A Season of Secrets

by Margaret Pemberton

  Gilbert stepped into the car and leaned back against the grey leather upholstery with a sigh of satisfaction. Without Violet and Rozalind they would be a very small family group, but that couldn’t be helped. What was important was that Zephiniah, Olivia and Dieter were already at Gorton.

  The minute he stepped into the drawing room Zephiniah greeted him with a mixture of euphoria and agitation. Euphoria at the prospect of the Yorks returning the hospitality, and agitation because a veto on other guests meant the word wouldn’t spread that she had become part of the Yorks’ royal circle.

  ‘Dieter’s out with Tom Long,’ Olivia said as she gave her father a warm hug. ‘They both have shotguns with them.’

  Before he could ask what his gamekeeper and Dieter intended shooting on a late, dark autumn afternoon, Zephiniah said, unusually and persistently at his elbow, ‘I do think we could at least ask Lady Markham to join us for the weekend. She lives close enough to be regarded as part of the family.’

  ‘But she isn’t.’ That was Thea with her usual bluntness.

  Gilbert was just about to tell Zephiniah that the Duke of York’s request that there be no other guests was one he was going to adhere to scrupulously, when there was a knock on the drawing-room door and Mrs Huntley entered.

  One look at her face and he groaned inwardly, knowing that relaxation was still on hold and that there was a domestic problem he was going to have to sort.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Huntley?’ he asked, fervently hoping the problem wouldn’t be a serious one. ‘Whatever it is, can we speak about it later, after dinner?’

  ‘I’m afraid this won’t wait, sir.’ Her voice was unsteady, her face so distressed that even Zephiniah, Thea and Olivia were now paying attention. ‘I’ve had a telegram.’ The keys hanging from her belt rattled as she withdrew the telegram from her skirt pocket. ‘It’s my daughter.’ There was a barely suppressed sob in her voice. ‘She’s been run over by a tram and is in Leeds Infirmary. She must be near to death’s door, sir.’ Tears flooded her eyes and began coursing down her cheeks. ‘The infirmary wouldn’t have sent me a telegram otherwise, would they?’

  Gilbert read the telegram. ‘No,’ he said gravely, handing it back to her. ‘I don’t think they would, Mrs Huntley. You must leave for Leeds immediately, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Her relief at the manner in which her news had been taken was vast. ‘I’ve already packed a bag and I’ll telephone for a taxi. It should get me into Outhwaite in time for the five o’clock bus to Leeds and Bradford.’

  ‘But she can’t leave!’ Zephiniah’s horror had been growing by the second. ‘How can we entertain royal guests if we have no housekeeper?’ She spun to face Mrs Huntley. ‘You will remain at Gorton, Huntley, until the Duke and Duchess say their goodbyes. Is that understood?’

  Before a white-faced Mrs Huntley could speak, Gilbert said with steel in his voice, and as if Zephiniah hadn’t spoken, ‘The bus will take an age to reach Leeds, Mrs Huntley. Bennett will take you there. He won’t have put the Rolls away yet, and I shall have no further need of it this evening.’

  Zephiniah drew her breath in with a hiss.

  Watching her, Thea was certain that a row to end all rows was about to erupt.

  Mrs Huntley was equally certain of it and, before it could take place, possibly delaying her departure, she said with deep sincerity, ‘Thank you, Lord Fenton. I’m very grateful,’ and scurried from the room to put on her hat and coat and pick up her hastily packed bag.

  Uncaring of Thea and Olivia’s presence, Zephiniah rounded on Gilbert, so incandescent with fury that Thea thought she was going to strike him. ‘Are you completely insane? How am I to manage the weekend with no housekeeper? It can’t be done, and you must tell her so!’

  ‘I shall do no such thing. If I did so, and her daughter died without her being at her side, I would never forgive myself.’

  ‘She has to stay until the Yorks leave! She has to!’

  Turning away from him, Zephiniah headed at a near-run for the door, clearly intent on catching up with Mrs Huntley.

  Gilbert didn’t hesitate. In swift strides he caught up with her, seized her by the arm and, ignoring her cry of shock and pain, swung her round to face him, his own face white with the kind of anger neither Thea nor Olivia had thought him capable of.

