by Faith Martin
Yet there was something so incredibly desperate in the girl’s voice that, before she could stop herself, she’d already asked the question.
‘Uncle Sid’s the oldest, you see,’ Delia said. ‘It wasn’t just his illness that made him look years older than Dad.’
‘I don’t follow,’ Jenny said, giving up the fight and turning from the sink. She took the chair opposite the girl and looked at her frankly. Delia didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she looked only too happy to dish the family dirt.
‘When the farm was first built, about three hundred years ago, the original owner was, well, a bit of a rogue, as Mrs Jarvis would say. He was rich; he didn’t have a title, but he was wild and crafty and used to getting his own way,’ Delia began, although quite why she chose to start her story so far back in history Jenny, for the moment, had no idea.
‘His name was Greenslade. A gambler and womanizer, he lived a right old life of Riley,’ Delia continued, her brown eyes coming alive. ‘I daresay he saw a bit of the world,’ she added, so wistfully that the cook almost winced. The girl’s desire to do the same was so palpable, it almost throbbed in the air between them.
‘Anyway,’ Delia shrugged off her daydreams and got back to the story. ‘He married some local woman who was rich and all that, but apparently they didn’t get on so well. She didn’t like his womanizing I expect,’ Delia opined with a shrug of her shoulders, as if to say that all men were the same, and what else could she have expected? ‘He certainly had a few children on the wrong side of the blanket, anyway,’ she continued. ‘Eventually, things got so bad between them, that the wife moved out of their newly built farm and went back home to her mother. Greenslade was livid, apparently, since she took the children, their children that is, with him. So he hunted around for all his other offspring, the illegitimate ones I mean, and had them come to live with him!’ Delia grinned widely. ‘Imagine the scandal that caused! But not content with that, he had his lawyers draw up an entailment for the farm in perpetuity, stating that the oldest son, no matter whether he was legitimate or not, had to inherit the farm. That really was one in the eye for his wife,’ Delia laughed, obviously applauding Greenslade’s revenge.
Jenny pursed her lips. It was, she had to admit, very racy stuff. ‘I expect that curbed a lot of your ancestors’ more, er, rampant behaviour,’ she mused, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Knowing that your peccadilloes with the milkmaid might turn out to be sons that’ll inherit the family manor, I mean.’
Delia giggled. ‘I’ll bet it did. Perhaps that’s why Dad’s such a hypocrite. He can’t stand going to church, but his father attended regularly, and made him go, so now we all have to toe the line as well. I daresay the Kelton men had it hammered into them right from the start to stay on the straight and narrow, or else.’
Jenny nodded, but her eyes were thoughtful. ‘You really don’t like your father very much, do you?’ she asked quietly. ‘And I don’t mean you just don’t get on. Lots of daughters and fathers, I expect, don’t get on. But you seem to actively dislike him.’ There was no judgement in her voice, no spurious nosiness, but even so, Delia’s pretty face filled with colour.
‘I hate him,’ she confirmed vehemently, and raised a shaking hand to brush a lock of fair hair from her forehead. ‘But then, so do Bill and Bert. So does Mrs Jarvis, if it comes to that. As does everyone who even remotely knows him, in fact,’ she finished, with a forced and unconvincing laugh. She met the cook’s eyes defiantly, and tossed her head. Her young voice rang with passionate conviction. ‘I daresay even Uncle Sid hates him, deep down. He’s every right to, when all’s said and done. Dad even got his way with him.’
Jenny gave herself a mental shake. It had given her quite a turn, finding out the real depths of Delia’s feelings. Even though she herself had already felt a fair bit of antipathy towards Stanley Kelton, and considered him a sorry excuse for a human being, she couldn’t help but feel that it seemed somehow unnatural for a daughter to feel the same way.
Even so, she believed instinctively that the reason, and the fault, lay firmly at Stan Kelton’s own doorstep, so perhaps it was not so unnatural after all. Love had to be earned, in Jenny’s experience, every bit as much as respect.
Now, with Delia’s last observation, she turned her thoughts back to more practical matters. ‘What do you mean by that? Your Uncle Sid doesn’t seem the sort of man to hate anyone,’ she chided, but only gently. The girl was obviously very highly strung, and it probably wouldn’t do to get her too heated.
