In the coach en route to the manor house, Monique had chastised Madeline for being slow and lacking concentration. Of course, the girl was distracted—she had never been on such an incredible adventure. Madeleine was sure she would have plenty to tell her friends when she returned to The Songbird.
Lord Ashwood’s staff were friendly and amenable without being intrusive. Max was relieved to note that Peter seemed a decent employer and his workers cheerful. The aristocracy was renowned for behaving disgracefully towards their servants, but not Ashwood. He spoke to them kindly and with respect. Max hoped that some of his manners would brush off on Monique as he overheard the starlet talking to young Madeleine.
“You will unpack my trunks, and then you will dismiss yourself and go to the servant’s quarters. I do not want to see or hear from you unless I ask for you directly.”
“Yes, Miss Monique,” replied the girl.
“How many more times, you imbecile. You address me as ‘Mademoiselle Monique’,” the diva scolded.
As they waited on the gravel driveway, Max discreetly summoned the butler, Jenkins, to his side, took the man’s arm and steered him toward Monique and Madeleine. Max addressed the butler in front of the two women.
“Sir, which would be the finest room in the manor?”
“You are the guest of honour, Sir. It will be your room.”
“Can I trouble you for a favour, Jenkins?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“Please put young Madeleine into my room, and move me to another.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied the butler, a little baffled by the request. Madeline’s startled face looked a picture.
“Oh, and Jenkins, please ensure that there is a place setting for her at every meal.”
Monique scowled at Max and the butler, annoyed that Max was happy to override convention to favour the girl.
“Yes, Sir.”
“May I ask, what are the features of Madeleine’s room?”
“It is a suite, Sir. I mean, Miss. There is a parlour, a bedroom and a water closet.”
“That sounds perfect,” Max added with a smile that he directed in open-mouthed Madeleine’s direction.
To aggravate Monique a little more, Max made further polite requests.
“Please ensure that Madeleine’s suite is kept heated. I would like her woken with a cup of tea at seven o’clock every morning and brought a cup of hot chocolate evening before she sleeps. Please turn her bed down by eight o’clock at night. I insist upon a basket of fresh fruit and flowers for her every morning. Pastries are in order in case she wakes up hungry. Please respond to her bell immediately. She is your priority. Afford her all the luxury that you would afford me.”
“Right you are, Sir.”
Now, Jenkins was as furious as Madeleine’s mistress. Who does that old man think he is? Ordering me to bow and scrape to a woman so inferior? How dare he!
Eventually, Monique could no longer keep quiet.
“What do you think you are doing, Max? How can you embarrass me like this? She is my maid. If anyone should have the best room in the house, it should be me as Lord Ashcroft’s fiancée. That is my room normally.”
“I employ Madeleine just as I employ you. She is not your servant. She is your colleague. I am sure your alternative room will be perfectly suitable for your needs, Monique. Peter’s home is like a palace. And I am sure, next time you come to stay, you can enjoy the suite, can you not?”
Monique’s face flushed with anger. She clenched her jaw and stormed through the grand entrance.
“Take me to my ‘new’ room,” she commanded Jenkins, leaving the others behind to fend for themselves.
When she reached her room she demanded the butler wait outside. She marched to the writing desk and penned a note to Ashwood. She advised Jenkins she was excusing herself for the rest of the day as she felt unwell. As he walked to take the note to his master, she demanded to be served dinner in her bedroom at eight o’clock. He couldn’t wait for the harridan to return to London and as far away from his as possible.
“You were joking about swapping rooms, were you, Mr Liebowitz?” asked the awestruck Madeleine.
“No, I was not joking, my dear,” Max said kindly. “You have worked tirelessly for all year at Monique’s beck and call. Go and enjoy yourself, you’ve certainly earned a rest! You are my guest of honour for the weekend.”
He smiled, then he bent over and whispered in her ear.
“Ring that bell whenever you want something and tell me if they are nasty to you.”
Madeleine couldn’t believe her luck!
