“I have a business here,” Sibyl pointed out.
“We’ll move that to Lacybourne as well.”
As her eyes were as wide as they could open, her brows shot up.
“You’re… you can’t… I…” she spluttered then immediately digressed to an eight year old and turned her eyes to her father and whined, “Dad!”
“He has a point,” Bertie said quietly.
This time, her mouth dropped open.
“Pack your bags Sibyl,” Colin ordered.
She swung from Colin back to her father and tried again by repeating, “Dad!”
“Pack them, Sibyl,” Bertie stated in the fatherly tone that, all her life, she could never oppose.
“Bertie, I don’t think –” Mags decided to wade into the fray.
“Quiet, Marguerite,” Bertie demanded.
At that, all three women’s mouths dropped open (or, more to the point, two as Sibyl’s was already gaping).
Even so, they stomped up the stairs with dire mutterings that consisted of such words as “overbearing”, “chauvinistic” and “tyrannical” but still, they packed.
None of this affected Colin or Bertie in the slightest.
Colin went to Lacybourne while they packed, taking Bertie with him and coming back with the BMW and the Mercedes. They packed the cars to the brim with bags, pet supplies, the food that might spoil in the fridge and all were hauled to Lacybourne.
Then, as if the day couldn’t get worse, they arrived at Lacybourne to see it crowded with cars.
It was National Trust Saturday at Lacybourne Manor.
They dragged in their bags without incident, putting away the food and leaving the other luggage in the study which, since it was Colin’s personal office, was off-limits to National Trust visitors. Upon leaving again to head out to a late lunch, some of the tourists who’d been in the house stopped and gawked.
“Oh my gawd!” a large American woman with dyed-black hair and nicely tailored clothing shrieked. “It’s the couple from the portraits.”
“Brilliant,” Colin muttered, starting to assist Sibyl into the BMW and his tone stated he didn’t find it brilliant at all.
“I thought you were dead!” the woman yelled, striding forward quickly. “Inside, they said you were murdered… oh… my… gawd!” Her voice rose even further as she turned to a harried, embarrassed-looking man beside her. “They said they’d come back to life. Oh… my… gawd, Harold, look at them. They’ve been reincarnated!”
More people were now peering at them, some of them curiously, others, who had also been inside the house and seen the portraits, excitedly.
“Did you come to visit the portraits?” the woman asked.
“They live here,” Mags offered proudly.
Colin cursed eloquently under his breath and Sibyl’s eyes sent icicles shafting toward her mother.
“Oh… my… gawd,” the American woman breathed before shouting, “It’s magic!”
Colin practically shoved Sibyl into the BMW and once her feet cleared the door, he closed it cleanly and prowled to the other side while Mags, Bertie and Scarlett slid into the back.
Colin took them to the village next to Clevedon, to a lovely, small café nestled into pretty woods at the back of a garden centre. As the day stayed cold and misty, they were forced inside to sit amongst the brightly painted tables and gaily blinking fairy lights. The food there was delicious and, after they’d finished, Bertie cleared his throat.
“We’ve been talking and we’ve come to some decisions,” he announced and everyone’s eyes turned to him. “Scarlett and I have to get back but seeing as things are... well, the way they are,” he paused hesitantly before he let the bomb drop, “Mags feels she ought to stay.”
Sibyl looked at Colin who, she was surprised to see after the recent incident at Lacybourne, had no reaction whatsoever to this news.