Читать книгу Christmas at Thornton Hall - Lynn Marie Hulsman - Страница 7

I finally turned off the last shared road onto the mile-long private drive on the estate. Thornton Hall, arguably one of the grandest estates in the Cotswolds, is an eighteenth- century number featuring countless wings and annexes. I’d worked in lots of grand houses, but The Hall was by far the most imposing. It was old and draughty, never silent, even at night – I always heard creaking, settling and the scratching of mouse claws. Nevertheless, it had every creature comfort one could imagine, and everyone inside its walls was pampered to a tee.

This is the area where anybody who thinks he is anybody has a weekend home. Highgrove, Prince Charles’s place, is right down the road, and you’re likely to run into “serious” film stars and models who’ve married rockers while you’re shelling out six pounds for a baguette at the local bakery or buying artisanal goat cheese, made in-house by a former Britpop band’s bassist. Think The Hamptons, but with thatched roofs.

I stopped the car at the gate that was the entrance to the main house, got out and punched the code into the security panel, and got back in. The gates eased open. Putting on my brights, I drove slowly and carefully over the cattle grid. Even though I expected it, the loud machine-gun fire of the grate always stopped my heart, and tonight, it slammed me back into reality. For a while there, I’d forgotten about how I ended up here on December 22^nd.

Sighing, I drove slowly around the circular drive toward the former stable that was now a garage, and paused in front of Thornton Hall’s massive front door. With the elaborately decorated wreath and other festive touches bedecking it, the ivy-covered stone mansion was more breathtaking than usual. Fairy lights were twinkling all over the façade, and candles were burning behind shuttered windows. The people who lived here were gearing up for a yuletide filled with beauty and cheer, surrounded by friends and family. While I was working over the holidays having just been dumped. Wow, my life blows.

Immediately, Aunt Suze’s voice rang in my head: “Failure is an opportunity to reinvent.” I sat up a little straighter, continued to pull my car around and blinked the last remaining snow flurries out of my eyelashes. There, that’s better, now I’m not even thinking of Ben and Amanda. Until I was. And how she was probably at Ben’s parents’ right this very minute. She and his family would all be merrily gathered around the piano, singing Christmas songs and remarking that they’d “never thought Juliet was right for Ben”. Amanda would be gliding gracefully around the fire-warmed room in three-inch heels, fully at home in the scarlet-red velvet evening dress and white fur stole she’d worn for the occasion. A distinguished uncle would comment on how clever it was for Amanda to be of an appropriate height for a woman. Ben would ring for servants to take away the mulled wine, and bring champagne, then he’d get down on one knee and…

Suddenly, I heard a sickening metal crunch as I smashed my car into the estate’s riding mower, parked right outside the garage. “Aaaah!” I moaned weakly, as my head bounced off the side window. I quickly backed up and my front bumper fell to the ground. I killed the engine and lay my head down on the steering wheel.

“Really?” I said out loud. “Story of my life. The minute I get where I’m trying to go, I crash and burn.” Unbuckling, I eased myself out of the car, just as Rex, the Earl’s favorite retriever, came barreling toward me, charged up by the now-falling snow. Jasper, my boss and the Earl’s son-in-law, wasn’t a big dog person. But he hadn’t much room to complain, as it was the Earl’s estate, however much Jasper had his eye on it. I wondered if the poor beast had been “accidentally” let out in the cold.

“Hey boy,” I called, happy to see a friendly face. I squatted down and opened my arms, and he knocked me off balance, on my rear in a slushy puddle. “Ho, ho, ho,” I said, as he licked me heartily. “Merry Effing Christmas to me.”

Rounding the house to the back entrance, I was met by Seamus, the estate manager, the most senior of the staff. He took my hand warmly in both of his, his genuine smile making his eyes crinkle. “Welcome, welcome again, lovely Miss Hill,” he said, bowing with mock formality. “We’re so glad to be working alongside you, especially in this joyous season!” He had on a scarf but no hat, and his thin, wispy, black comb-over was blowing comically in the wind. I gave him a peck on the cheek, and he chuckled, pleased. “Having you and Edward cooking will be a grand thing, indeed.” He nudged me aside gently and picked up my luggage to take to Dove’s Nest, the cottage in which I always stayed. He made pleasant chitchat, but my mind was miles away. Oh, man, Edward is here, I thought. The Gastronome’s Trust hadn’t told me that part. I fished in my bag for a lipstick.

****

My first ever job here had had me training with the Hall’s permanent chef, Edward. Before I’d met him, I’d heard through the grapevine that he was well liked by the staff and family – except possibly Jasper Roth. I’d also heard from a couple of the maids and another chef from my agency that he was sex on legs. And they were not wrong. Since that training stint, on occasion I’d been brought on as sous-chef to assist Edward with an especially large party or event, and to fill in when Edward was on vacation. The Earl and Countess were endlessly hosting weddings at The Hall for extended family. This was the kind of house that was staffed up at all times.

