Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  “I’m delighted to tell the Fotheringill story,” Linus said. “Tenants or visitors, it means that they leave with a closer understanding of the estate.”

  “And a tummy full of tea and cake,” I added. “Nuala Darke, who owns the tea room in the village, runs a café here on the open days. She bakes fantastic cakes and scones—she’s been mentioned in Suffolk Magazine.” Nuala closed the café at four o’clock, and so I rarely saw her at the Hall, but she sometimes left me the last slice of chocolate cake, a kind, generous, and most delicious gift.

  “You haven’t given up, that’s the important thing,” said the baronet. “Not like they did at Netherford.”

  There was a moment of silent mourning out of respect for an estate the other side of Sudbury, to the south of us. Linus had told me about it—a few years ago, after three centuries, the family had sold up and moved away, and Netherford House had become a hotel. I couldn’t recall its name.

  “Villiers,” the baronet’s wife said, and shuddered. That’s right—Villiers Country Hotel.

  “No, we aren’t giving up,” Linus said, smiling at me warmly. “We have Julia to thank for many of the grand schemes that will keep the estate running.”

  I blushed and grabbed this opportunity to not only give credit where credit was due, but also to solidify my position with his Lordship.

  “Linus is being generous—really, it’s because of Michael’s influence that we’ve had such success.” Keep going, Julia, state your case. Vesta gave me a minuscule wink. “Michael Sedgwick,” I said to the table. “He’s Rupert’s assistant and a…good friend. Of course, he’s involved in Dad’s day-to-day schedule as well as helping to set up a new foundation. Keeps him away a fair bit. We don’t see nearly as much of each other as we’d like.”

  “And yet he came to help you with our summer supper here in Smeaton,” Vesta said.

  “More than help,” I said. “He’s the one that came up with the idea of the cooking competition in the afternoon—the rules were that all ingredients had to be grown or produced on the estate. What better way to champion the Fotheringill resources? And he’s chatted up one of the chefs who’s interested in converting an old stable block near one of the hamlets—Great Barkling—into a destination restaurant.”

  “Were any of you able to attend the summer supper?” Vesta asked. “It was an enormous success, wouldn’t you say so, your Lordship?”

  “A triumph,” Linus said, beaming at me. “Thirty-five thousand pounds we raised for the pensioners’ housing on the estate. And all because Julia wouldn’t take my initial ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “Our success was due to everyone pitching in,” I said. “Vesta, you managed the children’s marquee with more poise than I could ever have summoned.”

  “It was well and good I had Michael’s help to keep those rowdy boys in line,” Vesta said.

  As Akash began a story of Vesta turning the boys—four or five twelve-year-olds with a penchant for pranks—into waiters, my mind raced quickly and surely back to the long summer days leading up to the event. To the time when Michael and I stole as many hours as possible from our jobs to spend together.

  I had astonished myself—and my sister, Bianca—at the way I’d persevered through an initial rough spot Michael and I had had when we first met. He hadn’t been forthcoming about his previous job with his family’s public-relations firm, HMS, Ltd., which had represented a dodgy wind-farm company that wanted to build turbines on a fragile habitat. I had, I will admit, been slightly miffed when I had discovered he’d kept this important piece of information quiet, but he’d explained and eventually we’d sorted it out.

  All I asked is that he tell me the truth, as I would tell him. I had said this one afternoon as we lay on a blanket in the tall grass of a glade, well away from the Hall and quite alone. Ostensibly, we were on the lookout for spotted flycatchers—they’ve had a rough time of it, these summer visitors, and I had told Michael they would make a good segment for my dad’s program. Had we seen one that afternoon? I couldn’t recall—all I remembered was the sun on my skin and the feel of Michael’s lips at the base of my throat. At least, that’s where they had started.

  A surge of warmth weakened me and a clattering noise brought me back to the moment. I had dropped my spoon into my soup, splattering flecks of pumpkin onto the tablecloth.

  “Julia?” Vesta asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, dipping my napkin into my water glass and dabbing at a speck on my sleeve; my face felt as pink as my dress.

