Home for Christmas (11 page)

‘Lunch is from twelve-thirty to …’ Agnes stopped. ‘Ah! But you won’t be wanting lunch. You’re invited to a birthday party.’

‘That’s very nice,’ said Lydia as she unbuttoned her boots, then stopped when she saw Agnes’s pixie-like grin. The penny dropped.

‘You haven’t!’

Agnes’s grin grew wider. ‘I have. I’ve organised a birthday party – for you, of course.’

‘All this food!’ Lydia exclaimed, both hands now resting on her stomach as though she’d already eaten the promised feast.

‘You can walk it off. We can go down to the lake. I promise you, you’ll love it. And it will do you good. In fact, it will do us all good. Just think of how lovely it will be to return to a warm house with the air smelling of mince pies,’ Agnes said brightly.

Lydia thought there was little chance of bumping into anyone at breakfast the next day, spread out as it was over two hours.

A little old lady, wearing a lace cap over silver hair, was huddled at one end of the table scrutinising what looked like a copy of
The Times
. She nodded silently in response to Lydia’s good morning.

Her father came down for breakfast after first visiting Sir Avis to check how he was bearing up. He did not wish her a happy birthday; he never had in the past so it came as no surprise that he did not do so now.

‘So what are your plans?’ he asked after helping himself from the array of dishes set out on the sideboard.

He seemed in an extremely good mood, his cheeks quite pink and his manner cheerful as he attacked a plate of kidneys, bacon, sausage and mushrooms.

‘I understand I’m having a birthday party,’ she told him, her eyes bright with glee.

He looked slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly. ‘Please note that I will not be attending.’

‘I’m not sure you’re invited. The young people are arranging it,’ she added with a smile.

Her father raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Are you insinuating that I am no longer one of these young people?’

‘Yes, I am.’ She kept smiling, eyeing him sidelong to see how long he could hold out before his face broke into a smile.

At last, it happened; his face cracked with amusement.

She excused herself before rising from her chair.

‘Take my advice and don’t eat too much cake,’ he said to her.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll go for a walk afterwards.’

After she’d gone, he sat looking over the rim of his coffee cup to the French doors on the other side of the room without actually looking through them. Old memories had surfaced when Lydia smiled at him, her head held to one side, eyes shining. Dimples appeared when she smiled. She looked so like her mother, the same laugh, the same lively manner. He missed her mother and hated Christmas Eve.

Lydia retired to the conservatory with a good book. Conversations were all very well, she thought to herself, but there are times when I like being alone.

She was roused from her book at around midday.

Agnes came dashing in, her white apron flapping and her cap perched at a jaunty angle.

‘Happy birthday, Lydia. Are you ready?’

Pleased to see her friend, Lydia responded that she was hardly dressed for going to a party.

‘There’s no time for you to change. Everything is ready. Robert and Sylvester are already here, and if we don’t get there right away, your cake will be gone. Come on.’

Lydia followed her out of the conservatory, through a long passage up a flight of stairs, another passage and then another flight of stairs. Portraits and landscapes hung from every wall, gaslights flickered and thick carpet muffled their hurrying footsteps.

Lydia reckoned she was on the third floor of the building.

‘Are there no guests in these rooms?’ Lydia asked.

‘Not bloody likely,’ said Agnes. ‘This is where the nursemaid, the governess and the children used to live. Children should be seen and not heard, that’s what they used to say.’

Agnes stopped dead before one of the doors leading off the passageway.

‘This is the old nursery,’ Agnes whispered, her eyes bright with conspiracy. ‘I shall go in first. Count to ten, then follow me in.’

The door slammed in Lydia’s face before she could say another word. She sucked in her lips, wondering whether to run away in case it was all a joke.

She decided that it probably was a joke. If she was so bold as to try the handle, the door would prove locked and everyone inside the room would laugh at her. Perhaps they would keep her waiting here and, in an hour or so, somebody would pop their head out, shout boo and hoot with laughter.

‘I really could be doing more interesting things,’ she said to herself.

She turned to go, and then paused. Count to ten, then open the door.

Believing she had counted to ten, she clasped the ivory doorknob. It turned. The door opened.

‘Happy birthday to you … Happy birthday to you …’

Balloons and paper chains fluttered from the ceiling and a hand-painted banner wished her a happy birthday. Better than that, the table in the middle of the room groaned with food, pride of place going to an iced cake.

