While We Were Watching Downton Abbey (20 page)

There was no question that Samantha Jackson had a blind spot when it came to her siblings. Edward thought about his grandfather and his twin as well as his own brother, Bertie. If your own family couldn’t overlook your shortcomings, who could?

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Edward said. “You’re here under duress. And I’m interviewing you as a favor to your sister.”

The green eyes telegraphed surprise at the admissions, but Jackson remained silent.

“I also know that the concierge business is pretty far removed from what you’ve been doing.”

Jackson nodded but still didn’t speak. Edward gave him several points for knowing when to remain silent.

“So, I have to ask myself are you here for any other reason than to satisfy your sister. And if so, what, in fact, you bring to the table.”

Jackson looked shocked that anyone would question him, but hid it quickly. “Okay,” he said. “I guess under the circumstances those are fair questions.” This time he studied Edward, taking his measure. “I’m here to get Samantha off my back. And I don’t know anything about serving others.” He practically shuddered on the last two words. “I can’t say that I have any real interest in doing so.” He paused, still maintaining eye contact. “But apparently I need a job. And I can talk pretty much anyone into pretty much anything. I don’t think there’s any item, concept, or service I couldn’t sell. If I decided to.” Jackson’s words had been chosen with care, but his body had opened slightly, his gestures had become less guarded.

It was time to explain Private Butler in terms the younger man might understand. “For the last four quarters there’s been huge growth in the personal services sector. And far more growth is being forecast. Everyone’s rushing around at top speed; even the wealthy feel the push-pull of it. Every reliable survey indicates that the one thing people desperately need in their lives is more time.”

The green eyes flickered and Edward could tell he had Jackson’s full attention. “We give our clients that extra time. Plus an attention to detail and a degree of pampering that most—even the ultra wealthy—do not allow themselves.” He paused to let this sink in. “My family has been ‘in service’ in one way or another since the early nineteenth century. It’s an honorable profession, which requires skill and finesse and at times the ability to bend others to one’s will without them even sensing it.”

A small smile tugged at Hunter Jackson’s lips.

“Yes, just like in the field you’ve come out of. In any field really.” Edward smiled. “We’re not selling birthday planning, though Mrs. Mackenzie just put on a bang-up party for a new client’s little girl. Nor are we selling errand running or personal shopping, though I have several part-time employees who excel at this.” He was pleased with how carefully Jackson seemed to be following. “Our job, our goal if you will, is to make their lives better.”

“You’re selling the sizzle, not the steak,” Jackson said, nodding.

“Exactly,” Edward said. “The Private Butler tagline is ‘Making Your Life More Civilized, Whatever It Takes.’ The subtext is the same as that hair color company that uses, ‘Because You’re Worth It.’”

“It sounds like a way easier sell than what I’m used to,” Jackson said. “I don’t think I’d have any trouble at all selling Private Butler.”

“Yes,” Edward said, watching Hunter’s face carefully. “In time, I’m sure you could.”

“In time?” The objection came swiftly. The green eyes flashed with anger. Hunter Jackson’s true self could be hidden but it was never far from the surface, where it simmered waiting to erupt. “I’ve been selling far more complicated concepts for years now. I—”

“I understand all that,” Edward interrupted calmly. “But this is my company and my reputation. There is not one without the other.”

Edward waited for the protest he could see forming on Jackson’s lips. It took a few moments, but Jackson managed to squelch it. It was good to know he had the capacity to think before speaking when the occasion demanded it.

“No one who hasn’t worked in the trenches and learned firsthand what Private Butler is will ever represent me or my company. And not to put too fine a point on it but it’s a matter of ‘my company, my rules.’”

Edward paused waiting for another protest, which would, as far as he was concerned, conclude this interview. Jackson remained silent. As Edward watched, the other man’s tight jaw loosened.

“If you’re interested, I’ll assign you to the entry-level projects I think you’re best suited for and will train you as I have the others.”

He waited, watching Jackson carefully as he did so. “Is that something you can live with?”