  Vesta tried again to get my attention. “Did you say that Rupert was working on new episodes?”

  Thorne and Louisa cleared bowls and served the main—coq au vin. I took a generous serving.

  “They’re in Cumbria at the moment,” I said, picking up my knife and fork. “Rupert wants to film a regular spot on predators and has chosen hen harriers for the first one. They’ll do sparrow hawks next. Sparrow hawks’ numbers have been up and down—and every decline was because they’d been poisoned. On purpose, if you can believe it—gamekeepers using pesticide on bait. Some people have no clue that our actions have a hand in what happens to the health of our countryside.”

  “I’ll have a hand in their decline if they don’t leave our partridges be.” This from the bearded earl, sitting on the other side of Vesta. A woman next to Linus rolled her eyes, as the beard continued. “Every year, forty thousand partridges are released all across Norfolk, and those sparrow hawks go after them so that there are hardly any left for shooting.”

  “It’s been clearly shown that predator birds have no impact on the partridge population,” I shot back, setting my utensils down before I started using them for emphasis. “More of them are run over by cars than are taken by sparrow hawks. It’s ridiculous to blame the birds for what is really human intervention.”

  “You say what you want, but they aren’t welcome on my estate, and my groundskeeper and my agent know it.” He stabbed a potato and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “Poisoning is a despicable act,” I said. “And it’s illegal.”

  A heavy blanket of silence fell on us, giving me the opportunity to regret my outburst. I did not take it.

  “I agree with Julia,” Linus said, and gave me a smile and a nod. “It isn’t in anyone’s best interest to fight nature, Gordon—not even yours. Times have changed. We must look at our estate management as being stewards, not dictators.”

  My eyes pricked with tears of gratitude at his defense.

  “You never shoot, regardless, Linus,” Gordon said good-naturedly.

  Linus nodded. “There’s been no shooting on the Fotheringill estate since my grandfather’s time. My grandmother was one of the early members of the International Vegetarian Union here in Britain. She would not condone shooting and, as the story goes, my grandfather would do anything to make her happy. He didn’t shoot—my father never gained interest in it, and he passed his disinterest along to me. Although, of course, none of the rest of us joined the IVU.”

  Smiles broke the tension round the table, and we resumed our meals.

  “Well, not to worry, no shooting when you come on Monday,” Gordon said. I looked down in my lap—remembering now that this was the man who’d invited Linus for some country home event at his estate; Linus had asked me to go along, but it had sounded more social than business, and I had begged off.

  “Nigel and I went to the South of France to see the flamingos last winter, didn’t we?” asked the suntanned woman. The tall, leather-skinned man next to me nodded with his mouth full.

  “Near Arles?” I asked, seizing on the opportunity to set the conversation on a different course. And so we began to speak of birds and holidays, and that carried us through pudding.

  “Shall we take coffee in the library?” Linus asked. We all stood, and the group dispersed. I escorted the suntanned woman to the powder room and dropped back by the kitchen to give Mrs. Bugg, now washing dishes, a thumbs-up.

  I headed for the library t
he back way, walking through the morning room toward the corridor, but stopped behind the door when I heard the bearded earl’s voice.

  “Linus certainly has his hands full with her,” he said.

  “Do you say that because she got the better of you at dinner?” a woman asked in a chiding tone. “I say good for Linus—she’s a breath of fresh air after Isabel.”

  I leaned my forehead against the wall. I had done all I could to make it plain I was merely an employee on the estate, but Linus, although subtle, had made it clear that he thought otherwise. Advantage to the Earl Fotheringill.

  —

  In the library, Thorne served coffee amid the murmur of pleasant conversations. Linus stood with his hand resting lightly but possessively on an empty wingback chair, and he looked my way when I walked in. I smiled at him and sat across the room on an upholstered bench beside the beard’s wife, hoping to further dispel the fantasies she held about me. Vesta settled on a chair beside us.

  “I live in the village,” I said, stirring milk into my coffee. “There’s a terrace of cottages along the high street. Mine’s the one in the middle. It’s quite convenient—the TIC is so near.”