  ‘That’s enough!’ he thundered. ‘I’ve made a decision and you’re going to have to make the best of things, Zephiniah. Is that understood?’

  She wrenched herself from his grasp. ‘Then what are we going to do?’ She shot back. ‘The house won’t run like clockwork without a housekeeper! No house this size ever does. And if I’m to make a suitable impression on the Yorks, everything has to be absolutely perfect!’

  Olivia said tentatively, ‘Is it too late to contact a staffing agency for a temporary housekeeper, Papa?’

  ‘Far too late. The Yorks arrive tomorrow afternoon.’

  Thea shrugged. ‘Then if Zephiniah feels unable to face the thought of entertaining them without a housekeeper, the visit can’t take place.’

  ‘It has to take place!’ Zephiniah’s protest was immediate. ‘For it not to take place would be to ruin any chance of my forming an intimate friendship with them. It’s all right for you and for Olivia. You have both been on intimate terms with them for years. I haven’t.’

  Thea walked across to the cocktail cabinet and began mixing herself a pink gin. ‘Then if you want the weekend to go ahead with no anxieties concerning the smooth running of things, there is only one solution.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘That Papa asks Lady Markham if Monkswood can manage without Carrie for a long weekend.’

  Zephiniah’s near-black eyes were incredulous. ‘Carrie Thornton? The girl from Outhwaite with whom you persist in having such an unsuitable friendship? The suggestion is not only ridiculous – it’s impertinent!’

  Thea turned to face her, her glass of pink gin in one hand, her free arm pressed hard across her waist. ‘Then you have no housekeeper, Zephiniah. Your choice.’

  Gilbert said in a voice brooking no argument, ‘Carrie is an excellent idea. I’m going to telephone Monkswood immediately.’

  He strode from the room and Olivia said, her forehead creasing with a fresh anxiety, ‘Papa has already promised Mrs Huntley a lift to Leeds with Bennett – and, considering the hurry she was in, they have probably already left. Carrie is going to have to come on the bus in the morning. By the time she arrives here she won’t have much time to get to grips with things.’

  ‘Papa will send a taxi for her.’ At the thought of Carrie acting as Gorton’s housekeeper, Thea wanted to punch the air with jubilation.

  Zephiniah rounded on her, beside herself with frustration and fury. ‘You do realize you’ve made a bad situation even worse? How can Carrie Thornton parade herself as an experienced housekeeper? She’s going to make the weekend an absolute unmitigated disaster.’

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ Olivia said before Thea could respond. ‘Carrie has been under-housekeeper at Monkswood for nearly seven years. And her “under-housekeeper” title is one she only keeps out of respect for Mrs Appleby, who, though she hasn’t been well enough to leave her room for the last five years, still lives at Monkswood, thanks to Lydia Markham’s kindness.’

  ‘Though if you really think Carrie would be a disaster, Zephiniah, we could always combine forces and persuade Papa not to go through with his telephone call,’ Thea added, knowing that she was indulging in malicious amusement, but unable to help herself.

  Sucking in her breath and knowing she was stalemated, Zephiniah shot Thea a look that would have turned a lesser woman to stone.

  Thea merely grinned. ‘That’s it then,’ she said with deep satisfaction. ‘Carrie always wanted to be in service at Gorton. Now she’s going to be its housekeeper when royalty is staying. Nothing, lately, has given me so much pleasure – and do you know, Zephiniah, I rather think Papa feels the same way.’

  Chapter Thirty />
  Carrie’s immediate response when Lady Markham explained why Gilbert was at Monkswood, and why she had been summoned to the drawing room to speak with him, was concern for Mrs Huntley’s daughter – and for Mrs Huntley herself.

  ‘A tram accident?’ she said. ‘But how dreadful! Poor Mrs Huntley. How worried she must be.’

  ‘She’s very worried, Carrie,’ Gilbert said, not at all surprised that this had been Carrie’s first reaction; not elation at being asked temporarily to step into Mrs Huntley’s shoes. ‘However, Bennett will soon have her at the hospital – that is, if he hasn’t done so already. What I need to know from you, Carrie, is if you are happy to act as Gorton’s housekeeper this weekend?’

  ‘Bearing in mind,’ Lydia Markham interjected, ‘that Lord Fenton’s guests are the Duke and Duchess of York.’

