—
No need to worry about Mr. Peacock in a crowd of strangers, apparently. He seemed to know a bit about almost everyone present—or at least about the contents of their houses. “Eighteenth century, isn’t it?” he asked the beard. “And you’ve a Gainsborough still in the family.” And to the baronet, “That Georgian silver teapot of yours went for a pretty penny, now didn’t it? You give me a ring if you have another precious piece you’d like to off-load.” The baronet raised an eyebrow, but took the card that Peacock proffered.
Freddy turned to me and—with a wide smile on his face—let his eyes make a quick trip down to my heels and up to my face again. Linus appeared beside me.
“Julia, may I present Mr. Peacock, a friend of Cecil’s. Mr. Peacock, Julia Lanchester.”
“It’s just Freddy,” he said. With a small bow, he took my hand and kissed it. “Julia Lanchester—enchanted.”
Freddy Peacock was a bit much. I had the urge to pull my hand away, but kept my manners and responded with a nervous giggle. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Thorne will show you to your room, Freddy,” Linus said, gesturing to the butler. “Is there anything we can get you?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a sandwich,” Freddy said. “Any old thing—chicken and ham, egg and cress. I do like a sandwich just before bed. Is that something I could get sorted out? I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”
I would’ve told Freddy Peacock to go make his own sandwich if he was that hungry, but Linus only smiled. “We’ll get one straight up to you.”
“Thank you, your Lordship. It’s very good of you to put me up. And perhaps a whisky with that?” Freddy hoisted his bags and said, “Lead on, Thorne,” and off they went.
Around us, the party began to dissolve, everyone shaking hands, commenting on the late hour, and edging toward the corridor. The group migrated to the entry, where Thorne, always where he needed to be, stood at the door, ready to deal out coats and hats.
Vesta and Akash hung back. “Do you want me to come in all day tomorrow?” Vesta asked me as she buttoned up. “I could quite do, it’s no bother.”
I shook my head. “No, I’ll be fine until after lunch. But you could bring along a couple of bottles of Bugg’s Best Cider with you. I’d like to have it for the meeting with Linus—it’s a fine example of a product made right here on the estate, and as Cider Day is this weekend, I’ll be going over the agenda.” Linus had grown to trust my judgment when it came to running tourist activities on the estate, and I knew this meeting was only a formality to keep him abreast of the schedule. Still, it never hurt to have a visual aid.
—
When the door had closed, Linus, with a glance to the south wing, said good night. A bit distractedly, I thought. I was left with Thorne in the vast, empty entry, dazed at how abruptly the evening had ended. “Well, I suppose I’ll be off to bed, then. Good night, Thorne. See you in the morning.”
I pulled myself up the wide stairs, relying heavily on the oak banister as I took the turn to the north wing. I saw a light under the door of the first room, and a shadow moving across the floor, and thought Freddy must be settling in. In my own room, the fire burned low and inviting. Weariness weighed me down. I stripped off my dress and held my pajamas to my chest. Soft flannel for these many weeks I’d lived at the Hall.
Tonight, pajamas didn’t seem proper attire for my nightly journey down to the kitchen to make myself a mug of cocoa. Instead, I pulled on a pair of trousers with frayed cuffs and my mum’s old, shapeless cardigan, and checked myself in the mirror—I looked as if I’d been dressed from the remains of a church jumble sale. I struck a Marilyn Monroe pose, blew a kiss to my image, and headed downstairs.
Chapter 4
Down the stairs again to the front hall. It was in the silence of the night that the Hall impressed me with its enormousness, and when I moved through the front entry, I felt like a mouse scurrying across an empty stage. Two sconces on either side of the door remained on through the night, lighting my way so that I didn’t trip over the Axminster rug under the entry table. The original rug had been damaged when part of the Hall’s roof collapsed in 1819 after a heavy snow; this replacement had been secured in the 1930s. The lovely peony pattern echoed the flowers in the herbaceous border in June, and had been selected by the current earl’s vegetarian grandmother.
