Chapter 1
John first saw her between the shoulders of two strangers. One moment, he was listening politely to a retired solicitor explain why the wedding champagne was probably French despite the label being obscured by condensation. The next, his attention had shifted across the reception marquee to a woman seated at the table behind him.
She was laughing at something an elderly lady had said. Her fair hair rested loosely against her shoulders, and she wore a cream dress patterned with small blue flowers.
John stopped hearing the solicitor altogether. He knew her. Or, at least, he had seen her before.
Several months earlier, he had been walking along Brighton seafront on an unexpectedly warm spring afternoon. The sky had been clear, the sea bright beneath the sunlight, and the breeze carried the familiar mixture of salt, chips and hot sugar from the pier.
John had stopped opposite the Grand Hotel to watch the light shimmer across the water. That was when she had appeared.
She had been walking towards him in a pale-blue summer dress, her fair hair lifted gently by the wind. There had been nothing particularly dramatic about the moment, yet John had felt the world narrow around her
Their eyes had met. He had wondered whether to smile or say something. He had even taken half a step forward.
Then a man carrying a large, brightly coloured banner had crossed between them. The fabric snapped in the wind, momentarily filling John’s view.
By the time the man had passed, the woman had disappeared into the crowds near the pier.
John had looked for her longer than he cared to admit. Now she was here.
“John?” The solicitor’s voice returned.
“I’m sorry,” John said. “What were you saying?”
“That the French generally know better than to hide their champagne labels.”
“I’m sure they do.”
The solicitor followed John’s gaze and smiled.
“Ah.”
John picked up his glass. “Ah?”
“You’re looking at Victoria Berkeley.”
“Am I?”
“You appear to be.”
John glanced away. “I thought I recognised her.”
“You may have seen her photograph. She’s the daughter of Lady Margaret Berkeley. This is their estate.”
John looked beyond the marquee towards the manor house. Its pale stone frontage rose above the lawns, elegant and imposing, with tall windows reflecting the late-afternoon sun.
“I didn’t realise the family still lived here.”
“They do, although keeping a place like this standing is enough to age anyone prematurely.” The solicitor lowered his voice. “Magnificent houses have magnificent bills.”
Across the room, the woman turned slightly in her chair.
Victoria.
The name suited her.
“Do you know her?” John asked.
“Not well. My wife is acquainted with her mother. Victoria is pleasant, intelligent and rather more interesting than people allow her to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when a woman inherits an estate, everyone becomes fascinated by the estate.”
Before John could ask anything further, a photographer called several guests towards the garden.
The solicitor drained his glass.
“Come along. Apparently, our presence is essential to the bride’s memories.”
John followed the solicitor towards the garden. He knew only a handful of the guests. Rupert Hale, the bride’s uncle, had invited him after commissioning several of John’s articles on Sussex history. Over the years, their professional acquaintance had grown into an easy friendship, although John still felt slightly misplaced among the Berkeley family’s wider circle.
Before joining the photograph, he glanced once more at Victoria.
This time, she was looking at him. Her expression altered almost imperceptibly. Recognition, perhaps.
Then someone moved between them, and the moment was gone.
Find out what happens on 10th August 2026
