by Jo Carnegie
Harriet pulled to a stop outside the front door, which Saffron noticed was big enough to get an elephant through.
‘Now, I must just tell you about Daddy,’ she started. ‘He’s a bit . . .’
But before Harriet could finish, the door opened and two silky grey lurchers came bounding out. A trim, elegant woman appeared behind them on the step. Her blonde hair was styled immaculately, and she was dressed in a cashmere cardigan and expensive wool skirt.
‘Darling!’ she cried, in a voice that could slice through diamonds.
Struggling to move in her thick quilted jacket, Harriet somehow got her foot caught in the seat belt and fell out of the car. Lady Frances Fraser winced.
‘Hello, Mummy!’ said Harriet. Saffron watched as the two embraced warmly. Lady Fraser stepped back to look at her daughter.
‘Darling, haven’t you been using that serum I sent you? Your hair looks dreadfully frizzy.’
Harriet rolled her eyes good-naturedly. ‘I didn’t have time to blow-dry it this morning.’
Saffron made her way round to the other side of the car. She pulled her coat around her, trying to keep the cold out.
‘Mummy, this is my good friend Saffron Walden. Saffron, this is my mother, Frances.’
Saffron wondered briefly if she should curtsy, but decided on a smile instead.
‘Hi, Lady Fraser. Thank you so much for inviting me.’
The other woman smiled, revealing well-kept teeth. ‘Frances, please.’ She stepped forward and delicately kissed Saffron on both cheeks. ‘Welcome to Clanfield Hall!’
‘Your father’s out in the Land Rover. Something about poachers in one of the fields,’ said Frances, as she led the two girls through to her private sitting room. ‘I don’t expect he’ll be too long.’
Saffron’s eyes were out on stalks. This was like something from To The Manor Born! Every room they passed was easily as big as the whole of her aunt’s house in Montague Mews. Tapestries and family portraits hung from every wall, while the stone floors were covered with huge, ornately woven rugs. Saffron would put money on them being fabulously expensive family heirlooms.
Despite the wood panelling, dark portraits and a suit of armour at the bottom of the imposing staircase, Clanfield Hall definitely had a woman’s touch. Vases of flowers stood in every room, while Frances’s sitting room was elegant but comfy with pale-pink striped wallpaper and heavy cream curtains. A large watercolour of the Hall hung over the fireplace, where someone had just lit a fire. Saffron guessed that would not have been Lady Fraser.
‘Mrs Bantry just laid the fire,’ said Frances. ‘Ambrose hasn’t put the heating on yet, I’m afraid.’ She gestured to an immaculately upholstered sofa.
‘Do sit down.’
Saffron sank down, as close to the fire as she could get. The house was freezing.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Frances called. A tall, trim man in a pristine butler’s uniform entered. Saffron couldn’t believe it: they really did have a butler!
‘Hawkins,’ said Frances.
‘Lady Fraser?’
‘We’d like a pot of tea, please.’
Frances looked at the two girls.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Ooh, I wonder if there’s any of Cook’s homemade shortbread?’ asked Harriet eagerly. Her mother looked disapproving, but didn’t say anything.
‘I believe the requested items are already waiting for you in the kitchen.’
‘Good old Cookster! They’re world-famous, you know,’ she told Saffron.
Hawkins gave a ghost of a smile as he exited the room as noiselessly as he had come in.
A few minutes later, they were seated round the fire drinking sweet, hot tea from bone china mugs. Cook’s biscuits had indeed lived up to their reputation. Saffron had just had her fourth, but refrained from dunking them like she normally did.
‘Did your Christmas party go well?’ Frances asked. Saffron noticed that, even sitting down, she had the elegant, upright poise of a ballerina.
A memory of Thomas head-butting the Christmas pudding swam into Harriet’s mind. ‘Yes thanks, Mummy.’ She changed the subject. ‘How are things here?’
‘Oh, the usual. Your father’s latest thing is driving round bawling out any hapless ramblers that stray on to the estate. I really think he needs to get a new hobby. He’s been rather trying to live with since he decided he was too old to carry on shooting.’