Delia hung her head and sighed. ‘No. You’re probably right. Sid’s a dear old thing. But don’t you see? It’s doubly important for the Keltons that the oldest son should inherit. And by rights, that should have been Sid, and any son that Sid might have had. But Dad got his own way yet again. It must have really enraged him, being born the second son. But he never let that stop him. He’s always wanted the farm for his own.’
‘But it does belong to Sid, doesn’t it?’ Jenny asked, puzzled. ‘I mean, even if your father does most of the physical labour that your uncle can’t, surely the farm still belongs to Sid? Legally and all?’
‘Oh, technically, I suppose it does,’ Delia said, and then stood up angrily. ‘But who was the one who married, and had the next son to inherit the precious farm? Who sits at the head of the table, hmm?’ She tossed her head, her colour high once more. ‘Not Uncle Sid, is it?’ she hissed. ‘It’s him! He always gets what he wants. He’s like a big fat leech, feeding off everyone else.’
On a sob, Delia turned and fled the room and a moment later Jenny could hear footsteps pounding up some stairs. She sighed, and glanced at her own holdall. She hadn’t even been shown to her room yet. But she was in no hurry. It would probably be freezing cold up there, and she was quite content to stay in the warmth of her kitchen.
She attacked the dishes, musing as she did so on the odd family history. At some point the farm must have changed hands through some reckless action of an inheriting son. Unless, of course, the original Greenslade’s bastard son had been a Kelton. Still, it did seem a pity that Sid had not married and produced a son. It would probably have done Stanley Kelton a world of good to not get his own way for once.
She wondered if his ill health was the only reason for Sid not marrying, or if there were yet more family skeletons waiting to be discovered in the Kelton Farm cupboards.
She was just finishing the dishes when the door opened on a blast of cold air. The woman who came in paused by the fireplace to remove her sodden boots, at least sparing most of the kitchen floor, and it was this simple act that identified her. Mrs Jarvis, the daily — had to be. Only a daily would think about sparing herself the work of clearing up after her own muddy footprints. As she turned and caught sight of the cook, she froze comically, her mouth falling open in stunned surprise.
She glanced around quickly, almost as if to check she had come to the right house.
‘Hello, I’m Jenny Starling. Mr Kelton hired me to cook over the festive season. You must be Mrs Jarvis?’ She beamed at her amiably.
Mrs Jarvis slowly removed her headscarf, revealing tired grey curls in need of a new perm. Her face was heavily lined, her eyes sunken in her head. Jenny wondered, with a concerned pang, what had made the woman look so ill and defeated.
‘Is young Delia around?’ the daily asked, her voice sounding as tired as the rest of her looked, and making no attempt to even acknowledge the introduction.
‘Upstairs I think,’ Jenny said, and watched as the older woman walked through into the hall. There she heard her shouting up that the footpath to The Dell was now open again. When she came back she took in the newly mopped floor and sniffed the air, still redolent of soup. She looked like a wary old cat that had come home to find a new kitten installed.
‘My cottage and Cordelia Bray’s place lie just over the hill,’ she said, by way of explanation for her shouting up to Delia. ‘Delia’s great pals with Sissy Bray, Cordelia’s girl. Bill and Bert have just now managed to cle
ar a path through. Otherwise I’d have been in just as early as always,’ she continued defensively. ‘But you have to cross the bridge over the river, and in this snow, I didn’t dare try and find it until—’
Jenny, suddenly understanding the reason for this wave of nervous chatter, waved her hand airily. ‘Oh, that’s all right. No need to explain to me. I’m just here for a couple of weeks to cook, that’s all, then I’ll be on my way again.’
Mrs Jarvis looked infinitely relieved. And, most oddly, at the same time she also looked fiercely resentful. ‘Oh. I thought the devil was up to one of his tricks again.’
Jenny blinked and wondered, once again, what had turned Mrs Jarvis’s world on its head. And whether or not it might have affected her mental processes. Having to work with a mad housemaid on top of everything else would really put the cherry on top of the Christmas cake! Unless, of course, she was one of these profoundly religious people.
