“Hoots is unwell?” That was not entirely unusual. Hoots had always been prone to dramatic ailments, usually coinciding neatly with extra work.
“His mind’s slipped a cog. Claiming to be Napoleon, he is. Locked himself belowstairs with a bottle of the earl’s best Armagnac. Won’t come out until Wellington surrenders, he says, and that leaves Mr. Aquinas to do all the organizing of the household.”
I sat down and put my fingertips to my temples, rubbing hard. “We have one fallen tree, one destroyed Rookery, one delusional butler and no good brandy. Is that what you are telling me?”
“And the cook’s down with piles and more than half the staff are suffering from catarrh,” she added maliciously.
I looked to Brisbane, who was smiling broadly. “God bless us, everyone,” he said, spreading his arms wide.
* * *
The situation was rather worse than Morag had described. Hoots had taken not just a bottle of Armagnac but all the decent liquor and locked it up in his room along with the keys to the silver, the wine cellar and the pantry. The cook was indeed down with piles, but the rest of the staff had succumbed to a rather virulent cold that left them wheezing and hacking in various corners of the house. A few had taken to their beds but the rest dragged about, sniffling moistly into unspeakably sodden handkerchiefs. Father had given Aquinas carte blanche to manage the house until Hoots came around. No one had yet wrested the keys from Hoots, so dinner the first night consisted of bottles of beer from the village pub and bread toasted over the drawing room fire. Portia took hers to the nursery to eat with Jane the Younger while the rest of us made an impromptu party around the fireplace in the vast great hall.
Impromptu and awkward. Father, sunk in a sort of black gloom, said scarcely a dozen words, and Aunt Hermia—Father’s younger sister and the nearest thing we children had to a mother—struggled to fill the silences. I noticed none of the usual decorations had been hung, and I wondered if Father’s grim mood was a result of the fact that so few of us would be present for Christmas. No matter, I decided. He would come round as soon as everyone gathered for Twelfth Night.
I smiled at the footman who came to poke up the fire. A local lad, he had been with the family a number of years and, like all the footmen at Bellmont, was called William regardless of his real name. This one was William IV.
“Hello, William.” He gave me a courteous bow but did not smile.
“Is everything well with you and your family?”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you for asking.”
He withdrew at once and I turned to Aunt Hermia. “What ails William? He has always been such a pleasant, chatty fellow.”
She shrugged. “Heaven help me if I know.”
“He isn’t holding a grudge about what happened the last time is he?” I ventured. “I mean, we did apologise about him being poisoned.”3
“He might still have died,” Father countered, levelling an accusatory gaze at Brisbane. “I seem to remember someone having to force the poor boy to regurgi—”
“That is quite enough, Hector. And you’ve got it very wrong,” Aunt Hermia cut in sharply before Father could continue. “The other victims required Brisbane’s interventions. William slept it off. He woke with nothing more significant than a towering headache.” She turned back to me. “He has been out of sorts for days now, as have most of the staff. So many are out with illness, the rest have worked doubly hard to carry on. We cannot seem to find replacements in Blessingstoke.” She broke off suddenly, darting a quick glance to my father.
Brisbane noted it. He turned to Aunt Hermia. “You are having troubles with the locals? But you have always hired in from the village.”
“Never again,” Father thundered. “I will not have a pack of cowardly, pudding-hearted—”
Aunt Hermia raised a hand. “That will do, Hector.” She spoke to Brisbane. “But he is not wrong. In the last few days, it has become impossible to entice them to work at the Abbey.”
“What reason do they give?” Brisbane enquired. I smiled to myself. He regularly worked on behalf of her Majesty’s government in essential and secretive ways, and yet he could take a healthy interest in domestic dramas.
“They say the place is haunted!” Father’s expression was disgusted.
“It has always been haunted,” I protested. “Everyone knows that.”
“That is precisely the point,” he returned. “We have always had our share of ghosts and they’ve always worked here in spite of it.”