Bits of Fotheringill family lore bobbed unbidden to the surface of my mind since I had written out the history of Hoggin Hall for our docents. The volunteers—mostly pensioners from the village—manned the rooms and corridors three afternoons a week when the house opened to visitors. I knew more about Queen Anne–era loos than I would ever want to admit.
I turned toward the ground-floor level of the north wing. Here, below my room—and Freddy’s room—was the more pedestrian side of the Hall. Mrs. Bugg resided at the garden end of the wing, in three rooms that had been made into a small flat. She and Thorne were the only staff who lived on-site, with Thorne belowstairs at the opposite corner of the house—the young women who cleaned and the gardeners worked for businesses on the estate and lived elsewhere. Nuala’s café sat at the other end of the wing, under the same turret that passed through my room above. Occupying the space between was the Hall’s expansive kitchen.
One light burned over the deep farm sink in the kitchen, and the pots and pans that hung from hooks over the range threw odd shadows across the floor. But I needed no other light—I’d been in and out late at night often enough to know my way round. I’d always been careful to clean up, but Mrs. Bugg knew her domain and had sensed my presence after hours. Now, any night I came down, I found a small saucepan, a mug, and the tin of Cadbury’s cocoa left out on the counter, leaving only the milk for me to fetch from the fridge.
—
With hands wrapped round my mug, I retraced my steps, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs when I saw a light spilling out from the library door. I walked over and peeked inside, thinking I should switch off the lamp, and saw Linus sitting close to the fire, leaning forward in his chair with his hands folded, staring into the embers. I thought to back out and leave him to his contemplation, but he saw me and stood.
“Julia, come in.”
“I was just…” I held up my mug, knowing it looked as if I had made myself quite at home despite all my protestations that I didn’t live here. “Would you like cocoa?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you. But please, if you have a moment, come sit down.”
My own room called me—my own fireplace, and my phone by my bed. There might be a text from Michael any minute. If I couldn’t hear his voice or feel his touch, at least I could see the words he sent me. But I couldn’t be ungracious to my host, who looked as if he needed a friend. I sat on a low stool on the other side of the fireplace; the initial heat had dissipated to a comfortable wave of warmth.
“Cecil settled in?” I asked.
“He was on the phone when I went up, and so I didn’t bother him.” Linus returned his attention to the fire. He took a breath as if to continue, but instead exhaled with a sigh.
“You must be glad to have him home.”
Linus smiled broadly, but I saw sadness in his eyes. “We’ve had so little time together over the years,” he said, “I feel as if I barely know him. He would come for his holidays, of course, when he was young—but that’s only a few weeks in the summer. And these last years, he’s been back so seldom. I mostly see him when I go down to London.”
I thought of Cecil’s announcement at the door—“I’ve come home”—and wondered if there had been other great homecomings that hadn’t worked out. “He seems happy to be here,” I said. It was the sort of thing to say when you didn’t really know anything of the kind.
“Cecil gets his height from his mother’s side of the family,” Linus said, following his own conversation thread. “Isabel’s father was quite tall.”
I nodded. If Linus needed to share a list of Cecil’s high points—so to
speak—then I would listen. “And Cecil works in…antiques? He mentioned the Auction Rooms.”
Linus’s smile faded. “He’s tried his hand at a few things. Of course, he’s the heir to the Fotheringill estate, and I’ve always hoped he’d become interested in its running, but—until now—he’s shown no sign of it.”
“Well, sometimes it takes us awhile to get to where we need to be. Look at me,” I said, holding out my free hand, palm up, “change of career at thirty-seven.”
“It was my lucky day when that happened,” Linus said, the smile returning to his face and crinkling up his eyes.
“Sorry, Father,” Cecil said from the doorway, giving me a start, “just came down for a brandy before I turn in. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, looking at both of us. His face lacked any expression, but his dark eyes were sharp.
I jumped up. “I was just saying good night.”
Linus walked me to the door. “You are not interrupting,” he told his son. “Would you like to join me in here or take your drink to your room?”
“I’ll take it up, if you don’t mind.”
I tried to ease myself out the door to escape, but Cecil had put his hands on his hips in a casual fashion and I couldn’t get by. The three of us stood as a small group with nothing to say.
