Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas (6 page)

I turned to leave, but Andy caught my arm. ‘Wait.'

He produced a small posy of mistletoe tied with a white glittery ribbon and presented it to me. ‘For you.' He winked. ‘Use it wisely.'

My heart melted and I gave him a hug. ‘That is so sweet of you. I'm touched. Truly.'

Who says people can't change?
I mused, as I made my way to the gatehouse to fetch the spare heater for Jim. If Andy could change his attitude to me so dramatically, there was hope for others. Maybe even Lady Fortescue . . .

The electric heater wasn't heavy but it was a bit bulky so I tucked the mistletoe posy into the pocket of my jeans as I lugged it along the covered walkway to Santa's workshop. It was only noon, so I didn't get the full effect of the Christmas lights in the gardens but despite the cold air nipping at my cheeks, it was a joy to be out in the winter sunshine.

Santa's workshop was the cutest little wooden chalet ever. It was surrounded by Wickham estate Christmas trees to give the area a foresty feel and inside the space was divided into two rooms: the first being devised as a toy workshop with a workbench covered with wooden toys, piles of gift-wrapped presents and a desk with a long scroll of paper on it. The top of it read ‘Good Girls and Boys' and underneath were listed all the children whose parents had booked Santa visits for today. I caught myself scanning the list for Holly Swift and giggled softly to myself under my breath. I opened the door to the second room where Santa would meet the children and was quite startled to find Santa sitting in his rocking chair doing the crossword next to the Christmas tree with a sack of presents at his side.

‘Jim!'

I plonked the heater on the floor, produced my posy of mistletoe and gave him a hug and a kiss.

‘That's Father Christmas to you, young Holly,' he said waggling his eyebrows at me. ‘Or Santa, I suppose, depending on your preference.'

‘But you've got hours until the first children arrive!' I said, dropping onto the wooden stool presumably positioned for the little ones to perch on.

‘Well,' he said, patting his red jacket, ‘gives me time to settle in, you know, get into character. Besides, if no one knows where I am, they can't give me any jobs to do, can they?' He chuckled.

‘That is the most authentic suit I've ever seen,' I marvelled.

Sheila had brought it in from somewhere. It looked hand-made from thick red wool with large black buttons and white fur cuffs.

‘I love it already. And very warm. I probably won't need that heater, especially as Jenny has already been across twice with hot soup and a flask of beef tea.'

‘Excellent. It's so good to see you!' I beamed. ‘How are you? Have you missed us?'

‘It's good to be back, and I've missed you all something rotten,' he said, laying his newspaper down on the floor at his feet. ‘Although I was quite getting used to Betty waiting on me hand and foot.'

‘You deserved a break, Jim,' I said, patting his liver-spotted hand.

‘A month, Holly. A month off work. Most I've ever had in one go was ten days and that was when we went to see Betty's sister in the South of France. Did I ever tell you about the time I met Dolly Parton? I didn't—'

I smothered a chuckle. ‘You did, Jim,' I said before he recounted the autograph story again. ‘Although I didn't know you'd been on your way to France at the time.'

‘Oh yes,' he said gravely. ‘My sister-in-law lived in Monaco. She's passed away now, God rest her soul, but she had one of those millionaire apartments near the Golden Square.'

I shook my head. Full of surprises, our Jim; he lived a quiet life in a tenanted cottage while other members of his family lived a life of luxury. ‘Betty's sister sounds like she was quite well-to-do.'

‘So was Betty when I met her.' He nodded wistfully. ‘Elizabeth Charlotte Simpson Jones as she was then. Her father was less than impressed when I asked his permission to marry her. Refused point blank and told Betty that if she married me he'd cut all ties with her.'

‘Why?' I huffed. ‘I would have thought any man would be proud to welcome you into his family.'

‘Albert Simpson Jones was a judge.' He shrugged. ‘I was just Jim Badger, handyman at Wickham Hall. He thought I was beneath her.'

‘She must have really loved you.' I felt a pang at the thought of the young woman torn between her lover and her family.

‘Why? Because she put up with being called Betty Badger? Go on, you can laugh; I don't mind.'