17
Not the usual yuletide festivities
When they stepped inside, it was clear Peter Ashwood always went to great lengths to make his guests feel welcome during the yuletide. Small sprigs of holly tastefully adorned the picture frames. Each of the reception rooms had a perfectly decorated Christmas tree that almost reached the ceiling. Thomas looked around him and nodded in appreciation, stealing some of the creative display ideas to use at The Songbird for next year. There were candles everywhere in tiny silver lanterns strung over the mantlepieces. There was mistletoe above every door frame. Everyone assumed it was a last-ditch attempt by Peter to warm his French fiancée to the festive season and defrost her. The most spectacular of the decorations was a life-size marble sculpture of the nativity scene in the main hallway. Madeleine couldn’t begin to imagine how much that might have cost. The small party waited courteously next to it, taking in the grandeur of the place.
“Now, dear friends. You’ve had a long journey,” said Peter. “Go and make yourselves comfortable and settle into your rooms. Let us reconvene at, say, seven o’clock? I’m afraid my fiancée is suffering from one of her headaches and won’t be joining us this evening.”
No one seemed particularly surprised after her petulant behaviour earlier.
In the early evening, Peter seated his visitors in a cosy parlour off the dining room. Rich oriental carpet covered the floor, and deep red velvet curtains hung at the windows which kept in the heat. They sank back into deep leather chairs, warming their bones in front of a toasty crackling fire. The occasional tables dotted around the room had an array of Christmas treats: delicate mince pies, salt-encrusted pretzels and stollen. Peter wowed his guests when he explained the luxury imported German cake was designed to represent the Christ-child wrapped in swaddling rags. The most sumptuous treat was a silver jug of rich eggnog, made with the thickest cream and richest eggs, carefully ladled into silver goblets by Jenkins’ steady hand, each one topped with a light sprinkle of freshly grated nutmeg.
The group sat quietly, taking in the serenity of the moonlit countryside through the parlour’s large bay windows. David loved the stillness. There were no teetering piles of ledgers blocking his view. Nobody was knocking on his door interrupting his peace. There was no commotion from artistes practising for the show, nor the clang of pots and pans in the kitchen accompanied by the jabber of women. The parlour was a serene space to simply sit and be. He loved it.
Jenkins rang the ornate golden gong and the party made their way to the dining room. The lavish porcelain tableware had been deployed, along with the baroque-style gold and silver candelabras. The linen was smoother than a fresh sheet of crisp white paper. A seemingly endless array of delectable dishes arrived, served by Jenkins and his highly trained team. Everyone politely ignored the empty chair next that should have been Monique’s. The meal was rounded off with port for the Madeleine and cognac for the men.
The guests were all warm and fed, and a drowsy feeling washed over them. One by one, everyone from The Songbird began to excuse themselves and make their way to bed. Jenkins had ensured that gentle fires were dancing brightly in the hearths to make their rooms welcoming and warm, but not hot and stuffy.
Madeleine opened the door to her suite and tip-toed into it, feeling as if she was in a dream. A canopied bed stood in the centre of the room. The floral eiderdown matched the curtains, a
nd there were two blankets underneath it. The Egyptian cotton bedsheets felt luxurious under her hands and she looked forward to sinking her tired head onto a luxuriously fluffy duck-down pillow. Next to her bed was a bunch of beautiful freshly cut blooms. Madeleine could not imagine where they had come from as the ground outside was bare and frozen.
There was a knock on the door, and a maid entered carrying a silver tray with a cup of rich hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a dusting of cocoa powder. The maid put it down next to a basket of luscious fresh fruit. Again, the young girl wondered where they had found such succulent juicy produce in the middle of winter.
“They’re from Lord Ashcroft’s Orangery on the estate, Miss Madeleine. I’ll ask Jenkins to show you tomorrow while the men go off to the woods. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
The young girl had no idea what an Orangery was but looked forward to finding out. She climbed into the warm bed and got lost in the soft fleecy blankets. It was a dream, all a dream, and she was convinced would wake up in the staff quarters at The Songbird in the morning.