Edward wasn’t completely sure what Jackson’s answer would be. Finally Jackson nodded. “Yes.” He stood and extended his hand. “I’m ready to start whenever you are.”

Edward stood and shook the younger man’s hand. He gave him paperwork to fill out and walked him out to the lobby.

Jackson stopped briefly at the concierge desk to flirt with Isabella. The girl’s giggle had nothing British about it and she blushed crimson when she noticed that Edward was watching.

But as he watched Hunter Jackson leave the building Edward wasn’t thinking about Isabella. He was thinking that Hunter Jackson had a lot to offer. That with the right training and supervision it was possible that he could become a true asset to Private Butler. But Edward Parker had not just fallen off of the parsnip truck. He mustn’t allow himself to forget that Hunter Jackson was a person one should never turn one’s back on.

CHAPTER TWENTY

B
Y FRIDAY AFTERNOON CLAIRE’S RELIEF AT THE
salvaging of her book signing had begun to dissipate. Thanks to the
Downton Abbey
posse, disaster had been averted. She’d sold enough books to walk out of the store with her head up. It had not, however, improved her focus on the book she was supposed to be writing or eliminated the guilt she felt at the breadth and depth of her procrastination. In the days since, she’d sat and stared at her computer screen for maybe two or three hours each day, struggling to envision her heroine, now named Alana, whose goals and motivations continued to elude her and whose name she could not yet fully commit to. Claire’s mind felt as close to blank as it was possible to get without going on life support. That is to say she produced what might charitably be called . . . nothing. No matter how many times she asked herself what Nora would do, she could not bring her brain to heel or will her fingers to pick out the letters that would turn into the words that would allow her to begin.

This time when Claire’s phone rang she recognized the New York phone number as that of her agent, Stephanie Rostan. Its appearance on her caller ID was rare; her agent did not dodge her as some agents dodged smaller, lesser-known clients, which she was. But she didn’t call to chitchat, either. Theirs was a business relationship. They communicated largely via email and talked only when there was something to talk about—a contract clause, a manuscript delivery date, a question about language.

“Hello?” she answered tentatively.

“Claire?” Stephanie’s voice was quick and clear, her manner direct. She was not unfriendly, but she didn’t pretend to the warm fuzziness that might allow an author to think he or she was in a business where anything but the marketability of the final product truly mattered.

“Hi, Stephanie,” Claire said. “How are you?”

“Good. You?”

The pleasantries, such as they were, out of the way, her agent came to the point of the call. “Scarsdale is grateful that you stepped in Tuesday night. Wendy McCurdy called me,” she said, naming Claire’s editor at Scarsdale. “She’s eager to read what you’ve got on the new book. They’ve had a slot open up for next November, which would get you on the shelves almost five months earlier than we expected. You could have that slot if you can deliver a complete manuscript by June first.”

Claire may have stopped breathing. Surely that was what was causing the lack of oxygen to her brain. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Claire’s heart pounded and her mouth had gone dry. She hadn’t even committed to her character’s names or completed a serious character sketch.

“You definitely want to jump on this while they’re feeling grateful and have you on their mind,” the agent said. “It’s a very good thing you’re writing full-time now. How soon can you get the synopsis and first three chapters to Wendy?”

It had never before occurred to Claire that being in her publisher’s thoughts could be a bad thing. She’d flown underneath their radar for so long she could hardly process this.

“Claire?”

Claire’s brain was racing now, but not in any discernible direction. She knew the right answer was “next week” or even the week after that, but that, of course, was impossible. “Um, I’m not sure how long it’ll be until I have something that’s ready to be looked at,” she finally said. “I’m, um, waiting for a few things to gel in my mind.”

There was a silence, but it, too, was quick and efficient. Stephanie Rostan needed nowhere near as long as Claire did to regroup.

“Why don’t you send me what you’ve got and I’ll take a look at it?” Stephanie said.

This was an unprecedented offer. Rostan had been an editor before becoming an agent so her feedback would be valuable. If, in fact, there were anything to offer feedback on.