‘Sorry,' I giggled, clamping a hand over my mouth. ‘No, actually, I think that's a very sweet name. I meant giving up her family and her wealthy lifestyle.'

‘What can I say?' he smirked, leaning back and resting his hands behind his head. ‘I was worth it.'

We laughed for a moment before his face grew serious.

‘I did tackle her about that,' he said, ‘because I was worried that one day she might regret it. But you know what she said?'

I shook my head.

‘She said that when you fall in love with someone, you fall in love with the person they are and not their job or their bank balance and that people are people and we shouldn't put one above another.' He sniffed. ‘So I married her and we've been together for over fifty years.'

‘Oh, Jim. That is the sweetest thing I ever heard.' I reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘And did her family ever forgive her?'

‘Yes. Old Albert was quite a decent chap in the end. So all was well.'

‘A happy ending,' I said, standing to leave. ‘I'm glad. I'd better be off; our celebrity chef is due any second and I want to check that Jenny doesn't flirt with him too outrageously.'

‘Hold on, aren't you going to tell Santa what you want for Christmas first?' He settled his red hat on his head and rested his hands on his tummy. ‘Go on, I'm ready.'

‘Oh gosh,' I chewed my lip. ‘Let me think.'

I wanted to be Ben's girlfriend, I wanted Lady Fortescue to be overjoyed for us and I wanted the airmail letter from Italy to bring good news . . .

My shoulders lifted in an almighty sigh. ‘I want the impossible, Santa.'

‘It's Christmas, Holly, anything can happen.' He laughed, tapping his nose. ‘You might get lucky.'

I kissed Jim's cheek and said goodbye, pausing in the workshop to stand on a stool and fix Andy's mistletoe posy to the ceiling with a pin.

Let's hope Jim is right
, I thought,
maybe this Christmas I will get lucky
. . .

I left Jim in his cosy grotto and scurried across the courtyard to the café, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the icy wind. But despite the cold, I paused for a moment at the door.

Decked out in its festive finery, the café looked delightful. Jenny had suggested that all the decorations in here should be in keeping with the Elizabethan food event she was running today. So we had held back on the silver glitter, making use of the abundant greenery from the grounds instead. Swags of bay, laurel, holly and ivy ran along the serving counter and around the ceiling beams, adding traditional festive charm. Tall fat candles encircled with rosemary and thyme coronets created a gentle glow and the overall aroma when I opened the door was rich and pungent.

The usual café tables and chairs had been put into storage for the day and the space had been set up theatre-style around a demo table near the kitchen doors. Jenny had purloined a couple of electric hobs from somewhere although they didn't have an oven out front, so one of her helpers would be on hand to ferry food to and from the kitchens. Rachel, Jenny's sous chef, was at the table arranging a series of ceramic dishes full of ingredients for Daniel's menu.

And there, sitting at a table to the side of the demo area, almost concealed behind a pile of cookery books, was Daniel Denton himself.

Our celebrity chef had arrived.

I had watched three episodes of his series
Kitchen Secrets
last night back-to-back, so I thought I knew what to expect. His TV persona was of an enthusiastic octopus on speed; he waved his arms endlessly, darted from cooker to fridge to workbench as though his pants were on fire and he could crack an egg with one hand while stirring cheese sauce with another. Even his blond floppy hair seemed to be in constant motion. I felt exhausted just watching him and to top it off the show was set to music with a constant dance beat that he nodded and twitched his shoulders to. He didn't talk much, but he had a habit of winking at the camera just before slamming something in the oven.

But when I crossed the Coach House Café, I was quite taken aback. Daniel Denton was hunched over his coffee, scowling at a coiffured redhead who was brandishing a clipboard. He didn't look at all like his on-screen personality.

Jenny was at my side instantly.

‘Come and meet Daniel and Portia,' she said breathlessly, grabbing my arm. ‘Isn't he divine? And those pale eyes, so beguiling; I've been a total fan girl ever since he arrived. And yes, I do know he's married, but I can't help myself. Come and say hello and please pinch me if I say anything inappropriate.'

I did as I was told and followed Jenny to where Portia was arranging copies of her husband's books in a fan shape on the table.

‘Will you sign one of your books for me now in case we run out?' Jenny asked once the introductions had been made. She delved into her pockets for her money.