*
For the menfolk, the hunt began at noon precisely. Max studied his son carefully as they walked toward the woods. David looked decidedly unhappy. The concerned father had noticed that since Suzanna had left for Florence, the lovestruck man was remote, bordering on depressed. David tried very hard to avoid Max and Thomas and hide his torment, but nothing escaped the old man’s empathetic eyes. He planned to speak to his son soon if he didn’t either snap out of it or go to see her in Italy.
Because none of The Songbird party had ever hunted for game before, let alone picked up a rifle, they were all clueless about the rules pertaining to the social event. As far as Max was concerned, he would have preferred to send Peter’s butler to the local gun club, ask them to do the shoot and have the local butcher deliver the prepared birds to The Songbird. David had never killed anything in his life and did not feel a need to blow a bird to bits. Thomas, on the other hand, was very excited. He decided he would be satisfied just to fire a shot without killing anything, such would be the adrenaline rush of pulling the trigger for the first time.
“Roll call!” shouted Sergeant Payne.
Everyone looked at each other, wondering what to do. The novice hunters hoped the former military man was going to be in a lucid frame of mind today, rather than delusional.
“We are all here, Sarge,” shouted Thomas in the hope of humouring Sid.
“Line up, men!” he ordered. “Now, who is present?”
Payne called out each man’s name and insisted upon an ‘aye-aye’ response. Even Peter Ashwood was forced into submission.
“What the hell is going on here?” Lord Ashcroft whispered to David.
“I am not entirely sure,” he replied with complete honesty.
“We have an important mission to fulfil men. Follow me and follow orders. I will keep you alive.”
David took in the ridiculous situation. How is it that four grown men were following orders from a man who had a tenuous grip on reality?
“Attention!” shouted Sid with authority. “Forward march!”
Everybody started moving forward, guns loaded, ready to blow the first bird they saw to smithereens—game or otherwise. With military stealth, Sid lead the way turning around every so often and putting his finger to his lips, indicating for them to be silent. They would walk a little further, and then Payne would put up his hand for them to halt as he surveyed the land ahead. Peter Ashwood was becoming visibly annoyed with Sid’s rigmarole. It was my hunt. They are my guests. Yet, we have some strange fellow leading us through the woods as if we are re-enacting the Siege of Lucknow.
It was the rustle of birds at the top of the trees that set the events in motion. The ever-vigilant Sergeant believed that he had carelessly led his men into an ambush. When he heard the wings flapping, Payne threw himself onto the ground and fired two shots at the dense evergreen rhododendrons ahead of them. Everybody watched him in confusion. He reloaded his shotgun, screaming for his men to provide cover fire, then fired another blast.
Neither Ashwood nor the others knew what to do. They crouched down, perfectly still, hoping that Payne would not fire at them with his remaining round—something they all suspected he might attempt were he to hear even the faintest snap of a twig behind him.
Eventually, tiring of the impasse, Thomas bravely began to inch forward. Sergeant Payne looked around and saw him advancing.
“Get down, soldier! Get down. That is an order,” snarled Sid, jabbing his forefinger towards the frosty ground.
“Max, what the devil is this man of yours doing?” hissed Ashwood.
Max gave a shrug, then picked at a loose thread on his tweed jacket to avoid Peter’s death stare. Thomas stayed on his feet, unable to face crawling along the frozen ground. Nobody said a word. They had their eyes riveted on Payne. The woods were deathly quiet. The birds had scattered at the sound of the gun. Sid was still laying on the ground on high alert.
Suddenly, a massive snow-covered branch snapped off a tree and it thundered to the ground. As loud as a gunshot, Thomas knew the sound would unsettle the sergeant. Like a scrum-half lurching for the line for the try, instantly, he dived onto the ground next to Payne, thinking he had more chance of wrestling the gun off Sid with his bare hands than dodging being shot at close range. Thomas landed heavily, winding himself.
