by Rhys Bowen
“I have to get back to the hall.” I gave my mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much for the presents. They are lovely. I’ll look quite smart for Christmas. See you tomorrow for Christmas dinner, then.”
“I’m not sure if we’re coming,” she said. “Noel doesn’t think they’ll be our kind of people.”
Back downstairs I gave Granddad his little box and Mrs. Huggins her box of toffees. They were both quite moved.
“Fancy, me getting a present from royalty,” Mrs. Huggins said. “Just wait till I tell them back home at the Queen’s Head.”
“You’re a good girl, my love,” Granddad said, putting an arm around me. “I wish I’d got a present for you, but I had no idea I’d be seeing you. I hope good things come your way soon. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”
“Actually, having you close by for Christmas is the best present I could have,” I said, giving him a kiss.
I felt a rosy glow as I came out of the cottage. I saw Miss Prendergast hurrying across the street, even though there was no traffic in sight. She was holding her shapeless hat firmly to her head, although the wind was hardly blowing, and she didn’t notice me until she almost barreled into me.
“Oh, goodness me,” she said. “So sorry. Didn’t see you. I’ve just come from the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Tried to cheer them up but they are completely devastated, poor dears. They relied on Miss Effie for everything. She used to boss them around dreadfully but they are lost without her. One feels so sorry for them.” And her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to sentiment. “I really wish that . . .” she began, then shook her head firmly. “Can’t undo the past, no matter how sad, can one?”
And she went on her way, up the front path to her cottage door. I stared after her. What did she wish? I wondered. That Miss Effie hadn’t died, or that one of the other sisters had died in her stead? I continued on my way back to the hall.
* * *
THE REST OF the day went smoothly enough. The younger set were in good spirits after the pantomime rehearsal and amused themselves playing board games. The Sechrests and Rathbones played bridge, chatting as they did so about this area and their memories of past hunts and regattas and families they both knew. The Rathbones once owned a house nearby for their home leaves but had been forced to give it up a few years ago, when so much money was lost in the great crash of ’29.
“The memsahib still misses her garden, of course,” Colonel Rathbone said. “It’s too damned hot to work in the garden in Calcutta.”
“The gardeners do try hard, bless them,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but it’s always a losing battle against the heat and then the monsoon comes and flattens everything.”
“Pity it’s not summer or Sandra would love to show you around our garden,” Captain Sechrest said. “Absolutely devoted to her garden, aren’t you, old girl?”
“One has to keep oneself busy while you are away for months,” Mrs. Sechrest said and I noticed that she shot a look at Johnnie Protheroe, who was playing some kind of card game with Bunty that seemed to involve touching her knee quite often.
“So how often do you get home?” Sandy Sechrest asked the Rathbones.
“Every five years.”
“How much longer do you think you’ll stick it out?” she asked.
Colonel Rathbone frowned. “Can’t really say. Of course I’d like to retire to a little place in a village like this. But who knows if we’ll have another blasted war or a native uprising. And who knows what one will be able to afford on an army pension.”
He glanced at his wife, then she looked away. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mrs. Rathbone said. “You give your life to the army and they reward you with a pension that a sparrow couldn’t live on. It’s simply not fair. I should have been like some of the other wives and had an affair with a maharaja and been rewarded for my services with jewels. I know a couple of wives who set themselves up very nicely that way.”
“I wouldn’t have minded an affair with a maharaja,” Sandra Sechrest said dreamily. “They have such lovely dark eyes, don’t they?”
I let the conversation wash over me as I pretended to study a magazine, but I found I could not shake off the tension. The day wasn’t over yet. There was still time for another death.
Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared, clapping her hands. “Time for tea, everyone. We’re serving it a little early so that we have enough light to go out and find the Yule log. And I wanted to check who would like to go to midnight mass at our little church, and who would rather do matins tomorrow morning. Oh, and Darcy dear—do you need me to find out the times of masses at the Catholic church in Newton Abbott?”
And there it was—the reminder of the fact I had conveniently chosen to block from my mind. Darcy was a Catholic. I would not be allowed to marry him.
Chapter 18
DECEMBER 24, EVENING ON CHRISTMAS EVE
Can’t help feeling excited, in spite of everything that has happened.
I tried to push this worry from my mind as we wrapped up warmly and set off to find the Yule log. Monty insisted that we sing carols as we trudged through the snow. The temperature was slightly warmer today so the snow was turning to slush, which would make it hard to drag the log home on a sled. Sir Oswald and Monty were pulling one just in case, but Bunty was leading one of the farm horses attached to a wagon.
This time we set out on the other side of the house, past a lovely formal garden, its statues decorated with crowns of snow and a snowy rim to the lily pond, then into a wilderness area that led up to Lovey Tor. This part of the grounds was full of old oak trees, bent against the cruel Dartmoor wind, as were cedars, yew trees and even a beech or two. When I paused to look back I saw that we had a lovely view of the house and the village beyond, nestled in the hollow between the hills. We could also glimpse another large house through the trees.
“What’s that?” I asked Bunty.
