Home for Christmas (9 page)

Iris’s indignant expression froze on her face. ‘If you are saying that I am not, then that was quite cutting, Eric. And cruel.’

‘I’m sorry, Iris. I didn’t mean to sound …’ He had always tried hard to be polite to her whilst holding her off.

Iris heaved her bosom again and downed the last of her drink. Her cheeks, he noticed, were turning a soft shade of cerise.

‘It’s all right. I know what you mean,’ she said, looking everywhere but into his eyes. ‘I have never been married, so am in no position to give advice, but I am a woman, Eric. I am a woman.’

She lowered her eyelids, afraid he might see the longing in her eyes, her desire to know a man’s body – his body.

He drained his glass, and poured himself another. He offered her one too. This time Iris declined.

He took a sip, looked thoughtfully into the glass then looked at her.

‘Eric,’ she said, rising from her chair, the beautiful mauve muslin dress she was wearing lifting softly away from her body as she moved closer to him. Panels edged with purple embroidery fluttered and fell against the taffeta lying beneath. The dressmaker had told her that it was most becoming. She hoped Eric would notice. ‘Do reconsider about Christmas. I would not want you to feel sad at this time of year. Send me a telegram if you change your mind and need me to come. You will do that, won’t you?’

He nodded thoughtfully and glanced briefly at her before tipping the contents of his glass into his mouth.

She wondered if in that glance he had seen how lovely she looked in this dress. The widower she’d met at dinner had said so. He’d even gone so far as to propose marriage, but she had asked him to give her time. She had to give Eric one last chance first.

Even if all Eric wanted to do was get her out of the house and on the next train back to Wareham!

‘Christmas,’ muttered Sarah Stacey as she bustled around the kitchen, stirring sauces, basting the turkey, making sure the custards and jellies were the right consistency to set firmly.

Peggy, one of the women from the village roped in to help with the preparations, dipped a wooden spoon in and out of the custard she was stirring. She frowned because it wasn’t dropping off the spoon, and it was supposed to drop off – wasn’t it?

Sarah Stacey’s confident tread was near at hand.

‘Is that all right, Mrs Stacey?’ Peggy asked, wooden spoon poised over the pan.

Sarah took the spoon, dipped it in then held it out. Her eyes narrowed as she waited for the reassuring plop of custard returning to the pan.

‘That’s it,’ she pronounced when it plopped on cue. ‘Sir Avis is always pleased by firm custard.’

And firm flesh, she thought as she scanned her steamy kitchen, her thoughts returning to the first time she’d stepped into the house as nothing much more than a drudge, a girl to clean out and lay the fire grates at five in the morning before the rest of the house rose.

She had been fourteen years old, a pretty girl with a fresh complexion, a forest of dark blonde hair, and a body that was filling out with womanly curves faster than most other girls of her age.

Sir Avis Ravening had noticed her bending over the grate and the coalscuttle, her cap slightly askew and smudges of coal dust on her cheeks.

She hadn’t known he was there and had hit her head on the cowling once she realised – he’d startled her that much. Despite knocking her head, she sprang to her feet and bobbed him a curtsey.

‘Did you hurt your head?’ He’d sounded genuinely concerned. ‘Here. Let me see.’

Sarah had been terrified, not just of him taking off her cap, his fingers tracing the big bump that was forming on her temple.

‘I think you should get Cook to put some butter on it,’ he’d said to her. ‘Better still, come down to the breakfast room with me and I’ll put it on. How would that be?’

With a mind for what Mercer the butler would say, she’d protested, though weakly. Sir Avis seemed such a nice man, far nicer than her own father whose drinking habit had ruined his body and mind as much as the hard work he did.

‘Do you want to glaze these sprouts with more butter?’ asked Megan, breaking into Sarah’s daydream.

‘Yes. Butter,’ she responded. ‘Butter has a lot to answer for,’ she muttered as she added a little to the vegetables.

To give Sir Avis his due, though he’d admired her from the start, he’d waited until she was sixteen before he’d seduced her.

‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Stacey,’ said Quartermaster, popping his head round the door.

‘Same to you, Mr Quartermaster,’ said Sarah.