The first time we were introduced in the kitchen of The Hall, Edward had turned around from the stove and smiled. His face was so handsome. Not hard, but not pretty in any way, edged with the faintest 5 o’clock shadow. I sucked in my breath and blurted the first thing that came to my mind, “I love your Crocs!” I’d been told he was good looking, but that simple fact didn’t begin to paint the picture. It wasn’t just about his looks. It was more his essence. I felt like an animal, pulled in at cell-level by whatever invisible scent or sound it was he gave off that made me want him. When he locked eyes with me, I embarrassed myself by thinking that he had decided right then and there to take me to bed.

“I’ve never seen them in white!” I blathered. “Are they comfortable?”

“Like walking on air,” he said slowly. His voice landed right below my belly, and vibrated there.

“But I’ve worn Danskos like yours, too,” he said easily. “Now I’ve got my foot problem solved, maybe you can help me manage my ‘chef’s arse.’” He laughed a velvety laugh, and his eyes twinkled. Against my will, I laughed, too.

Chef’s arse is the insider term for the occupational hazard of moving constantly in a sweaty environment, causing your pants to chafe, which might be the reason for chefs’ fabled tempers. It was a bold thing to say to a stranger, very un-English. I took a step closer to him.

“I swear by cornstarch,” I told him. “But a friend in New York told me about this ointment called Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.” I realized I was flirting, but couldn’t stop myself. It felt like jumping off a cliff. “And it leaves you smelling sweet like a baby.”

“Sweet is good,” he said, smiling at me with his wolfish, lopsided grin.

“Everything in moderation, I suppose,” I’d said. I heard my own voice and it sounded hollow and echo-y, as if I was hearing someone else talk down a long tunnel. I was alarmed at the attraction I felt. For heaven’s sake, Juliet, I said to myself. Keep it in your pants.

“Well, fun’s over,” I said briskly, pulling myself back together. It was time to behave like a professional chef, instead of a starry-eyed fangirl. “This food isn’t going to cook itself.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got loads of time.”

“I’ll hold up my end, Chef,” I told him, pulling out a cutting board. “No need to baby me.”

“Ah, don’t be one of those,” he’d told me, with soft, amused eyes. “Life’s too short.”

****

“Seamus, but you really don’t have to wait on me,” I told him as he carried my bags to the back entrance of the Hall. “I’m just staff, remember?” I said, making a feeble attempt to stop him. “If you set a precedent like this, you’ll be carrying me around on a litter like Cleopatra before Christmas comes.”

“Nonsense. You’re not ‘just’ anything. We’re all so pleased that it’s you assisting Edward. It might have been that grumpy old Frenchman who pretends not to understand English spoken by Irish folk. Now, take yourself to the kitchen…My dear Rose put the kettle on when she heard you come over the grate, and I’ll wager she’s laid out biscuits and some sherry to go with the tea.”

Seamus and his wife Rose, the housekeeper, live in Rose Cottage, the largest on the grounds. It was built when Rose was new in service to the Earl, and she was the first to dwell in it. Seamus had already been working on the grounds when she was hired. Eventually, she and Seamus married and raised their son, Isaac, in the cozy abode. She’d lived there so long I doubt anyone could remember whether the cottage was named after her or the flower bushes that surrounded it.

Seamus and Rose, both from Ireland, are somewhere in their late fifties. Rose stands around 5’ tall and is nearly that wide. Seamus is around 6’4” and lanky as a beanpole. Rose usually cuts through the shock when they’re introduced as a pair by saying, “There’s a cup for every saucer, isn’t there?”

Trudging along the dark path, I started feeling a little better. I ached to be near Rose and her warm kindness, like a mum to the whole world.

“Ah, here we are, go on through and join the others,” Seamus said as he peeled off down the path to carry my luggage to my cottage. Walking in the door to the pantry that lead to the kitchen, I wasn’t surprised to first see Terrence, the butler at the hall, wielding a bottle as he turned.

“Look what the cat dragged in! Merry Christmas Eve Eve Eve,” he said as he jumped up to slip my coat off and hang up my shoulder bag. He took a quick moment to slide the purse onto his own shoulder. He was wearing a long, silk smoking jacket and, oddly, a kerchief around his head, tied at the top with a rabbit-ears-like bow.

“Oooooh, Prada! I wouldn’t have thought a sensible girl like you would be hauling around something this glam! Does it go with my dress?” he asked, cat- walking across the kitchen.

“It’s a hand-me-down from Posy,” I told him.

“She’s a poshie, isn’t she? I saw that photo of her in that trench coat in the Daily Mail. Supreme! If I were her dad, I’d put her in every advert for that airline of his. Maybe she’ll rub off on you.”

Rex came barreling through the kitchen, trying to find traction on the slick, wide beam wooden floor, sliding into the table and yelping.

“Not much chance. I’m just me. She was born to be fabulous.”

“Could someone lock this beast in the laundry room?” Terrence asked, nodding toward Rex. “He nearly knocked over my glass!”