‘Can we eat now? I don’t mind telling you that I’m damned famished. That I am!’

The speaker was a young man with the most extraordinary mop of snowy blonde curls. He looked her up and down, muttered something that sounded like ‘very nice’, and then turned his attention to the food and wine.

It was down to the third person in the room to chastise him.

‘Siggy. Be a gentleman and introduce yourself first.’

‘Sorry,’ said the snowy-haired young man and offered his hand. ‘Lydia Miller, isn’t it? It’s an honour to meet you. I understand your father is administering to dear old Uncle Avis’s needs. Quite a doctor so I’m led to believe. Now please, allow me to feed my face and I in turn will pour you a glass of wine. Agreed?’

He didn’t wait for her agreement, but went ahead, filling his plate before pouring wine into two glasses – his and hers – leaving out the other people in the room.

‘My cousin, who is in a perpetual state of starvation and therefore omitted to mention his name, is Sylvester Travis Dartmouth, otherwise known as Siggy.’

The voice was notable, as in unforgettable and easily brought to mind even when that person was no longer present. She found herself looking up into the most striking pair of blue eyes she had ever seen. The young man was a little taller and a little older than she was. His hair was warm blond and his features firmer and more regular than those of his cousin.

The young man introduced himself as Robert Ravening. ‘Cousin to Sylvester there,’ he added. The smile he exchanged with her was conspiratorial as if their opinion of his cousin agreed.

Siggy, otherwise known as Sylvester, handed her a glass of wine.

‘Happy birthday, old girl. Would you like to cut the cake now? I’m very fond of birthday cake.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Lydia feeling both amazed at the feast and ashamed she’d doubted Agnes.

The young man with the honeyed voice, Robert Ravening, shook his head. ‘Sylvester, you’re a pig.’

Agnes handed Lydia the cake knife. Sylvester grabbed the first piece she cut. Robert intercepted it and passed it to Lydia. ‘Ladies first, Siggy. Ladies first.’

‘Sorry. Forgetting my manners,’ said Sylvester who was now eyeing Lydia with far more attention than before.

Robert passed the second slice to Agnes, his fingers accidentally brushing hers. To Lydia’s surprise, Agnes blushed. It is apparent, she thought to herself, that the intriguing Agnes likes Robert very much.

Between mouthfuls of food, Robert explained that Agnes had done them proud. ‘And we did our best to help things along – at very short notice might I add. I for one thought it was jolly mean that you’ve never properly celebrated your birthday just because it’s the day before Christ’s birthday.’

Lydia thanked him graciously. ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ she added.

‘I doubt you did, dear girl. Your mother must have been miffed at the time too. Imagine wishing for all those presents and being incapacitated and not able to open a single one,’ Sylvester remarked as he took another piece of cake and poured himself a second glass of wine.

Agnes turned on him. ‘Siggy! You are so inconsiderate. Her mother died giving birth to her, for goodness’ sake. I suggest you apologise.’

‘Sylvester! Master Sylvester to you!’ Sylvester screamed at her.

‘Please,’ said Lydia, embarrassed at being the cause of the harsh words. ‘Please don’t. It’s all right. He wasn’t to know.’

Sylvester glowered at Agnes who, in turn, eyed him haughtily, refusing to look away.

He finally beamed at Lydia.

‘You’re a true sport, old girl. Quite a looker too. No offence meant.’

‘None taken.’

Sylvester rebounded quickly. It was in his nature not to dwell on anything that disturbed him. Sylvester Travis Dartmouth lived to have fun.

‘Here,’ he said, his joviality totally restored. ‘We’ve made presents for you. I do hope you like them. They’re actually Christmas decorations for you to hang on the tree. We made them years ago when we were children and each year we vote for who has the honour to hang them on the tree. This year we voted for you. It’s a great privilege. I do hope you’ll accept.’

The mood that had descended on her melted away as Lydia perused the three objects her new friends had made.

‘I’m honoured,’ she replied, her voice bubbling between words and laughter. ‘What do I do? Oh Lord, I don’t have to give a speech?’

‘No need. Just do as instructed,’ said Robert. ‘Place the one you like best first on the tree. And just so there won’t be any mistake, I made this one.’ He handed her a silver star made from cardboard and tinfoil.