“What has changed?” Brisbane asked, his black gaze thoughtful as it rested on the contents of his glass.
“There has been a fresh sighting inside the Abbey,” Aunt Hermia replied. “When the staff fell ill, I brought in a few new maids from the village. One of them saw a ghost on the servants’ stair and ran screaming home in the middle of the night. She has the busiest tongue in the village. They cannot help they are superstitious, Hector,” she added. “They haven’t the benefit of our education.”
He snorted by way of reply. Brisbane said nothing, and I knew we were both thinking of our previous investigation at the Abbey. A ghost had figured prominently in that adventure.
Father turned abruptly to Brisbane. “I suppose you are still capering about in the private enquiry business?”
Before Brisbane could reply, Aunt Hermia jumped up and took a crystal dish from the mantel. “Brisbane, you must try these sweetmeats. The stillroom maid and I concocted them, and I would know if I had too heavy a hand with the rosewater.”
Brisbane, ever courteous where ladies were concerned, took one while I breathed out a small sigh that the moment had been got past. Father and Brisbane had quarrelled dreadfully during our last investigation, largely over my safety, and hard words had been spoken. I had hoped they had been forgot, but Father apparently still nursed a grudge, as evidenced by his pointed remarks towards my husband. I could not entirely blame him. I had suffered considerable injuries at the conclusion of the case—through my own rash actions, to be sure—and Father and Brisbane had almost taken each other apart in their worry and despair. I smiled brightly from one to the other, but Father had lapsed into his chair, glowering, while Brisbane merely sat, graceful and lethal as a panther as he regarded Father with his inscrutable, witch-black eyes. I sighed. It was going to be a very long holiday indeed.
“I think I should do something to cheer Father up,” I told Brisbane later that evening as we prepared for bed.
Brisbane said nothing, but I heard the thud as a boot hit the floor.
“Aunt Hermia believes he is feeling a trifle downcast that so many of the family shan’t be here. Most of the children are keeping Christmas at home and only coming for the revels. It will be Plum and Portia and us for Christmas,” I said. “Benedick will come up from the Home Farm with his family, but that still makes only half of us.” The other boot hit the floor and I went on. “I thought of asking a special guest, someone Father would really enjoy seeing.”
Brisbane gave a drawn-out sigh. “Julia, don’t meddle.”
“It is not meddling! It is putting something right,” I said stubbornly. “Father is devoted to Hortense. He is just too daft to do anything about it.”
“The situation is rather complicated,” Brisbane pointed out. He rose and began to strip off his clothing whilst I mused on the subject of the lovely and fragrant Hortense de Bellefleur, known to her friends and intimates as Fleur.
“I suppose it does make things rather awkward that you have enjoyed the lady’s favours,” I admitted. “Still, that was twenty years ago! And I know you think of her rather as a devoted aunt than anything more—” He quirked up his brow in enquiry. “Than anything more fervent,” I finished, my cheeks uncommonly warm. “If I have no quarrel with her on that score, Father oughtn’t.”
“You are not a man,” Brisbane reminded me. He unwound his neckcloth and set to work on his collar.
“Does that make a difference?” I bent my head to unpin his cuffs.
“
It might.” He trailed a fingertip along the lace at my décolletage. “Do you think I would be accommodating to any man who had shared your bed?”
“You knew the only man who shared my bed,” I reminded him. “He died in your arms.”4
The finger dipped lower and I gave a little shiver. “And if he hadn’t, I would have happily strangled him to put him out of the way.”
I slapped lightly at his hand. “You would not. You are far too devoted to justice to kill a man without reason.”
“I am devoted to you,” he said, bending his head low and pressing his lips to my neck. His hand resumed its interesting business with my neckline and this time I let him. “And it would have been justice to put Edward Grey out of the way. He did not deserve you.”
“And you do?” The words were breathless, coming out on a gasp.
“Let me show you.” I turned my face up to his and he began to kiss me.
After a few blissful moments, he drew back suddenly with a sharp oath. “What the devil? Julia,” he said patiently, “will you kindly remove that dormouse from your décolletage? There is only room for one of us in there and I refuse to share.”