Claire began to pace her apartment, the phone pressed to her ear, her thoughts jumbled and uncertain. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Somehow all of the publishing stars had miraculously aligned. And she was nowhere near ready to take advantage of it.

Should she tell Stephanie what was going on? Or rather what was
not
going on?

What would Nora do
? The question caused a knot to form in the pit of her stomach. Nora would not be in this mess. Nora would have been writing her twenty pages a day every single day and would be only too happy to send off whatever her agent or editor wanted to look at.

No. Claire stifled the admission of writer’s block and panic that threatened to spill out. Admitting what was going on would not be the relief she coveted. It would be a mistake.

Her agent was not her friend. To be too honest about her lack of progress would be a fatal error; one her career might never recover from.

The silence spooled out between them. Too much silence could be just as damning as too many words.

“I want to read over what I’ve got and play with it a bit,” Claire finally said, feeling out and weighing each word. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to send it.”

It took an immense act of will not to allow this last statement to turn into a question. And an even greater one to hang up without adding an apology or an attempted clarification.

In real life as on the page, there were times when less was, in fact, more.

* * *

NOT A SINGLE PERSON SKIPPED THAT SUNDAY NIGHT’S
screening of the final episode of
Downton Abbey
’s first season. Samantha arrived ten minutes early and found the clubroom already abuzz with excitement. Everyone from Mimi Davenport to Callan and Logan Ritchie were already huddled around the drinks and hors d’oeuvres, fortifying themselves for the occasion, debating which story threads might be tied up and which would be left hanging to lure them back in.

“I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen to Anna and Bates,” Melinda Greene said.

“And what comes after that kiss Mary gave Matthew,” her partner Diana added.

There was laughter as drinks slid down throats. Plates were emptied and refilled.

“What is this?” Claire sniffed her drink tentatively. “That’s not lemonade I smell in there, is it?” She eyed the bellman in his livery.

“No,” James replied. He shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He looked to the concierge for backup.

“It’s Pimm’s Number 1,” Edward said. “It’s a mixture of dry gin, liqueur, fruit juices, and spices. It was created in 1859 and to this day the recipe is so secret that only six people know exactly how it’s made.” He’d dropped his voice to illustrate just how hush-hush a thing the recipe was. “We also have Buck’s Fizz—champagne mixed with orange juice—what you would call a mimosa.” He smiled at Claire. “I’ve made a vow that lemonade will never again darken a Sunday evening screening. So you may drink assured that there is not a shandy in sight.”

“Why, thank you, Edward. That’s very civilized of you,” Claire teased.

“My pleasure, madam.”

“Cheers then!” Claire raised her highball glass and clinked it against Edward’s, Brooke’s, and Samantha’s. Isabella came up to them with a tray of English cheeses and water crackers. The other hors d’oeuvres were less easily identifiable.

Samantha peered more closely at what looked like sausage bites and . . . “Is that mashed potato?”

“It’s that all right.” Isabella curtsied smartly and bobbed her head. “If you’re feeling a bit feckless it’ll be bound to ’it the spot.”

“That’s ‘peckish,’” Edward sighed. “Meaning a bit hungry, as opposed to worthless.” His tone was beleaguered, but his lips twitched. They had discovered that Edward Parker’s formality ran bone deep, but his marrow was warm and soft and infused with a decided naughtiness. “Isabella’s accents are evolving and developing nicely,” he continued. “Sometimes her word choice is a bit . . . dicey.”

“This is a version of bangers and mash,” the concierge explained. “A miniature version. I do hope I won’t be struck dead for playing around with such a traditional dish. Normally you’d be served a heaping plate of it. Tonight all you have to do is dip the sausage bit into the mashed potato and . . .” The concierge popped the potato-covered sausage into his mouth and chewed it with polite relish.

Samantha and the others did the same.

“Yum,” Brooke said.

“Ditto,” Samantha said as she savored the appetizer’s combination of warm gooiness and firm chewiness. “I’ve always been a closet meat and potatoes junkie. This hits all my favorite food groups.”

