by Rhys Bowen
“I can’t ask my own father to wait on me,” she said. “Besides, he’d never do it. He’s too proud.”
“Persuade him, Mummy. I know you can if you try. It would be a perfect solution for both of you. You wouldn’t have to look around for suitable servants and have people in the house you didn’t know. He’d benefit from fresh air and country living. London in winter is so bad for his chest.”
“It would make things awfully simple, wouldn’t it? And give me more time for shopping. I’d have to put it to him in the right way, so that he felt he was being invited and not as a servant.”
“You could suggest that Mrs. Huggins come and cook for you and naturally she wouldn’t want to travel alone so you suggest that you pay his way to accompany her. You know what he’s like. He hates not being busy, so he’d be bringing in the firewood and that sort of thing without being asked. And then you hire a local girl to clean, and bob’s your uncle, as he would say.”
My mother laughed that wonderful bell-like laugh that had enthralled theatergoers for years. “You’re becoming as devious as I am, darling. All right. I’ll do it. And by the way, guess who I saw going into the Café Royal this evening? None other than the delicious Darcy.”
“Darcy? But I thought he was in Argentina.”
“Not any longer, obviously. I’m sure it was he. Nobody else has those roguish black curls—so very sexy.”
I wanted to ask if he was alone, but I couldn’t make myself. “Then I expect I’ll be hearing from him in due course,” I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned, “although he won’t come up to Scotland, I’m sure. Fig is so jolly rude to him.”
“Then escape to London and meet him in a hotel, darling. You’d have a blissful time.”
“Mummy, you’re not supposed to suggest things like that to your unmarried daughter. Besides, think what the royals would say if they got word of it.”
“Oh, bugger the royals,” Mummy said. “It’s time you stopped trying to please other people and started living for yourself. I always have.”
* * *
IT WAS ONLY when I climbed into bed and curled into a tight ball in an attempt to bring back life to my frozen feet that I realized what I had done. I had condemned myself to spending Christmas with Fig and her family.
Chapter 4
STILL CASTLE RANNOCH
DECEMBER 15
Stopped snowing, at least for a while.
I was awoken in the morning by loud bumping noises and muttered curses. Queenie appeared and instead of bringing in my morning tea she was dragging my trunk.
“Here you are, miss,” she said. “Your trunk like you wanted. I hope I got the right one. It does have your name on it.”
I sat up, my breath coming out as steam in the freezing cold of the room. “Yes, it’s the right one, Queenie, but I’m afraid I won’t be going anywhere after all.”
“Ruddy ’ell, miss. You mean I got to take it back up all them stairs again?” she demanded.
“Just leave it for now and go and get my tea,” I said. “I’ll feel better when I have something warm in my stomach.”
“You should see what’s going on downstairs, miss,” she said, pausing to look back from the doorway. “Apparently them people what we stayed with in France are coming to stay. You know, the stingy ones what only had one piece of cheese and crackers for their dinner?”
“It was lunch, Queenie,” I corrected. “Remember I told you that people of my class eat luncheon in the middle of the day and dinner at night.”
“Well, whatever it was, there weren’t enough food to feed a ruddy hamster,” she said bluntly. “I expect they’re coming here for Christmas so they can eat your brother’s food instead of their own.”
“That’s not for you to comment on,” I said. “You must watch what you say. If my sister-in-law ever heard you, I really would be forced to sack you. You realize that.”
“Sorry, miss. My dad always said my big mouth would get me in trouble, if something else didn’t first.”
“So the servants are getting their rooms ready, are they?” I asked. “That must mean they are arriving very soon.”
“It’s a pity you aren’t going away after all,” Queenie said. “I don’t see a very happy Christmas shaping for us.” With that she made a grand exit.
I got up and went over to the window. The world was covered in a blanket of white, apart from the black water of the loch, which lay mirror-still reflecting the crag and the pine trees. For once the scene looked almost like an Alpine picture postcard and I tried to cheer myself up by thinking of the fun I’d have building snowmen and going sledding with little Podge, my nephew. He was almost five years old now and splendid company.