I hurried to pull the little creature out of my garment. I put him into his basket, bidding him goodnight as he curled obligingly into a restful slumber and closed his black teardrop eyes.
“I am sorry,” I said, returning to Brisbane’s arms. “Let me make it up to you.”
The Fourth Chapter
Lo, how a rose e’er blooming
From tender stem hath sprung!
“Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” Traditional English Carol
After tea the next afternoon I found Aunt Hermia giving instructions to the stillroom maid.
“I know there is far too much to do with so many down with colds, but we simply must prepare the oranges for marmalade before they decay around us.”
The maid had nothing of the usual deference about her, but she did bob a curtsey to us before turning to the masses of oranges heaped in baskets upon the worktable.
“Whittle and Wee Ned have been busy in the hothouse. I don’t remember ever seeing quite so many oranges before,” I said.
“Julia,” Aunt Hermia said with a touch of relief. “I must go and look in on Hoots now he’s calmed down. I wonder if you would mind organising Rose. She is quite competent, but she has only been here a few months and is new to the stillroom. It would be such a help since you know where everything is. She will be preparing the oranges for marmalade. You have seen it done often enough to guide her.”
“Of course. Is there anything else I can do?” I looked at her meaningfully and she sighed.
“No, my dear. It’s just that everything seems so difficult this year, what with your father’s black mood—” She broke off. It was unlike her to offer criticism of him on any matter. She was deeply conscious of the fact that she owed her comfortable place in our home to his good graces, but beyond that she was an affectionate younger sister who worshipped her eldest brother. She went on. “The staff troubles and the sickness have taken their toll upon everyone. And cook will not be pleased when I tell her the Christmas menu has to be changed—”
“What is the trouble with the Christmas menu? We always have suckling pig for the centrepiece.”
Her comely face flushed. “Your Uncle Fly was unwell last week and let his curate deliver the sermon. Unfortunately, the young man is afflicted with vegetarianism.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Indeed. And as a consequence, Tarquin and Perdita have protested the serving of meat, most particularly suckling pig, at our Christmas table.”
I smothered a laugh. An aunt was not supposed to play favourites, but I had a very soft spot for my brother Benedick’s two eldest children. “What does Benedick say?”
She flapped a hand. “You know Benedick. He likes them to express themselves and think freely, but he has good enough manners to tell them they will eat what they are served when guests are here or they can stay at the Home Farm with bread and milk for their Christmas dinner.”
“But you mean to change the menu for them anyway?” I gave her a smiling glance and she nipped my arm lightly with her fingers.
“Do not give me such cheek!” she countered with a smile. “Yes, I am far too obliging, but they are the nearest thing to grandchildren I shall ever have. And Christmas is a festival for the little ones, too. It would be different if we locked them up in the nursery and feasted without them. I cannot bear the notion of long faces at the table when they see the beast brought in with an apple in its mouth and a wreath of holly around its neck.”
“What will you serve in its place? Nut loaf?”
“Heavens, no. There will be the usual venison and goose, and they will simply have to accept it. And there will be suckling pig, but I will have it nicely carved before it reaches the table. I have already spoken to Aquinas and he is prepared to do the deed in the butler’s pantry. I thought perhaps if it did not look quite so much like a piglet, the children might not object to slices of roast pork on their plates.”
I thought she was entirely mistaken upon the point, but I hastened to encourage her. “It sounds an excellent plan.”
She ought to have been reassured, but instead I saw she was worrying at her rings. Her favourite was a pretty coral piece she had kept since girlhood, and it was her habit to turn it round her finger when she was agitated. I took her hand in mine and gave it a squeeze.
“Do not be so troubled. ’Tis the season of goodwill and peace on earth. Everything will be alright, you’ll see—” I broke off. “Where is your ring? The little coral one?”
Her finger was cool and empty. She pulled a rueful face. “That is another of my troubles. I cannot find it. I daresay I am growing absent-minded in my dotage.”
