The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  Helen gave him a look that clearly said she wanted to boot him out the door. But she took the glass handed to her.

  Lord Beecham watched her take a tentative sip. He watched her lick her lips, then take a longer drink. Then she smiled and held out her glass for more. He actually heard Flock moan with pleasure. Goodness, what had Lord Prith poured into the champagne?

  “Oh, my, Father,” Helen said, once she had downed her entire glass. “This is wonderful. It is the best mixture you have ever discovered. What ever did you mix with the champagne?”

  “Something I just hadn’t considered before, my dear. Even to me it sounded too dreadful. But it isn’t bad, is it?”

  “It is ambrosia,” Flock said and poured everyone another glass.

  “What did you mix with the champagne, sir?”

  “Well, my boy, it is only orange juice, nothing more, nothing less. I am pleased that finally I have achieved greatness with the grape. Yes, orange juice and champagne. Now, what do you think we should call this wondrous new drink?”

  Lord Beecham said, “Oranpagne?”

  Helen said, “Chamorange?”

  “No,” Lord Prith said, frowning as he shook his head. “We need a name that will tease the senses, sound soft and inviting, something not tied directly to the ingredients. Yes, a name that is altogether different.”

  Flock was staring outside. “The trees are so very beautiful. Soon they will be full and green again, not a thing like the champagne, my lord, but yet, drinking it makes me feel at once mellow, pleased, and a bit droopy, just the same result as when I look at those trees yon that will be beautiful in but a couple of months. Why do we not name the drink after a tree?”

  “You wish to call this drink an oak?” Lord Beecham said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Or a pine?” Helen said.

  “No,” Flock said, his voice dreamy now. “We must be more poetic. What is a poetic tree?”

  “I know,” Lord Prith said. “Why don’t we call this drink a willow?”

  Lord Beecham thought about that for at least three minutes before he slowly shook his head. “It is close, but still not there. Another tree, Flock.”

  Flock looked off into the distant trees and meditated. “I’ve got the perfect name for this incredible drink, my lord. How about calling it a mimosa?”

  “No,” Lord Prith said without hesitation. “That is not a name to stick.”

  “We will use it only until a better name comes along,” Helen said and stuck out her glass. “Another mimosa if you please, Flock.”

  There was another attempt to steal the lamp that night. It was three local boys.

  The next day Helen said, “I simply cannot live life knowing there is a thief around every corner. This time it was just boys. What if one of them had been hurt? We must do something.”

  Lord Beecham said, “I thought about hanging it in front of your inn.”

  Helen brightened. “That is an idea. My inn is King Edward’s Lamp. It would be only fitting to have a lamp hanging out over the front door. Ah, if only everyone didn’t know we have the lamp. It’s too late now to do that, but it is a wonderful notion.”

  “Then, there’s just no other choice, Helen.” They looked at the lamp, but the thing just sat there, doing nothing. No pulses of warmth, no soft yellowish light. Had it all been a dream?

  How could this dented old lamp have been the basis for Aladdin’s tale?

  And so they carefully wrapped the lamp in soft, warm clothes and put it into the iron cask. Spenser could not bear to hide the scroll again. It was a historic find. It was meant to be studied by scholars into the future.

  They buried the iron cask in a meadow about one mile east of Shugborough Hall. They buried it very deep. They did not mark where they had buried it.

  No one would ever find it.

  In the years to come, they remembered the lamp only when they received letters from scholars asking to examine the leather scroll. Or when Helen chanced to visit the graveyard and pause at Mrs. Freelady’s grave.

  Local people made up tales about the lamp to while away the long winter evenings. But even they, after a time, forgot that it had ever sat atop the mantel at Shugborough Hall. It passed into local lore.

  Lord Prith ceased experimenting with his fine champagne, saying that the mimosa was perfection itself and he could not hope to outdo it, although he could not like the name.

  And, over the years, to no one’s surprise, one of the Beecham children’s favorite stories was “Aladdin and the Magic Lamp.”