Christmas Fireside Stories

by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver

  Tiffany stepped into the hall and wiped her feet on the square of thick matting. ‘I expect you don’t get many in the winter and especially on a day like this.’

  The old man chuckled. ‘Not many, miss, no.’

  To one side of the hall, a log fire burned in a pretty fireplace lined with blue and white Delft tiles and Tiffany, drawn by its warmth, held her cold hands towards it.

  ‘Would you like me to give you a guided tour,’ the man asked, ‘or would you prefer to wander through the house on your own? It’s clearly marked where you’re allowed to go, so . . .’

  ‘I’d like the guided tour, please.’

  He smiled again. No doubt he was delighted to be needed.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, then, miss. I don’t think we’ll get any more visitors today, so you have my undivided attention.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Tiffany murmured sincerely. ‘Thank you.’ There was so much she wanted to know about this house and she was sure she’d found the right person to tell her.

  ‘This is the entrance hall, of course,’ the guide began and then he led her into the room on the left-hand side of the hall. ‘This was once the housekeeper’s room so that she could see who was coming up the drive – the family returning home or visitors arriving – and warn the rest of the servants. In the late 1890s it was used as the estate office. Beyond it we have what would have been the drawing room, but in later years, we understand, it became known as the music room. Isn’t it magnificent?’

  Paintings and portraits lined the oak-panelled walls; in one corner stood a grand piano, in another an oak long-case clock solemnly ticked away the hours as perhaps it had done for over two hundred and fifty years.

  He led her out of another door and along a corridor. ‘Those rooms are just a modern kitchen and sitting room and this,’ he said as they passed a staircase on the right-hand side, ‘is what the servants would use, but this,’ he emphasized as they passed once more through the entrance hall and to the southern end of the house, ‘is the main staircase.’ The walls above the oak staircase were again lined with family portraits. There was such a history to this house. Tiffany’s heart beat a little faster.

  ‘We’ll go upstairs in a moment,’ her guide said, ‘but first let me show you the library here to the right of the stairs . . .’ The room – as she had imagined it would be – was lined with shelves of books. ‘And then this room to the left is what used to be the morning room. It faces to the east at the back of the house so it always gets the morning sun. Sadly,’ he smiled at her, ‘we haven’t any today.

  ‘Now, upstairs we have the family’s private sitting room and straight opposite are the best bedrooms. Further along, you will see that the living-in servants also had bedrooms on this floor.’

  ‘Really?’ Tiffany laughed. ‘I thought servants were always confined to the attics?’

  ‘Not in this house, miss.’ He smiled. ‘The top floor has the nursery and probably a room for a nursery nurse or governess and also a couple of very nice guest bedrooms.’

  I wonder where she slept? Tiffany thought as they retraced their steps downstairs. I’d like to think that I’ve been standing in her bedroom.

  He showed her the huge kitchen in the basement and other, smaller rooms that were used for different purposes: a wine cellar, a game larder, a still room and the butler’s pantry. He even showed her the row of fourteen bells, which summoned the servants.

  ‘And now I’ll take you back to my favourite room in the house. I’ve deliberately left it until last.’

  When they entered the dining room, where portraits of the more recent family members were hanging, Tiffany’s interest sharpened.

  ‘The main part of the house was built in the early 1700s by the Lyndon family in the style of Sir Christopher Wren, and the two-storey extension to the north was added much later,’ the guide told her. ‘It’s strange to find such a house as this in the countryside, isn’t it? It’s more suited to a town house.’

  Tiffany said nothing, willing him to go on with the stories of the family. That was what interested her.

  ‘The hereditary title, the Earl of Fairfield, was granted to Montague Lyndon at the end of a distinguished military career in 1815 and thereafter each generation sent a son into the Army, usually the second son, if there was one, so that the title was safeguarded. The eldest son always inherited the title and he was expected to run the estate.’ They moved on slowly down the line of portraits, the guide pointing briefly to each one. ‘That’s the second earl, the third, the fourth and the fifth, and now we come to the sixth Earl of Fairfield, James Lyndon.’