She squared her shoulders, her manner brisk. “Now, show Rose what to do and I will get on with the rest, alright, dearest?”
Her smile did not quite reach her eyes, and I noticed the piercing look she gave Rose as she left. It was one of speculation.
* * *
Rose and I worked together to trim the skins of the oranges into long, fragrant strips of peel to be chopped for the marmalade. My hands grew messy with the juice and the knife slipped, stabbing me lightly in the thumb.
“Bother!” I sucked at the small wound while Rose hastened to take the knife.
“Here, my lady. You don’t want to fuss with that. My hands are used to such rough things. You’ll want to keep yours nice and soft.”
I gave her a grateful look. “That is very kind of you, Rose. You are not from Blessingstoke.” It was not a question.
She widened her eyes, and I realised she was probably younger than I had thought. There was something careworn about her that had made her seem older. Her face in repose was not precisely mournful, but nostalgic rather, as if she spent much time thinking of faraway things. I regretted leaving my photographic equipment back in London. She would have made an excellent subject, perhaps robed as Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, looking out from the tower upon her own doom with resignation.
“No, my lady. I’m from London.”
The pieces fell swiftly into place. Aunt Hermia ran a refuge in Whitechapel for the poor souls who plied the oldest trade. She had them taught to read and to write, and they were trained up as domestic or factory workers according to their preferences and aptitudes.
“Yes, my lady, I come from Lady Hermia’s place,” she said suddenly. She was neither apologetic nor defiant. She stated the words plainly.
“I hope you found it worthwhile,” I said. Rose had the marmalade oranges firmly in hand, freeing me for one of my favourite tasks of the season. To the side of the worktable sat the enormous earthenware crock Aunt Hermia used for making her special seasonal potpourri. Whether Father was in a mood to celebrate the season or not, I wanted the fragrance of the traditional potpourri we always mixed to scent the air.
“I did. I wanted out of it, you know. I didn’t go
on the game because I was born to it. My mother was not a whore and it was not the life for me.”
I said nothing but lifted off the lid of the crock and inspected the contents. Some weeks before Aunt Hermia would have packed it with layers of dried rose petals and lavender. The flowers would be covered with salt and brandy and pressed with a weighted plate to sit quietly, fermenting away. After a fortnight, the result was a moist cake of sorts.
“What’s that then?” Rose asked, coming away from her oranges to peer into the crock.
“It is potpourri, a very old Elizabethan recipe,” I told her. “It makes a heavenly scent, but because it is moist it does not look very inviting. When it is finished it will go into those enormous jars on the hearth in the great hall.” I showed her how to crumble the cake into bits in her fingers. She sniffed at her hands and closed her eyes.
“That’s lovely, that is.”
“It will be lovelier still,” I promised. I went to the neatly organised shelves and began to take down large glass bottles of spices. “You were telling me about your family.”
At this prompting she returned to her story and her marmalade oranges. “We were poor, you see. And I had brothers and sisters, seven of them, all older, working in the worst sorts of factories. They won’t make old bones because they haven’t good food or fresh air. And I wanted better for myself. So I thought lying on my back would be a way to make easy money.”
I took great handfuls of dried orange peel and scattered them over the mixture in the crock. “Somehow I doubt it is ever really easy money.”
She gave a sharp, barking laugh. “Right you are, my lady. I don’t know who I hated more—them or me. The worst of it wasn’t the doing. You’d think it was, but you’d be wrong. The worst of it was the way they looked right through me, as if I wasn’t there. As if I were less than human.”
Next I flung in orrisroot, scattering the powder over the damp, crumbling flowers.
“But I kept at it because the money was alright. I worked at a bawdy house for a while and that was a good time for me. There was a fellow at the door to cosh the men who got rough or didn’t pay. Trouble was he liked to knock us about, too. And I wouldn’t stand for it. So I was chucked out, back into the streets with my one good dress and my hat with velvet roses.”
Silent Night Page 2