Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Well, that’s just unrealistic for most of us,” I huffed. Smug, selfish bastard. “Some people have to pay their dues and suffer, and work really hard.” I thought back to my awful assistant job at HPC.

  “I never claimed not to work hard.”

  I felt pinned to the wall. “Well, not everyone just gets to do exactly what they want when they want.” My skin was hot and prickly. No one handed me a book deal. Manna wasn’t dropping out of heaven and into my lap. “Sometimes you have to toe the line.”

  “Mark my words, Sheila. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. I learned that the hard way.”

  He stared at me and I stared right back.

  “Apologies, all. Just had to suggest to the Earl that he might be more comfortable up in his rooms until he was ready to dress for dinner.” Mary let out a heavy sigh and plopped down into her chair.

  “Mary, you never said new girl was American.”

  “That she is, Chef,” Mary enthused. “But never mind! She’s excellent references and she’ll fit right in. If it’s all the same to you, she’ll start in the morning. She’s only just stepped in the door, and we’ve paperwork to sort. Could I possibly pull one of the bar staff to help you in the kitchen, just for today?”

  “Fair enough,” he said to Mary, still looking at me. “You didn’t say, have you been in Ireland before?”

  “Never.”

  “London?” He didn’t look away from my face.

  “For a week, a long time ago.”

  “I had a restaurant there,” he said, searching. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “Maybe that’s what?”

  He crossed his arms. “People here call me Chef, you know. And what I was saying was, I can’t shake the feeling I know you.”

  “Well, you don’t.”

  His face darkened.

  I knew I sounded rude, but the stakes had been raised. He couldn’t find out who I was. In the last two minutes, getting this book done had become the most important thing in the world, and I could tell from the way he was acting that he would never cooperate.

  “Thank you for stopping in, Chef,” Mary cut in quickly, rising from her chair and literally pushing Tom O’Grady to the office door. “We’ll see to Sheila, teach her the rules, make sure she’s sorted.”

  “As long as I can have her for breakfast,” he said, walking out.

  Once his footsteps faded, Mary turned to me and said, “He must like you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The last girl who talked to him like that was made redundant before she unpacked her bag.”

  Chapter Ten

  A cabin with plenty of food is better than a hungry castle.

  Mary opened the door and I peered into the tiny, dorm-style room. On one side was a narrow, single bed, with a locker at the foot. In that corner, there was a school-sized desk, with a single ladder-back chair. The walls were made of cinderblock. The only feature that kept it from looking like a jail cell was the mirror that hung at chair-level.

  Across from the bed was a door that I prayed led to a bathroom. That was it. Not a picture on the wall or a shelf to rest a knick-knack on. The only feature that kept it from looking like a jail cell was the mirror that hung at chair-level.

  “You’ll see that they built the dormitories here, behind the big barns, and the stables. With the mews houses and the self-catering cottages, the guests have to go out of their way to see them. Keeping them simple didn’t ruin the views, you see.”

  Simple was one word for it.

  “Now, I don’t kip in here myself, I’ve a room over in the main building. But if there’s ever anything you want, or need, I’m but a few steps away.” She smoothed back her hair and popped the collar of her polo shirt.

  “Thanks, Mary,” I said. “Really.”

  Mary explained that this was the women’s section and that bathrooms were shared and down the hall. She told me to leave my bag, so we could continue on the tour of the estate. It took the whole afternoon to cover the sprawling grounds, but Mary told me she was happy to hit every mark because it kept her out of the office. “Having a stretch of the legs on such a fine sunny day’ll keep a person fit. I miss working in the stables and tending the gardens with Danny’s team.”

  No wonder Mary was in charge of the program. She was capable of doing nearly every job on the grounds. Turns out, she’s a fine horsewoman, having grown up around them herself. She showed me the stables and introduced me to the grooms and student learners. Guests could take lessons, do trail riding, or even check out a horse like a library book, provided they could prove themselves capable.

  I couldn’t resist taking photos as she walked me around to the greenhouses, which she referred to as “glasshouses” and the “orangerie.” There were flowers and vegetables growing in the little tropical oases, and even, Mary explained, hydroponic gardens that didn’t require soil. More workers buzzed about repotting this or harvesting that. As hard as I tried, I could not keep up with their names.