  Tiffany gazed up at the full-length portrait of a man in military uniform. He was tall with brown hair and dark brown eyes that, strangely, seemed to stare coldly down at her. There was no smile, no warmth in his face.

  ‘As you can see,’ her guide said, ‘James was a soldier, too, and, by all accounts, a very good one. He was the second son and should never have inherited the title but his elder brother, Albert, died young.’

  Tiffany took a step forward and then stopped, her gaze held by the picture of a young woman hanging on the opposite side of the fireplace to the one of the sixth earl. Her hair was as black as a raven’s feathers. She had dark violet eyes and flawless skin. She was dressed in a blue satin gown with a necklace around her graceful neck. Tiffany hoped the artist had painted a true representation of her.

  She bit her lip, hardly daring to ask. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Ah, now that is Lady Annabel, James’s wife. Isn’t she lovely?’ They stood a moment in silence, in awe of the woman’s striking beauty. In answer to Tiffany’s unspoken question, he added, ‘And she was every bit as lovely as her portrait.’

  Tiffany glanced at him. To the twenty-year-old girl, her guide looked ancient, but even he couldn’t be old enough to remember Lady Annabel, could he? But it seemed he was.

  He smiled. ‘My grandfather worked here as a gardener and he used to talk about her. In fact, you couldn’t get him to stop talking about her. I only saw her twice and she was getting on a bit by then, of course, but she was still striking. And everyone loved her, except,’ he sighed heavily, ‘the one person who should have loved her the most. Poor lady.’

  ‘Tell me about her – please.’ Tiffany couldn’t help the pleading tone in her voice and, sensing it, the man smiled down at her.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m in no rush. It’s – it’s what I came for. I’d love to learn as much as I can about her, but only if you’ve time.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve time. But let’s sit down, my dear. My old legs aren’t what they used to be.’

  They sat down on two chairs near the fire, but facing the two portraits.

  ‘Well, now, where to begin?’ He fell silent for a moment, his gaze still on the enchanting face in the painting, and then he murmured again, ‘Where to begin?’

  One

  GRIMSBY, LINCOLNSHIRE, JANUARY 1896

  ‘Please can we go home, Miss Annabel? It’s freezing.’

  ‘Just another five minutes,’ Annabel murmured, staring through the gloom of the winter’s evening, watching the road ahead.

  They were sitting in the horse-drawn chaise on the sea-front at Cleethorpes, not far from the pier that stretched out into the cold sea. There were no holidaymakers today, no visitors walking its length. Although the chaise offered a little more shelter than an open trap, the wind blew in from the sea, stinging their faces and chilling their bones.

  ‘If you’re late for dinner, your father will ask questions. And you know I can’t tell lies. I go bright red and he knows straightaway.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to tell lies for me, Jane.’

  The maid shivered. ‘The horse is getting cold too. See how he’s pawing at the ground.’

  The chaise rocked dangerously as the restless horse moved.

  ‘Miss Annabel,’ Jane said firmly, ‘he’s not coming and we’re both going to be in such trouble when we get
back. What will Mrs Rowley say if I’m not there to help with the dinner? You know I have to help out in the kitchen.’

  The Constantine household had few staff: a butler, Roland Walmsley, who also served as valet to his master, a cook-cum-housekeeper, Mrs Rowley, a kitchen maid, Lucy, and Jane, who was everything else; house-maid and lady’s maid to Mrs Constantine and to Miss Annabel. The only outside staff were a part-time gardener and a groom, Billy, who looked after the two horses and usually drove Annabel or her mother wherever they wanted to go. But today, Annabel had insisted upon driving the chaise herself with only her maid for company.