Catching the look on her face, Mrs Jarvis managed a smile. It looked pitiful, but it was definitely a smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad. I was talking about Stan Kelton. I call him the devil, because that’s what he is.’
Jenny couldn’t help frowning. As Delia had foretold, here was yet somebody else who hated Stan Kelton. But to call him the devil was surely a bit over the top, wasn’t it?
‘I’ve only just met Mr Kelton,’ she said cautiously and turned back to the stove, where she had lamb chops ready for dinner. Some dried rosemary mixed with flour and lots of breadcrumbs and some salt would make a nice crust for the tender meat. Mashed potatoes (mashed with real butter and the cream from the top of the milk) would do just nicely. And there was diced carrot and swede for vegetables. She nodded. Good, filling, tasty food. That was what concerned her. She doubted that farm workers would be impressed by cordon bleu proportions and experimental cuisine. Hot and filling, that’s what was obviously required around here.
She definitely did not want to know why Stan Kelton was the devil, or what tricks he might have played on poor Mrs Jarvis. It was none of her business. But even as she told herself this, Jenny Starling was painfully aware that it might well turn out to be her business after all. Things had a way of happening around her.
Her father, a chef over in France, had recently begun mentioning in his letters a medium known for relieving people who were jinxed. Jenny had very politely told her beloved daddy what to do with his medium. Still, she was bound to admit that things did have a nasty habit of happening around her. But she preferred to think of it as fate, as if some obscure destiny had allotted to her the role of Nemesis, and was determined to wait for her to be in just the right place, at just the wrong time, in order to bring about the tragedies it had in store.
And you’re getting way too fanciful, Jenny, old girl, she told herself stoutly. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, and what could possibly go wrong on Christmas Eve?
Delia came down, muffled from head to toe in a long coat, scarf and gloves and rushed out the door without a word. Mrs Jarvis watched her, and shook her head.
‘Poor girl. She’s so desperate to get away from here, it fair breaks the heart to watch her. And Sissy is just as desperate to get away from her poor mum. Cordelia’s a self-made invalid, you know,’ she said chattily to Jenny, but without any obvious rancour. ‘You know the type. Her husband was killed in a car crash last year, and she took to her bed and never left. She could leave it if she wanted to, of course, at any time, but why bother? Her Sissy’s about the same age as Delia, and they spend all their time together plotting their escape to London. I know, I’ve heard ’em, chattering like two excited magpies.’ Mrs Jarvis paused, but only for breath. ‘Of course, they’ll never get away. Cordelia could make a stone feel guilty, and she’ll never let her Sissy escape. She’d have to face up to life if that happened, wouldn’t she? And that devil will never let Delia go either. He keeps her penniless you know. No wonder she finally snapped and said she wasn’t going to cook a thing this Christmas. He never even pays her a pittance of a wage for all the work she does around here. Too scared she’d hoard it and be off, I expect. Slave labour is what the devil demands from all the family. And all she’d need is the price of a train ticket and she could be gone. Poor kid doesn’t even get new clothes, not unless the devil buys them for her.’
Jenny, who’d been busy making the crust for the meat, finally gave a great sigh and swilled her hands under the sink. So that was why Delia had been wearing a dress that was far too small for her. And Mrs Jarvis was determined to make sure that everyone knew it too. But what was she supposed to do about it? Delia could find herself a job in Oxford or Cheltenham if she really wanted to. But breaking free took courage. And courage was something nobody else could give you.
‘I daresay you want to get on,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘I don’t know if you used to help out in the kitchen, but I think I can manage it all on my own. That’ll take some of the load off, I expect,’ she added pointedly.
Mrs Jarvis met the younger woman’s level stare, and sighed. She was obviously not going to be drawn, and that was all there was to it. ‘Fine, I’ll start in the parlour,’ she said flatly. ‘The fire there always needs raking out. But,’ she half turned and gave the cook a toe-curling look of contempt, ‘you can thank your lucky stars, young missy, that you’re only going to be around here for a few weeks. Stay any longer, and you’ll become just like the rest of us. No matter how much you think you wouldn’t. That Kelton devil can destroy the spirit of anyone he wants. You included,’ she jabbed a finger in the air.
