by Rhys Bowen
“That was only the once,” she said. “I don’t go around setting people on fire all the time.”
“I’m just being cautious, Queenie. You are a walking disaster area and I think you should confine your activities to making my life a misery.”
“Yes, miss,” she muttered and crept away, leaving me feeling rotten. Why did she have this ability to make me feel bad when it was always her fault? I finished my toilet and went downstairs to face the arrival of the first guests—the Wexlers from Indiana.
The Americans arrived late that afternoon. We received a telephone call from Newton Abbott Station. The car was dispatched and we were urged to walk to the end of the drive to meet them at the gates. “As a gesture of welcome and goodwill,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley put it. She even made the servants line up as if to receive the new lord of the manor.
“Bloody rubbish if you ask me,” Sir Oswald muttered. “And don’t think I’m going to change out of my old cardigan either. I’m not dressing up for anybody. They can take me as I am.”
“Oswald. It has a hole in the sleeve. You look like a tramp,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “At least put on your tweed jacket.”
As we stood at the gates, feeling cold and silly, it started to snow.
“You see, it is going to be a white Christmas,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said happily. “All your gloom and doom, Oswald, and it will be splendid. Absolutely splendid.”
At last the Bentley was spotted approaching the village. We waved and welcomed them all the way up the drive and Lady Hawse-Gorzley insisted on opening the car door herself.
“What kind of antique automobile do you have here?” The father of the family uncurled himself from the backseat. “Real quaint. I guess you dust it off to fetch guests from the station. Helps to create the right atmosphere, I reckon.”
“This happens to be our only motorcar,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“Gee, at home it would be in a museum,” he replied.
The rest of the family climbed out of the motorcar, staring around them as if they had landed on Mars. They consisted of an impossibly tall Mr. Wexler, a blond and very painted Mrs. Wexler, a pouty daughter whom Wexler called Cherie, and a freckled son named Junior.
“I sincerely hope we are not the only guests,” Mr. Wexler complained as he stepped through the front door and looked around. “We were promised a big house party.”
“The other guests are not arriving until tomorrow,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “except, of course, our member of the royal family. Lady Georgiana is already here.”
As Bunty had predicted, that changed everything. Mrs. Wexler bobbed an awkward curtsy. Mr. Wexler muttered, “Well, gee whiz. How about that, Mother. Didn’t I promise you a Christmas you’d never forget?”
“Hey, Pa, take a look at those swords on the wall. Are they real?”
“They certainly are, little boy,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied, “and they are so sharp that they’d take your hand off.” Junior withdrew his hand hurriedly.
They were shown their rooms. The parents found them quaint and charming, but the daughter, Cherie, commented that they were “real small” compared to the palatial suites they had at home in Muncie, Indiana. Mrs. Wexler suggested her hosts turn up the central heating a few notches and was horrified to find that there was none.
“Well, I guess it’s so darned cold in here because someone left the window open by mistake,” she said and promptly shut it.
“We always sleep with the windows open. Much healthier,” Bunty said with a bright smile.
“Well, little lady, you must be tougher than we are,” Mr. Wexler replied. “We like our rooms nice and warm in the winter, so if you wouldn’t mind making sure there’s a good fire by the time we get ready for bed . . .”
“Oh, yes, the servants always light the fires well before bedtime,” Bunty said.
Junior looked under the bed. “Hey, Pa, there’s a chamber pot under here.” He shrieked with laughter.
“It goes with the décor, honey,” Mrs. Wexler said. “It’s old world.”
“No, it’s there because the nearest lavatory is a long walk down the hall,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “One never knows.”
“You mean we don’t have our own bathroom?” Mrs. Wexler said, looking with big hopeless eyes at her husband.
“This house was built in 1400,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “In those days they weren’t very good about indoor plumbing. We are fortunate to have two on this floor—one at the end of this hallway and one down there at the other end.” She paused. “And I should probably get Bunty to show you how the geyser works. It can be temperamental.”
“A geyser? Don’t tell me your hot water shoots up from the ground like at Yellowstone?”
“Shoots up from the ground?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked bemused. “It’s a perfectly normal water-heating device. A little gadget above the bath. Ours just happens to be slightly temperamental, that’s all.”
“It’s not what we’re used to,” Mr. Wexler said.
“Of course not,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said brightly. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? For an old-fashioned English Christmas. There would be no point if it was just like your home.”
With that she marched away down the stairs, leaving them to stare after her.
“I guess you’ve upset a British aristocrat, Clyde,” Mrs. Wexler said in a low voice. “You know how highly strung they are.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley was clearly ill at ease with the Americans all afternoon, trying to keep from them the news of three unexpected and unexplained deaths. She suggested that the younger ones go out and make a snowman, to take advantage of the snow—which produced mirthful laughter. Apparently it snowed all winter where they lived, so snowmen were not a novelty. So I was left to cheer them up. I started telling them stories about my cousins the little princesses and the good times we had together. Luckily they really lapped this up.
“Fancy that, Clyde. She went out riding with Princess Elizabeth and she says the princess can ride as well as any grown-up. And that little Princess Margaret—a real firecracker, from what she says. They’re going to have trouble with that one when she grows up.”