“Oh, hello there,” I said to a smallish young woman sipping nervously at a glass of wine. She had a very plain face, but even underneath her modest black maid’s uniform, I could see she had a pin-up girl, hour-glass body. “I’m Juliet.”

“Hello, Juliet.” I turned my attention from the girl to Edward, who was standing in the corner near the bookshelf, and froze.

“Glad to see you here,” he said slowly. He reshelved the book he’d been flipping through.

All I could manage back was a slightly brusque, “Edward.”

Thankfully, no one seemed to notice my temporary inability to speak.

“I’ve got big plans and they involve you. Hey, your head’s bleeding.” He continued. I reached up and felt a small, wet trickle near my hairline. Edward pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. He cupped my chin in the palm of his large hand, and I could feel the roughness of his skin. He pressed the cloth to the side of my head. It hurt, but I didn’t want to tell him to stop, to lose contact. His breath was warm on my cheek, and I felt dizzy. Was it Edward or the wound? Suddenly aware that all eyes on the room were on me, I took the cloth, and pushed his hand away.

“Oh, I guess I banged it when I wrecked my car just now.”

“That’s a thrilling conversation starter,” Terrence interrupted, plopping down into a chair and slugging back half a glass of red wine. “One might think you’re Dorothy Parker! I’m all ears. Mind that you don’t blurt shocking remarks in the presence of our underbutler, though. We certainly wouldn’t want to dislodge the stick from his bum.”

“Terrence…” Rose cautioned as she got up and made her way toward me and enfolded me in a warm hug. “Welcome, my Juliet!”

“By the way,” Terrence plowed on, ignoring my reunion with Rose as he held up a copy of Tips for the Homefront: A Domestic Guide to Wartime Cookery and Making Your Rations Count, “did you know we could make our own furniture polish out of turpentine and shredded beeswax?” The kitchen’s south-wall collection of books was well visited by Terrence. “I’ll bet Chisholm remembers doing just that! Don’t let the half-inch of pancake make-up fool you. He’s 95 if he’s a day.”

“I apologize for Terrence,” I said, turning to the girl. “He’s not happy unless there’s full-on drama in the room. I’m sorry we got interrupted.” I darted a glance at Edward, who was looking right at me, drinking from his cup of tea. “Um, like I said before, I’m Juliet, the chef. That is, the sous-chef, this time around.”

“I’m Daphne,” she said. “You can call me Daffy.” She seemed to think for a minute, then burst out in almost a full voice, “You’re so clean!” She saw that we were all looking at her strangely, and blushed. “I just mean that you’re really fresh and, you know, pretty, for being, you know…your age.”

I was taken aback and laughed out loud. It was a fact, but not something a stranger would normally comment on. I was dressed very simply in a red velour hoodie, jeans and my good leather riding boots, which had been a stretch for my budget, even on sale. But she was right, I was very clean. I’d scrubbed myself raw in my own shower after having awakened to Ben’s betrayal, trying to rid myself of the anger and hurt. And also the smell of that whorey Amanda’s shampoo. I didn’t have a stroke of make-up on my face, aside from the lipstick.

“Don’t mock the poor dear, you old cow,” Terrence said to me. “Take the compliment. Sure, I’ve seen better, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.”

“Ignore Terrence, Daphne,” said Rose, and to me, “Juliet, dear, I’ve missed you like mad.” She was still hugging me, a real squeeze, rocking me back and forth and it made me suck in my breath to keep from crying. Rose was a cuddler, and her warm touch brought all my sadness to the surface. I wanted to tell her all about Ben, but now wasn’t the time. I bit the inside of my cheek and concentrated my attention on the napkin holder.

“Our Terrence is bent out of shape because he’ll be sharing his territory with the esteemed Mr. Chisholm from Mr. Roth’s Chelsea house. Also, he’s in his cups. Terrence,” she said loudly, as if to a deaf person, “perhaps it’s time to slow down on the drink for the night. As for Mr. Chisholm, leave him to his corner. There’ll be plenty of work for everyone and we’ll all be minding our manners, won’t we?”

Terrence waited till Rose turned her head and made wanking motions. I shook my head at him. He crossed his arms and scowled.

“Now then, Juliet, I’ll pour you a nice glass of sherry.” She set a glass in front of me. “Edward, will you have some too?” Rose asked. Edward nodded, and sat himself down in the chair next to mine. I couldn’t relax.

“How’s your fella, Juliet? Shame you’re not with him at Christmas,” Rose said, opening a cabinet and taking down a fresh bottle.

I glanced at Edward. “Well, to tell you the truth, uh, Ben…Ben’s great.” Way to live your least secretive life, I thought to myself.

“Chizzy had his teeth whitened, you know,” Terrence burst in, cutting me off again, still preoccupied by his dislike for Jasper Roth’s London butler. “Makes him look like a Las Vegas hooker!” Whenever they had to work under the same roof, an electrified friction crackled between Terrence and Mr. Chisholm. They were both egotistical, high-status, gay, and middle-aged. It was unlikely that either of them would be playing the part of “underbutler” this Christmas weekend. More like a duel of the divas.

