep track.

Now she saw, as Lady Wellstone gave a potted history of Project Mercury, that Stefan and his company had been involved at a much earlier stage than she'd realised. It was Stefan who had suggested getting rid of the old accountancy firm which had managed Arborage's books for thirty years. And it was Stefan who had worked with the new firm to lead the forensic P&L investigation that preceded his meetings at Arborage that autumn.

Florian, too, seemed taken aback by the level of involvement by the Swedish branch of his family. Luna could see the back of his ginger head turning towards his brother at each new revelation of just how long Stefan Lundgren had been quietly working to change the status quo at Arborage. The head remained still, however, as the Marchioness briefly related the details of Paul Walker's sacking the previous day.

‘In my mind, as regrettable as this situation was, it points to the invaluable service Stefan has performed for us. Two years ago we simply didn't have reliable information to confirm this kind of malfeasance by a manager. It's a credit to Stefan and to everyone around this table that we now do.'

By the time Sören finally joined the meeting an hour after it started, giving a brief reassuring nod to the Marchioness, the board was ready for its vote on whether to proceed with the next phase of Project Mercury. The motion passed by a vote of twelve to zero.

*

With the board meeting out of the way, the final wind-down for Christmas began in earnest. The only major commitment left for the Marchioness was the Arborage children's Christmas party, a much-loved annual event in the staff calendar.

Luna was standing with Caitlin in the music room, which had been lushly decorated for the occasion with poinsettias and greenery. There were around fifty children in attendance, among them Nigel's two young boys, Marta's four grandchildren and Helen's daughters. The Marchioness was sitting on a settee near the French doors overlooking the snowy front portico, talking to her husband and Stefan as a magician performed tricks for his assembled audience.

‘Can you feel it?' Caitlin asked, surreptitiously tipping a flask into Luna's glass of punch.

‘What?'

‘The sugar rush, about to hit the little beggars.'

Luna snorted and sipped her drink. ‘Whew!' She waved her hand in front of her face. ‘What's in that flask?'

Caitlin nodded towards Lord Wellstone and observed a little sadly, ‘Himself looks tired.' And she was right; he did look pale, though he was making his usual effort to be the charming host. At that moment the magician finished his final trick, producing a baby rabbit out of thin air for a delighted Tilly, and the audience began to break up. Luna saw the Marchioness put her hand on her husband's knee and whisper in his ear, then look up at Stefan, who subtly held out an arm to his cousin, helping him to stand.

As Stefan and the Marchioness slowly accompanied the Marquess from the room, Luna was pained to see the look of shock on the faces of many estate staff; she forgot, working as closely with the family as she did, that not everyone knew just how sick he was.

And then her thoughts turned to matters at hand. She really, really didn't want Stefan seeing what was about to come next, so now seemed like the perfect time to catch Roland's eye and take one last swig of her punch.

In response, Roland clapped his hands and announced, ‘Miss Gregory and I need some volunteers for the next portion of today's festivities!' proceeding to divide the entire room into calling birds, ladies dancing, gold rings, etcetera. Luna sat down at the grand piano, a red velvet Santa hat perched atop her head, and began to play the introduction.

Roland and Luna were just finishing their fourth and final song for the afternoon, ‘White Christmas', when Luna looked up from the keyboard to see Caitlin and Nigel standing together with tears in their eyes. A few other members of staff were looking misty too. It seemed like the end of an era, and when Roland took her hand and raised it to his lips, Luna instantly regretted every peevish thought she'd had about him during their many practice sessions over the past few weeks.

Marta appeared then with a beautifully decorated Yule log, upon which the children fell like ravenous wolves. The adults in the room began applauding, and the moment of sadness passed. Luna heard a piercing whistle and looked to see Stefan holding two fingers to his mouth. She blushed then, the girl who never blushed, and shook her head slightly at him. Ever the gracious hostess, the Marchioness came straight over to grasp Roland's hands, exclaiming, ‘That was absolutely lovely!' Whereupon Tilly tugged her grandmother's sleeve and asked if she and some of the other children could go play in the snow.

‘I don't see why not,' Lady Wellstone declared pleasantly, prompting a veritable stampede towards the cloakroom. Most of the adults stayed put, watching as first a few and then a hoard of children streamed out onto the lawn and snow began to fly.

Luna was just taking a photo of Roland wearing her Santa's hat, and some of his tour guides gathered around the piano, observing, ‘Now
that
is this year's Christmas card!' when Stefan approached from behind her, placing his arm around her waist. She stiffened involuntarily – it was one thing for everyone to know that they were an item, quite another to visibly demonstrate it.

