Summer at Castle Stone

by Lynn Marie Hulsman

  “Yeah, Tony and I have been watching TV with her in the evenings. I’m loving Irish television. It’s such a mixed bag of highbrow BBC and stuff that looks like someone filmed with their iPhone in a church basement. Tony loves spending evenings at your mom’s. He seems so much more energetic now than when I got here.”

  “About that…I’m concerned that…” He stopped. “It’s like this. Widows and widowers, well…that isn’t really on. Not here in Ireland. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “No, I get it,” I lied. “Let me tell her you’re worried.” I didn’t want Tom getting in the middle of Mrs. O’Grady and the Earl. I’d laid such excellent groundwork. Every night that I’d been free, I’d finagled a dinner plan with lots of glasses at cocktail hour. A routine was being established, and I think the Earl was growing to like it. I changed the subject. “After this, I need to go to my room and pick up some dishtowels we wrapped some food in the first time I ate with her. I finally did laundry and I’ve been meaning to get them back.”

  “No need,” he said. “I’ll walk you to yours and pick up the towels, then go tell her myself.”

  “I need to get these eggs to the kitchen.” I really didn’t want him to get to his mom before I did. Hosting the Earl suited her. She laughed all the time and looked ten years younger.

  “I’ll send one of the boys for them. Ready?”

  I had no choice but to walk him back to the dorms. We fell into step, side-by-side. I didn’t like having my hand forced. Despite the sunshine and soft air, I was edgy.

  “So now you’re not embarrassed to walk with me?”

  “What are you on about?”

  “When we walked to town. You were embarrassed.”

  “I never was. It was to protect you.” He stopped and steered me around a pile of horse manure. “Sometimes photographers follow me. I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea and splash lies all over the rags about how we’re a couple.”

  “Thanks for protecting me.” I felt like something had been taken away from me.

  We walked the rest of the way without saying much. Tom seemed relaxed. He waved to some guests on a trail ride. He stopped to watch a rabbit chewing on a grape hyacinth. I didn’t share his ease.

  At the dorms, I expected him to wait at the entrance but he followed me in and down the hall. Brigid, wrapped in a towel and carrying her bath caddy, offered us a cautious greeting. When we got to my room, I went in to get the towels and was shocked when he pressed in behind me. He spied the sketch of me from the market and moved in to examine it. “Lovely,” he said.

  Panicked, I scanned the room. I rushed to my desk and pushed the photos and fact sheets from my file on Tom, along with my handwritten notes for the book into a pile. I threw my pajamas on top. My passport was lying out, but it was closed. There was a pile of recipes at the foot of my bed. These, he saw. I managed to flip them upside down and sit on top of them before he could examine them closely.

  “Studying recipes?” he asked, looking around the room. His eyes landed on my tres expensive black satin bra with the hot-pink piping (a gift from Maggie) hanging on the back of the door. There was no point rushing to hide it, what was done was done. I kept my seat, trying to look like the kind of girl who doesn’t care if men examine her lingerie.

  “You know, I like to learn.” I steadied my breathing. “Whatever.” I leaned back on my elbows, trying to look relaxed. Realizing I was lying on my bed, I sprung to a sitting position and crossed my legs.

  He nodded. “Anyhow, I think it’s time you came back to the kitchen. I’ll let Mary know later.”

  Oh, finally. I’d honestly been enjoying learning skills such as differentiating weeds from plants and pulling them, and milking the goats and rolling logs of their cheese in ash to preserve it. But I needed to get back into the kitchen. I’d been writing up the recipes I could get my hands on, and converting the measurements to United States standards as best as I could, but I needed to gather more, watch more, and ask more questions.

  “Would you like that?” he asked, going back to my portrait, and leaning in close. “Being back in the kitchen?”

  I watched him examining the likeness of me. He looked from the portrait to my eyes, studying me. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  He walked over to the door and pushed it closed. “Sheila,” he said, walking toward me. My breath caught in my throat. I was aware that I hadn’t made my bed. The pillows were akimbo and the sheets were rumpled. He sat down next to me. I turned my body to face his. Our shoulders nearly touched.

