by Eva Shepherd
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she said as they walked down the hallway, followed by Max, who, once they reached the front entrance to the house, skittered past them and out through the door, excited by the prospect of so many people and so much activity.
‘None of this was my idea. It was all my mother’s doing,’ she added.
‘I do not doubt it.’ The mother was a force of nature and he’d already suspected that when she got an idea in her head nothing could stop her.
They walked outside and he was hit by a cacophony of sounds. Laughter, loud talking, shouts from conjurers and men trying to interest passers-by in the stalls, people spinning a tombola and balls being thrown at the coconut shy, along with the sounds of children at play, and more of those jingling Morris dancers’ bells.
They entered the nearest tent and he heard Tom, his head gardener, loudly declaring that the secret to growing successful vegetables was the right combination of horse manure and straw, followed by a murmur of approval, presumably from the other gardeners.
The conversation came to a halt.
‘Please, carry on,’ he said. ‘We’re just here because Lady Iris really wants to see the vegetables.’
‘Oh, yes, I do, indeed,’ she said, following his lead. ‘And I’m particularly keen to see the turnips, which I hear were a bumper crop this year.’
That was enough to start all the gardeners talking at once and giving their opinion on how to grow the biggest and the tastiest turnips.
Lady Iris made the appropriate responses, then nudged him lightly as a signal that they could now move on. A good idea, as the gardeners had gone back to arguing over which manure was the best and how thickly it should be spread.
They entered another tent, causing conversation to once again come to an abrupt halt. The shuffle of cotton fabric suggested that numerous women had just curtsied.
‘My lord, Lady Iris, it is so good to see you,’ his cook said.
‘So, I hear you’re in line to win a prize for the best gooseberry pie,’ Lady Iris said.
‘Thank you, m’lady. I do hope so.’ Theo could hear the justified pride in her voice.
‘And the best scones,’ the kitchen maid added.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Lottie,’ the cook replied with false modesty. ‘There’s going to be a lot of competition from the cook at the Walberton estate.’
‘Oh, you’re too kind,’ a woman said, presumably the Walbertons’ cook.
‘And then there’s Polly Smith from the Redcliffe estate...’ She halted and there was much shuffling of feet. ‘Polly’s a fine cook as well,’ she added quickly. ‘Although I’m not too sure I agree with the temperature she has her oven and she does add a little too much fruit.’
‘Nonsense,’ another cook shot back. ‘The higher the temperature the better and you can never have too much fruit.’
‘Well, good luck to you all,’ Theo said, leading Lady Iris out of the tent. Did everyone at this fête know about him and Estelle and were they all feeling sorry for him? Even the servants? Was it any surprise that he did not want to mix with his neighbours when they were all discussing his misfortunes?
At the next tent they were hit by the scent of flowers. They were introduced to the competitors, all of whom had their own ideas on the best way to grow the perfect blooms, and how to create the most attractive arrangements.
And so it went. Lady Iris led him into tent after tent, where he was greeted with enthusiasm as if he were some long-lost traveller finally returning home. Apart from their sometimes uncomfortable attempts to avoid mentioning Lord or Lady Redcliffe, he had to admit their kind wishes and cheerful greetings were somewhat heartening, and despite himself, as the day wore on, he was starting to slowly relax.
And having Lady Iris on his arm was certainly adding to the cheerful nature of the afternoon. For once her happy disposition was an asset rather than an annoyance as she conversed with all the locals and accepted their constant offers of cups of tea with a natural graciousness.
As she continued to chat away, he could hear their voices turn from polite and guarded, as one would expect when talking to an earl’s daughter, to comfortable and natural as she put them at ease with her genuine interest in what they were saying and with her happy disposition.
And, he had to admit, she was also putting him at his ease. He had expected there to be a certain awkwardness between them, after what had happened, but there was nothing awkward about Lady Iris.
Yes, she was making today quite tolerable—more than tolerable—but that did not mean he wanted her, or anyone else, in his life. Once the fête was over, once these tents were packed up and gone, it would be back to his old life as if none of this had ever happened.
A pain hit him, like a punch to his stomach. Back to his own life, of being alone. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. What was wrong with him? That was the life he had chosen for himself, and the one he would continue to live, the one he wanted.
‘Are you all right?’ Lady Iris asked, concern in her voice.
‘Perfectly all right,’ he shot back.
She didn’t answer and he could tell she was staring at him with concern, but what could he say, when he didn’t know himself what had caused that strange reaction?
‘Oh, there you are,’ Lady Springfeld said, interrupting his thoughts.
As if he would be anywhere other than exactly where she had insisted he be.
‘Don’t wander off or disappear, will you?’ she added, her voice cheerful, even though Theo knew it was bound to contain some threat or other. ‘Remember you’re still going to have to present the prizes.’
‘No, I hadn’t forgotten,’ Theo responded, trying and failing not to sound annoyed.
‘It could be worse,’ Lady Iris said with a smile in her voice. ‘At least all you have to do is present the prizes. It would be so much worse if you had to be one of the judges. I suspect they’ll have to make a hasty retreat once the results are announced.’