When I came down to breakfast, however, I learned that Podge had developed a cold and was not to be allowed out in the snow. “But you can take Maude out tobogganing when she comes,” Fig added, as if that were an incentive. Maude probably wouldn’t want to do normal things like tobogganing, I thought. I’d never met a drearier child. Nor a worse know-it-all. I looked up as Hamilton came in with the morning post on a salver.
“Anything for me, Hamilton?” I asked hopefully. If Darcy was back in London, surely he would have written. . . .
“I’m afraid not, my lady. Only a letter for His Grace and some magazines.”
Magazines were better than nothing, I supposed. I took Country Life and The Lady and went to curl up in an armchair by the fire in the morning room, which was the only room in the house that became passably warm. I flicked through the pages, trying not to feel anxious and depressed. Every page seemed to show pictures of jolly Christmas house parties, hints on how to decorate with holly and mistletoe, amusing cocktails for New Year’s bashes. . . . I put down Country Life and thumbed idly through The Lady. I was about to put it down when some words leaped off the page at me: Tiddleton-under-Lovey.
It was an entry in the advertisements column. Wanted: young woman of impeccable background to assist hostess with the social duties of large Christmas house party. Applications to Lady Hawse-Gorzley, Gorzley Hall, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, Devonshire.
I stared at it as if mesmerized. What an astounding coincidence. Here was a place I had never heard of before and now it had come up for the second time in two days. That ought to be a sign from heaven, surely. As if I were destined to go there. My breath was coming in rapid gulps. I could escape from Fig and be paid for it. It really did seem too good to be true, an answer to a prayer. I was about to rush to the writing desk and send in my application when I felt a warning siren going off in my head. Maybe it was too good to be true. I had come up with brilliant ways to make money before and they had all turned into disasters. I couldn’t face a repetition of the escort service fiasco, and I had never heard of Lady Hawse-Gorzley.
I went back into the breakfast room, where Fig and her mother were working their way through the Tatler, making catty remarks about the society pictures.
“Does either of you know anyone called Hawse-Gorzley?” I asked.
They looked up, frowning. “Name sounds familiar,” Fig said.
“Sir Oswald, I believe,” Lady Wormwood said. “Only a baronet. West Country people, aren’t they? Why, what have they done?”
“Nothing. I read the name in The Lady and I’d never heard of them. Just curious, that’s all. Interesting name, don’t you think?” I wandered out of the room again, trying not to let my excitement show. They were legit. Lady Wormwood had heard of them. West Country people. Now I just hoped that I wasn’t too late. Heaven knew how long our copy of The Lady had taken to reach us up in the wilds of Scotland. There were probably hundreds of applications from suitable young women winging their way to Gorzley Hall at this very moment. I decided I needed to act fast. I was about to make a dash to the telephone when I decided that wouldn’t be the right thing to do at all. It might fluster and embarrass her. The correct method would be to write to her on Castle Rannoch writing paper, crest and all, but it would be too slow. Drat and
bother. Suddenly I brightened up. I could send her a telegram. I’d learned about the effectiveness of telegrams when I was in France, and all the best people sent them.
“I’m going into the village,” I said, popping my head around the breakfast room door. “Does anyone want anything?”
Fig peered at me over the Tatler. “How do you propose going to the village in this weather? You’re certainly not taking the motor and I don’t want MacTavish to have to drive you.”
“I suppose I could ride,” I said.
“I thought you said it would be criminal to take your horse out in this weather,” Lady Wormwood said with the smirk of someone who is scoring a point.
“I could walk if necessary. It’s only two miles.”
“Through snowdrifts? Dear me, it must be urgent.”
“It’s probably a letter to that Darcy person,” Fig commented. “Am I right?”
“Not at all,” I said. “If I can’t have the car I’d better start walking.”
“Dashed slippery out there. Who is going out walking?” Binky asked, appearing in the doorway.
“I am,” I said. “I have to go to the village and I’ve no other way of getting there.”