Sid spun around and saw the young man lying motionless in the snow next to him, and he began to scream. The sound was blood-curdling and rang through the empty forest and reverberated back at them.
“No!” screamed Sergeant Payne. “No!”
He reached for Thomas and covered his body with his own. Thomas had no idea what was happening and was trying to break free of the weight on top of him. The other men looked on, not knowing what to do for the best. After quite a tussle, Sergeant Payne climbed off Thomas, studied his face and began screaming again. Sid grabbed him, pulling his head toward his chest, like a newly bereaved mother clutching a stillborn infant, crying and moaning, rocking with his eyes closed.
Max saw Sid’s gun lying in the snow, and he snatched it to safety. Still distraught, Sid was holding a bewildered Thomas and tears were running down his face. It was a ludicrous, yet heart-wrenching scene. Each man had read in the papers about the heavy mental toll a life in battle can have on a soldier. At The Songbird, they had heard retired officers give vivid talks to promote their books about experiences of warfare. No one knew what to do for Sid, apart from give him time to regain his composure. They all presumed battle-fatigue and flashbacks were the cause of Sid’s woes, even if they didn’t quite know the precise nature of his wartime experiences and why he was suffering so badly.
Peter Ashwood was fidgeting next to David, embarrassed by what he had to witness. This was anything but the way the aristocrat had hoped the festive hunt would turn out. Slowly, Max walked over to the two men on the floor. He gently and put his hand on Payne’s shoulder and spoke softly.
“Sid, it’s me, Max. You’re safe now. It’s all over. I have come to take you home.”
Sid suddenly had a flash of reality. The soldier’s face brightened, he loosened his grip on Thomas and then stood up politely. The others breathed a sigh of relief.
“Why, Max, where did you come from? I haven’t seen you for years.”
His comment worried the onlookers all over again, but at least Payne was no longer armed. Max’s compassionate side shone out once more.
“Let’s go and have a warm cup of tea in front of the fire, Sid. It’s freezing out here. You can tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“Of course,” answered a dazed-looking Payne, “that would be lovely.”
The Sergeant became aware of Thomas lying in the snow.
“What the hell are you doing down there, Thomas? You will freeze to death.”
They were all relieved to see Sid return to the real world. Thomas had become fond of Payne, and although he did not understand what
had happened in the tortured fellow’s mind, he still felt deep pity for the man. The brief interval of lucidity that Sergeant Payne experienced soon evaporated when Peter shot at some pheasants. He returned to his military persona, barking orders and imagining the enemy in their midst. The whole flock flew far into the distance.
“Will Sid be alright?” Thomas asked Max.
“Yes, Thomas. If we look after him.”
Peter Ashcroft, with his nerves in tatters and patience stretched paper-thin, suggested that he would ask the local gun club to help with harvesting the birds for The Songbird’s Christmas menu after all.
“Great idea, old bean!” added Max with glee.
18
Sid’s torment
“I don’t know where we’ll put all this delicious food,” Max said with a laugh as they sat at the table later that evening.
The planned seven-course menu was definitely a belt-buster. It was most welcome after all the exertion of trudging through the snow-covered woodland.
“We can put the leftovers in tins for the frontline soldiers,” advised Sid, firmly back in his imaginary military cocoon.
Peter glared at him. What did Max see in that crackpot?
“Now, now, Sarge,” said Thomas, “that won’t be necessary, we have plenty of food at the front.”
“Of course it’s necessary,” insisted Sid. “Here at base camp, we’re well-fed, but my regiment is stuck behind enemy lines west of the Kyber Pass, and they are starving as we speak.”
Ashwood watched Payne with frustration.
“Is he pulling our legs, being a bit of a wag, Max?”
“Not at all, Peter. He is earnest right now,” answered Max without making any excuses. “He didn’t used to be like this. He’s definitely suffering more than when we first became friends. I put it down to him being fond of reminiscing, larking around a bit, but now his frontline flashbacks seem to dominate his thinking. He means no harm though, Peter, I can assure you.”
The Christmas Songbird Page 14