  Annabel sighed and took up the reins, saying, ‘Gee up.’ The horse, glad of some activity at last, lurched forward and the two girls clutched at the sides of the vehicle.

  ‘He’ll have us over,’ Jane muttered, but the surefooted horse began to trot happily towards home. A little way along the road into Grimsby, Annabel pulled on the reins so that the horse turned to the right. Prince hesitated, yet he obeyed his mistress’s instructions.

  ‘Where are you going, miss? This isn’t the way home.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Annabel’s tone was airy. ‘I thought it was. Oh dear, we’re lost.’ She flicked the reins so that the horse picked up speed, taking them even further away from the road they needed to be on.

  ‘Miss Annabel—’

  ‘I think it’s a short cut.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. You know very well it isn’t. You’re going towards the docks,’ Jane said, ‘and if you’ve some madcap notion of trying to find him, then – then . . .’

  Annabel pulled gently on the reins bringing Prince to a steady walking pace. They reached a crossroads and, skilfully, Annabel turned the horse so that they were facing back the way they had just come. Prince began to trot again, more hopeful now that they were really going home to his warm stable. His speed quickened even more when he recognized Bargate, the road where the Constantines lived.

  The house was a square building with a central front door and a bay window on either side. It had a small front garden but a larger one behind the house where their gardener cultivated both flower borders and a kitchen garden. As a young girl, Annabel had been allowed to help in the grounds and in the greenhouse, but as she’d grown older, her father had dictated that she should apply herself to more ladylike occupations.

  ‘It is not fitting for you to be grubbing about in the dirt with only a servant as a companion.’

  And so Annabel’s love of the land was only satisfied on her visits to her grandparents who, unbeknown to her father, allowed her to help about the farm.

  ‘There’s Billy waiting for us,’ Jane said as the chaise came to a halt. She climbed down and then turned to help her young mistress alight, whilst Billy hurried to hold the horse’s head.

  ‘Good evening, Billy,’ Annabel said with a forced gaiety she was no longer feeling. ‘I’m so sorry we’re late. We got lost.’

  Beside her, she heard Jane pull in a sharp breath but her maid said nothing. Annabel knew the girl would follow her lead and realize that her mistress had given her a ready-made excuse should she be questioned.

  ‘You go in the back way, Jane. I’ll go to the front door. Mr Walmsley will let me in. And remember’ – she lowered her voice as Billy began to unhitch the horse from the shafts – ‘we got lost.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Jane bobbed a quick curtsy and scurried in through the back door.

  Annabel walked around the side of the house and rang the front door bell.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Walmsley,’ she said smoothly when the butler opened the door.

  Despite having been told to do so on numerous occasions, Annabel flatly refused to address their servants by anything other than their full name or, for the younger ones, their Christian name. She abhorred the use of mere surnames and the butler had long ago given up trying to get her to change. Even her disciplinarian father couldn’t enforce the rule with his wayward daughter.

  Hearing her voice, Ambrose flung open the door to his study and strode into the hall. He was a short, portly man in his early fifties with a florid complexion and bristling sideburns.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he barked.

  Annabel turned towards him as she removed her cape, hat and gloves and handed them to Roland Walmsley.

  ‘Out for a drive in the chaise, Father, but I took a wrong turning in the dusk and I got a little lost. I’m so sorry I’m late for dinner.’ She turned back to the butler. ‘Mr Walmsley, please tell Mrs Rowley that it’s my fault Jane is late, not hers.’

  Roland Walmsley bowed and hid his smile. He could guess where his young mistress had been, though wild horses would not drag it out of him, nor would he question Jane. She was utterly loyal to Miss Annabel, as were all the servants.