‘I’m sure that won’t last, Daddy lives for his shooting trips in Scotland!’
Saffron, who couldn’t even kill a spider if she found it in her room, wasn’t sure if she liked the sound of Sir Ambrose Fraser.
Frances noticed her face. ‘We must be painting a dreadful picture!’ she laughed. ‘It’s not like that at all. Ambrose is just rather set in his ways and . . .’
A door slammed somewhere in the building, and footsteps headed their way. The closer they got, the more they sounded as if the person who was making them was stamping. Saffron found she was holding her breath. Frances and Harriet looked at each other.
‘Oh dear, it doesn’t sound like Daddy’s in a very good mood,’ said Harriet.
Just then the door flew open, bringing with it a cold gust of air and a very muddy black and white dog.
‘Ambrose!’ Frances exclaimed. ‘Get Sailor out. I don’t want her jumping all over the furniture.’
‘Get, girl! Sailor, OUT.’ Tail wagging furiously, the dog scampered away.
Sir Ambrose Fraser stood in the middle of the room, clad in a pair of plus fours and a waxed jacket. Beneath the red face and watery blue eyes were the unmistakable high cheekbones of the aristocracy. He had the look of someone who’d had a lot of outdoor living and even more whisky. He was much older than Frances; Saffron would have put him in his late seventies. He also looked distinctly grumpy.
‘Bloody vermin, crawling all over my land!’
Harriet jumped up. ‘Daddy!’
Sir Ambrose Fraser’s eyes swivelled on to his daughter, as if he hadn’t realized she was there.
‘What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t back until the twenty-second.’
‘It is the twenty-second,’ Frances told him patiently. ‘I reminded you yesterday morning that Harriet was coming.’
‘What’s that? Well, I can’t remember.’
‘You probably weren’t listening.’
‘Humph,’ said Ambrose. He turned to Harriet. ‘Let’s have a look at you, then!’
Harriet ran across and flung her arms around him. ‘It’s so good to see you!’
‘Good grief, girl, you almost knocked me over,’ Ambrose said, but his face had softened. Over Harriet’s shoulder, he noticed Saffron. ‘Who’s this?’
Frances rolled her eyes. ‘This is Harriet’s friend, Saffron Walden. She’s staying for Christmas. I did tell you all of this.’
‘Saffron Walden? As in the village? Nice little place; I’ve hunted with the Cambridgeshire over there a few times.’
Saffron smiled sweetly. ‘I’m really not sure. I think my dad named me after a boat.’
Ambrose looked her up and down, taking in the skin-tight jeans, peroxide hair and black pixie boots. ‘Are you in one of these God-awful rock groups? I won’t have you playing your bloody guitar all hours of the day and night, it’ll send the dogs mad.’
‘Ambrose!’
‘Oh, Daddy.’
His eyes glinted mischievously. ‘Settle down, I was only pulling her leg.’ He stuck out a hand. ‘How do you do?’
Saffron grinned. Despite her earlier reservations, she thought she might rather like Sir Ambrose Fraser.
After a tour of the Hall, including the kitchens and an introduction to the revered Cook, Harriet showed Saffron up to her room. It was huge, with a high ceiling, four-poster bed, and an impressive fireplace. A pair of unseen hands, most probably Hawkins’s, had brought up Saffron’s bag. A vase of freshly cut winter flowers stood on the dressing table.
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‘That’ll be Mummy,’ said Harriet fondly. ‘She likes all our guests to have flowers in their rooms.’
Despite the grandeur Saffron shivered. This place was bloody freezing!
‘It is a bit chilly,’ said Harriet apologetically. ‘Daddy doesn’t like putting on the heating unless it’s completely necessary, says it’s a waste of money.’
‘It’s D-d-december,’ said Saffron. Her teeth were chattering.
Harriet smiled. ‘Never fear, Mummy’s persuaded him to put it on tonight. Now, your bathroom is next door, and I’m just down the hall. Shall I come and knock on your door for dinner?’