  Along the way, we met Danny, the head gardener, who looked like he was born to the job. Tiny, elfin, and quiet, he seemed to blend in with the shrubs and wildflowers around him. He didn’t seem to say much, but everyone working for him treated him with great respect. “Danny has the original green thumb. Chef brought him in shortly before the restaurants got a face-lift. Not only has he changed all this from overgrown fields to manicured plots and that Japanese water garden there, he’s put Castle Stone on the map as far as weddings go.”

  I couldn’t imagine the unassuming little man putting anything on the map. “How did he do that?”

  “He does the flowers for the wedding parties, the hall, and even the chapel. We call him the ‘Mother-of-the-Bride-Whisperer.’ They’ll come in asking for poinsettias in May or a church full of orchids on a beer budget. They walk out every time with exactly what he tells them to get, thinking it’s their idea.”

  “He’s the gardener and the florist?”

  “Too right, and he works night and day. He’s a genius with budgets. I listen at his knee, hoping to learn it all someday. He orders what’s in season, repurposes what’s at the wedding breakfast for the Mass, and when he likes a family, he’ll go out of his way to match the flowers we always have in the hotel to the colors of the wedding. Chef gives him the run of the place, and rightly so.”

  Mary walked me down to the largest lake, pointing out that there were smaller ones and ponds everywhere. Along the way, we walked across part of the golf course, which was swarming with players due to the fair weather. A gunshot rang out. I ran to the nearest tree and ducked behind it. Mary laughed and laughed. “That’s just the clay pigeon shooting. Glenn runs it. He’s a safety officer and he’s certified by An Garda Siochana to carry out gun competency training lessons. No one’s been shot yet. Well, not in the past couple decades, anyhow.”

  I couldn’t believe the array of activities and experiences available on the estate. There was falconry, row-boating and kayaking, dances and live music events in the Main Ballroom, beekeeping lessons, the upscale restaurant and the pub, and a world-class spa.

  “Maybe I could treat you to a massage one of these days. If you like that sort of thing.”

  “Well, who doesn’t?

  Mary smiled and opened the frosted-glass doors to reveal the spa. I swooned from the earthy, spicy fragrances of the lotions and treatment oils. I longed to sink down into one of the warm tubs with bubbling jets, only to emerge to receive a full-body massage and a calming facial. I had to admit, I was tired. We’d done a lot of walking and the jet lag was catching up with me.

  “You look a bit done for,” Mary remarked. “I won’t walk you out to the cottage mews or the self-catering cottages today. You can see them just there, over the bluff. It’s another 15 minutes along that path.” She led me in the other direction, heading back toward the Castle.

  “I might as well tell you, I don’t know what either of those things mean.”

  She laughed go
od-naturedly. “Looks like I’m going to have to show you the ropes,” she said with a sly tease. “So, the mews houses were built in the Victorian period. They’re set inside an interior courtyard, back out of the way. Lots of privacy. Inside, they’re fully modern, of course. Self-catering means you bring your own food and do your own cooking. You can avail yourself of maid service or not, as you like. Big families like to stay there for reunions or what have you. Oh, the O’Grady house, and there’s Mrs. O’Grady out the back.”

  Mrs. O’Grady! Brenda said fiancée, not wife. Maybe I’d gotten the story wrong. Since he’d left his restaurant in London to come back here, the media trail had gone cold as far as his personal life was concerned. I had shots of him posing with local growers, and dignitaries who came to dine at The Grange Hall, but it was all about the food, and only about the food.

  I craned my neck to see her, anxious that she’d look like Kate Middleton but curvier, with fresh country roses in her cheeks. Knock it off, Shayla, I chided myself. You came here to get a story. Maybe it’ll be easier if you can get the wife on your side. Still, I had to admit that some wind had escaped my sails at the thought of it. I walked a little further around the corner and Mary followed.

  The cottage was built of great slabs of stone, severe in their angles and pristinely whitewashed. There was a low stone fence with a gate, and the low windows featured green wooden shutters that matched the front door. Finally, I saw a white sheet billowing in the breeze and a pair of hands taming it into submission onto a clothesline. “How long has Tom, uh, Chef…really, Chef?” Mary nodded soberly. “How long has Chef been married?”