“Oh, that was poor old Freddie’s place,” she said. “I don’t know who it will go to now. He didn’t have any brothers. Perhaps it will be sold and we’ll have frightful nouveau riche bankers who will just come down for weekends.”
“At least you’d have a chance to meet people if they brought house parties with them,” I said and she grinned.
“Maybe they wouldn’t be so frightful. I do so want to marry someone rich enough to keep me. I could do without the title.”
“I agree,” I said. “Titles aren’t worth much in the real world, are they?”
“In your case you could presumably marry someone with a real title—you know—a prince or a duke.”
“That’s what my family would like. They have already tried to saddle me with a frightful Romanian prince. My friend Belinda and I called him Fishface.”
“But you’d prefer a penniless Darcy.” She glanced back over her shoulder to see Darcy far behind, walking with Monty as they dragged the sled.
“Yes, I would, actually. But it probably won’t ever happen. I don’t think I’d be allowed to marry a Catholic.”
“That’s stupid. I’d jolly well ignore them if I wanted to marry someone I loved.”
“I think it’s something to do with the law of England. One can hardly go against that.”
“You’ll find a way if you want to,” she said encouragingly.
We walked on.
“How much further? I’m tired,” Junior whined.
I glanced back again as a thought struck me. This part of the property was close to Freddie’s house, and what’s more, it was full of big, solid trees. If he had wanted to rig up some kind of booby trap then the position here would have been ideal. Why go all the way around to the orchard?
“Here we are,” Sir Oswald called. “This is the one I thought would do. What do you think?”
We gathered around to admire an enormous log—a great fallen oak limb, actually—then worked together to heft it onto the sled, which promptly sank into the mushy snow and wouldn’t move. So we had to
use the wagon. Even with all of us lifting and grunting it was jolly heavy and we were glad that the horse had to transport it down the hill and not us. As we made our way home the light was rapidly fading, bathing the world in a dusky pink glow.
“We will take the log into the house and light it after dinner,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “and if all goes well it should burn all through Christmas Day to bring us luck.”
As soon as we had taken off our coats and hats, Dickson the butler appeared with a punch bowl of steaming mulled wine and a tray of hot sausage rolls. This time I sipped slowly, warming up my fingers on the glass.
“Right, now we all have more work to do before dinner.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley took control again before anyone could slip away. “It’s time to decorate the Christmas tree. Lights in this box, glass ornaments here, tinsel garlands over there. You should be able to reach the upper portion of the tree by leaning through the banister, and I suggest you boys put the lights and ornaments on the upper part.”
We set to work hanging the delicate ornaments—trumpets and birds, gnomes and balls, then adding the finishing touches of pinecones, sugar mice, tinsel. When the lights were finally plugged in, the tree sparkled with a magical glow and the company broke into applause.
This time we dressed formally for dinner, except for Junior, who joined us in an awful blue-and-white-checked jacket. Mrs. Upthorpe and Ethel were sporting their Parisian gowns, which somehow failed to make them look elegant. I know that’s uncharitable of me, but I was trying to be an unbiased observer. I also wished that it could have been summer, not winter, as I too possessed a Chanel evening gown—designed for me by Coco herself. But alas it was a light chiffon and quite unsuitable for a winter gathering. And so I was stuck with my aged burgundy velvet. At least I had a strand of family rubies that took the attention away from where Queenie had brushed the fabric the wrong way.
I came into the dining room to see that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had outdone herself tonight. There were two large candelabras on the dining table and their light sparkled from silver and crystal. I could tell the guests were impressed, even the Wexlers. There were place cards at the table and I was seated between Colonel Rathbone and Johnnie Protheroe—which would not have been my first choice of assignment. Sure enough, we were only halfway through the first course, a hearty game soup, when I felt a hand on my knee. I pushed it off and pretended not to have noticed.
The second course came: John Dory in a caper sauce. And to my amazement I felt a hand on my knee again, only this time it was the other knee. Either Johnnie had grown very long arms or the colonel was also a groper. I pushed it away. Across the table I saw Darcy giving me a strange look as if he could sense something was not right. I looked to left and right of me then rolled my eyes. I think he understood and smirked.
A sorbet was served before the main course to clear the palate and no hands appeared. Then the main course was carried to the table: a splendid baron of beef, with individual Yorkshire puddings, crispy roast potatoes and a puree of root vegetables baked with a crispy top. Conversation lagged as everyone ate. Then, as plates were cleared, not one but two hands landed on my knees again. I decided this had to stop once and for all. I slid both my hands under the table and caressed each hand lovingly, a serene smile on my face. Then I picked up each hand and brought them together, carefully removing my own hands. It took them a moment to realize that they were holding hands with each other. I sensed a rapid movement and then each of the men sitting bolt upright on either side of me. Both had red faces!
The pudding was apple tart with Devon clotted cream, followed by anchovy toast savories. We ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee and were soon joined by the men.
“I think some parlor games are in order, don’t you?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, and she soon had us playing all the silly old ones like the minister’s cat. It was the sort of thing that I, as an only child alone with servants in a big castle, had rarely done while I was growing up and I loved every moment of it.