“How is your mother?” Linus asked—an obligatory query if I’d ever heard one.
“She’s well,” Cecil replied. “Out of the country at the moment. With a friend.”
I did not need or desire the family update. “Yes, well, it’s been a long day,” I said.
Cecil shifted and I escaped, but before I got two steps, Linus said, “Julia, do you remember that Geoffrey Addleton, the agent, is starting tomorrow?”
I remembered. For the first time in decades, a full-time agent would be employed to run the business end of the Fotheringill estate. At last, things were looking up, and I knew it was a momentous occasion for Linus.
“You’ve hired an agent?” Cecil asked. “I didn’t know.”
Linus’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, it isn’t as if…I’ve not had the opportunity, but I’m happy to go over the particulars. It would be a great help to get your input on the agent’s position.”
And perhaps they could do that without me. “I’m sure it’ll all go well,” I said. “I look forward to meeting him.” I’d really have nothing to do with the fellow, as he would occupy his time collecting rents from farmers, sorting out boundary lines, and going over accounts.
“I’ll bring him along to the meeting at the TIC tomorrow afternoon—he’s quite eager to find out what your goals are for tourism on the estate.”
“Yes, do bring him. What a good idea.”
Great. I saw the easy briefing I had planned for Linus—giving him the rundown for Cider Day and the upcoming Christmas Market—fly away. Now, I’d have to spend my morning getting an introductory packet ready for the agent—perhaps I could just shove a stack of leaflets in his hands.
“I’ll come along, too,” Cecil said, shooting my entire day to hell. “I want to make sure I’m up to speed on your plans for the visitors and activities on the estate—your policies and agenda. We don’t want to overextend ourselves, do we?”
Our policies? Cecil must’ve decided to stick his nose into estate doings because he had nothing else going at the moment. Clearly, there were lines of demarcation that needed to be drawn.
“That sounds super,” I said.
Linus looked as if he’d been given an early Christmas gift. “Yes, Cecil, what a fine idea—a fresh pair of eyes to give us feedback. It’s just what we’ve needed, isn’t it, Julia?”
“Yes, just.”
—
My cocoa had cooled by the time I made it back to my room, as opposed to my temper, which had hotted up as I imagined the time I’d waste with Geoffrey Addleton and Cecil. But that anger vanished when I crawled into bed and my phone lit up with a text.
“Freezing here. Doesn’t your father believe in hotels?”
I snickered. Much of the filming for Dad’s television program, A Bird in the Hand, was done at Marshy End, our family’s holiday retreat. The cottage sat near the Little Ouse, a river that meandered its way along the boundary of Suffolk and Norfolk, and provided endless possibilities when it came to birds and birdwatching. But not every segment was filmed there—Dad took on the whole of Britain when it came to educating its citizens.
Cumbria was Michael’s first on-location filming, and his first taste of how Rupert Lanchester ran the production company: with minimal creature comforts. Dad loved camping, but he knew sleeping rough wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and so he upgraded a notch. Instead of tents, they bunked together in old Boy Scout halls or holiday camps out of season—the more rustic the better. It offered little in the way of privacy for late-night phone conversations. When I had Michael’s job as production assistant, I would reserve the rustic sites for the men and book the two or three of us women into a local B&B.
“Wish I was there to warm you up,” I messaged back.
There ensued a string of texts best left unreported—the kind of explicit messages that would make a randy politician blush and left Michael and me in no better condition than when we started. Worse, actually. And filming wouldn’t end until after the weekend.
Chapter 5
Early the next morning, Mrs. Bugg knocked lightly on the door and, hearing no protest from me, entered with my cup of tea.
“It’s a delight to see him again,” she said, “but if only he had sent word, I’d’ve been more prepared. Adam said nothing to me—I wonder does he even know. The first I heard of it was from Thorne saying I’d better get a cup of tea up to Master Cecil before I see to you. And who’s this other fellow? Thorne saw to him, or I’d be even later than I am now.”