‘I had no idea you were so talented,' he said intently, keeping his hand where it was.

‘Oh, shut up,' she said, embarrassed by both his words and his proximity.

‘Will you come play in the snow with me?' he enquired winningly, eyes dancing. He really was very hard to resist, in his black jumper with his hair looking uncharacteristically, and sexily, messy. Luna nodded silently.

And then he did it. Stefan Lundgren tightened his arm around her and swiftly, before she even knew what was happening, lowered his mouth to hers. For a brief second Luna's body did the talking, responding as it always did to his. Then she pulled away, giving him a goggle-eyed,
not here
look. To which he smiled wickedly.

She looked around and thought at first they might have gotten away with it. But then she saw Caitlin lifting a glass in her direction, surreptitiously winking at her. And…the Marchioness, standing near the French doors, staring at the two of them. Not smiling. Luna's heart sank, but then she realised that Lady Wellstone's stare was directed solely at Stefan, who was giving her look for look. He pulled Luna closer to him and nodded to the Marchioness, then began leading Luna from the room.

‘What—?' Luna began, but Stefan was pulling her so insistently she could only trail along behind him. And then they were out into the main hallway, standing under the scaffolding, and he was kissing her till she was breathless. And everything, the party, her colleagues, the Marchioness, all was forgotten, burned away by the heat between them.

‘Come in here, Luna,' came the voice from the Marchioness's office.

It was three weeks into the new year and much had changed. The Marquess had had his surgery and was still in the intensive care unit at the Royal Marsden. Stefan was in Germany, where he'd been since just after the holidays. He'd told her he would be there for most of the month, that it would be a busy time and she shouldn't expect to hear much from him. He'd been as good as his word: she'd heard nothing. And Luna? Well, here she was, at her desk doing her job as usual, but…

She rose and smoothed her hands along her black skirt, picking up her pen and pad as she always did when called into the Marchioness's office. Then she squared her shoulders and walked through the door.

Where Florian was waiting for her, sitting in the Marchioness's chair, his red hair slicked back and a copy of the
Racing Post
open on the desk in front of him.

‘I'm not happy with this morning's diary,' he said, waving the copy of his calendar she'd left on the desk the previous evening.

‘They're the meetings you'd asked for,' she replied.

‘Are they?' he asked. Rhetorically, apparently, for he continued, ‘Well, they don't suit me. I've a mind to shoot some partridge this morning.' He ripped the calendar in half. Looking at him in his moleskin trousers and quilted vest, she could see that this had been his intention all along, that he'd let her sit out there for the past hour in ignorance, only informing her ten minutes before his first appointment that her carefully constructed schedule for the day was only so much paper.

‘But some of your visitors have made special arrangements to come—' she began.

‘Cancel them. Cancel them all,' he said, ripping the paper in quarters. And when she lingered, he added coldly, ‘That's all.' Dismissing her.

Luna walked back out the way she'd come, feeling her shoulders begin to drop, as they had many, many times in the past three weeks.

‘Oh, and, Luna,' he said as she crossed the threshold, ‘go and put some wellies on. You can come with me.'

Hell, Luna thought. She was in hell.

Her journey to perdition had begun two days after the Marquess's surgery, which hadn't gone as well as his doctors had hoped. Twice the surgeon had considered abandoning the procedure when his blood pressure dropped dangerously low on the operating table. And after, he had been slow to wake and extremely weak, confused and in pain – so the Marchioness had told her in regular phone calls from the hospital.

The second night after surgery was particularly bad; in the small hours of the morning the Marquess had returned to surgery to have fluid drained from his lungs. The situation was grave, Lady Wellstone told Luna when she rang at just past seven that morning.

‘Luna, can you come to the hospital to see me?' she'd said, sounding emotional and exhausted. ‘There's something I need you to do.'

So Luna had gotten to London as quickly as she could, joining the Marchioness in the hospital chapel as instructed – Lady Wellstone said Isabelle was with her at the hospital and would only become even more upset if she saw her mother's PA. ‘Something about you brings out the hysteria in Bella,' the Marchioness said apologetically, sitting next to Luna on a wooden chair in the small, functional chapel.

‘I understand,' Luna said. ‘What do you need me to do?'

‘I'm afraid it is a very big thing I am asking…'

Luna shook her head as if to say,
You don't need to say this. You knew me when no one else did. I will do anything for you.