“I’m going in myself later,” Binky said. “If you don’t mind sticking around a bit, you can ride in with me.”
Fig glared at him as if he had let the side down by actually wanting to help me, but it was his car, after all.
“Thank you, Binky.” I beamed at him. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
I went upstairs and worked at composing my telegram. Would it make me seem too eager and pushy? I wondered. But then other girls in more southerly climes would have had a couple of days’ head start on me, and Christmas was rapidly approaching. I had to take the risk. I scribbled, crossed out, scribbled again and ended up with:
COPY OF THE LADY JUST REACHED ME. HOPE I’M NOT TOO LATE TO APPLY FOR POSITION. SENDING MY PARTICULARS BY POST. GEORGIANA RANNOCH.
Of course anyone who sends telegrams on a regular basis would know that this amount of verbiage would cost me a fortune. I blanched when Mrs. McDonald at the post office-cum-general store told me the amount, but Binky was hovering and my pride would not let me take it back for rewriting. Besides, I didn’t actually know what I could have left out. So I handed over the money, hoping that it would result in a paid position shortly. I realized there had been no mention of money in the advertisement. Perhaps the only recompense was to be the joys of a big house party. Ah, well, no matter. Anything would be better than a house full of Fig’s relatives.
I waited all that day and all the next, sinking further and further into gloom. I was too late. Some other young woman of impeccable background would be enjoying the delights of that big house party while I ate baked beans on toast and dodged Foggy’s grabbing hands. Then the next morning a miracle happened. Hamilton appeared with the post while we were at breakfast.
Fig took it. “Oh, something for you, Georgiana,” she said. “Who do you know in Devon?”
I snatched the letter and went out of the room to read it. “It will be a rejection,” I kept muttering as I opened the envelope. Instead I read:
My dear Lady Georgiana:
I was overwhelmed to receive your telegram. I had no idea that someone of your rank and status would ever consider gracing our small house party in the Devon countryside. We would be more than honored for you to join us. As mentioned in my advertisement, your duties would only be those of a young hostess, making sure that the younger guests have a good time. Could you be here by the twentieth and stay until after the New Year?
I hardly like to discuss remuneration, but of course we will cover your traveling expenses as well as the fee for your services. I think you’ll find us a jolly crowd and we’ll have a really gay Christmas.
Yours sincerely,
Camilla Hawse-Gorzley
I bounded up the stairs, two at a time.
“Queenie, I need my trunk again. We’re going away!” I shouted.
“Cor blimey, miss,” she muttered. “Now I suppose you want me to go back up all them stairs and get the ruddy trunk out of the attic again.”
Chapter 5
ON MY WAY TO TIDDLETON-UNDER-LOVEY
DECEMBER 20
I’m delighted to say that Fig was seriously miffed when I told her I had been invited to a house party for Christmas.
“But you don’t know anybody in Devon,” she said.
“I know all sorts of people,” I said. “I just don’t mention them to you.”
“Well, if that doesn’t take the cake,” she snapped. “And Maude was so looking forward to seeing you again, and having more French lessons too.”
I smiled sweetly. “I expect you’ll all survive without me. Do give my love to Foggy and Ducky.” Then I made a grand exit. I can’t tell you how good it felt.
* * *
I ALSO CAN’T tell you how excited I was when I got my first glimpse of Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Queenie and I had traveled on the night express to King’s Cross and then across London in a taxi to Paddington. I glanced out the taxi window as we inched our way through the London fog, wondering if Darcy was still somewhere close by and I had no way of contacting him. I had actually received a postcard on the day I left Scotland. It said, I gather you’re celebrating Christmas with the family. I’ve also been roped in for a family do. But I hope to see you in the new year. Happy Christmas. Love, D. It was so frustrating. He wrote Love, D, but did he mean it? And why hadn’t he telephoned me if he was back in Britain? Some of the time I felt hopeful about a future with him and then chance remarks like my mother’s dashed those hopes. If you loved somebody, didn’t you want to be with her? At least to telephone her to hear her voice? I tried to face the fact that Darcy really was not good husband material, even if I were allowed to marry him. He was one of those men who could not be tamed or made to want to settle down.