“The American’s my puppet,” Terrence continued, referring to Roth, “billionaire investment banker or not. I think we’ve proved that time and again. Mr. Chisholm, Mr. Schmisholm…that big old Mary’s no threat in my house,” Terrence said moodily. “I’ll kill or die to defend my territory.”

“My goodness, Terrence, you should be treading the boards with all that theatricality,” said Rose. “No one’s killing or dying on my watch.”

Rose’s son Isaac was seated at the far end of the table with a cup of milky tea and a plate of tiny mince pies.

“Hello, Isaac. How are you?” I asked. Just being near him calmed me.

“Well. I’m glad to see you, Miss,” Isaac said, beaming.

“Isaac, it’s Juliet. There’s no ‘Miss’ with me,” I told him, resisting the temptation to muss his goldy-blond hair. Even though Isaac is older than I am, his child-like simplicity invites those kinds of gestures. His hair was getting long – he had two modes of hairstyle: cropped extremely close to his head in a Caesar, or overgrown like it was now. Unintentionally, either one gave him the look of a surfer dude or rock star. His near-drowning as a child, when he fell through the ice on the estate’s pond, had left him…well, not exactly slow, but different. I’ve never had a psychological pigeon-hole to wedge him into, so I just accept him at face value as a pleasant and kind person who is very uncomplicated.

“Wait till you see the gingerbread house I made,” he said to me.

“It looks good enough to eat!” Daphne said. “But then a gingerbread house would, wouldn’t it? It’s food, I suppose.” She poured sugar into her cup of tea.

“It really is quite something,” Edward said, looking at me over the rim of his sherry glass, green eyes twinkling. “I couldn’t have made it.” He put his feet up on the empty chair across from him. That was kind of him to say. Edward had a real artistic bent and it showed in his ice sculpture, spun sugar construction, and cake decorating. When there was a wedding on the grounds, he pulled out all the stops.

“There’ll be time enough to see it later,” Rose said. “It’s quite a wonder, though…Isaac did all the design and embellishment. I just baked.”

“Where’s Jane?” I asked Isaac about his wife.

“Bed,” he said, gathering up several cookies and mince pies in a paper napkin and taking his teacup to the sink. “She’s sick so I’d better go home. G’night!” Isaac, said, his mouth full of pie. He rose and started out the pantry door.

“Make sure some of those mince pies get to your missus, Isaac! She didn’t get one from this batch. I hope her stomach’s not still delicate, poor lamb. And make sure she has a cup of tea or some broth before she goes to sleep…Sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Rose called as a blast of cold air rushed into the cozy kitchen from the pantry leading to the garden and the servants’ housing, and the door swung closed behind Isaac. He’d be going to Stable Cottage, where he now lived. No one had ever expected Isaac to marry, and the whole staff had pitched in to fix it up when Isaac had married Jane and moved out of Rose Cottage.

I was aware of Edward’s stillness and his glances in my direction. Nervously, I groped for something to say. I suddenly felt so ugly and conspicuous. “I didn’t expect to see anyone. I thought I’d be heading straight to bed. I didn’t bother trying to look nice.” Now Edward was looking straight at me, listening hard. My face felt like it burst into flames, it was so hot. Shut up, Juliet. You’re babbling.

“You have a smile on your face, my dear, that’s all the adornment a young girl needs,” said Rose.

“That’s damning with faint praise,” I said, laughing, trying to be a sport about myself. It only made me feel more under the spotlight.

“I’d take the ‘young’ compliment and run with it, if I were you,” whispered Terrence loudly. He went back to chattering with Daphne.

I was hotly conscious of looking dull in Edward’s eyes. Suddenly, I just wanted to get out of there and go to bed. I stood up, knowing I should say a big goodnight and hoof it out of there. My feet wouldn’t move and I didn’t know what to do with my arms. I wound up leaning over the table with both fists planted, like I was about to filibuster. All eyes turned to me, magnifying my discomfort.

“Rose has got a point,” Edward said. He was very still. “You look beautiful.”

“Well, then thank you, Edward,” I said, turning my full body toward Rose and away from him. I couldn’t even look at him. “That’s very nice of you,” I said, twisting awkwardly to block out the whole view of my attractive colleague.

“I guess they say there are different levels of attractiveness,” my mouth continued, against my brain’s will. My voice sounded like a recording. Why won’t you stop talking? I screamed to myself. “There are visually attractive people and then interesting people,” I said. I couldn’t lift my fists off the table. Edward was listening to me with a small smile on his face, eyebrows raised. “People are striking internal responses,” I babbled, not entirely following what I was saying myself. Shut up, shut up! I told myself. You are losing control of your syntax.

“With status, like Mr. Roth, maybe in the scheme of things,” I barreled forward. My mouth kept forming words, and my brain seemed to be kicking back in a lounge chair, spectating. What was I trying to say? They all waited patiently for me to stop talking or to make some sense. Eventually, Terrence started making a “get on with it” rolling gesture with his hand, wineglass clutched death grip- style in the other.