‘The doctor says that he hopes John is through the worst of it now. But he says it's going to be a long recovery, and that he may not fully recover—' the Marchioness broke off, tears forming in her eyes. Luna reached out and took her boss's hand in hers, squeezing it gently. After a few moments, Lady Wellstone gathered her composure and said, ‘He
will
recover. I am going to make sure he does, if I have to nurse him night and day.'

Luna nodded.

‘But being here for John means I can't fulfil my responsibilities at Arborage. And Florian has offered to step in.'

Luna's mouth fell open as she looked at her employer with something like horror. What was she saying?

‘It's only temporary, a few weeks, a month at most I hope,' the Marchioness said.

‘But— But, Mr Wellstone?' Luna protested. ‘You'd let
him
take charge at Arborage?'

‘Only temporarily. He'll have no real control, I promise you. Luna,' Lady Wellstone clutched Luna's hand to the point of pain, bending her head close to hers, looking her straight in the eye, ‘I need him away from here. Away from John. I need him distracted, neutralised. I can't explain all the reasons for this, but I'm asking you to trust me. Distract him. Hold his hand, do whatever it takes to keep him happy. Can you do this for me? Can you, my dear?'

Hold his hand, she'd said. This had turned out to be a massive understatement of the level of nannying Florian had needed, nay demanded, in the interim. It wasn't just the scheduling and rescheduling, the complete contempt he'd shown for the value of other people's time. It was all the pointless tasks he piled upon her, just because he could. Get him a cup of coffee. No, when she'd brought it, not that kind of coffee, an espresso. Tell Caitlin to move a meeting with two local reporters out of the conference room because he needed it at the same time. Oh, wait, he didn't need it after all.

And now this, she thought as she trailed behind him through the forest, carrying his game bag. There was no earthly reason for her to be there, other than Florian's desire to humiliate her at every turn.

Keep him happy, the Marchioness had said. And Luna had tried her best to do so, swallowing her pride, hiding her distaste, suppressing her shudders every time Florian found an excuse to brush up against her, or stand a little too close to her, his shiny red face gleaming, tiny eyes darting furtively. The more often he cosied up to her, the more convinced she became that he wasn't even attracted to her – he did it purely for the reaction he got out of her. The unique combination of loathing and fear she couldn't quite hide, no matter how hard she tried.

Florian's Labrador, a lovely dog who in Luna's opinion deserved a much better owner, bounded ahead of them through the woods, eager to get to work. After the cold snap at Christmas the weather had gotten somewhat warmer, but Luna was still chilled to the bone as they approached Paul Walker's shack, which looked rather sad and abandoned under the grey, misty skies. Until Walker himself emerged from behind it, wearing his usual wax jacket and flat cap.

‘Fox,' he said in greeting.

‘Morning, Paul,' Florian said, clapping Paul on the back. Waiting for Luna's inevitable response. His Labrador, meanwhile, who really didn't know how to pick his friends, was practically wagging his tail off at the sight of his master's lackey.

‘Mr Wellstone,' Luna said. ‘This man has been dismissed from Arborage's employ. You can't—'

‘Really, Luna? I think I can. Paul is here on a purely social basis, as a…hunting companion.' Paul looked between the two of them; nervously, Luna thought.

She pressed on, ‘The Marchioness made it quite clear that he isn't allowed to be here on
any
basis.'

‘Well, why don't you run on back to the office and phone her in intensive care, see what she has to say about it. I'm sure she won't mind you bothering her.' Florian smiled his most ferret-like smile and turned to Paul. ‘Let's go.' Emboldened by Florian's belittling tone, Paul Walker tipped his cap at Luna in salute and the two men walked away into the woods.

He'd brought her out here just for this, Luna realised. To make her see how completely vanquished she was. She prayed then. For the Marquess to get better. For the Marchioness to rethink her ill-considered decision to surrender Arborage and her PA to Florian's tender mercies. For Stefan to ring her, hear the anxiety in her voice and say, ‘What's wrong,
flicka
? Tell me what's wrong.'

None of her prayers were answered that week.

Not that she was the only one who was suffering, of course. The entire staff appeared to be on edge, especially those who, like Luna, were on Florian's shit list. The catering staff came in for a particularly hard time, Marta having known Florian for three decades, during which time they had fostered a powerful mutual dislike. Luna had tried to ask her about it once and Marta had simply muttered, ‘You just stay clear of him, you hear? Stay well clear.'