  “Sheila, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It goes back to the first day we met, if I’m honest. I had this idea, you see, but I wasn’t sure you’d agree.”

  I could smell him, the heat under his hair. I caught a faint whiff of tangy apple under the clean smell of sweat. I inhaled. It was too loud.

  “What?” I asked, to cover.

  “Here’s the thing,” he struggled. “All right, here it is.”

  Without thinking, I tilted my face upward. My mouth was so dry. I felt my lips part.

  “I need you to go out to dinner with me.”

  “Dinner?”

  “There’s more to it. It’s a business arrangement, see?”

  “Oh.” I rose to my feet. I hoped he hadn’t noticed how my body had been straining toward him. I grabbed my bathrobe off the pile of pillows on the bed and hung it over my bra. I could see that he noticed. He glanced at my chest and then looked away.

  “But if you agree, it’ll require bending the truth a wee bit.”

  I crossed my arms and kept my face placid. “Go on.”

  “This American distributor, he’s considering backing a scheme for Castle Stone’s range of natural and organic foods. The ace in the hole that my partners and I have in mind is rapeseed oil. You see, it’s healthy and easy to produce, and could give a lot of struggling Irish farmers a leg up. The rest of the world just doesn’t know it yet. Together with that, I’ve ideas about jams and pickles, and the like. Ingredients grown the right way, and processed without chemicals.” His eyes shone as he went on to describe his plan. The main focus would be local. His idea was to produce locally and distribute locally. But he needed a wider sprawl to make it worth it for the number of farmers he had in his collective to make a financial go of it. Many of these farmers, he said, had been considering selling the land to manufacturers and real estate moguls.

  “What if they win?” he asked. “Will this still be The Emerald Isle in a century?”

  Family farms were having trouble competing, he explained. The plan was to keep production small, however, and even with success to avoid growing to the point where the business would abandon sustainable practices. The farmers and other workers would be shareholders, and a portion of the profits would be donated to endeavors that re-invested in the land and small farms such as reforestation and offering micro-loans to farmers who wanted to switch over to certified organic methods.

  He impressed me. His enthusiasm caught me off guard and I found it sexy. My mouth got drier and drier as I realized my eyes were locked on his.

  “Sounds like you’re quite the businessman.”

  “Ah, never. The partners and I have come up with a scheme. Those with better skills than I will handle the money and management part. My role is to keep my eye on the flavors, and the quality of the foods we produce. If food can’t be fresh, I like to keep it as close to its original form as possible. For instance, I’ve a blackberry jam recipe that’s nothing but blackberries. Picked at the right season and canned right away, they wouldn’t need sugar or preservatives. Just blackberries.” He was smiling wide now, leaning back on one elbow across my narrow bed. I couldn’t help smiling back.

  “You should call it that. Just Blackberries. Boom. Sold to every Seattle foodie and L.A. mom of a private school toddler.”

  “That’s the kind of talk I’ll need from you at this dinner, if you can stomach doing this for me. The fella in charge is a real London bastar
d, pardon my French. He’s the eyes and ears of the American in charge. He swans around in his Armani suits talking about the bottom line.” He shook his head. His eyes were clouded and seemed three shades darker than usual.

  “I can hardly stomach him. One of the sticking points is that he doesn’t like the Irish. Thinks we’re second-class. On top of it, this joker is a wannabe American, always going on about ‘straight talk,’ and ‘no bullshit,’ like he’s some kind of cowboy. He’s pure Oxbridge and his international banker dad pulled strings to get him across the pond and into Harvard Law. By the way he goes on, you’d think he ran with gangsters in Chicago rather than singing with the Glee Club in dear old Boston. I’d hate to see what he made of the Irish over there.”

  “When is it?”