“Mr. Roth is so…” Daphne finally piped in. She shook her head back and forth slowly, mouth hanging open. “Well, I mean he’s you know, sexier than like, the Earl’s mate from up the road. You know the one. That old bloke he hunts with, Lord Ambridge. Whatever. Know what I mean?”

After a pause, Terrence spoke up. “If you mean that even a burlap sack of oats is sexier than Lord Ambridge, then yes, I do know what you mean.”

Edward laughed a big, open laugh, eyes shining. Did he have to sit all splayed out, with his legs apart, looking so relaxed? I thought irritably.

“The Ambridges are coming to stay, you know,” Terrence said. “They’re on the list.”

“They are?” Daphne asked. “But they live a stone’s throw away.”

“Ah, the rich are different from you and me,” he replied. “Who can explain anything they do? Especially out back, behind the riding stables, if you follow me.”

“Right,” Daphne said, eyes darting. “I’d better get to bed. I have to stoke the fires first thing.” With that, she slipped from the table and disappeared up the stairs.

“Daffy indeed! Rose?” I asked.

“Well, she’s a maid brought in by Mr. Roth to ‘assist’ me this holiday,” she said haughtily. She bustled about the kitchen wiping and cleaning. “Seems he thinks this party is more than I can handle. She’s in the small room in the attic. We tried to put her in Deer Cottage, but after one night she claimed she thought it was haunted. That certainly tried everyone’s patience. She’s a dim little thing who’s hardly said two sensible words since she’s arrived. I hardly know what to do with her, so I mostly have her tending the fires.”

“That’s good!” I said heartily, trying to keep the conversation rolling. “I’ve always wished it were hotter around here.” The corner of Edward’s mouth turned up. I shot him a stern look and he held up his hands in surrender.

Mr. Roth was obsessed with having a roaring fire in every fireplace at all times, whether the room was occupied or not. Being American, he liked to keep every room in the stone house hovering at about 80°C, baffling the staff and suiting me fine. In that respect, he and I were two peas in a pod, hence my predilection for flannel pjs.

“So did you know the Ambridges were here?” asked Terrence.

“No,” I said loudly, relieved that the conversation had shifted focus. Suddenly I could move my legs. It was just in time, since my locked knees were cutting off blood to my brain and I felt like I might pass out. “Are they?

“They’re above,” Terrence said. “Lady Ambridge just got back from touring organic farms in The States. You know that one – she’s not happy unless she’s prowling fields, wellies covered in cowpat.”

“She’s a regular farmer, Lady Ambridge,” Rose said. “It’s a breath of fresh air that she works for a living, given her background.”

“She’ll get no complaints from me,” Edward said. “She always brings truckloads of fresh fruits and veg. Between what she brought and what MacGregor might leave us, we’ll eat well.”

“Why isn’t MacGregor at my welcome party?” I asked, finally relaxing a bit after a glass of sherry. I sneaked a look in Edward’s direction. He looked good. Really good. He was wearing dark-wash jeans, and a white waffle-weave thermal shirt under his open chef’s coat. I couldn’t help noticing how it pulled nicely across his broad chest.

“He told me to give you a kiss for him,” Edward teased, twinkling. “Shall I?”

My face went hot.

McGregor, the gamekeeper, was notoriously solitary, and mostly kept to the grounds or to The Pond Cottage. He was quiet and straightforward in the way a man who could live off the land often is. On occasion, he ate staff meals with us, but he preferred to eat in his cottage.

Rose said, “Be kind. I’ve known MacGregor for over 10 years. Sure he’s a private soul, but he never gives anyone a moment’s trouble. He comes out for Mass. I see him of a Sunday morning, and don’t repeat this, but he almost always has a dozen eggs and a bird for Father Francis.”

“He’s a good bloke,” Edward agreed. He took a bite of a buttered brown roll from a saucer near him. I locked eyes with him for a moment and thought, I don’t owe Ben a thing anymore. I could have Edward. My arm involuntarily twitched and knocked over my glass.

“Oh, whoops, sorry…” I stammered, jumping up to get a kitchen towel from the hook. I brushed past Edward, and wound up knocking my hip into his shoulder. He reached around with his other hand to right me, and wound up pressing his muscular arm against my pelvis. “Oh!” I squeaked, jumping away like I’d been burned.

“Uh, is it a full house?” I asked Rose, wiping up the spill with a bar towel.

“It is, as a matter of fact,” Jasper Roth said, pushing through the swinging door from the hall, “it is.”

In a split second, Rose was on her feet, with Terrence right behind her. “Is there something you need, Mr. Roth? A cup of coffee? Some warm milk?”

Edward remained seated.

At the sight of him, I’d crossed the kitchen, without thinking, putting myself on the other side of the table from Edward’s chair. Roth ignored Rose and her questions.

“Hello, Juliet.”