  Ambrose glared at his daughter. ‘We’ve held dinner back for half an hour and Mrs Rowley is not best pleased.’ Mrs Rowley was the only person who warranted – in Ambrose’s opinion – a courtesy title. ‘You’d better get changed – and be quick about it.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Annabel bowed her head meekly and hurried towards the staircase. Ambrose watched her go, his eyes narrowing. Had his ruse worked? he wondered. Annabel’s expression gave nothing away. As he watched her climb the stairs, he fancied he saw her shoulders drooping in disappointment. But he couldn’t be sure. His daughter was difficult to read. He’d interrogate the maid, he decided. She’d give herself away at once.

  But this time, even Jane’s resolve proved difficult to break. After dinner was over, he called her to his study. She faced her master fearlessly with wide, innocent eyes. Pulling herself up to her full five feet two inches, she straightened her shoulders and explained calmly, ‘We got lost, sir. Miss Annabel took a wrong turning in the dark and then it was difficult to turn the horse round. By the time we got to the right road again, sir, oh, I reckon half an hour or more had gone by.’

  Ambrose frowned. ‘Did you meet anyone, girl?’

  Her eyes widened even more. ‘Meet anyone, sir?’

  ‘Don’t act stupid with me, girl. You know very well what I mean. Did Miss Annabel have an assignation?’

  The girl shook her head vehemently. ‘Oh no, sir. We didn’t meet anyone.’

  Ambrose stepped close to her so that his bulbous red nose was only inches from her small, well-shaped nose. In a low, threatening tone he said slowly, ‘If I find out you’ve been lying to me, girl, it’ll be the worse for you. You understand?’

  Jane nodded vigorously. ‘I wouldn’t lie to you, sir. Honest, I wouldn’t.’

  Ambrose grunted as he stepped away. He still didn’t believe her. In his experience anyone who used the word ‘honest’ to emphasize whatever they were saying, was usually lying.

  Jane scuttled back to the kitchen, her cheeks flaming. She hoped that was the last questioning she would have to face from the master, but there was always the mistress to contend with. She was almost more fearsome than Mr Constantine.

  ‘Now what have you been up to?’ Mrs Rowley frowned. ‘Are you in trouble? Because if you are, I want to know about it.’

  Oh no, not you an’ all! Jane thought. ‘Nothing, Mrs Rowley,’ she said aloud. ‘I was out with Miss Annabel and we were late back. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ Even Mrs Rowley’s tone was sceptical. ‘And where were you “out”, might I ask?’

  No, you may not ask, Jane wanted to reply, but she knew that any cheeky retort would earn her a severe reprimand. Instead, she said calmly, ‘Just out for a drive, Mrs Rowley. Miss Annabel took a wrong turning in the dark.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be out in the dark on her own.’

  ‘She wasn’t on her own. I was with her.’

  Mrs Rowley rolled her eyes. ‘And a fat lot of good you’d have been if there’d been any trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble, Mrs Rowley?’

  The cook said no more on the subject, contenting herself with a glare and a sharp, ‘Get on with your work now you are here. There’s a pile of w
ashing-up to be done and Lucy’s already drooping with tiredness having to do your work as well as her own while you go off gallivanting.’

  For the next few hours there was no time to think, but later that night as she lay in her narrow bed in the attic room she shared with Lucy, Jane thought over the problem she faced with her young mistress. She was devoted to Miss Annabel and would do anything for her – anything – but she was very afraid that what they had been doing over the past few weeks and months was about to be discovered.

  Two

  Annabel, too, was lying awake.

  Why hadn’t Gil come to meet her? Was it all over? Didn’t he love her any more? Had all his ardent declarations been false?

  She had first met Gilbert Radcliffe on a tour of her father’s business offices near the fish docks. That day, Gilbert, as the office under-manager, had been deputed to show the boss’s daughter around. At only twenty-five he held a surprisingly high position within the company and was well thought of by his immediate superior, the office manager, Mr Smeeton, and her father too. But Annabel was under no illusion that should their secret meetings over the weeks since then be discovered, the young man would no longer be held in such high esteem. Ambrose had big plans for his daughter and they did not include marriage to one of his employees.