Jenny almost expected her to spit, as well. But with that rather bone-chilling prophecy, she swung around and shuffled out of the room.
Despite herself, Jenny shivered. ‘Well, honestly, it’s like living in an episode of a soap,’ she muttered, more for the comfort of hearing her own voice than anything else. ‘Or like something out of one of those Gothic novels,’ she carried on crossly. ‘An old farmhouse, cut off by snow, a dour old servant, going around prophesying doom and despair . . . and stop talking to yourself,’ she admonished herself briskly, suddenly realizing what she was doing.
From behind her came a dry chuckle. ‘Good idea. Folks around here might get the wrong idea, finding their cook muttering to herself over the custard. The thought of a loopy cook tends to make most folk nervous.’
Sid Kelton slowly made his way to the table, his twinkling eyes and wide smile belying his words. Jenny found herself chuckling.
Chuckling!
This would never do. She stopped at once, and reached for the kettle. ‘A cup of tea, I think,’ she said firmly, and Sid, about to sink into a chair, looked up, ears cocked at the sound of scratching at the door. ‘The pooch,’ he said anxiously. He looked at the distance to the door, then down at the comfortable chair, so close, and sighed. But by the time he’d looked back up, Jenny was already on her way to the door. She opened it, a blast of icy air hit her, and a black and white streak shot past her and vanished. Jenny closed the door, blinked, and looked around the kitchen. No sign of it. She moved to the sink, put the kettle on, and gave a quick check under the table.
No pooch.
She walked over to the cupboard to extract the sugar and glanced behind the dresser. A narrow space, but no pooch. She moved to the fridge, got out the milk and checked under the claw-footed Welsh dresser. No pooch.
From the table, Sid watched her surreptitious search, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of mirth.
Don’t tell me, Jenny thought grimly. We’re back to the Gothic novel again, and the pooch is going to turn out to be a ghost dog. Saved his master from drowning fifty years ago, but died valiantly himself in the village duck pond. Now he haunts the farm, fooling visitors into thinking he’s a real, live, flesh-and-blood mutt.
She glanced at the shut door that led out to the hall. No doubt the dour Mrs Jarvis had chased poor Sid from his place by the fire, but he’d shut the door behind him when he’d first come in. So where in the world had the mutt disappeared to? She’d
never seen an animal move so fast.
She made the tea, returned to the table, handed Sid his mug and sat down. She took a sip. Sid watched her thinking about it, sipped his own brew and wondered what she’d do next.
Jenny, after having thought it through, lifted the tablecloth, ducked down and checked the chairs. And there, sat next to Sid and curled up tightly on the chair so that his tail didn’t droop and give away his position, was the dog. One of Sid’s hands rested on his head and fondled one floppy ear. The mutt, alerted to movement, turned doleful eyes in her direction.
His expression was perfectly pathetic. It was clear that he expected to be evicted once more into the snow, and was doing that heart-melting don’t-hurt-me, big-brown-eyed thing that a variety of animals did so well.
Jenny straightened up, glanced at Sid and sighed. ‘I suppose I shall have to get used to keeping a lookout for dog hairs,’ she said mildly.
Sid smiled. ‘We knew we could trust you the moment we set eyes on you. Didn’t we, Pooch?’
From beneath the table came a whine. It didn’t sound so sure. ‘The thing is,’ Sid said, his dry, laboured breathing breaking into a choking laugh, ‘Pooch doesn’t like sheep. He’ll do anything to avoid going out with the boys. And Stan won’t have the dog indoors. Says it ruins a good sheepdog.’
Jenny met Sid’s eyes and began to chuckle again. A sheepdog that didn’t like sheep! Now she’d heard it all. She shut off the laughter abruptly in mid-gurgle as the door opened and Mrs Jarvis came in, took one hurt look at the teapot and went out again.
Jenny sighed. ‘I suppose I should have called to her that we were having tea,’ she said, feeling instantly guilty. ‘I was going to offer to make her one as soon as she came in. She looked frozen. But . . .’ she trailed off quickly.