“Hello, Mr. Roth.” The corner of his mouth turned up, and he raised an eyebrow. Well, what did he expect me to call him? Jasper? In his robe, pajama bottoms, and slippers, he looked cozy and far more casual than usual. His hair was rumpled. Had he gotten out of bed when he heard me drive up? I looked at the floor. Even without seeing him, I knew he was looking at me. He stood in silence.

Uncomfortable as it was, we had to bear it. The ball was in his court. Everyone waited for him to make a move, to explain why he’d crossed the invisible line between the house and the servants’ domain.

Edward stood up slowly, and spoke. “Mr. Roth, how can we help?” His tone was that of the perfect soldier. Undeniably respectful to his superior, but rich with the confidence and strength of someone who could kill and defend. He was stretched tall, to his full height, and his jaw was tilted slightly upward. This was clearly muscle memory from his days in the military. I was embarrassed that I found it so sexy. His eyes were trained on Roth. I wondered if Edward realized that even at proper attention, those eyes told a secret. Was he challenging Roth? Scorning him? Was I the only one who saw it?

“I’m making sure everyone knows what’s expected,” he replied, meeting Edward’s eyes. “To meet the guests’ needs, of course,” he added, flicking his eyes over me, and smiling at Rose.

“Everything is in order, Mr. Roth,” Rose answered, smiling back. “Your guests won’t want for a thing, isn’t that right everyone?”

“Of course. We intend to satisfy desires before people know they have them,” Terrence said. “Isn’t that right, Juliet?”

I was furious at Terrence for putting me on the spot with his obvious little joke, but I could hardly react with a room full of people staring at me.

“Of course, sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Roth said, looking at me. “Do you have everything to make that happen?”

“I’ve done all the ordering for the menus you’ve requested,” Edward cut in, “and for the general running of the house. If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to go over the plans with you.” He looked Roth in the eye. “Sir.”

Roth met his look, and smiled an easy smile. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything I require. Goodnight all,” he said, turning and pushing through the door.

We all waited a beat to make sure he was truly gone, as staff always do, then we relaxed, taking our chairs and going back to our drinks.

“Right then. As we were saying, Juliet, we’ve already got guests…Dr. Dearden is in the Oak Room. The whole Dearden clan used to come every year for Christmas, before Mrs. Dearden passed. With the children living abroad now, the good doctor comes alone. Hard to believe I’ve known him since his hair was dark and she was slim as a rail. I’m surprised he didn’t come down for his midnight roast beef sandwiches. His missus used to get after him for eating red meat.”

“Never punish a man for eating meat, I always say,” purred Terrence.

“Lovely couple,” Edward said. “There’s a lot to be said for a long and happy marriage.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Did you get engaged yet, Juliet?”

“I’m, well, expecting it on New Year’s Eve,” I lied. What are you up to, Juliet? I thought frantically to myself. I couldn’t bear for Edward to think I’d been rejected by Ben. I felt like I was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Unwanted.”

“Good on him, then,” Edward said, face placid. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

“To tell you the truth…”

“And Lord and Lady Ambridge are in the Heather Room, of course,” Rose continued. “Mr. Roth had them come tonight so they could join us for breakfast, then go bird spotting.” Rose was putting lids on the last of the storage dishes and wrapping mince pies in foil.

Why didn’t I come out and say that we broke up? I hated lying. Lying just meant extra work. Now I was going to have to keep it going, operating in a state of paranoia and exhaustion.

I poured myself a second glass of sherry, and filled it so full I had to slurp some over the rim to keep from spilling it. I needed it badly. Edward raised an eyebrow and smiled.

“Actually, the truth is, Ben and I…” I started, but my voice was so soft, Rose didn’t hear me.

“The Ambridges arrived around the same time as the Deardens for cocktails and dessert, and I must say Edward outdid himself,” Rose nattered on. “Lady Helena made a noise about watching her waistline, but she ended up having two plates. The chocolate cake was an idea off of that Conley-Weatherall show…you know the one, Piers’s Family Table, I believe it’s called.”

“The ‘Who’s your daddy?’ bloke, she means,” said Terrence. “I like him. You can just tell he drinks while he cooks.”

“He’s my hero,” I said. “I couldn’t get his show in France, and I know it’s weird to say, but I missed him.”

“You feel like you know him, that Piers. He’s been married to his wife for over 25 years,” Rose said. “But Edward did some of his own recipes, as well. He offered an assortment of gorgeous treats, including that rich chocolate gateau and a fruit platter.”

“Did you cut the strawberries properly, according to Our Master, Jasper Roth?” I asked.

“Never tip to stern!” Edward laughed. “You’ll get a spanking for that round here,” he said, and winked at me. My insides turned to warm jelly. Is he flirting? C’mon Juliet, I said to myself. Stop looking for signs. You’re the one who put the brakes on. Since then, he’s been the model of propriety and professionalism.

The first time I worked at The Hall, Mr. Roth had stood over me, lecturing, as I scraped an Eton Mess for twelve into the trash because “the berries were vertical.” I bit my tongue till it bled, all the while thinking that he could pretend he came from an English boarding-school background to the others, but I had his number. It took one to know one, and I was American. I saw how hard he worked to fit in and hide his nouveau manners. He didn’t know any more about Eton messes than I did.