  ‘I’m happy to help out in any way I can,’ Carrie said to both Gilbert and her employer, so unflustered at the prospect of doing so – and so unfazed at the thought of royal guests – that Gilbert had to hide his amusement.

  ‘Thank you, Carrie,’ he said gravely, ‘I have a taxi waiting for us.’

  Carrie looked towards Lydia for a nod of dismissal.

  She was given it – and fifteen minutes later, wearing a hat and coat and with her small suitcase stowed in the taxi’s trunk, she was seated beside Gilbert as the taxi sped down Monkswood’s mile-long drive.

  In a lifetime of knowing Lord Fenton, it was the first time she had ever been alone with him in a situation of such unnerving intimacy. When she had been a regular visitor to Gorton, Thea and/or Olivia had always been present whenever he had spoken to her. In the very early days the person present had sometimes been Blanche and, in later years, it had often been Violet. Since his marriage to Zephiniah there had been a whole host of occasions when he had stopped to chat with her in Outhwaite or in Richmond, but their friendly chats had always taken place in a public place.

  The taxi was most definitely not a public place. It was small and, as it was now a little after six o’clock and sunset had been at four, it was also dark. Carrie was grateful for the darkness. The rear seat of the taxi was not very wide, and that his body was a mere couple of inches away from hers was not only causing her heart to beat faster, but her cheeks were flying scarlet banners that she didn’t want him to see.

  ‘I left Gorton for Monkswood in such a hurry I didn’t check on just what arrangements Mrs Huntley has already made for the weekend,’ Gilbert said, as aware of her presence as she was of his, though, unlike Carrie, not betraying any physical signs of it. ‘With luck, most of the preparations have already been made.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, Lord Fenton. I’m sure Mrs Huntley was wonderfully efficient until the telegram arrived. As soon as we reach Gorton I’ll have a private meeting with the butler and with Cook, and then I’ll have a quick meeting with the rest of the staff to introduce myself to them and let them know what I expect from them.’

  Her quiet confidence aroused such a rush of affection in Gilbert that it took all his willpower not to squeeze hold of her hand. Instead he said, ‘Olivia and Dieter arrived yesterday. Thea came up with me by train earlier today. The Duke of York specifically asked that the weekend should be en famille, as he says the Duchess is feeling under the weather and wants to rest, not socialize.’

  ‘Then that makes things much easier.’

  He smiled across at her. ‘It does indeed, Carrie,’ he said, amazed at how happy he was at the thought of her being at Gorton once again.

  The taxi was by now speeding across moorland and the only thing visible was the section of road in front of them, lit by the car’s headlights.

  Carrie cleared her throat and asked, ‘Is Lady Fenton at Gorton, Lord Fenton?’

  ‘Yes. She arrived yesterday.’ He wondered if he should prepare Carrie for the rudeness she was likely to receive from Zephiniah when neither he nor Thea or Olivia was around, and couldn’t bring himself to do so. What he would do, though, was threaten Zephiniah with a fate worse than death if she was ever anything other than scrupulously polite to Carrie.

  He wasn’t a man of complicated emotions, but he was feeling complicated emotions now. Carrie had a way of spreading happiness around her. No matter what her circumstances, she made the best of them, and her attitude to life – and her inner serenity – was contagious. In the last hour his sense of well-being had soared into the stratosphere. He wished it would be correct for her to be on first-name terms with him, but there was no way he could suggest such a thing – and certainly not under the present circumstances, when she was to be at Gorton as his housekeeper.

  He smiled wryly in the darkness, reflecting that his feelings, where the class gulf was concerned, were beginning to coincide with Hal Crosby’s.

  It wasn’t only class, though, that prevented a more equal friendship between him and Carrie. He was twenty-two years older than her and, in his experience, people didn’t tend to make friends with people a couple of decades their senior. Making such a friendship even more unlikely was his having known Carrie since she was eight years old. If she viewed him as anything at all, he was certain it was as a father figure.

  The kind of easy, equal-terms friendship he would like to have with her was simply not possible – and any other kind of relationship, when he cared about her so deeply, was so out of the question that he didn’t even allow it to enter his head.

  The taxi swept through Outhwaite, and Carrie’s hands tightened in her lap, her mind racing with thoughts of what she would have to check on when she arrived and what else she would have to do.