Agnes gave her a snowman made out of white cardboard and cotton wool. Sylvester handed over a robin made out of balsa wood. He’d neglected to paint in the features so it was only vaguely birdlike.

‘The star’s for the top of the tree,’ said Robert. ‘Hope you can climb up there all right, but if you can’t I’ll do it for you.’

Sensing this to be a great honour, Lydia took a deep breath before she could say a word.

‘Thank you. Thank you all very much.’ She hung her head over the gifts. ‘They’re lovely.’

‘I’m not sure they’re terribly lovely, certainly not as lovely as you ladies, of course,’ said Robert, including Agnes in his compliment but his smile was warm and kindly and aimed solely at Lydia who blushed deeply.

There had been other men who’d looked at her like that, but she’d never felt the same stirring inside before, the feeling that they had known each other forever. She’d read of love at first sight, but surely that only happened in novels?

Stuffed with food and red-cheeked from the heat of the room, Agnes suggested they leave hanging the decorations on the tree until later. Her manner had turned less amiable, more abrupt, though instead of aiming her hostility at Sylvester it seemed to be directed at Lydia. Agnes was in love with Robert but Robert had favoured Lydia with his smile.

‘We need some fresh air,’ Agnes added.

‘I second that,’ said Robert.

Agnes’s face turned rosy with a grateful blush.

‘We could all do with some fresh air. Muffins when we get back I think. Oh, and mulled wine,’ Robert added.

Sylvester, whose eyes seemed to be devouring Lydia with as much fervour as he had the food, clapped his hands in appreciation of the plan.

‘And when we come back, Lydia will oblige us by placing the decorations on the tree. And if you put my robin on first, my dear Lydia, I insist on kissing you beneath the mistletoe.’

Lydia smiled sweetly, though she wasn’t sure whether she’d welcome his kiss.

‘But if you choose the star first …’ said Robert, ‘I shall leave the option with you. All I can do is hope.’

Lydia laughed. ‘I will need more than one glass of mulled wine first.’ The star, she thought to herself, secretively studying Robert from beneath lowered eyelids. I definitely favour placing the star on the tree first.

Agnes seemed preoccupied in clearing things away.

Lydia began helping her.

Sneering at Agnes, Sylvester couldn’t help but make a comment. ‘Lydia, you don’t need to do that. It’s not your job.’

The insinuation was clear; Agnes was just a servant.

‘We can all help,’ said Robert. He began stacking plates and scraping waste food into a bowl. ‘The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can go for a walk and get back to hang our decorations on the tree.’ He shot his cousin Sylvester a warning look. ‘Don’t forget we made those decorations that first Christmas. We played together back then. All three of us. You, Agnes and me. We shall continue to be friends – with, I hope, a happy addition.’ He flashed Lydia a magnificent smile.

‘I was only saying …’ said Sylvester.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ muttered Agnes. ‘I’ll ask Peggy in the kitchen to clear up. She won’t mind. Now come on before it starts to snow. Let’s go.’

‘I swear it’s going to snow,’ said Robert, sniffing the air as they tramped along a gravel path. ‘Never mind. We’ll head towards the lake before this mist comes down more heavily. We’ll circle it then head past the stable yard and home. Everyone in agreement?’

Lydia declared that she would go where everyone else was going.

‘The new girl agrees,’ stated Sylvester, a small cigar gripped at the corner of his mouth. ‘What a treat you have in store, my dear.’

Lydia wasn’t sure whether he was being sarcastic or really meant it.

‘I’m sure she’ll enjoy the experience,’ said Robert. ‘Don’t you think so, Agnes?’

‘Of course she will. There’s nowhere in the world like Heathlands. It’s heaven on earth – even in winter,’ said Agnes, who seemed to keep as close to Robert’s side as she could, sneaking a peak at his face, her cheeks rosy and her eyes shining.

Yes. She’s in love with him, thought Lydia. Does he love her? She hoped not. Such a short time and, already, she felt the first stirrings of jealousy – and guilt too, given that Agnes had clearly been sweet on Robert first.

Robert’s face was harder to read, partly because his white-haired, blue-eyed cousin Sylvester placed himself so that Lydia was always one or two persons removed from Robert.