Theo smiled, remembering the animated discussion on manure in the gardeners’ tent. By the time he and Lady Iris had crept away they were almost coming to blows over the merits of horse manure versus cow manure.
‘And I suspect a few of the losers will be drowning their sorrows in Myrtle Williams’s elderberry wine,’ she said.
‘I noticed you were more than happy to try a few samples of that yourself,’ he added, causing her to laugh.
‘Yes, about the judging,’ Iris’s mother cut in. ‘There was some disagreement over the impartiality of the fruit pie judge, and it resulted in a bit of unpleasantness between the competitors.’
Theo joined Iris’s laughter. That didn’t surprise him in the least. While the cooks had been polite to each other in his company, their compliments had all had a slight competitive edge to them, and he suspected once he and Lady Iris had left their tent the disagreements had got as heated as that of the gardeners.
‘It has been decided that Iris would judge the appearance of the scones,’ Lady Springfeld said, causing Theo to smile at her unfortunate predicament. ‘And you will judge the taste and texture. So make haste—they’re expecting you at the baking tent.’
The mother rushed off, leaving a stunned Theo reeling in her wake and wondering whether that woman would ever stop tormenting him.
* * *
‘I’m sure it won’t be too bad,’ Iris said, suspecting it probably would be. ‘Although perhaps we should have asked Mother what happened to the last judge.’
‘Tarred and feathered probably,’ he said, looking as worried as she felt. ‘Or perhaps buttered and floured would be more appropriate.’
She smiled, pleased that at least he could joke about it. ‘Well, there’s nothing for it,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘Once more into the breach and all that.’
They walked towards the baking tent, with as
much trepidation as if they were about to face a firing squad.
‘I think we had better try to smile,’ Iris said. ‘Otherwise they might be able to sense our fear.’
He smiled down at her. ‘How does this look?’
‘Perfect.’ And it was. He had such a wonderfully perfect smile, she just wished he would show it more often.
They entered the tent and once again all conversation stopped.
‘I believe you’d like His Lordship and me to judge the scones,’ Iris said, trying to keep her voice calm.
‘Yes, my lord, my lady,’ Theo’s cook said. ‘That last judge, he didn’t know a thing about gooseberry pies. Wouldn’t be able to tell a good flaky pastry if it bit him on the...anyway, we’re sure you’ll do a much fairer job.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ he said, his voice sounding more confident than she was sure he was feeling. ‘Now, lead me to all your tasty scones.’
Iris looked along the line of jam, date and sultana scones. They all looked equally wonderful to her: golden-brown, plump and either perfectly round or precisely square.
Theo broke open the first one, took a bite and chewed, his brow furrowed in thought.
‘Light, good texture and an excellent balance of flavours,’ he declared, causing the women to smile in approval and the cook responsible to puff herself up, just like her well-risen scones.
He moved down the line, his face maintaining that look of intense concentration, and each comment he made not only flattered the cook, but also surprised Iris in his ability to think of something new and apt to say.
When he came to the last scone, Iris could see he was about to be presented with a challenge. These scones were not golden, nor were they perfectly round or square, and did not even look like scones, but more like some sort of misshapen rocks containing bits of burnt fruit.
The scullery maid from Theo’s house was smiling fit to burst, proud of what presumably was her effort.
With some force Theo broke the scone open, tried to take a bite, then managed to rip some off with his teeth. Iris watched in amazement as his expression did not change. He kept that thoughtful look on his face throughout the chewing. It took some time to consume the morsel, then eventually she watched a lump travel slowly down his throat.
‘Unique flavour, interesting use of the ingredients and an enterprising interpretation of a traditional recipe,’ he said, amazing Iris with his tact. The scullery maid smiled with pride while the other cooks either raised their eyebrows or bit their smiling lips.
‘Perhaps I could have a cup of tea,’ Theo asked, obviously still trying to swallow the last offering. Once he had finished his drink the cooks all leaned forward, their eyes fixed on Theo in anticipation.
‘You haven’t made it easy for me, have you, ladies?’ he said, to much murmuring and shuffling from the assembled cooks. ‘Allow me to consult with Lady Iris for a moment and I’ll give you my verdict.’
Iris led him to the corner of the tent and they huddled together.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she confessed quietly. ‘They all look excellent to me—well, apart from that one exception. What are we going to do? We have to choose one.’ Iris looked over her shoulder at the faces of the cooks, staring at her with narrowed eyes and set mouths. ‘Perhaps we could say there’s a six-way tie.’
Theo laughed. ‘Whatever fate awaits us, we’ll just have to face it together,’ he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘But at least no one can accuse me of bias. This truly has been a blind tasting and I have no idea who made which scone.’
She squeezed his hand back. ‘Good luck,’ she murmured. ‘And if they turn nasty, I recommend we try and make a run for it.’
She was pleased to see he smiled at her little joke.
‘Right, let’s do this,’ he said and they returned to the waiting competitors.