  What staff, for instance, would the Duke and Duchess be bringing with them? For long weekends at Monkswood most couples arrived with a lady’s maid and a valet. Unpretentious as Thea and Olivia had led her to believe the Yorks were, they were royal. That they would arrive with just two servants with them was unlikely. The Prince of Wales, for instance, never travelled anywhere without an equerry. The Duke of York might similarly arrive with an equerry as well as his valet, and an equerry would have to be accommodated as a guest, not as a servant.

  She was still musing over things it was impossible to be sure about, and wondering what kind of menus Mrs Huntley had arranged for the weekend with Cook, when Gilbert propelled her into the drawing room at Gorton and both Thea and Olivia rushed towards her and almost hugged her to death.

  ‘Isn’t this a hoot, your being housekeeper at Gorton when all you wanted to be here was a tweeny?’ Thea exclaimed, her narrow green eyes alight with satisfaction at the way things had turned out.

  ‘Come and sit down and tell us what it is you will have to do,’ Olivia said, trying to drag her towards a sofa.

  Laughingly, Carrie disentangled herself from their hugs. ‘You are a goose, Olivia. I’m here to work, not sit in the drawing room on a sofa! I’m going to have a meeting now with Mr Jennings and Cook, and until the Duke and Duchess leave you probably won’t see me again. So goodbye – but don’t forget that, if we do meet in the house, I’m Mrs Thornton.’ It was a reminder to Thea and Olivia that her being at Gorton as its housekeeper was not play-acting and had to be viewed with the appropriate seriousness. Glad that she had that matter sorted, Carrie turned all her thoughts to the reason she was there. First a meeting with the butler and the cook; then a general meeting of all the maids and male staff; then an inspection of the Yorks’ guest suite, and the bedrooms set aside for whatever staff were accompanying them. There wasn’t much time, and she couldn’t afford to waste another minute.

  The next afternoon, when Elizabeth and Bertie arrived at Gorton, Carrie, Mr Jennings and all the impeccably uniformed members of staff were lined up in the vast circular hall in order to greet them.

  Gilbert introduced both Carrie and Mr Jennings by name.

  Carrie dropped into a curtsey. Bertie gave her a brief nod, but Elizabeth, swathed in fur, paused long enough to give her a very sweet smile.

  As Gilbert escorted the Yorks up the grand staircase to their ro
oms, Carrie had to bite her lip to contain her elation. She had not only seen the Duchess of York; she had been presented to her by name and the Duchess had actually smiled at her! When she went back to her duties, she was dancing on air.

  Late that evening, after the entire day had gone flawlessly and she was seated alone in the housekeeper’s room, deeply thankful that there had not been even the tiniest hiccup, there was a knock on her door. She opened it, expecting to come face-to-face with an equally thankful Mr Jennings.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, Carrie?’ Olivia, still wearing an evening gown, was carrying a bottle of white wine in one hand and two wine glasses in the other. ‘I just can’t bear not being able to chat to you, when we are both under the same roof, and I wanted to let you know how happy Elizabeth and Bertie are with everything. The poor things have had such a busy time lately, what with it being King George and Queen Mary’s Silver Jubilee celebrations and Prince Henry’s wedding. Last week they had a full three-day programme in Paris representing Britain at the annual banquet of the Caledonian Society of France – whatever that may be.’

  With a welcoming smile Carrie closed the door behind Olivia, took the bottle and glasses from her and, as Olivia made herself comfy in one of two armchairs, said as she uncorked the bottle, ‘Is your father pleased with how the Yorks’ visit is going?’

  ‘Ecstatic! You should know by now, Carrie, that in Papa’s eyes you can do no wrong.’

  Carrie’s habit of blushing embarrassed her again, but her head was bent over the glasses as she poured the wine, and so Olivia didn’t notice.

  ‘Elizabeth kept the table in a roar at dinner,’ Olivia said as Carrie handed her a glass of wine. ‘She was telling us how, when in Paris, an enormous Frenchman dropped to his knees in front of her and said fervently that he wished France possessed people like her and Bertie – though he didn’t use Bertie’s Christian name, of course. She said she pretended that it was perfectly normal to have a huge Frenchman with a Légion d’honneur in his buttonhole kneeling at her feet. Even Dieter chuckled.’