And then there was Roland. In a cruel parody of her first full day with Stefan here in the house, Florian decided he wanted to take one of Roland's tours, insisting that Luna come with him to take notes, which he forced her to read aloud when he met with the Tours manager later. Some ‘helpful tips' for changes he could make to his narrative, ‘to better reflect the Wellstone family's rich history,' Florian had said.

Luna and Roland had stood together afterwards in the hallway outside the tours office as Florian chatted with some of the volunteers – a couple of high school students, female of course. Roland was watching like a hawk, a grim set to his mouth.

‘So this is the future, eh?' he said, nodding slightly at Florian. ‘I'd hoped I would have a longer career here at Arborage. There's so much I still wanted to do.'

‘Roland, please, don't talk that way. The Marquess is going to get better and things are going to go back to normal.'

‘Oh, I think we've seen the last of “normal” around here. More's the pity.'

And so January wore on. She heard from the Marchioness occasionally – the Marquess was improving, albeit slowly. When questioned about Florian, Luna was careful to say that things were under control, that she was doing her level best to keep him happy.

‘Thank you, Luna. I knew I could count on you,' came the Marchioness's voice down the phone. And that kept her going. That and the fact that Stefan Lundgren loved her. Those two things became her mantra:
Her Ladyship is counting on me. And Stefan loves me. Her Ladyship is counting on me. And Stefan loves me.

Florian didn't confine his demands on Luna to matters in and around the house, frequently requiring her to join him on jaunts to London or further afield. He even insisted on her coming along with him to the family's hunting lodge in Scotland at the end of the month. Luna had never been there before and under other circumstances would have been delighted to spend time at the lodge, which dated from the Victorian period and was one of the first houses in the country to be electrified.

But all the joy was sucked out of the visit by her companion and his guests, a Russian businessman named Viktor and his entourage.

‘This is quite an important thing for me. And for Arborage, of course,' Florian had informed her as they travelled by executive car from Glasgow Airport to Loch Lomond. ‘Viktor is a particular friend of mine and he could bring a lot of hunting business to the estate. So please try your best to be charming, Luna. I'm sure a human heart beats somewhere underneath all that ice…'

Luna chose not to respond to this, compressing her lips and looking out of the car window at the light and shadows cast by clouds passing over the stunning Highland scenery they were passing through.

Their Scottish estate manager Gus Walsh met them at the house, a short, balding man of around forty-five whose diminutive stature belied his larger than life character – after Roland, Gus was the member of Lady Wellstone's management team Luna trusted the most. As Luna and Florian entered the large timbered front hallway decorated with stag heads, rifles and other hunting accoutrements, Gus indicated that Florian's guests had already arrived.

‘They're making themselves at home in the snooker room,' he said, casting a dubious glance at Luna as Florian rushed off to join them. ‘I don't like this lot,' he said quietly once Florian was out of earshot, his Scottish burr and no nonsense manner reassuring Luna, who, like him, didn't like the sound of raucous, drunken laughter emanating from the snooker room. ‘Do you want me to hang about tonight, just to keep an eye on things?' he asked.

‘Oh, Gus, I don't want to spoil your evening—' Luna began.

‘Nae bother, lass, I'll stick around,' he nodded. Luna smiled gratefully at him, relieved not to be on her own at the lodge.

Viktor Putinov turned out to be not so much a friend of Florian's as a lender, Luna discovered. To her surprise, Florian made a point of introducing her to the Russian, a large, pale man with skin so translucent and eyelashes so sparse he reminded her of an albino salamander she'd seen once on a school trip to the aquarium. Viktor had apparently made his fortune in oil and the rest of his party of eight was split evenly between Russian associates of his and an assortment of scantily clad French ‘girlfriends'.

‘This is Luna, my persssonal assssistant,' Florian said, putting his arm around her waist. Luna was on the verge of ramming her elbow into his side and kneeing him in the groin at his presumption, but she managed to paste a smile on her face as she extended her hand to the Russian.

‘You must be sure to tell me if you or your friends require anything while you are here, Mr Putinov,' she said coolly.

‘She is very English, this one,' Viktor said, completely ignoring her hand and addressing himself to Florian. This pretty much set the tone for her interactions with him and his party that evening. Viktor clearly thought she was Florian's little bit of skirt and not worthy of his attention. His companions, particularly the women, took their cue from Viktor and blanked Luna, which was fine with her. What they didn't know was that she spoke French, and could understand the occasional side conversations they were having when Florian wasn't commanding the floor like a dance hall comedian.