They seemed to perk up when tea was served. Apparently tea was a novelty to them and they all approved of the cakes and scones.
“We do dress for dinner,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Just to warn you. Sir Oswald is very hot on keeping up standards.”
I thought this was a bad example, as Sir Oswald was still in his old Harris tweed jacket and faded corduroy trousers and had made no effort to be hospitable.
“Do some people sit down to dinner in their underwear in England, then?” Junior asked, making his sister giggle.
“No, but the lower classes do not change out of their day clothes. The better class of person usually dines formally in evening wear, even when we are eating alone. It’s the done thing,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“I don’t have no evening wear, do I, Ma?” Junior asked.
“You won’t be dining with the grown-ups, young man,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “We’ll have Cook bring up a tray to your nursery.”
“Of course Junior will eat with us,” Mrs. Wexler said. “Junior always eats with us. What a horrible idea, making him eat alone like a convict in his cell. No wonder the British grow up so cold and unfriendly.”
“I assure you we are not cold or unfriendly,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “I suppose the young man may join us if he wishes.”
“And stay up late, huh, Pa?” Junior asked.
“Sure, son, why not? How often do you get to sit up with quaint British people?”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley pressed her lips together and walked away. During dinner, however, it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink, thus raising Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s spirits considerably because it would keep down the costs and mean more wine for her. She waxed poetic about all the quaint and lovely English customs that awaited them. “We’ve been out searching the grounds for the perfect Yule l
og,” she said, “and when everybody is here, we’ll all decorate the Christmas tree. And there will be caroling door to door of course, and a hot mince pie and toddy at each house, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Sounds boring to me,” Junior said. His sister nodded agreement.
Lady Hawse-Gorzley went on, “Ah, but Lady Georgiana has some splendid things planned for the young folk. Party games and indoor fireworks and of course the costume ball. Then, after Christmas, all the traditional village events: the hunt, the Lovey Chase and of course the Worsting of the Hag on New Year’s Eve.”
“What’s that?” Junior demanded, interested now in spite of himself.
“It’s all to do with the Lovey Curse,” Bunty said dramatically. “We had a witch in the village who was burned alive at the stake. And she swore she’d come back every Christmastime to get revenge. So every year on New Year’s Eve the villagers go from house to house with drums and pots and pans, making a lot of noise to scare out the hag and ensure a safe year ahead with no bad luck.”
“There’s no such thing as curses and witches, is there, Pa?” Junior said uncertainly.
“Maybe not in America,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There certainly are in England. We are a very old country, you know. This house was built one hundred years before Columbus even discovered your country.”
After dinner Mr. Wexler declined to stay with Sir Oswald for port and cigars and insisted on accompanying the ladies into the drawing room, where it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink coffee at night. “But if you have any malted milk instead . . . ?” Mrs. Wexler said.
“Malted milk?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked baffled. “I suppose Cook could have cocoa sent up to your rooms when you are ready for bed.”
“That would be any time now, wouldn’t it, Mother,” Mr. Wexler said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s our motto. What time is breakfast? We’re always ready for it about seven.”
“Since you didn’t bring a maid, Lady Georgiana has graciously agreed to lend you hers if you need help,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
I thought of the jersey dress, had temporary misgivings, then asked, “Would you like my maid to help you undress?”
They found that most amusing. “Help me undress?” Mrs. Wexler dug her husband in the ribs. “She thinks I’m too feeble to undress myself, Clyde.” She patted my arm. “Honey, at home women are raised to do everything for themselves. We don’t believe in having servants. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Heaven help us,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied when the Wexlers had gone, leaving us alone with our coffee. “I didn’t think guests could be so—”
“Difficult?” Bunty suggested.
“I was going to say ‘different,’” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I have to agree with your choice.”
“Tell them that’s how we do things in upper-class British households and that was why they came here—to see how the other half lives,” Bunty said firmly.
“I did try.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sighed. “But I do hope the other guests won’t prove so . . . different.”
We went to bed. For some reason I couldn’t sleep, but lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the hoot of an owl in the stillness. Random thoughts flew around my head concerning the three mysterious deaths, escaped convicts, the village idiot, the wild girl and the assertion that they were “all crackers” around here. After a while I realized how still it was. The complete silence of the world indicated to me that it must still be snowing and I thought how jolly it would be to have a white Christmas. My dear ones were nearby. There was loads of lovely food and drink and a house that wasn’t freezing. And no Fig for miles and miles. I wasn’t going to let those three deaths, the escaped convicts or difficult Americans spoil it for me.
Chapter 11
GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 23
Other guests arrive today. Hoping they won’t be as difficult as the Wexlers. Not sure I’m cut out for the role of social hostess!
I was awakened early the next morning by the Wexlers tramping down the corridor talking loudly. I didn’t wait for Queenie and morning tea, but went down the hall to the bathroom, then came back and dressed, this time in the skirt from my tweed suit plus a blouse and cardigan—not exactly smart but at least different from the day before. As I came downstairs the butler was standing in the entrance hall. “It’s still not working, my lady,” he called.