I bit the inside of my cheek to hide my smile; she was so star-struck that she could barely meet his eye and her face had turned a deep shade of pink, which toned beautifully with her aubergine-coloured hair.

‘Sure,' Daniel replied flatly, picking up a black pen.

‘And we've bought DVDs as well,' said Portia. ‘Don't forget to sell those too, Daniel.'

He sighed by way of response.

‘So what do you think of Wickham Hall, Daniel?' I asked, undaunted by his lack of interest.

‘Yeah, great,' Daniel muttered.

‘It is sweet,' Portia conceded, casting a glance around the café. ‘Although, you're lucky to get Daniel at a venue like this. We're only here for some practice in front of a live audience. This time next year we'll be aiming much higher.'

Charming.

I heard Jenny exhale through her nose and I was slightly concerned she was going to say something that we all would regret when Daniel's chair gave a screech as he pushed it back and stood up.

‘I need some air,' he grunted before stomping out of the café.

Jenny and I exchanged looks but Portia just smiled smoothly and handed Jenny her change.

‘My goal,
our
goal,' she corrected herself, ‘for next year is to break into the live food show circuit – London, Glasgow, Manchester. They all have a big reach and I think they'll build his brand in a more experiential way than TV. His public need to meet him in the flesh.'

‘Absolutely,' I said. Whatever experiential meant.

‘Excuse me,' said Portia with a tight smile. ‘I'll go and retrieve him.'

Jenny and I watched her leave the café and scan the courtyard for her errant celebrity husband.

‘He's a bit . . . well, sullen,' I said cautiously.

‘Hmmm,' said Jenny, biting her lip. ‘At first I thought he was just remaining aloof, like stars do, you know. He was more responsive when we had a run-through of the schedule and he was very complimentary about the ingredients for today's dishes. He said he'd never seen such a plump goose.'

‘She's got him, look,' I said with relief, as Portia and Daniel, hand in hand, arrived back. They looked frozen.

‘Phew,' Jenny breathed. ‘We're supposed to be starting any minute.'

Tickets to our celebrity chef demonstration had included a tour of the Wickham Hall Christmas decorations first so that all guests, including my mum, would arrive at the café at the same time and right on cue, at twelve o'clock, Marjorie opened the door that led from the hall's main corridor and Daniel's audience flocked in.

‘Welcome, welcome,' cried Jenny, extending her arms, ‘to Wickham Hall's first ever celebrity cooking demonstration. Please put your hands together for Daniel Denton.'

I waved at Mum who'd managed to be one of the first in, and everyone began to clap as Daniel dragged himself up from his chair, raised a hand briefly and sat back down abruptly.

Jenny's eyes flicked over to me and I shrugged discreetly. I sincerely hoped that he would perk up when he donned his pinny, or this could be Wickham Hall's
last
ever celebrity cooking demonstration too.

‘Refreshments are over here, ladies and gentleman!' Jenny indicated the table at the back of the room, which was laden with tea, coffee, water and a selection of Wickham Hall biscuits.

The crowd immediately surged towards the refreshments and I noticed Portia jabbing a finger at Daniel's book.

‘Ooh yes,' giggled Jenny, picking up her signed copy. ‘I'd better put this somewhere safe.'

Portia looked as though she was about to erupt and shook the book harder.

I cleared my throat and bellowed in my loudest voice: ‘And don't be shy; Daniel will be signing copies of his new book,
Kitchen Secrets
, which will make a perfect Christmas present, or a treat for yourself.'

‘Bugger,' Jenny whispered with a grimace. ‘I was meant to say that.'

‘No harm done.' I patted her arm and made a beeline for my mum.

‘Hello, Mum.' I kissed her cheek. ‘Having a good time?'

‘Best event I've ever been to here, love.' She beamed. Her hair was tumbling out of its bun and she had sparkly Christmas tree earrings in. ‘I'm so proud of you.'

I shook my head with a laugh. ‘Jenny organized this one; Daniel Denton is her contact.'

‘I'm proud of you anyway.' She pointed to her bag. ‘I've bought one of his books and had it signed for Steve for Christmas.'