Page 15 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Right. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr Bancroft – any chance of a refund? The place I rented really isn’t fit for habitation.’
He nods, and stands up. Wowzers, he’s tall – much taller than me, and even than my dad. I get another waft of that cologne and try not to inhale too deeply. It will definitely affect my bargaining powers if I pass out from lust.
‘Ryan!’ he shouts, gesturing from the table in the window to the bar. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
Ryan looks over from the chat he was having with an elderly man with wizard-length grey hair, and stares at us both. His usual mischievous smile is nowhere to be seen, and it takes him several moments to move. For a second, I think he’s going to simply ignore him.
The two men stand facing each other, and as I look on, I spot the unmistakable signs of tension. Ryan has his hands shoved into his jeans pockets, and Charles is frowning. I see Cormac and Orla exchange a look, and have no clue what’s going on. The whole tableau reminds of me of nature shows, when you see stags fighting with their antlers.
‘Yes,sir?’ says Ryan, his flippant tone at odds with his tense body language. ‘Did you command my presence?’
‘Pack it in, Ryan. I’m just back from three long days in London and I’m not in the mood. This is Cassie, she booked one of our holiday cottages.’
Ryan nods in my direction, and winks at me in a way that can only be described as ‘saucy’. In other circumstances I might feel a little flutter, but right now I’m aware that I’m actually irrelevant – I just happen to be caught in the middle of a situation that existed long before I arrived.
‘We’ve met already. Old friends.’
‘Well, be that as it may, Cassie tells me her cottage was in an unacceptable condition when she arrived. Not only was there no welcome package, but it hadn’t been cleaned, and the fire wasn’t ready. Between you and Mary Catherine I expect higherstandards for my guests. It’s your job to maintain Waverley and Waterfall, Ryan, you know that.’
There’s a flare of anger in Ryan’s blue eyes, but he quickly clamps it down. He nods slowly, and rubs his hand over his chin, as though he’s thinking hard.
‘I do know that, Your Lordship – but Cassie here wasn’t booked to stay in Waverley or Waterfall. She was booked to stay in Whimsy.’
‘Whimsy…?’ repeats Charles, looking confused. ‘But Whimsy isn’t available. Whimsy is being renovated. How did that happen?’
He looks at me and I simply hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Don’t ask me,’ I reply. ‘I filled out a booking form online, paid my money for a month-long trip, and flew across the Atlantic. I have a confirmation email if you don’t believe me.’
The two men look at each other again, and I can almost feel the conflict in the air. Then Ryan seems to relent, and his gaze softens as he says: ‘Charles, Eileen’s been trying to speak to Allegra since we found out, but she hasn’t called back. The other two cottages are both booked, and I don’t know what happened here – I thought you’d taken it off the booking site until the work was done?’
Again, something is going on that I don’t quite understand, because suddenly all of the machismo has drained out of both of them. Charles sighs, looks sad, and answers: ‘Well. It should have been, yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ll have to speak to her about it. I know it’s all a bit much for her to deal with, but she insists she can cope, and I don’t want to make her feel…’
‘Useless?’ Ryan supplies, his face sympathetic.
Charles nods tersely, and then turns to me.
‘Cassie, I’m so sorry. It appears there’s been an error, as you probably just gathered – Whimsy should never have been available, and I can only apologise for the inconvenience. Ryan,how long will it take for you to get Whimsy ready, if you make it your top priority?’
‘If I give up sleeping, eating and all my other bad habits, maybe five days, a week?’
He smiles at me as he speaks, making it clear that he’s not taking this too seriously. I suspect he doesn’t take much too seriously.
‘Right. Very well. If you could, I’d very much appreciate it,’ says Charles, nodding firmly. ‘And in the meantime, Cassie, I’d be honoured if you’d be my guest at Bancroft Manor. It’s the very least I can do in the circumstances.’
EIGHT
I feel like I’ve been transported to a movie set when we arrive at the manor. It’s only a few minutes’ drive away, high on a hill that overlooks the village down in the river valley. The golden stone buildings seem to shine in the moonlight as I gaze down at them, and I sigh at how magical it all is.
Charles drove me here in his slinky racing green Jaguar, which I’d climbed into with a few doubts. I was raised to be cautious of strangers, and here I am, driving off into the night with one. But he’s clearly genuine, Ryan knows him, and anyway, I’m desperate to see a real-life English manor house.
He was full of apologies as we curled our way through the winding hedgerows and one-track paths. Eventually, we passed through wrought-iron gates and along a wide gravel road.
I see the house from a distance, but when he pulls up in front of it and I climb out of the car, I still stand and stare in amazement at the building before me. It’s stunning, lit up by ground-level lights dotted around the grass. It’s three storeys high and built of the same honey-coloured stone as the village cottages. That’s where the similarities end, though, because this is a mansion – huge, imposing, studded with mullionedwindows, the massive front door guarded by carved statues of lions on either side of the steps.
The rain has finally been banished, and the night air is surprisingly mild. I feel like I could gawk at this place for hours.
‘Oh, my,’ I mutter. ‘This is your home? How old is it? It’s so beautiful.’