She handed me my tea, and I sipped while trying to get up to speed. When she had petered out and busied herself opening the drapes, I glanced at the time.
“You’re five minutes past your usual time,” I said. “I’d hardly consider that late.” And she had little to do for me—although I’d grown quite fond of the express delivery of this morning cup of tea, I’d forbidden her from dressing me or running my bath.
Mrs. Bugg bent over to straighten my shoes under the chair. When she stood, I saw she’d picked up a worried expression.
“I’m sorry we’d no other place else for Mr. Peacock than down your corridor. We’re not short of rooms, just rooms that are ready. I’ve spent most of a fortnight getting the lodge in shape for Mr. Addleton’s arrival today. Back and forth, back and forth.”
The new estate agent would live in the former gamekeeper’s lodge, which sat in a copse behind the Hall and across the fields. The stone cottage had been abandoned for thirty-five years—part of Linus’s austerity movement when he had inherited from his father. He had taken on a huge responsibility. The estate—with its twenty-mile perimeter—comprised not only the Hall and the village, but also the abbey ruins, various light-industry sites, two hamlets, woods to manage, and an assortment of small farms.
“It’s promising that Linus feels he’s at last able to hire an estate agent—the last one retired ages ago, didn’t he?” I asked.
Mrs. Bugg took my cardigan, which she had left folded on a chair the evening before, and refolded it. She nodded. “With so many of the farms back in production and more housing needed and not a vacant shop in the village—well, at last there’s a great deal of business to oversee.”
Repairs had been necessary for the new overseer’s lodge to be habitable—I’d heard something about squirrels’ nests in the crumbling chimney and field mice in the cupboards. When the workmen had finished, the baton was passed to Mrs. Bugg to make the small stone cottage a home. She had uncovered several pieces of good, solid Victorian furniture in the attic of the Hall and had them moved to the cottage. She had also shuttled linens and kitchen equipment out, and although I had not seen the interior, I was sure it would be comfort
able.
“His Lordship is at breakfast with Master Cecil and Mr. Peacock. Will you join them?”
“No!” I grasped the bedcovers to my chest to ward off even the thought of such a thing. “Thorne,” I said, offering a reasonable excuse. “Thorne will be waiting for me.”
—
I walked into my little alcove and opened a window and stuck my nose out. A clean, crisp day, the sun drying the dew off the beech leaves as they turned to gold. I’d walk to work. I dressed in my uniform, laced up my trainers, packed heels in my bag, and went off in search of a slice of toast, with a bag of laundry under one arm. I’d start that before I left—I meant to do all my own washing, but like as not, Mrs. Bugg finished it and took it up to my room before I had returned.
When I reached the landing, I heard a voice above me—something about the value of wall coverings. I looked up to the next landing to see Freddy Peacock and Louisa Larkin studying the enormous eighteenth-century tapestry—a rendition of the fifteenth-century altarpiece showing St. George killing the dragon.
Louisa worked at the Royal Oak—one of our two village pubs—but she had many other skills, including tutoring, which she carried out not in an office, but in her large flat above the pub or at a table in the Sudbury library. That’s how she’d met her boyfriend, Adam Bugg—librarian and ciderman. Adam, Mrs. Bugg’s son, had spent several years renovating an old orchard on the estate, made Bugg’s Best, and had offered to host our Cider Day on Saturday.
Mrs. Bugg more than approved of the relationship. She treated Louisa as her daughter-in-law, longed for grandchildren, and did not attempt to disguise her wish that Adam and his girlfriend would hop to it. The couple didn’t seem to mind her encouragement, but then, they didn’t seem to be in a hurry, either. Louisa continued to live above the pub and Adam in a bedsit in Sudbury.
I watched as Freddy pointed to the saint’s lance in the tapestry. He took a step closer to Louisa and said something; Louisa took a step away, turned to him, and lifted an eyebrow before returning her gaze to the wall. From my vantage point I could see Louisa in profile—her slightly receding chin, chestnut-colored ponytail heavily highlighted with gold, and one dimpled cheek. She was dressed in casual brown trousers and a sweater the color of hawthorn berries.
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