Around ten, the Wexlers opted to go to bed, but the rest of us decided to stay up, most of us planning to go to midnight service. A couple of whist foursomes were begun. The rest of us sat near the fire talking. After a while I found I wasn’t taking part in the conversation, instead letting my thoughts wander from the robbery today to Darcy’s Catholicism. I kept telling myself that it was Christmas Eve and all was well, but so many disquieting things had happened in the last few days that I couldn’t fully relax and enjoy the moment. I fought back tiredness and was glad when we were dismissed to change for church.
At eleven forty-five we set off up the driveway, marching two by two like students on a school outing. The dowager countess had declined to come with us, declaring that midnight mass was a papist invention and the only proper celebration of Christmas was matins on the day itself. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest decided to join her. I suspected they had both eaten and drunk their fill at dinner and were feeling too comfortable to move. The slushy snow had frozen again and made the going treacherous but we held on to each other and reached the church without mishap. Apparently the Hawse-Gorzleys had their own pews at the front, because Lady Hawse-Gorzley marched us past the rest of the congregation to the places of honor right at the front where nobody else had dared to sit. I noticed that Darcy had come with us and sat with Monty and Badger in the row behind me.
It was one of those perfect village churches dating from Norman times with a vaulted ceiling and simple altar and it had that special smell I always associated with old churches—a mixture of mold and old books and polish that was in no way unpleasant. It was also, like most old churches, not heated and our breath rose visibly toward the rafters. Miss Prendergast had decorated it splendidly, with holly in every niche and ivy trailing over the back of the altar. I noticed, however, that the Christmas crèche, at the steps of the Lady Chapel, had no adornment of holly, thanks to Mr. Barclay.
The moment I located him, sitting at the organ still and formal in his red bow tie, he struck up with a resounding fanfare that filled the whole church. The choirboys shuffled in, the smaller ones rubbing their eyes and wishing they could be in bed. They looked so angelic in their white robes and red ruffs and when the organ struck up “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” they sounded angelic too. As we reached the verse that begins, “Yeah, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning,” the church bells began to ring midnight and it was Christmas Day.
After a rousing rendering of “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” we walked back up the drive, no longer sleepy but revived by the lively singing. I fell into step beside Darcy.
“I see you came to the church of the heretics with us,” I said, trying to make it sound as if I was joking. “So tell me, does your Catholic religion really mean that much to you?”
“I came with you because I thought it was polite to my hostess,” he said, “and also because the law says we don’t have to attend mass if the church is more than three miles away and if we are a traveler. The nearest Catholic church is at least ten miles away and I didn’t want to put anyone to the trouble of driving me in this weather.”
“Oh, I see,” I said.
“And as to whether my religion means anything to me, I can’t say I’m always a devout Catholic, but I try. My mother converted to marry my father, you know. And she became very devout. So I’m conscious of that.”
We walked on in silence while I digested this. As we took off the various layers of coats and scarves, Lady Hawse-Gorzley announced that there was brandy and hot mince pies in the drawing room to warm us up. I was about to go through when Darcy grabbed my arm and held me back.
“It’s Christmas Day,” he said, “and I want to give you my Christmas present.” And he took a small box from his pocket. “If I’d known you were going to be here, it would have been something rather different and a little more special,” he said, “but I wanted you to have something, to think of me when I’m not with you.”
I took the box and opened it. Inside was a
silver Devon pixie on a pretty silver chain. I started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked. “Don’t you like it?”
“Wait and see tomorrow morning,” I said. “And I do like it. Thank you.”
“And in case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “I planned ahead. You’re standing directly under the mistletoe.”
Then he took me in his arms and kissed me—not a perfunctory meeting of the lips, but a real, warm and wonderful kiss.
Chapter 19
CHRISTMAS DAY AT GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 25
I floated up to bed in a rosy haze. Darcy loved me. Nothing else in the whole world mattered. Queenie was lying on my bed, snoring away. Presumably she had been waiting for my return to undress me and had not been able to stay awake any longer. I roused her gently. “Queenie, you can go to bed now,” I whispered. “Happy Christmas.”
“Same to you, miss,” she muttered and promptly fell back to sleep again.
“Queenie. You have to go back to your own bed.” I prodded and tried to move her. She merely sighed and turned over. She was too heavy to lift. Since I was full of happiness and Christmas cheer I merely rolled her to one side of the bed, undressed and got in myself.
I woke to the sound of bells pealing jubilantly. Christmas Day. I sat up to see that Queenie was still sound asleep, mouth open and snoring unattractively. I nudged her.
“Queenie. Wake up. It’s morning and I’d like my tea.”
She yawned and stretched like a cat, then opened her eyes and looked around in surprise.
“Ruddy ’ell, miss. What the dickens am I doing here?”
“You fell asleep waiting for me and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
“You’re a proper toff, you are,” she said.
“Yes, well, proper toffs usually get their morning tea brought to them by this hour, so I suggest you leap up and fetch it.”