  “It’s not far off. The meeting’s to take place in Dublin. Ridiculous. We’ve a world-class restaurant right here. He said, and I quote, ‘I’ve only one evening to devote to this. I don’t have time to head out to the sticks.’” He sat forward, elbows on his knees. He punched one fist into the other hand.

  “I’m not sure what I’ll wear.” My mind was racing, scouring over the handful of items I’d brought in my carry-on bag. I hadn’t needed to buy anything to supplement, except for the kitchen clogs. What I wore around the estate were mostly hand-me-downs. Mrs. O’Grady had given me the field jacket and boots, I adopted a pair of overalls I found in the gardening shed, and Mary had donated a few pairs of cords and jeans from “the time before I sat on my arse in this office all day.”

  “I’ve known about it for ages. I should have said something earlier, it’s just … never mind. I just didn’t. This is gonna sound strange, but I’ve a friend in London. She did the wardrobe for this television show I was on at one time.” He checked in, taking my temperature.

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” I offered vaguely.

  “Right,” he said after waiting a few beats. “Would you be willing to ring her, tell her about your sizes and whatnot? She can send you out a selection of dresses. I’ve seen her do that for girls who were going to red carpet awards shows, and whatnot. I’ll stand the cost on my credit card and return the ones you don’t keep.” I thought about what a nice dress from London would cost.

  “The thing is, I’m not getting paid for working here. I’m not sure I could afford a dress.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll pay for what you end up wearing. Shoes as well. Whatever you need. It would be a big favor to me. Please?” He leaned forward, eyebrows up. His full lips were pressed together tight.

  I would have done it just for the shoes, and the dress, and the trip to Dublin. If I were honest with myself, I would have done it just to have dinner with Tom, alone. But I knew an opportunity when it knocked. “I’ll do your favor if you do mine.”

  He stood up and crossed the few steps needed to look down into my eyes. He stood there, breathing the same air as me, mouth slightly opened. “What’s that, then?”

  “Give me a private teach me to cook a gourmet meal, soup to nuts, like we talked about.”

  His bright eyes twinkled. “That I can do.”

  He left without taking his mother’s towels.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Put silk on a goat, and it is still a goat.

  Several days later, Mrs. O’Grady set a cup of tea in front of me without my asking. “The girls miss you,” she said, laughing.

  “I doubt that,” I said, taking a large gulp. I was up early. I wanted to deliver her towels bright and early before my big day ahead. I didn’t want to arrive frantic and rushed, the way I always did in New York. When I showed up places, Maggie used to always ask, “What happened? Was somebody chasing you?” “I think those hens prefer your gentle touch to my World Wrestling Federation moves.”

  “Not at all, you’re getting to be quite the farm wife,” she said with more than a smidgen of pride. “Father Walsh swore he could see himself in the pews on Sunday. Here, get a few of these inside you.” She set down a plate of oaty bar cookies, studded with nuts and dates. “My special flapjacks. Tom could eat a whole tray, right out of the oven.”

  “Yum, could I get the recipe?”

  “I don’t see why not,” she said, pulling a notecard out of her elderly metal recipe box. “How’re you enjoying being back in the kitchen?”

  “It’s great, but with the weather so nice, I’d almost say I’d rather pull weeds.”

  “It’s the warmest spring on record, surely since I was a girl. If this keeps up, we’ll all need bathing suits and suntan lotion on the estate this summer.” She laughed a throaty laugh at the thought. “Ahh! My life.” Nap jumped up on the table by the window, and turned in circles on the small surface like a circus elephant. He barked like mad. I spied Tony in the distance, over Nap’s head.

  “That dog has a sixth sense where Tony is concerned,” I said.

  “Is that His Lordship coming?” Mrs. O’Grady stacked dirty plates in the sink and took off the apron she had tied on. “I didn’t expect him. I’m not sure I’ve anything to make sandwiches. He likes ham and cress in his, you know. What’s the time? Oh, it’s far too early for brandy, not close to 5 o’clock. Or is it too early? He always takes a brandy or two when he comes.” She rushed leaned over me, brushing crumbs from the table. I could hear Nap whining. There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in, Your Lordship, what a surprise,” Mrs. O’Grady said, a delighted smile gracing her lips.