His name wasn’t really Quartermaster but everyone knew he’d been called that in the army at the same time as the master, and that was what the master still called him so everyone else did the same. It had been either that or inheriting the name Mercer from the previous butler. ‘A cup of tea, Mrs Stacey? I’ve mashed a brew.’

‘I’ll be right with you, Mr Quartermaster.’

‘Ow, that’s good,’ said Sarah, crossing her slim ankles after sinking into a chair. ‘I’ve been up since four this morning and don’t mind telling you my feet are due for a holiday. I can’t remember them aching like this last Christmas.’

‘Too many Christmases, Mrs Stacey,’ said Quartermaster with a laugh.

He’d been cleaning the silver, his hands suitably coated in white cotton gloves. He refused to entrust this task to any of the house maids whose job it strictly was. He’d taken these off in order to drink his tea.

Suddenly he sighed.

‘I wonder where we shall be next Christmas,’ he said, his face drooping with sudden sadness.

When Sarah’s eyes met his, she knew immediately that the pair of them were thinking the same thoughts. The lives of domestic servants were inextricably tied up with the people they worked for. That’s the way it had always been, and that’s the way it would remain. They were like the furniture in the house and could be used or discarded at will.

‘Here. I hope,’ she said quietly. ‘Though I have to say, the master is not well. Not well, at all.’

Pondering her words, Quartermaster studied the process of turning his cup around in its saucer, for no reason other than he was worried, not so much for himself. He was old and had saved what little he could for his retirement. He hoped to move in with his sister who lived not far from Sarah’s mother in the East End of London. His savings weren’t excessive, but enough to save him from the workhouse.

However, Sarah wouldn’t be so lucky. Sarah would be dismissed from her position as cook when the master died, his widow would see to that.

With a view to brightening their mood, he said, ‘Doctor Miller seems to have done better for him than the others he’s had.’

‘Yes. There’s that,’ said Sarah though she only half believed it.

It was true Sir Avis had been a little better since being treated by the new doctor, but Sir Avis had been at death’s door prior to Doctor Miller’s arrival. His sunken cheeks and his strangled breath still woke her in the middle of the night. (Not that she could admit to Quartermaster so overtly that on occasion she still shared the master’s bed, though not since he’d been ill. Even so, she still regularly looked in on him to see if he was all right.)

‘I don’t know what I shall do when he’s gone,’ Sarah whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Live with my mother if I can’t get another position.’

She looked down into her cup as though she might really see her future there. But it won’t be, she told herself. The future was not readable.

Quartermaster reached across and patted her hand. ‘Be brave, lass. Be brave. With a bit of luck the master will live a few more years. With a bit more luck her ladyship might reach the pearly gates before he does – or t’other place,’ he added with a wishful grin. ‘Fact is we’ll all benefit if young Mr Robert inherits.’

Sarah smiled warmly and thanked the butler for his kind optimism. ‘I was only fourteen years old when I came here, two years younger than Agnes,’ she said, her eyes downcast as she considered the passing of the years and all that had happened.

Quartermaster nodded. ‘She’s like you in looks, but like her father in attitude. Just as when he was young … I’m sorry … I shouldn’t ’ave been so bold …’ he stammered, suddenly aware he’d crossed an unspoken threshold. He knew of Sarah’s history. He also knew his master, his old colonel, so very well.

Now it was Sarah’s turn to reach across and pat his hand. ‘I know my secret’s safe with you – if it ever was a secret. Now,’ she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her apron, ‘I’d better get back on the treadmill. I’ve a Christmas spread to organise, the like of which this old place has never seen before!’

Agnes looked out from behind the curtains in the breakfast room and held her breath. There he was! He didn’t leave the servants to deal with his luggage, but joined in with them, slapping them on the back, wishing them the seasons’ greetings and asking who was coming and whether they were here yet.

Robert had finally arrived.

She fancied he looked a little taller, more mature, more masculine than the last time she’d seen him. Then he would, she counselled, seeing as he was now at Sandhurst, a capable young man destined to be a capable young officer. If there was ever a war that is, possibly in some far-off land where British soldiers were needed to quell a native revolt.

She was out of sight, hidden behind the curtain, yet she could tell when he smiled in her direction that he knew she was there. Then he was gone.