Roth was jealous of the real English, especially those who’d inherited peerages. The Earl of Gloucester, Lord of Thornton Hall, and his best mate the Baron of Hinckley, who owned the neighboring estate, had something Roth couldn’t compete with. Try as he might, Jasper Roth would never be listed among the titled in Debretts. He could buy land and houses in the old country, but he couldn’t buy status. It baffled me that he wanted to. He was practically Donald Trump. As a “celebanker”, he was always on camera or in print. It made no sense to me that he was chasing down acceptance in some caste-driven society whose rules didn’t come naturally to people like Roth and me.

The Earl was an artist in addition to being a British blue blood. Below stairs, we usually called him The Painter. Somehow, that vocation rang more true to us than his having been born titled. Hanging on the walls of this grand house, along with the countless gloomy, dark, heavy oil paintings of his ancestors, were vibrant, fresh, and sometimes shocking modern works by the Earl himself. The art world knew him as Hugh de Audley, Hughie to the insiders.

Born into the peerage, he could certainly have lived a gentleman’s life but he worked hard instead. In his youth, he studied in Paris, the States, and extensively in Spain. He’d apprenticed himself to some famous Modernists and developed a smart style of his own, influenced by a mix of the Spanish masters Picasso, Dali, Joaquin Sorolla, while still drawing heavily from painterly English artists like Millais and Turner. I was no expert, but I knew Hugh de Audley was the real thing.

The Painter is one of Britain’s most beloved and celebrated modern artists. And, in the social media age, it doesn’t hurt that he’s a one-hundred percent, grown-up English lad, with a fairly fit and youthful body, big wooly sweaters, and a full head of wavy and still golden hair – even in his late sixties – flopping appealingly over one ultra-blue eye.

Aside from some health issues and some noticeable thickening around the middle – inevitable with age – he lead a robust life. I liked him a lot. He treated me well and wasn’t above coming into the kitchen on his own to prepare a cup of tea (which we, of course, never allowed, though the pretense was kind).

“You know,” Terrence said to me, refilling his glass of wine dangerously close to the top, “you really missed it. I was asked to bring champagne to the drawing room the night Roth ‘surprised’ The Painter by announcing he’d host Christmas and handle all of the guest lists ‘as his Christmas gift’ to him and the Countess. His Christmas gift!

“He’s lucky he’s still allowed round here, given what the rags are all saying about the state of his marriage.” Terrence took a deep draught of his drink. “Anyhow, his Lordship leaned over as I was pouring and said, ‘He may not have noticed, but I’m not dead, yet’ just a hair too loudly. He then thanked his son-in-law for his ‘imaginative generosity in gift innovation’ and pointedly asked me if I had the time, as his Patek Philippe watch seemed to be broken and would need replacing. I nearly wet myself on the Chinese rug.”

“If anyone can put Jasper Roth in his place, it’s The Painter,” I said.

“I’d say you do a fair job of it, yourself,” Edward remarked, twirling his wine glass by the stem.

“No, no!” I blurted, blushing faintly. “Not like The Earl.”

The Painter got Roth’s goat. He’d make a big show of standing at the head of the table until his son-in-law was compelled to stand and hold the old man’s chair for him, underscoring his rightful place at the seat of honor. Despite Roth’s bales of money, his father-in-law’s status always trumped him in this Medieval-rules country. On one of my last engagements at The Hall, the Earl had delighted in winding Roth up by refusing a priceless bottle of Petrus in favor of a Californian Chardonnay, even though the main course was Porterhouse steak.

“I don’t know who’d be happier to see His Lordship gone to the grave – Roth or Chizz.”

“That’s rough, Terrence. Old Chisholm’s just trying to do his job and stay out of trouble, like the rest of us,” Edward said.

“Well, he’d be much happier doing it in a manor house than a London townhouse.”

“Juliet, take a look at the guest roster,” Rose said, opening a folder of papers on the table.

“Oooh, let me see,” said Terrence. “If that 20-year-old Earl of Glastonbury’s coming, his room assignment is ‘Meadow Cottage, my bed.’”

“You’d better watch your step with that,” I cautioned. “He’s not even gay.”

“He will be after one night with me,” Terrence retorted, thrusting his pelvis forward. “Let’s see, Dr. Dearden…aged Scotch, dry sherry, doesn’t like cilantro blahblah – rank 5 – Lord and Lady Ambridge, already here…no red wine, Ketel One martinis, she’s allergic to strawberries, organic produce, yadda yadda – also rank 5. Oooh! Kaylie Hart and her escort Jaques Lacoste…sizzling brunette and her froggy food critic lover! Rank 4? I’d go higher than that, myself. Roth’s put them in the Regent’s Room and Tapestry Room, very sexy indeed, with that adjoining bath and dressing room. Did anyone see her latest flick, Remembrances of Autumn? Art film, that one. She shows full bush.”

“Language!” gasped Rose.