“I’ve never met a food group I didn’t like,” Brooke admitted as she chewed the mini banger and mash. “But at the moment I choose to believe that this delicious meat-and-potato moment is going to be too brief to do real damage.”

“Well, if it does, we’ll just have to burn it off on the elliptical,” Samantha replied though, in fact, she had no idea whether Brooke had been on the machine since their first encounter. Nor did she know how Brooke was dealing with having her ex-husband and his girlfriend in the building.

“You’ll most likely burn it off shopping,” Edward said to Brooke. “I understand you’ve scheduled a shopping expedition with Marissa Dalton.”

Brooke blushed. “Yes. We’re going on Wednesday.” Her voice held both enthusiasm and embarrassment; it was hard to separate them out. Samantha promised herself she’d take the time to reach out to Brooke. At the moment she would have liked to reach out to Edward and ask whether he’d heard from Hunter, but she was afraid that the answer was no.

“Was your publisher pleased with your signing event?” Edward asked Claire, pulling her into the conversation. He really was a master at making everyone feel included.

“Yes,” Claire said. “Thanks to you all, I seem to be a somewhat larger blip on the radar screen up in New York.” She smiled, but her tone sounded far more worried than satisfied.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Brooke asked.

“Yes. It’s supposed to be.” Claire nodded and flashed another smile. But something didn’t quite jibe.

Looking up, Samantha noticed that people had begun to move toward their seats. Claire and Brooke went to the bar for refills while Samantha stayed with Edward, debating once again whether to come out and ask about Hunter.

“Your brother came by Friday to discuss Private Butler,” Edward Parker said, ending her internal debate.

Unable to trust her voice, she watched his face. When it came to her siblings, she’d learned to hope for good news but brace for the bad.

Edward gave her a white-toothed smile. “It went well. Better, I think, than either of us expected,” he said, putting her out of her misery.

“That’s great,” she said, trying to mask her sigh of relief. “I hope that something mutually beneficial will come of it.”

“That would be nice,” the concierge said in an equally casual tone. But there was something in Edward Parker’s eyes that made her suspect he could see right through her to the embarrassingly frantic happy dance that was taking place inside her.

* * *

THEY WATCHED THE LAST EPISODE OF SEASON ONE
in a delicious silence as one after another of the elegant soap opera’s story lines played out. Lady Mary came back from the London season no longer the desirable debutante she’d once been. In a move that owed much to Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett O’Hara, Lady Mary ruined her sister Edith’s marriage prospects while dampening Matthew’s affections. Mrs. Patmore’s eyes were worse, which made cooking for both family and staff at Downton a serious problem, and a new-fangled device called a telephone was installed.

There were gasps as the bitter and ever-nasty O’Brien ended any hopes of an heir that might supplant Matthew Crawley. There were sighs as what began as a garden party ended with Britain at war with Germany.

They sat quietly, barely moving, through the closing credits and the very last note of music. Edward Parker turned off the screen and gently raised the lights. He smiled at them, patiently waiting as they drifted slowly back to the present.

“I’ve enjoyed our first season together,” he said with real warmth. “I hope you’ll stay for a bit. We’ve got sticky toffee pudding and brandy for ‘afters.’ And I think we’ll take just one week off before we begin season two.”

There were groans and protests.

“That will allow us to end just in time for the holidays. Which will leave us ready when the brand-new season airs in January on the Atlanta PBS affiliate.”

They stood and stretched, then moved toward the tables where dessert had already been set up. As had become their habit they carried plates and snifters to the conference table. Samantha, Claire, and Brooke took seats together.

“Thank God we start season two right away,” Claire said. “I don’t think I could wait a year to see what happens next.”

“I know. It’s been hard enough to get through the whole week,” Brooke agreed.

“I can’t tell you how tempted I’ve been to order season two and then just pretend ignorance when we start back here,” Samantha said, only half joking. “Except that I’d have to make sure it arrived in a plain brown wrapper.” She shot a look of feigned worry over her shoulder toward Edward Parker.

“Or went to a PO box,” Brooke added.

“Or a secret drop box, which you could only access in a trench coat in the dead of night,” Claire said.