Another car pulled up behind that in which Robert had arrived.

The corners of Agnes’s mouth turned downwards at the sight of Robert’s cousin, Siggy, Sylvester Travis Dartmouth; a mouthful of a name for a thickset young man who had hair that was almost white and ice-blue eyes. Unlike Robert, he left the unloading of his luggage to his valet, a short-legged terrier of a man, who scurried along behind him loaded with baggage.

Siggy was also at Sandhurst but might not have been if his family had not paid his way, unlike Robert who would have got there on his own merit if he’d needed to.

The French clock on the mantelpiece chose that moment to remind her that time was getting on, tinkling like a bunch of spoons as it struck the time.

Agnes spun out from behind the curtains. Her heart was racing, her cheeks were pink and all she could think of was finalising her duties as fast as she could.

She’d checked the welcoming snacks laid out on the sideboard, simple things by the standards of many grand old houses: strips of cold pheasant, cheeses, game pie, pigeon breasts stuffed with apricots, apples and sultanas in pastry cases, chocolate truffles covered in coconut, fruits, breads, cold sliced sausage and peeled prawns wrapped in smoked salmon.

She’d also retrieved the port, brandy and whisky from the tantalus, plus port, a dark red Burgundy and a crisp German white that Sir Avis hoped would please his new doctor.

‘There,’ she exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction. Everything was in place, the glasses sparkling, the silver spotlessly clean, the porcelain plates gleaming as though shiny and straight from the kiln.

As she turned to leave, she spotted her reflection in the huge mirror above the marble fireplace. The face and figure looking back at her was something of a surprise. She was wearing her dark blue dress, her white apron and cap. Normally she hated her uniform, as she’d never really noticed how good her pale complexion looked when she wore a dark colour. Her hair was always wild, so it was no surprise to see escaped tendrils curling around her pink cheeks and falling below her jaw line.

It had been her plan to change into something more alluring and less like a uniform once she’d done all she had to do.

She scooped off her cap that had slipped sideways thanks to the thickness of her hair. On a whim, she also removed her white apron. The dress was of good quality and made her complexion look luminous. Her eyes sparkled. Her pink lips parted to reveal pearl-white teeth.

The navy blue dress was simple, but very effective. As an afterthought, she took out the locket Sir Avis had given her. Once again, she studied her reflection, liked what she saw and smiled. A rose needs no gilding, her mother had once told her. For the first time she thought she knew what that meant.

It was the twenty-third of December. The guests for Christmas were arriving by car and carriage.

A chill mist drifted over fallow fields, through copses clinging like gauze around the railway station and farm labourers’ cottages.

Lydia sat looking out of the window of the taxi that had brought them from the railway station at Ravening Halt and decided that Heathlands was exactly as Agnes had described it.

‘Lots of rooms, lots of trees and lots of grass around it.’

‘It’s very grand,’ she said to her father.

‘And very old,’ he responded. ‘It has a lot of history, as does the Ravening family.’

He didn’t see her knowing smile. Her father viewed the English upper classes with awe-struck respect. As he never tired of telling her, Queen Victoria was mother or grandmother to most of the crowned heads of Europe.

Lydia was wearing a dark green velvet coat with black braiding at the cuffs and around the hem and collar. Beneath it she wore a white blouse and a green skirt that matched the coat and a red silk bow at her throat. She was feeling good about herself and the outfit had been chosen carefully to match the time of year. It had been a pleasure to leave off her nursing uniform, if only for a few days.

The house dated from Elizabethan times, its facade weathered to a glowing redness, its towering gables seeming to scrape the sky. Diamond-shaped windowpanes looked out on a vista of trees and parkland that had not changed for centuries. Smoke curled from a forest of chimneys, each one different from its neighbour, the brickwork twisted into amazing patterns.

‘I feel as though I’m about to curtsey to Good Queen Bess,’ Lydia said to her father, her voice bubbling with amusement.

‘I think Queen Elizabeth would find you very suitably dressed for the occasion,’ he responded. ‘That is a very fetching outfit.’

The gravel drive lisped to silence, instantly reawakened as a footman, attired in livery of dark green jacket, white shirt and black pinstriped trousers, rushed to open the car doors.