  “He isn’t.”

  From around the waving bedclothes walked a woman. I broke into a smile. How fabulously, wonderfully beautiful! Tall and sturdy, with a low center of gravity, she wore a vee-necked sweater over a crisp white blouse, and a pleated wool skirt of a sensible length. Her steel-gray curls were cut close enough to her head to keep from being a worry, but not close enough to rob her of her femininity. His mother, I thought. She shielded her eyes from the sun with both hands, examining us, then waved us over. “Good afternoon, Mary!” she called. “And who’ve we here?” She stood in front of a large wicker basket, folding towels.

  We crossed through the gate and into her garden. Everything was tidy and trim and tiny buds of color were raising their heads out of postage-stamp-sized plots and pots. I tried to peer in the window to get a sense of the place. Did Tom grow up here? Calling him Tom in my head made me blush. He’d made it clear that he was Mr. O’Grady, or Chef, to me. Feeling caught out, I looked right and left to make sure no one noticed.

  Along one side of the stone wall, a black and white Border Collie patrolled tirelessly from one end to the other and back again, keeping his eyes on the sky. He looked like Pip, my grandmother’s dog. I liked him instantly.

  “Don’t mind that daft beast,” she said affectionately. “We call that hunting for angels. No idea why he does it. Nap, when you find one, bring her in for a cuppa tea. We can use all the guardians we can get.”

  “Mrs. O’Grady, this is Sheila Doyle. She’ll be with us doing work experience in the kitchen.” She put down a handful of wooden clothespins and took my hand in both of hers. They were warm and pliant, like bread dough.

  “You’ll be working alongside my son, then,” she said, offering a warm smile along with an appraising eye. “Surely you’re not local, are you?” I wished desperately that I were wearing something other than my Manhattan street uniform.

  “I’m not, Mrs. O’Grady. I’m from America.”

  “Pretty little thing, isn’t she Mary?”

  “I’d say so, Mrs. O’Grady.”

  “Lots of ours went over to the States back in the day. Your name’s Doyle, you say?” she squinted at me hard, not needing to look at her towels in order to fold them like a precision machine. The sun felt hot on the back of my neck and I wished I were wearing fewer layers.

  “It is,” Mary jumped in, “Sheila’s all ready to start work in the morning. She’s only just arrived, so I’m showing her the lay of the land.”

  “Have you had a bite to eat?” Mrs. O’Grady asked. “Will you girls come through? I’ve bacon and some lovely wheaten rolls, and a bit of jam and some nice cheese.”

  My stomach was rumbling. Something about the air in Ireland left me starving, desperate to get everything I saw inside me. Plus, I could start taking notes for the book, here and now. My senses told me that the secrets to softening Tom O’Grady toward this project blew on the winds around here.

  “I was just going to take Sheila to the workers’ canteen, Mrs. O’Grady. There’s also a workers’ pub,” she whispered to me.

  “I won’t have it!” Mrs. O’Grady insisted. She set her basket down on a rough-hewn wooden table and shooed us toward the heavy wooden door. “Come along, girls.” It was split in half, from top to bottom, and the top half was wide open to let in fresh air. The lock was huge and rusted on the outside. I could tell it wouldn’t accept a shiny modern key cut at a local hardware store. Only a skeleton key would work. I was dying to ask to see it.

  The door opened into a very small, cozy sitting room furnished with a small wooden table with a cheery robin’s-egg blue oilskin cloth and four wooden captain’s chairs. There was a chintz sofa, its back lined with delicate crocheted doilies, and its arms piled with an abundance of embroidered cushions of various colors, shapes and sizes. The fireplace hosted a very small fire. There was no blaze, just a red glow and ambient warmth. Mrs. O’Grady saw me investigating.

  “Tom put an efficient woodstove in upstairs. It runs on sustainable wood pellets and he tells me it’s more efficient. This fireplace was built with the house, back in the 17th century. When himself and I first married, this is where I made the bread.” She gestured to a photo of a solemn man with kind eyes that hung above the sofa. “I only just got a cooker when Tom was toddling about. I still burn peat down here. The smell makes it feel like home, and we rely on a constant fire to keep the roof timbers and the thatch dry. Some say when it burns out, the soul goes out of the people of the house.”