He heard my feet on the stairs and looked up at me, then continued. “The telephone line appears to be down. Maybe it snowed during the night, but there is certainly no connection this morning.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley came through from the breakfast room looking harassed. “It’s too bad,” she said. “Now I’ll have to send the motor into town to deliver the message, I suppose.”
“Is there something I could do?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose you could go to the police station and ask to use their telephone,” she said. “It is an emergency, after all.”
“Emergency?” I felt my pulse rate quicken.
“Yes, I need to let the butcher know that I changed my mind. I do want the geese to go with the turkeys. I’m not a big fan of goose myself—so rich and fatty, isn’t it? But Oswald reminded me that it is the traditional Christmas fowl, so I’m afraid we must serve some. The guests will be expecting it.”
“So you’d like me to put in a telephone call to the butcher?”
“Yes. Skaggs, the butcher. The girl on the switchboard will connect you. Tell him that Lady Hawse-Gorzley changed her mind and she does want the geese delivered early tomorrow morning to go with the turkeys.”
“I can certainly do that for you,” I said.
“Go and have your breakfast first, dear,” she said. “The Wexlers have already finished theirs. It appears they only take some kind of cereal that resembles twigs at home, and they absolutely refused to try the kidneys.” She shook her head as if they were already a lost cause. “There is no huge hurry, although I’m sure the butcher will be busy all day today. And we don’t exactly know when the other guests will arrive so I will be tied to the house all day. And the Wexlers asked about stockings. What exactly do people do with stockings at Christmas?”
“Hang them up for Father Christmas, I believe.”
“Hang them where?”
“Over the fireplace.”
“My dear, with this many people it would look like a Chinese laundry, wouldn’t it? No, I think we’ll dispense with stockings. I’ll have a present for everybody inside a snow house and those who want to can exchange gifts privately or put them under the tree.”
“Oh,” I said, staring at her as the thought struck me. “Are we supposed to give presents?”
“Not you, my dear. Absolutely not necessary.”
I nodded, my brain still racing. We didn’t go in for presents much at Castle Rannoch. I always gave my nephew, Podge, a little something. Binky and Fig occasionally managed a box of handkerchiefs or a pair of gloves. Mummy sent a check when she remembered, but Christmas was certainly a no-nonsense affair with us. This time I had actually brought a small gift for Queenie, but it occurred to me now that I should give my grandfather something too, and also my mother. The problem was that Lady Hawse-Gorzley hadn’t reimbursed me for my train fare yet and I was seriously lacking in funds. I didn’t think that my mother would be satisfied with Ashes of Roses perfume from Woolworths instead of Worth. I’d love to have given Granddad a really nice present—a cashmere scarf or a warm pullover. It felt so frustrating to have no money. For a second I wondered if I could ask Lady H-G for an advance, but my pride wouldn’t let me. At least I’d look in the village shop for small tokens and hope for a miracle.
I ate a hearty breakfast and set off for the village, crunching down the driveway, where the snow had frozen hard all night, and stood admiring the village scene—small boys with sleds, a snowman on the village green, villagers bundled against the cold staggering home with baskets laden with good things and mysteriously wrappe
d packages. Suddenly it was impossible not to be caught up in the spirit of Christmas.
At the police station I was met by a worried-looking young constable. “Sorry I can’t help you, miss,” he said, “but our telephone isn’t working either. I don’t know what can be wrong. It’s not as if there was a storm last night, was there? Maybe it’s the cold what’s done it.”
I looked around the village shop, but there was nothing that was remotely suitable for Christmas presents, the most exotic items being long woolen underwear and white handkerchiefs. But my spirits were raised when I realized that someone would now have to go into town to deliver Lady H-G’s message.
“Their telephone’s not working either?” she said, running a hand through her hair. “What a nuisance. There is always a last-minute hitch, isn’t there? I don’t suppose you’d be an angel and go into town for me, would you? I absolutely have to have those geese and I know he’ll sell out if I wait any longer.”
“Of course I’ll go into town for you,” I said, delighted that I would now get a chance to shop.
The car was summoned and I rode in solitary splendor into the little market town of Newton Abbott. If the village had depicted the rural Christmas scene, this was straight out of Dickens. Little shops with lead-paned bow windows, a cheery pub, children singing carols on every street corner and people staggering under loads of provisions and presents. I delivered my message to Mr. Skaggs, who looked pleased with himself.
“I told her ladyship, didn’t I?” he said in his thick Devon burr. “I said she’d be needing the geese as well. Right, my lovey, you tell her that I’ll be delivering them bright and early on Christmas morning. She don’t need to worry.”
“Lady Hawse-Gorzley tried to telephone you,” I said, “but it seems that the line is down or something. Even the police station telephone was not working.”
“Ah, well, they wouldn’t be, would they?” the butcher said, giving me a knowing look. “Fire last night at the exchange. Didn’t you folks hear about it? Terrible it were. Seems there was something wrong with the wiring and one of the poor telephone operators plugged in her headphones and she were electrocuted right away. Then the whole thing caught on fire. Took the fire brigade hours to put it out. Such a terrible shame so near to Christmas.”