‘Cool,’ said Saffron. ‘I didn’t pack my ball gown,’ she added, only half-joking.
‘You don’t have to dress up,’ Harriet laughed. ‘Stay as you are, I think Daddy was rather taken with your outfit.’
Dinner was served at eight o’clock precisely in the dining room. Saffron had expected it to be a stuffy affair, but it was rather more informal, with Frances bringing in the plates herself on a silver tray from the kitchen. Saffron noticed hers had more on it than everyone else’s; Cook had obviously taken in her slender frame and decided to feed her up. Thankfully, it seemed Ambrose had stuck to his word and the radiators were on, although Saffron was still wearing three vests under her jumper.
‘I’ve sent Cook home early tonight, she looks as if she could do with a rest,’ announced Frances.
‘Cook has been with us ever since I was little,’ Harriet told Saffron. ‘She’s almost like a grandmother to me.’
Frances took a sip of wine. ‘I think that’s the only reason she stays on.’
They were sitting round a long, mahogany table. Ambrose eyed Saffron the way a farmer would appraise a bullock at a country fair.
‘Where do you come from?’
‘I live in London. Chelsea. A place called Montague Mews.’
‘Where Caro Towey is living at the moment,’ added Harriet. ‘It’s really very pretty.’
Ambrose looked perplexed. ‘Caro who?’
‘Caro, Daddy. Camilla’s sister.’
‘I thought she was called Belmont. Husband works in the City?’
‘Sebastian was her first husband. She’s remarried to Benedict now, you know him.’
Ambrose harrumphed. ‘Woman’s had more surnames than Elizabeth Taylor.’
Harriet flushed. ‘Hold on, Daddy, that’s a bit unfair!’
‘Ignore him,’ Frances said, shooting her husband a warning look. He was still in a combative mood from his encounter with the poachers earlier.
‘How long are you staying for, darling? You do know your father and I are going up to Leicestershire for New Year?’
At the other end of the table Ambrose was looking distinctly unimpressed at the prospect.
‘Not sure yet. There are still a few tickets left for the party at the Jolly Boot. I was going to ask Saffron if she’d like to stay for it.’
‘I’ve got plans in London, actually,’ said Saffron quickly. A week in the countryside would be enough for her.
‘Not to worry, I can always find someone else to go with,’ Harriet said.
Ambrose had been chewing his food as he listened to the exchange.
‘Your family from London, are they?’ he asked Saffron.
‘I live with my aunt, Velda. There’s just the two of us.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He died.’
‘Oh. Mother?’
Harriet laughed nervously. ‘Come on, Daddy, stop giving poor Saffron the third degree!’
Sensing Saffron’s discomfort, Frances expertly changed the subject.
‘Harriet tells me your aunt is a sculptor, Saffron. I’ve always thought that must be fascinating . . .’
After dinner, the four retreated to a small sitting room off the main hallway to watch The Vicar of Dibley. Frances and Ambrose eventually retired to their separate bedrooms while Harriet and Saffron stayed by the fire drinking red wine and chatting.
It was gone midnight by the time Saffron climbed between the cold bed sheets, in pyjamas, hooded jumper and her thickest pair of socks. She had been dreading having to mind her Ps and Qs, but the Frasers had made her feel very welcome. Even though they seemed hard on Harriet sometimes, it was obvious Frances and Ambrose adored their only child.
Saffron couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy. Switching off the light, she lay back and let the darkness envelop her.
‘I miss you, Daddy,’ she whispered.
Chapter 43
DOWN IN THE heart of the village, Caro had been preparing for her family’s arrival. She’d arrived at Mill House a few days ago to find the electrics had blown, and a sleepy dormouse had somehow got in and made a new home in one of Benedict’s Wellingtons. Luckily he’d shaken them out before putting them on for their walk.
Once the electrician had been called and order restored, everyone pulled together to get the house ready for Christmas. Clementine lent Brenda Briggs for the morning to clean the bits Caro’s bump couldn’t get to, but Caro still had to go round with the Hoover afterwards to get all the fluff and dirt Brenda had mysteriously missed. Caro and Amelia had then gone into Bedlington to do a huge shop at Waitrose, while Benedict put up the decorations.