  My eye was drawn to the crucifix above the mantelpiece with a small red lamp burning beneath it. The lamp looked like it was made from Bakelite. The cord was retro; maybe it was from the ‘50s. I itched to take out a notepad and to snap some shots with my phone.

  “How can I help you, Mrs. O’Grady?” Mary asked.

  “If you girls will just boil the kettle, I’ll be right down. You’ll find butter and jam in the pantry. If you need anything else, you’ve my permission to root about in the press. I’ll do the bacon in a jiffy. I’m just going to pop to the toilet.”

  Mary walked through and began setting out lunch like a trained waitress, which, to be fair, she was. She’d worked in every aspect of the hotel and she wasn’t a bit shy. I admired her. She was one of those women, like Mrs. O’Grady I suspected, who just spotted a need and got the job done. And she was so young. It reminded me what a mess I’d made of my own career back in New York. Nothing I had done built on anything I’d done previously. Mary seemed like a real adult. I certainly didn’t feel like one.

  On the far wall stood an open cabinet stocked with china. It was a Chinese-looking pattern of birds and trees in brilliant blue against a creamy white background. The centerpiece was a jug and washbasin. It was surrounded by gravy boats, soup tureens, thin china cups, bowls, plates and tiny dishes; it seemed to be a lifetime’s collection. I picked up one of the cups and turned it over. Delft.

  Mary opened the door to what looked to me like an antique dresser. It was taller than I, made of reddish-brown wood, and had an elaborate chalice carved into the front of it, made up of interlocking knots. She swung open the door and I gasped.

  “All right?” she asked, reaching inside and pulling out an earthenware butter dish and a jar of jam.

  “It’s just…that looks so old. I thought it would break.” Furniture like this in my grandmother’s house was kep
t in the ‘good’ dining room. As a child, I never went in there or the ‘good’ living room except on Christmas or Thanksgiving. It reminded me how young a country America is in the grand scheme of things and how ancient Ireland is.

  “The pantry? No. It’s fine. Look.” She invited me over for an inspection. I put my hand on the marble shelf.

  “It’s freezing!”

  “’Course it is,” she said, looking at me funny. “It’s a pantry. How else are you going to keep things cold?”

  Before Mrs. O’Grady even returned, Mary had meat sizzling in a pan. It smelled like heaven, honeyed and salty all at once. I peered in at the small, sizzling slices of ham. “I thought she said we were having bacon,” I whispered.

  “That is bacon, you barmy cow,” she said, laughing. In my book bacon came in long strips and had stripes. She seemed pretty sure of herself, though. I didn’t argue with her.

  “Sheila, perhaps you’d like a chance to wash up?” I was delighted our hostess pointed the way to the bathroom. Making my way down the narrow hallway, I took a chance to inspect the rest of the house. To my left was their formal sitting room. There was a small spinet piano at one end, over which hung a photo of John F. Kennedy, circa 1960. At the other was a wooden podium and a very large crucifix. Arranged around the walls were a number of satin-and-velvet-covered chairs and some end tables.

  Instinctively, I ducked my head at the low entrance to the stairwell. I didn’t need to, but a tall man might. The wood on the stairs and the bannister was gorgeous. Rich and deep, and polished to a shine. At the top of the stairs, I found the bathroom, used the toilet and washed up. The toilet had a pull flush and the sink taps were separately hot and cold. There was a rubber stopper on a chain dangling in the sink. I set it back beside the bar of French-milled violet soap because it seemed the right thing to do. I dried my hands and left quickly, patting myself on the back for resisting the urge to go through the medicine cabinet.

  The landing creaked when I stepped out of the bathroom, so I stood still and listened for a second. I could hear cups clinking and the two women sharing stories. Gingerly, I tiptoed around the door of one of the bedrooms. A quick peek told me it was Mrs. O’Grady’s. The simple wrought-iron double bed was covered in a white crewel-work bedspread. On the wall was a wedding photo, which I presumed to be the O’Grady’s, and small crucifix, this one chunky and three-dimensional, with a tuft of folded dried palm tucked behind it.