  “That sounds lovely,” the beard’s wife said, smiling as if to point out that I did not, in fact, live in the village—I lived here, with Linus.

  “His Lordship is having a bit of repair done to Julia’s cottage,” Vesta said.

  I hurried to add details. “The other cottages were unoccupied except for the one at the end, and that couple moved in with their daughter in Ipswich. I was the only one that needed rehousing, and Lord Fotheringill suggested I bunk here for the duration.” I hoped this made the arrangement sound like a Girl Guides holiday camp. The beard’s wife made no reply.

  I didn’t like silences—I always felt as if I must fill them. “I’m in the north wing. The turret room. It’s lovely.” This was as far away as possible from Linus’s suite in the south wing—did I need to point that out? I knew that more than one eyebrow had been raised when I made the move. I kept telling myself not to call attention to the situation, but I had a talent for ignoring my own advice.

  My further efforts were waylaid by the appearance of a stranger in the doorway. He looked well over six feet and thin. Some tall men hunch their shoulders, as if trying to shave off an inch or two, but once this fellow had ducked to avoid knocking his head on the lintel when he stepped in the room, he straightened right up again. The light fell across his face and showed a Roman nose and a thick thatch of dark blond hair almost but not quite curly; it just avoided falling in his eyes. He looked to be about thirty—a few years younger than I was. His casual moss-green trousers and chestnut jacket were made for him—literally, I thought. He scanned the group until his eyes rested on Linus, and he smiled—a smile he didn’t look fully committed to.

  “Hello, Father. I’ve come home.”

  Chapter 3

  “Cecil!” Linus set down his coffee and crossed the room, his arms out and a wide smile on his face. He stopped short of Cecil, even appeared to step back slightly, as if he’d hit some force field. He held out his hand, and father and son shook. “What a wonderful surprise. Come in—look now, you know most of our guests.”

  Linus’s face was flushed with pleasure as he led Cecil round the group. I stood up to wait my turn and saw Cecil’s eyes flicker my way for an instant. I tugged at my hem.

  Most of the guests knew Cecil as a lad—each one laughing and indicating how much shorter he had been at age eight—followed by the businessman and his wife, and Vesta and Akash. He greeted each one with some semipersonal comment or question. It was what I imagined it might be like meeting the Queen—a pleasant nod, a brief exchange. I waited for my moment and hoped I wasn’t sweating through my pink lace.

  “And now, Julia,” Linus said, resting his hand lightly on my elbow. “I’d like you to meet my son, Cecil.” That was wrong—Linus was doing it backward, wasn’t he? Cecil belonged to the house, and so I should be presented to him—but instead, Linus was presenting his son to me, as if I were…

  “Hello. Ms. Lanchester, isn’t it?” Cecil extended his hand and smiled warmly. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  I could breathe again—if Cecil didn’t mind that Linus got it wrong, then I wouldn’t mind, either. “Hello. What a lovely surprise for everyone—and for me, too. I’ve heard so much about you.” I knew nothing about Cecil, only that he seemed to get into unknown predicaments at regular intervals.

  The beard started up a story about Cecil as a lad—something about building a bunker in the dahlia bed one summer—drawing in all the others except for Cecil and me. We stood apart, quiet for a moment, until he said, “Although I’ve been away, Ms. Lanchester, I do follow what’s happening on the estate, and I must say I’m quite impressed at what you’ve been able to accomplish in such a short time—the outdoor supper, your walking festival event.”

  “Thank you—and please, call me Julia.”

  Cecil kept his eyes on the earl as he bent his head over and said in a quiet, even tone, “I suppose that means you’ll call me Cecil.”

  A cold wind swept round me. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  He turned to me, broke into a warm smile, and shook his head. “No, forgive me—of course, you must call me Cecil. We are, after all, both working toward the same goal—the successful management of the Fotheringill estate.”

  Were we? That was news to me. I had never heard Cecil’s name mentioned when it came to estate business.

