Rachel Dove - The Chic Boutique On Baker Street

The thought of pulling up his drive to an empty house meant Ben wasn’t in any rush to leave, and the Jenkinses were great clients, keeping him in business with their many farm animals and half-dozen dogs. Also, the dogs seemed to be constantly matted from farm life, which meant they often frequented his other establishment, Shampooched. He had bought the dog groomer’s a few months after he and Tanya had moved to Westfield when the lady who ran it for many years retired and moved to Spain to crochet away her twilight days from her veranda. He had bought it for Tanya, hoping to get her more involved in village life, but it hadn’t worked out quite as he had hoped. In fact, not at all how he had hoped, so now he had Tracy, who was sullen and off kilter to some, but she loved dogs and ran the business well, which took some of the pressure from him. Which reminded him, he had to run to the wholesaler’s first thing, as Tracy had left him a list that morning, and he had his regular surgery to attend to as well, so he had an early start.

Having polished off two bowls of hash and enough Yorkshire puddings to fashion a raft on a sea of gravy, he reluctantly said goodbye to the Jenkinses and headed home. On the dark drive, he contemplated two things: whether his new chickens had started laying yet, and whether he would see Amanda tomorrow. He wondered what she had meant by the ‘we’ when she spoke about being open soon. Did she mean the normal ‘we’ as in clients and staff, or did she really mean ‘we’ as in ‘my adorable drop dead gorgeous bodybuilder husband and I’? Ben found himself wondering what sort of bloke she was with. Whoever the poor lad was, he had Ben’s sympathies. She looked like a handful, and a bossy one at that. She was cute though …

As he pulled up to his front door, he smiled to himself at the memory of her flouncing off. He felt sure she was going to be a pain in the neck. He just hoped whatever arty-farty stuff she sold didn’t drive the regular stream of tourists away. Somehow, he just knew he would have to keep an eye on his new neighbour.

Everyone in the sleepy hill-set village of Westfield knew well enough to let Agatha Mayweather have her own way. The unofficial Lady of the small Yorkshire village was a veritable force of nature, and even the strongest characters in the community cowered under her steely gaze. When Downton Abbey had first aired, many villagers, eyes glued to their screens over their latest knitting projects and cups of tea, immediately saw the similarities and soon, unbeknown to her of course, Agatha was nicknamed the Dowager of Westfield. It was unbeknown to her for obvious reasons: she would kill them if she ever found out. It was so obvious to all who knew her though that the name stuck, and even the meekest of the townsfolk had a good titter at the comparison. Agatha had a sharp mind, a mean tongue and a no-nonsense attitude, and had Mr Mayweather not since passed away, he would have guffawed at the notion himself. Agatha and her dear late husband, Henry, were great presences in the community, and since his passing from a long battle with cancer, Agatha had seemed to have coped admirably well, throwing herself even deeper into village life and the many committees and causes she was patron of and involved in.

Their property was on the outskirts of the town, a beautiful, sprawling nine-bedroom Georgian country house that many a Mayweather had resided in over the years. Her gardens were a joy to behold, and she regularly opened them, and indeed her home, to the general public for the summer, donating the proceeds, after the running costs, to various causes in Westfield. As well as this, she also organised most of the events in the village seemingly single-handed (as she often wouldn’t let people get much of a look-in). One such event was the summer county fair, held in the village of Westfield annually and a great kick-off to their summer months as a quiet, understated but beautiful tourist attraction. With the lambing season beginning, all talk was of the hard work to be done, both on the village farms and for the big event. Agatha’s clipboard was poised, primed and ready to go already and the villagers were all steeling themselves for her firm knock at the doors of their homes and businesses.

As acerbic as Agatha’s tongue was, she was dearly loved in the community and had no enemies amongst her kinfolk. She was the type of woman that you were friends with, immediately respected, admired and also, in secret, were a little afraid of.

Agatha’s morning began the same as every morning, with Taylor, her estate manager, gently rousing her with a cup of English breakfast tea. Sebastian Taylor’s family had worked as butlers for the Mayweather family for generations. As soon as the current Mrs Mayweather had become the lady of the household, she had done away with many of the old traditions and promoted Taylor, who was in fact her childhood friend from the village, and quite often her playground tormentor, to estate manager. Taylor, being a traditional fellow, was more than a little surprised to gain this new title at the age of forty-five, and a battle of wills had ensued. Agatha had won, of course, much to the amusement of her new husband at the time, but Taylor had managed to get his own way in upholding some traditions, such as bringing them their morning refreshments. These days, however, Agatha was secretly grateful for this small act of kindness every morning.

Losing Henry the year before, after twenty years of blissful marriage, had knocked the wind out of her sails more than she would ever own up to, and quite often, waking alone in the ornate four-poster bed, she was more than happy to see a friendly face as she awoke to seize the day.

‘Thank you, Taylor.’ She smiled as she took the ornate cup and saucer, embellished with tea roses, from the tray that he proffered.

‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather, I trust you slept well?’

Agatha rolled her dark blue eyes at her manager. ‘Taylor, really? After all these years, you can’t just call me Agatha?’

Taylor chuckled, ignoring the daily request. ‘We have the summer fair to begin planning today, and the council meeting at 3 p.m., to discuss the permits for the beer tents and the marquees. Shall I be driving you?’

Agatha sipped her tea, her eyes closing momentarily as the sweet nectar travelled down her throat, warming her bones and waking her up.

‘Yes, please, Taylor, and I have an eleven o’clock in the village for the children.’

Taylor suppressed a smile. ‘Of course. I shall get them ready.’

Taylor left the room, and Agatha heard his soft footfalls as he descended the large central staircase. She hauled herself out of bed and padded to the ornate dressing table in her slippers, obviously left there the night before by Taylor. She tutted at his stubborn archaic ways and began to put her face on. Her gaze fell to the silver-framed photo next to her jewellery box. Henry smiled out at her, giggling at something she had said as they stood arm in arm, fresh faces, happy smiles, all decked out in their finery on their wedding day. She smiled and stroked her husband’s face through the glass.

‘Good morning, Old Boot,’ she whispered, using her nickname for him. ‘Busy day today, my sweet.’ She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to the glass. When she had finished applying her make-up, she wandered off to the bathroom to get ready to face the day.

‘Err, gerrof!’ Taylor laughed as Buster licked at his head, sticking his wet tongue down his ear canal. Maisie, excited by Taylor’s reaction, jumped up at his crouched form and knocked him to the floor. Taylor closed his eyes and tried to cover his face as both dogs continued their slobbery assault on him. He tried to get up, and just got licked all the more. ‘Guys, come on now, stop it n—mmmffff!’