After lunch Benedict took Milo off to a local farm to pick up an eight-foot Christmas tree to go in the corner of the living room. The little boy was beside himself with excitement at the thought of another tree to decorate.
Caro and Amelia were sitting at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and the remains of a chocolate Yule log between them. Caro had hoped getting away from London would help her sister-in-law; she felt there was something about living there that was upsetting Amelia.
The day before she’d left, she’d found Amelia crying in the kitchen. Amelia had quickly brushed away the tears and said it was the time of the month, but when Caro had gone to use the phone afterwards, she’d found someone had left it off the hook. She’d had a few more silent phone calls herself, recently, and maybe she was being paranoid, but they only seemed to happen when Benedict wasn’t there. It was almost as if someone was watching the place.
Amelia warmed her hands on her mug contentedly. ‘I didn’t quite realize how nice it would feel to get away from it all. London, I mean.’ To everyone’s relief, there had already been a change in Amelia since they’d got back. Somehow she seemed freer and happier.
Caro decided now was the time to bring her concerns up; at least she and Amelia were talking properly again.
‘Darling, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s these funny phone calls we’ve been having.’
Amelia leant back in her chair, arms crossed. The defensive gesture didn’t escape Caro’s notice. ‘What phone calls?’
Caro looked at her uncertainly. ‘You know, where I’ve gone to pick up and there’s been no one there. I mean, they could all be wrong numbers, but there’ve been so many of them recently.’
Across the table Amelia’s face had become distinctly wintery.
‘Then there was that awful devil mask at the window. I mean, it scared the life out of all of us, but, Amelia, you seemed really terrified by it.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Amelia’s voice was hostile.
Caro gulped, she hated confrontation, especially with someone as dear to her as her sister-in-law.
‘I’m just saying, darling, that these things could be coincidence, but they have started since you’ve come to live with us.’
Amelia was up from her seat like an uncoiled spring. ‘You want me to move out? I’ve imposed on you and Benedict for long enough . . .’
Caro was horrified. ‘No, darling, that’s not what we want at all!’ She searched in vain for the right words. ‘Oh Amelia, I want to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.’ Without realizing it, Caro’s eyes had filled with tears. She was feeling tired and emotional as it was.
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nbsp; Instantly Amelia was round the table, throwing her arms around her. ‘Please don’t cry! It’s lovely how much you care about me, but I’m fine, honestly.’
‘You’re sure?’ Caro sniffed.
Amelia smiled at her. ‘Completely! Now come on, I just want us all to have a good Christmas. No more silly talk of phantom phone calls or faces at windows.’ She pulled a mock-horror face, lightening the moment.
Caro couldn’t help but laugh. Sod it, she probably was just being silly; her pregnancy hormones were in overdrive.
As Amelia went to leave the kitchen, she paused in the doorway. ‘You haven’t told Benedict, have you? About the phone calls, I mean.’
Caro looked up from clearing the teacups. ‘No, I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Amelia said lightly. ‘You know how he gets, he’ll probably get a SWAT team trained on the house and keep us all prisoner.’
‘Darling!’
As soon as Caro opened the front door, Tink burst into happy tears. ‘You look radiant! Oh, I’ve missed you!’ She threw her arms around her eldest daughter. Errol Flynn, who had come over with Clementine earlier, rushed round their legs barking madly.
Tink rubbed Caro’s bump ecstatically. ‘You look further along this time. Doesn’t she, Johnnie?’
‘Probably all the cakes I keep scoffing. You’d think I was eating for eight. Hello, Daddy!’
Johnnie Standington-Fulthrope, as tall and dashing as ever, stood behind his wife on the doorstep.
‘Hello, pumpkin!’
The barking intensified.
‘Errol Flynn!’ they all chorused. ‘Do shut up!’
Through the melee, Calypso’s voice rang out.
‘Can we hurry along the heartfelt reunions please? It’s bloody freezing out here.’