  With everyone attending to the story, no one—except me—saw Thorne appear at the doorway. He held four brown leather bags, one under each arm and one in each hand, which rendered him incapable of walking through the door without turning sideways first. Instead, he stood in the corridor waiting.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Cecil, and walked over to Linus, who was in the middle of an anecdote about toddler Cecil and a bowl of custard. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. Linus beamed and stepped back to let me in on the telling. “I believe Thorne needs a word.”

  Linus caught sight of his butler and left the group, hurrying to the door. Just as he reached the threshold, a man appeared from the corridor and stood in front of Thorne. The butler stepped back, swaying slightly, and announced, “Mr. Freddy Peacock, your Lordship.”

  Freddy Peacock stood framed by the door. He had no need to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the lintel—far from it. He was a stout fellow, looked older than Cecil by a few years, with short black hair that glistened, a creamy complexion, rosy, chubby cheeks, and full lips.

  “Good evening, all,” Freddy said, addressing the group as if we were his audience.

  “I’ve brought Freddy with me,” Cecil said from near the fireplace. “Come in, Freddy, let me introduce you.”

  I made to rescue Thorne, who looked as if he might topple at any moment. “Here, let me help,” I said, taking hold of one of the cases.

  “It’s all right, Ms. Lanchester,” Thorne said, tugging back. “I’m balanced.”

  “You are not a pack animal,” Linus said. He removed the bags Thorne had secured under his arms and looked at the monogram. “These are Mr. Peacock’s?”

  “Yes, your Lordship. I’ve taken Master Cecil’s bags up to his room, and he asked me to sort out lodging for Mr. Peacock. Shall I put him in the Mulberry Room?”

  The Mulberry Room, named for its view of the enormous tree in the garden below, was down the corridor from my own room. Linus glanced my way, a frown worrying his brow. “No, not the north wing.”

  “It is the only room ready for a guest at the moment. Or should I ask Mrs. Bugg to make up one of the rooms in the south wing nearer you and Master Cecil?”

  Linus shook his head. “I don’t want to bother Sheila this late.”

  “I don’t mind sharing the north wing with Mr. Peacock,” I said. The bedrooms were en suite, so it wasn’t as if he’d surprise me in the bath. I would be at one end of the corridor, and he would be at the other. />
  Sighing, Linus said, “That’s very good of you, Julia. It’s just that I didn’t know Cecil was arriving—and bringing a friend along. We’ll sort something else out tomorrow, if you’re sure it won’t be an imposition.”

  “Not having a conclave without me, are you?” Cecil stood at his father’s elbow and flashed a smile. “Here now, Thorne,” he said, taking up the last two cases the butler held and the two his father had set on the floor. “Freddy is well able to carry his own bags. Sorry we arrived without warning, Father. I had thought to ring first, but then I didn’t quite get round to it.” He waited, face solemn and eyes wide.

  “There’s no need for that, Cecil. This is your home,” Linus said.

  As I had heard it, Hoggin Hall had not been Cecil’s home since his mother and Linus divorced when Cecil was about ten—some twenty years ago. Although at the moment, this grown man looked for all the world like a ten-year-old boy not quite sure of himself.

  But with Linus’s words, the hesitancy on Cecil’s face broke. “Freddy’s a friend from London,” Cecil said, appearing to address Thorne and me. “We worked at the Auction Rooms. He was eager to have a look at the French tapestries, and so I asked him along. Where will you put him?”

  “The north wing,” Linus said.

  Cecil’s gaze shifted to me. “I understand you’re staying at the Hall, too, Julia.”

  “Yes, only until my cottage is repaired, then I’ll move home again.”

  “Well, it’s lovely to have you here,” Cecil replied. I marveled at his magnanimous attitude. I’d lived in the village only since last winter, but I had the impression that Cecil seldom visited. And now here he was, lord of the manor. In waiting. “I’ll get myself unpacked,” he said, and headed for the stairs.

  “Cecil,” Linus called to his son, who paused and looked over his shoulder. “I’m very glad you’re here.” And yet when Cecil continued and Linus turned round to me, his face was washed of color. “Well, then,” he said, straightening his jacket, “I’ll just see how Mr. Peacock is getting on.”