Page 2 of The Last Casterglass
With another sigh she turned off the lights and headed to the house.
*
Whoa, there werealotof people here. Oliver kept smiling and nodding as he was introduced to far too many names to remember. Althea he knew, because he’d corresponded with her. Walter and Violet Penryn he recognised from the website, as the twelfth baron of Casterglass and his wife. John was Althea’s fiancé. After that the names and faces started to blur. Alice, Will, Toby, John… He just kept smiling.
“So what made you decide to come to Casterglass?” Violet asked, eyebrows raised. She had a decidedly ditzy way about her, but Oliver thought he saw a certain shrewdness in her pale blue eyes.
“I saw a spread inCountry Lifeand my curiosity was piqued,” he said with yet another smile and an easy-going shrug. “How you turned the place around.” He’d been particularly encouraged by how dilapidated Casterglass had looked in the ‘before’ photos—and still did, in some regards—and how Althea had talked about doing it up on a ‘shoestring.’ Both aspects appealed to him, and applied to his own faint hopes.
“You’ve just graduated from Oxford, haven’t you?” Walter chimed in with a beaming smile. “Which college?”
“Um, Harris Manchester.” He gave an apologetic smile, because it was the college most people hadn’t heard of, the one for ‘mature’ students—that was, anyone over twenty-one. Oliver had been twenty-two when he’d started.
Sure enough, Walter’s forehead wrinkled in confusion before he said, almost sadly, “Oh, I was at Brasenose. Wonderful place. Wonderful times.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Lovely city—”
The kettle started whistling shrilly and Althea’s sister—Olivia?—whisked it off the enormous Aga. Although Casterglass was at least five times the size of Pembury Farm, its kitchen had the same cosy shabbiness that Oliver loved about the home he was desperate to save. Coming to Casterglass was a last-ditch attempt to keep it in the family…and one he already suspected wouldn’t work.
“So you mentioned you were the nephew of an earl…?” Althea asked as Olivia poured the tea and they all sat down at the rectangular oak table that looked as if it could seat at least twenty.
“Oh, er, sort of.” Oliver felt himself blushing. He’d mentioned the tenuous aristocracy connection out of desperation, but now he felt embarrassed that he’d actually dared to play that worn-out card. “My great-great-uncle was an earl, but the earldom went extinct in the nineteenth century, when there were no male heirs to pass it on to.” He gave an apologetic grimace.
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Althea looked a bit too crestfallen, Oliver thought. Did it make that much difference to her, whether he was related to nobility or not? He was an unpaid intern, after all. “And what is the name of the earldom’s seat?”
The earldom’sseat? He found himself blushing harder and he was grateful for a pause in which to gather his wits while Olivia passed around mugs of tea. He took his own with a murmured thanks, taking a sip before he made himself reply, “The earldom’s seat is Pembury Hall, but I’m afraid it was sold after the First World War. It’s a hotel now, with a golf course. My uncle owns Pembury Farm, which was the farm attached to the original estate. That’s the property I’m looking to…” he paused uncertainly before finishing: “…save.”
“I see,” Althea said, and Oliver feared she now sounded distinctly cool. Had he misrepresented himself? He was sure he hadn’t indicated that his family home was Pembury Hall. He’d never even been in the place; his uncle refused to go, even though it was just down the road.
An awful beat of silence followed before Althea’s fiancé—John?—chipped in. “A farm, eh? I’m a farming man myself. Sheep, mainly. What does your uncle farm?”
“Er, nothing, really.” This was starting to feel slightly excruciating. Oliver took another sip of tea before continuing. “After the hall and most of the land was sold off, my uncle moved to the farmhouse mainly to save money. He doesn’t actually farm, but that’s something I’d certainly consider, if I’m able to manage the property.”
Another few seconds of silence. Oliver was almost starting to wish he hadn’t come. He really hadn’t thought he’d misrepresented himself when he’d written to Althea a few months ago, but now he wondered if he had, either subconsciously or unintentionally. Had he made it sound like he was saving Pembury Hall, and not the far more modest farmhouse? And did it really make a difference?
“Well, it all sounds terribly interesting,” Violet remarked brightly. “And we certainly look forward to your help for the next few months.”
“Thank you. I look forward to helping.” Oliver smiled weakly and took yet another sip of tea. Althea, he saw, was frowning slightly, like she couldn’t make him out. He supposed it did seem a bit strange, that he’d asked for this internship when the house he wanted to work on was nothing like Casterglass. A six-bedroom farmhouse with outbuildings and about ten acres was a far cry from the likes of this castle, but it was Oliver’s home, his heart. And if he logged these hours and gained some of the experience his uncle claimed he didn’t have, then maybe he wouldn’t sell Pembury Farm like he was threatening to.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be very useful,” Althea said a bit dubiously. Oliver was saved from having to reply by the kitchen door swinging open hard and banging against the wall. A young woman stood there, scowling and looking fierce. Oliver stared at her in surprise, for she was unlike any of the other Penryns he’d met so far. Her hair was possibly the most extraordinary thing about her—bright pink dreadlocks that were growing out so there was about four inches of platinum-blonde hair at her roots. Her face was heart shaped with bright blue-green eyes and an expression of deep discontent. Her body, slender and willowy, was swathed in a pair of baggy, paint-splattered dungarees, paired with well-worn work boots.
“Seph,” Olivia exclaimed, sounding genuinely delighted. “Come meet Oliver.”
The woman’s gaze swung towards him, looking decidedly unfriendly. “Hello.” She sounded sulky, and as he often did, Oliver found himself overcompensating. He sprang up from the table, nearly spilling his tea.
“So pleased to meet you!” He came out from around the table, holding out his hand to shake, while she looked at it like it was something dead, and everyone looked on in bemusement. “I’m Oliver. And you’re…Seth?”
“Seph,” she replied, with a touch of scorn.
“Short for Persephone,” Olivia filled in helpfully. “Mum is a classicist.”
“It was such a disappointment that your father wouldn’t let me call Sam Amphitryon,” Violet said, a touch mournfully. “He was such a moving figure. He rescued Thebes from the Teumessian fox, you know.”
“There are limits,” Walter replied genially. “And there have been Samuels in the Penryn line for over three hundred years. It’s my middle name,” he explained to Oliver, who could only nod. Seph still hadn’t taken his hand, and he had no choice but to rather sheepishly withdraw it.
“Anyway, nice to meet you,” he said again, and then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he slunk back to his seat.
She didn’t bother to reply.