I was glad to board the Great Western Railway at Paddington Station and leave the depressing cold and grime of London behind. We had to change trains in Exeter and then take a branch line. The little train huffed and puffed its way beside a lively stream with snow-dusted hills on one side until it reached the small market town of Newton Abbott. The Hawse-Gorzley chauffeur was waiting with a splendid, if rather old, Bentley. As we set off through the country lanes the sun was sinking in a red ball behind the hills. Rooks were cawing as they flew home to their trees. On a great sweep of upland moor I saw a line of Dartmoor ponies silhouetted against the sunset.
We came around a bend and there it was, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, nestled under a snowcapped tor. Was that rocky crag the Lovey? I wondered. It didn’t look very loving to me. Or was it perhaps the noisy little stream that passed under the humpback bridge as we approached the first houses? On one side of the village street was a small row of shops and a pub called the Hag and Hounds—complete with a swinging pub sign depicting a witch on a broomstick with baying dogs below her. On the other side was a pond, on which glided several graceful swans, and a village green. Behind this were some thatched cottages and the square tower of a church. Smoke curled up from chimneys and hung in the cold air. A farmer passed, riding a huge cart horse, the clip-clop of its hooves echoing crisply in the evening air.
“Stone me, miss, it looks just like a ruddy picture postcard, don’t it?” Queenie said, summing up my thoughts.
I wondered which of the cottages was to be occupied by my mother and Noel Coward. I wondered if my grandfather had consented to come and my heart leaped with hope. Christmas at an elegant house party and my loved ones nearby. What more could I want? Darkness fell abruptly as we drove between a pair of tall gateposts, topped with stone lions, and up a gravel drive. Lights shone out of a solid, unadorned, gray stone house, its severe façade half covered in ivy. This then was Gorzley Hall. It didn’t exactly look like the site of an elegant house party—more Bennet residence than Pemberley, but who was I to judge by appearances?
We drew up at the front entra
nce and the chauffeur came around to open the door for me.
“My maid will help you with the bags,” I said, indicating to Queenie that she should stay, even though she was looking apprehensive. Then I went up to the front door. It was a massive studded affair obviously designed to keep out past invaders. I rapped on the knocker and the door swung open. I waited for someone to come then stepped gingerly into a slate-floored hallway.
“Hello?” I called.
On one side a staircase ascended to a gallery and I spied a pair of legs in old flannel trousers up on a ladder. They belonged to a stocky chap with shaggy gray hair, wearing a fisherman’s jersey, and he was wrestling with a long garland of holly and ivy.
“Excuse me,” I called out.
He spun around in surprise and I saw that it wasn’t a man at all but a big-boned woman with cropped hair. “Who are you?” she demanded, peering down at me.
My arrival wasn’t exactly going as I had expected. “I’m Georgiana Rannoch,” I said. “If you could please go and tell Lady Hawse-Gorzley that I have arrived. She is expecting me.”
“I am Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she said. “Been so dashed busy that I completely forgot you were coming today. Come up and grab the other end of this, will you? Damned thing won’t stay put. It looked so simple in Country Life.”
I put down my train case and did as she requested. Together we secured the garland and she came down the ladder. “Sorry about that,” she said, wiping her hands on her old slacks. “I don’t want you to think we’re always this disorganized. Had a hell of a day here. Police tramping all over the place, not letting the servants get on with their work. That’s why we’re so behind. Must have the decorations up, y’know. First guests arriving day after tomorrow.”
She led the way back down the stairs, then stuck out a big hand. “Well, here’s a pretty first introduction to Gorzley Hall, what? Camilla Hawse-Gorzley. How do you do? Dashed good of you to muck in like this. Nearly had a fit when I saw my little advertisement answered by the daughter of a duke. You should have seen the other applications I got—their ideas of impeccable background and mine weren’t at all the same, I can tell you. Parents in trade, I shouldn’t wonder. So you were an answer to our prayers and here you are.”