‘After a thorough discussion on the merits of each scone with my fellow judge, and taking into account the colour, taste, lightness, and texture of each scone, we have to declare the date scone as the winner.’
The cook from Walberton Estate clapped her hands together and smiled at the other cooks in satisfaction.
‘Well, my scones used to be the best in the county,’ Theo’s cook said as the other women gave their guarded congratulations to the winner. ‘But I’m a bit out of practice, what with not having guests any more.’ She sent Theo a withering look, then smiled at Iris. ‘But perhaps that’s going to change soon and by next year’s fête I’ll have once again perfected my recipe.’ She looked at the winner. ‘Then we’ll see who’s got the best scones in the county.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ the winner said. ‘Mine had the best texture, lightness, taste and colour. The Earl said so.’
Theo and Iris quietly backed out of the tent as the argument continued and voices grew louder. Once they were outside, they both broke into laughter.
‘I don’t think we should linger,’ Theo said, taking her hand. ‘It won’t be long before rolling pins start being thrown and we don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.’
He led her away from the tent and complete pleasure consumed Iris. Spending the day with Theo was such fun. He was such fun and she hoped he was enjoying himself as much as she was.
They walked arm in arm through the crowds, with everyone saying hello, smiling and giving Iris knowing looks. The Earl’s cook apparently was not the only one who believed Iris would be a part of Theo’s future. And she had never seen him look more content. It made her think that maybe, just maybe, the cook was correct, and she was about to get plenty of practice making prize-winning scones.
The sound of the bustling crowd was suddenly drowned out by the jingling of bells, and like the rest of the revellers they turned and headed over towards the music.
‘That will be the Morris dancers,’ Theo said. ‘Another activity that one of my servants has got caught up in, but hopefully Morris dancing won’t be quite as combative as scone-baking.’
They arrived at the courtyard where the dancers were flinging themselves in the air and waving white handkerchiefs. And, right in the middle, there was the usually ever-so-professional Charles, a wreath of flowers on his hat and a big smile on his face.
‘This is wonderful, just wonderful,’ Iris said. ‘I would never have thought Charles would have such a playful nature.’
‘Neither did I until today,’ the Earl replied, slowly shaking his head. ‘Now I’m beginning to wonder about the secret lives of all my other servants.’
Iris laughed and clapped along to the accordion, being played by a rather jolly man with a shiny red face. ‘Come on, join in,’ she said, nudging Theo lightly in the ribs.
He looked sideways at her, his eyebrow raised, but began clapping along to the merry tune, and soon he was smiling as widely as Iris. When the dancers finished, they both clapped enthusiastically and cheered their appreciation along with the rest of the crowd.
The Morris dancers jingled their way off to the nearest tent, where ale was being served, and the gusto with which they accepted their tankards did rather suggest that the ale and the camaraderie were as much an attraction as the dancing.
Iris took Theo’s arm again and led him back through the crowd. ‘Shall we see what the rest of your servants are up to? If Charles is a Morris dancer, heaven only knows what the rest of them are capable of.’
‘Good idea,’ he said, still smiling. ‘I’ve always thought the housekeeper was a bit of a witch. Maybe we’ll find her reading tarot cards somewhere. One of my footmen has a habit of dropping plates. Perhaps he’s been using the china to practise his juggling routine.’
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I would swear you were actually enjoying yourself.’
‘It’s good, then, that you do know me so well. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression,’ he said, his smil
e contradicting his stern words.
Iris leant in closer to him, certain that there was nothing wrong at all with the impression she had of the Earl.
Chapter Nineteen
Enjoying himself? Theo wasn’t sure. It had been such a long time since he had enjoyed himself, he no longer knew what enjoyment actually felt like. All he knew for certain was the fête wasn’t as bad as he had expected, but, as he had expected it to be completely intolerable, that wasn’t really saying a lot.
‘Good, there you are,’ the dreaded mother said, suddenly appearing beside him like a premonition of doom. Whenever that woman appeared it always resulted in Theo being strong-armed into doing something he did not want to do.
‘The prizes are about to be presented, so we need you over at the podium.’
Theo nodded. That wasn’t so bad. He’d already been warned about being expected to perform that particularly unwanted duty.
‘And you’re going to have to make a small speech,’ Lady Springfeld added. There it was, as expected. Theo nodded with a resigned smile—after all, he knew it would not be up for negotiation and there was no point trying to argue with his blackmailer.
Accepting his fate with as much dignity as he could, he took Lady Iris’s arm and she led him to the podium, where the crowds had already started to gather.
When the chattering had settled down, he stepped forward. ‘I’d like to officially welcome you all to my home and hope you have all had an enjoyable day.’
Despite the fact that I was blackmailed into hosting this event and am looking forward to you all leaving, he added to himself.
‘I’ve sampled some delicious food today, and been reliably informed that the vegetables, flowers, and crafts are exquisite.’
Not that I can possibly see any of them.
‘I believe I can confidently say that the produce from this area of Cornwall is the best in the county, and, as Cornwall is the best county in all of England, that means it is the best in the entire British Isles.’
