“Ah,” she replied, impressed.
“Among others, I represent Vivien Armitage.”
She raised her eyebrows in recognition. Margo Arbuckle epitomized Viv’s readership.
“Now, she’s jolly good,” she said. “I don’t get much time to read. Running this house and my horses swallows up the days but when I get the chance I do enjoy her novels. Thomas likes Wilbur Smith, don’t you, Thomas?”
“I like a good read. Mind you, I’m rather more inclined to read biographies these days.” He handed Fitz his drink. “Nothing like a true story, is there?”
“Now, Fitzroy,” Margo began, “are you one of the Norfolk Davenports?”
“Yes,” Fitz lied. If one was going to lie one should do so with the utmost confidence. He squeezed Alba’s hand and she squeezed his back. She was enjoying this.
“Do you know Harold and Elizabeth?”
“Harold is my father’s cousin,” said Fitz. He had never heard of Harold and Elizabeth.
“Ah, so your father is…?”
“Geoffrey.” Another lie, but why quit now, he thought. Margo narrowed her eyes and frowned.
She shook her head. “I don’t know Geoffrey.”
“Do you know…George?”
“No.”
“David?” It was a gamble.
“Yes.” Her small brown eyes lit up. “Yes, I do know David. Married to Penelope.”
“Absolutely,” said Fitz. “Charming woman, Penelope.”
“Isn’t she? Shame they had no children.” She sighed and pulled a sympathetic smile. “So your parents live near Kings Lynn too?”
“No, my father moved down south, to Dorset. He has a grouse moor in Scotland though. When I was a child we divided our time between the two houses and of course the chalet in Switzerland.”
“You ski?” interjected Thomas, who loved all sports. He didn’t know which impressed him more, the grouse moor in Scotland or the chalet in Switzerland.
Thomas sat down in the armchair and took a swig of martini. “I hope you’ll stay the whole weekend, Fitzroy. We have the Reverend coming for lunch tomorrow, after the service. Do you play squash?”
“Absolutely,” said Fitz, which was the truth. “I’d love a game, but preferably not with the Reverend. I daren’t play a man with God on his side.”
Margo laughed. Alba was amazed. Her father was pink with pleasure. They really liked him. Viv had been right. She wasn’t a best seller for nothing.
And as if Fitz hadn’t charmed them enough, he bent down and picked up one of Margo’s little dogs. “My mother had terriers,” he said, stroking its fur. “She stopped going on holidays simply because she couldn’t bear to leave them behind.” Margo tilted her head to one side and gave the most understanding of smiles. “And yours, Mrs. Arbuckle, are delightful.”
“Oh, Fitzroy, you make me feel so old. Call me Margo.”
“Only if you call me Fitz.”
At that moment Miranda hurried into the room. She was tall and slim with straight blond hair tied into a ponytail. She wore jodhpurs and riding boots and an irritated expression on a round, flushed face. “Summer’s bolted again, Mummy!” she said, huffing and puffing in the doorway.
Margo stood up. “Darling, let me introduce you to Fitz Davenport, Alba’s friend.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said breezily, extending her hand. “I’m afraid my horse is a bolter.”
Fitz was about to make a joke about the Bolter in Nancy Mitford’s Love in a Cold Climate but changed his mind; such a reference would probably be lost on one so young.
“Do you want help getting her back?” he said instead. “Sprout could do with a run.”
“Would you?” interrupted Margo. “Gosh, Fitz, you are kind. You’ve only just arrived from London.”
“Let me go and change out of these clothes into something I don’t mind getting mud on. Then we can all muck in together, can’t we, Alba?”
“He’s in the yellow room,” interjected Margo as they stepped out into the hall.
Alba looked horrified. She hoped that she could hold the gate open or something. As a child she had been forced into riding and cleaning tack, but when she grew old enough to express her opinions she kicked up such a fuss that Margo let her off, so long as she helped in the garden, podding and peeling beans all summer, which was the lesser of two evils. Picking vegetables wasn’t so much an arduous task as a boring one and besides, there were other things she’d much rather be doing, like reading magazines and playing with Cook’s makeup. At least, though, it was a solitary occupation that left her alone with her thoughts. She would hear the others shouting in the field above the house, their hearty voices echoing across the valley, grateful that she wasn’t among them. She had always had an aversion to group activities—especially family ones. She led Fitz up the stairs and when they were alone she burst into commentary.