“Well, it’s nothing you can’t see every night at dinner, here at The Hall,” defended Terrence. “The broad above the dining table’s starkers from where I sit. She’s a real piece…I’d probably let her have it if I went that way.”

“Take it down a notch, Terrence,” Edward said quietly.

One of The Earl’s most famous paintings, a nude called The Veiled Madonna, hung in the dining room, opposite the head of the table’s chair.

Rose threw the baking sheet she’d been scrubbing into the sink with a clatter. “Excuse me! I’m going to the ladies’.”

Just then, Seamus came in through the pantry, brushing snow out of his hair. “Where’s Rose?” he asked.

“She’s gone to the toilet,” Edward told him. “Terrence was being a boor, going on about the nude above the table. Some people wouldn’t know art if it sneaked up and bit them.”

“He could use a trip through The Tate or The Cheltenham Art Gallery,” I agreed.

“Does anyone listen to me?” asked Terrence. “I said the naked babe was hot. That’s high praise coming from my tribe. No need to get your knickers in a twist. I’ll tell Rose I’m sorry for being rude. Quel sensitiva!”

Seamus’ face closed up and he busied himself making a cup of tea. “In fairness, Terrence,” he said, clearing his throat, “you take things one step too far, too often, for my taste.”

“Back to the guests,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. Rose and Seamus were, after all, Catholics. Not to mention from a different generation. “Who else?”

“All that’s left is a cancellation! Looks like we’re minus one Mr. Famous Member of Parliament and his boringly appropriate wife – Rank 4 – from The Crown Room. No subpar view of the horses’ rear ends for them, then.” The bedrooms were named individually and were allocated in strict accordance with an unspoken hierarchy The grandest rooms were The Oak Room, The Regent’s Room or the Heather Room. If you were placed in these rooms, you were either the only guests or the Posh and the Powerful – Rank 5. A bit lower, and you were taken to the Crown Room or the Hunt Room, for those slightly further down the social pecking order – Rank 4. If you were given The Chinese Room, The Blue Room or the Princess Room, you’d better suck up and laugh loudly at all Roth’s jokes, because you barely made the cut. In short, if your room had rugs from this century, singing for your supper was advisable.

“Roth hates plan changes,” Edward said, neck craning to read the list upside down. “Expect a foul mood out of him. Better yet, just expect a foul mood out of him. He rarely disappoints.”

“Edward!” I said.

“Are you defending him?” Edward’s jaw was set hard.

“No, but, is he really that bad?” I asked. I felt shaky. Something told me I should drop it.

“It’s not for me to say. To me he’s just another boss. It’s different for you, though, isn’t it?” he asked, staring hard at me.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, starting to breathe a little faster. I didn’t want to be having this conversation. “Like you, I’m just here to serve the guests.”

“Of which there are very few!” Terrence jumped in. “So you see, we don’t need an underbutler.”

“We don’t really need a second chef, either,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Sometimes we get what we want, even if we don’t need it,” Edward said, softening. “Whatever I think of Roth, in this case I’m glad he’s throwing his money around wantonly.”

“I say we pinch a few pennies and send Mr. Chisholm home on the next motorcoach,” Terrence said.

“Terrence,” I counseled, “just find a way to get along with him. He’s here to stay.”

Before long, Rose came back through the kitchen door, amiability restored.

“It’s getting late, you lot. Juliet, you’ve had a long journey, you’ll need your rest…and Terrence, I’d recommend stopping at the two bottles you’ve had if you hope to hold a candle to Mr. Chisholm tomorrow.”

“Drink doesn’t affect me,” Terrence announced. “I’ve a high tolerance for spirits and pharmaceuticals. I’m like Roth’s wife, the esteemed Lady Penelope of the Manor, in that respect…I could drink a case alongside a bottle of Percocet and still buttle circles around Mr. Chizz.”

“Terrence, don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” I said.

“If you’re talking about Roth, Juliet, I’d advise you not to bite anything of his,” Edward said.

“I mean Lady Penelope, and you know it. Terrence, we all our have dirty little secrets. There are things we don’t need to know about her private life.”

“I’ll bet there are private things you’d like to know about her husband,” Terrence said, poking Edward in the ribs, and looking at me slyly from under his lashes.

“What? No! God, Terrence. God!”

Edward fixed his gaze on me, settling back in his chair.

Rose declared, “Bedtime, my pets. Time to stop torturing Juliet. Out of the kitchen, now, so I can finish cleaning!” She took Terrence’s glass away, opened the door to the pantry and literally shooed Terrence and me through and out the back door.

“Edward’s still here!” protested Terrence.

“I just have to bring a few things up from the store room.” Edward offered.

“What about Seamus?” whined Terrence. He hated to see a party end. “Why does he get to stay?”

“I’m here to see my best girl gets home safe. Think of me as her knight in shining armor. Now off with you,” Seamus told him.

“God save England,” mumbled Terrence to me as he split off, weaving in a serpentine pattern into the darkness, toward Meadow Cottage.