Chapter 3: Saturday, 13 February, 15 months later

The grand house, almost a palace in its proportions, was impressive, set in its perfectly-manicured grounds. Brenda Stevens, the former Mrs Ian Cameron, squeezed her husband Neville’s arm as they queued with the other guests for the Valentine Ball. She was aware that this was a last-ditch attempt to maintain their fortunes. “Guests”, was hardly the term for the attendees, though, this Ball was a charity event to raise funds for a number of worthy causes and the admission tickets alone cost an arm and a leg.

“Why are we here again, Nev dear?” she enquired of her husband, a rather short, fat, bald man in his fifties, who had a puffy, drink-reddened, face.

“I can’t get hold of the Duchess in normal office hours, sweetheart, so this is our only chance,” Neville Stevens hissed close to his wife’s ear, not wishing to be overheard. “Not long after the Duke died, some eighteen months ago, we’ve been cut off completely and this trade was once the cornerstone of our business. I remember this place, it has hardly changed. Cor, we had some right old do’s here before the Duke got hitched and settled down. Then we could only use the place when the Duchess was off with the kids to Salonica or Athens, otherwise we had to find new venues for our ... er ... fun. Long before your time, of course, my dear.”

Brenda nodded, she had been informed before of the importance of this Ball. She was acutely aware that their tightened budget had forced her to buy a cheap ill-fitting ball gown, one she felt sure looked even cheaper than it cost. Her fitting wasn’t helped by the fact she had suffered from stress-related binge overeating during the past few months. She had put on a few pounds and she was conscious that it showed. All the lady guests, Mrs Stevens noted looking around, looked glorious in their glamorous figure-hugging designer evening gowns.

They collected glasses of Champagne from a couple of smartly-liveried footmen, before moving into the buffet area between the grand staircase and the ballroom. Strains of a string quartet filtered through the open doors.

Brenda’s attention was taken by a red-haired girl, one of a number of maids, dressed alike in white blouse, black skirt and stockings, though comfortable heels, who looked uncannily like her daughter. She regretted being unable to bring her glasses with her, but squinted her eyes and moved a little closer as the girl placed one of the three platters she carried on the white cloth-covered trestle tables and turned towards her.

“Isla, honey?” Brenda asked.

“Mother, what are you doing here?” the beautiful girl replied in surprise.

“I might ask you the same. You’re supposed to be studying medicine in Edinburgh, aren’t you? Not waiting on tables hundreds of miles away,” her mother hissed in a loud whisper, just above the noise of the dance band, “If you needed money you could’ve asked Nev.”

“Yeah, Babes,” Stevens said, sidling up to his step-daughter, putting his hand around her waist and leaning in for a wet kiss. Isla wriggled away from him and positioned herself the other side of her mother, who kissed Isla on her cheek.

“It’s OK, Mother,” Isla replied, “Dad subs my petrol whenever I come down here.”

“You can afford to run a car?” her mother asked, incredulously, her own car having been repossessed recently.

“Yes, and I don’t need any extra money, Mother. I’m volunteering for free tonight, anyway. All the helpers are, including the band. It’s a Charity Ball, you know. So, why are you all the way up here?”

“Well, I’m supporting my husband, we’re hoping to catch The Duchess -”

Isla Cameron interrupted, a furrow in her brow, “What do you want to speak to Maria about?”

“Maria?” enquired her mother, “Who’s Maria?”

“Maria, the Duchess of Bartonshire, you said you want to catch her.”

Just then another pretty young maid, dressed like the others, in white blouse and black knee-length skirt, with long lustrous black hair down to her waist, arrived with a basket of bread rolls.

“What’s that about Mummy, ‘Sis’?” the attractive dark-haired newcomer asked with a smile aimed at Isla, “And who’re your friends?”

“Hi, Sofe,” smiled Isla, kissing Sofia on the cheek, “This is my Mother, Brenda, and her ... husband, Neville Stevens. Mother, this is Sofia, she lives here.”

“Oh, I should have known you were the Lady Sofia,” exclaimed Mrs Stevens, unconsciously genuflecting slightly, wondering how this young aristocratic beauty could possibly be acquainted with her daughter Isla. The girl seemed too young to be studying medicine. “My husband was a friend and business associate of your dear, late father.”

“Yeah,” chipped in the odious Stevens, who had been looking the child up and down since she appeared at the serving table, “Me and your old man were like this,” he crossed his index and middle fingers of one hand while reaching out to grab the girl with his other hand. Sofia wriggled away and moved to safety behind Isla.

“Don’t remember any Neville, or Stevens, I’m afraid, Mrs Stevens,” Sofia responded, “My brother, the new Duke, won’t be picking up the reins of the farm business from Mummy until he’s finished his degree at Cambridge, in a couple of years’ time. What line of business are you in, anyway, Mr Stevens?”

“Oh, lots of different fingers in various pies, my dear,” Stevens leered imperiously, puffing out his chest, “But in your father’s day I used to buy most of the meat from your farm abattoir and ship it to the top London restaurants.”

“Ah,” Sofia said, “I think we organise deliveries directly to the door ourselves now, cutting out the middle man. Anyway, ‘Sis’, you stay here and catch up with your Mother and I’ll call you if we get busy.” Sofia marched back towards the kitchens for more food. Stevens followed her all the way with watery eyes, unconsciously licking his lips.

“Such a lovely girl,” Mrs Stevens said, unaware of her husband’s diverted attention, “Have you known Lady Sofia for long, Isla?”

“Over a year, I think, not quite eighteen months,” Isla said as she thought back, “Of course we call each other every day, and I pop down here pretty regularly, most weekends, so it seems like I’ve known her forever. You could say we’re best friends.”

“You’re not ... er ... you know ... same-er-same-sex er lovers are you?” her mother whispered worriedly, “She looks far too young.”

“Get real, Mother! Sofe’s only 14, she’s still at school,” Isla snorted as she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, wondering not for the first time if this stupid woman could possibly me her mother. Then she pointed to the two footmen greeting arrivals with drinks at the entrance, “My boyfriend’s Harry, the one on the left.”

“A footman?!” exploded her mother after looking at Isla’s target, who became aware he had become the centre of their attention, and waved back with a smile, “I mean, he’s very cute and all, Isla dear, but you’re going to be a medical doctor soon and he’ll be out of your class.”

“Oh, nobody worries about that kind of thing nowadays, Mother. Anyway I’m only using him for a bit of fun, he’s a scream for now but not sure if he’s going to be long term. And he’s not usually a footman at all but he’s another who’s volunteering tonight, we all are.”

“What does he do normally, then, dear?”

“Some kind of banker, I think.”

“A bank clerk!” Brenda sneered, “Locally?”

“No, in the City. Some junior management position in the family merchant bank. I think he’s some kind of viscount or baron or probably both; he has about twelve titles in front of his name, including “Honourable”. I just call him Harry.”

“Are you staying here ... with Harry?” her mother asked and, as an afterthought as if Sofia’s earlier conversation had only just sunk in, “And why does Lady Sofia call you ‘Sis’?”

“I’m not staying here with Harry, he’s got his own apartment at his father’s place. I’m staying here with Dad, of course, Mother.”

“Ian lives around here?” Brenda was thinking of all the lovely chocolate box houses they passed in the village, with this palace as a perfect backdrop, of course.