  “I hope you don’t mind my intruding without an invitation. It’s just that I noticed our Sheila heading this way, and I wanted to ask her a question: Sheila, is the capital of New York Albany or is it New York City.” He stood in the doorway, walking stick in hand.

  “It’s Albany.”

  “Yes, yes, I thought that might be the case. Well then! Very good.”

  Mrs. O’Grady continued to smile.

  “Tony, why don’t you come sit down? I mean, I’m sure Mrs. O’Grady wouldn’t mind, isn’t that right Mrs. O’Grady?”

  “Mind? Why would I mind? Do come in, Lord Wexford,” she took his walking stick and the light jacket he had on. “But Sheila, haven’t we come too far for you to be calling me Mrs. O’Grady? It makes me feel a hundred years old. Won’t you call me Maeve?”

  “And why not?” The Earl asked. “If we’re not standing on formality, I wish you’d go ahead and call me Tony, Maeve. Sheila has since the moment we met. If the suits of armor in the castle come to life and start to haunt us, you can blame her and her American ways.” He took a seat, looking very satisfied with the whole arrangement.

  “All right then. Would you care for a cup of tea and some flapjacks, Tony? And perhaps a little taste of brandy?” She set a crystal glass on the table, then pulled it back. “If it’s not too early for you, of course?”

  “I’ve precious few years left on this mortal coil. Where’s the sense in following rules?” he asked, signaling for her to set the glass down. Maeve filled it, and held the bottle up to me, questioning? I shook my head no, so she took a seat and filled her own.

  “Ah, I do wish you could stay, Sheila. We’ve had a grand time together this past month or so. Sharp as a tack, this one. She learns anything I care to teach her. Through her, I can almost imagine having my own daughter.”

  The word daughter choked me up. I couldn’t do more than smile.

  “Tell Tom I requested you in an official capacity as the Right Honorable Anthony Stone, Earl of Wexford.”

  I stuffed the last delicious bite of the rich goody into my mouth, and washed it down with what was left in my cup. “I’m sorry to eat and run, but I don’t want to be late for the Right Honorable Thomas, Lord of the Kitchen. As an American, his temper intimidates me more than your bloodline.” He raised his glass to me in a toast, and howled with laughter.

  Maeve glanced at the clock. “Surely you’re not starting a shift at this odd hour?”

  “No, but I do have to run an errand for Chef. In town. At the greenmarket.” The flapjacks roiled in my stomach. I could
n’t admit where I was really heading. Or maybe I could, but I just didn’t want to share it. For now, I wanted to keep it as my own for some reason. I hated lying. No matter how much I lied, the guilt never rolled off my back. I wiped my mouth and folded my napkin. “Thank you for the tea,” I said, standing up.

  Maeve shot to her feet with me. “But do you have to go right this minute?” I checked my watch and nodded. Tony reached behind himself to the umbrella stand and grappled for his walking stick.

  “Don’t let me drag you away,” I said. “Keep your seat. Enjoy your drink.”

  Maeve twisted her hands and looked imploringly at me.

  “Oh, I get it.” I moved toward the door, feeling the pull of time ticking. “Don’t you think that’s just kind of silly?” Tony chased a crumb around the table with his forefinger. Maeve pursed her lips. “I do. If you leave here, Tony, where are you going to go? Up to your rooms to watch an afternoon movie by yourself? Or into the lobby, in hopes of talking to someone who might be interesting? If you stay here, you know you have someone interesting to talk to.”

  “Sheila, it’s about appearances…” Maeve said. She pursed her lips and sighed through her nose.

  “People are going to pick today to start thinking badly of you? Maeve, there’s not a person on this estate who doesn’t think the world of you. And Tony,” I laughed, “I’m sure you’ve heard everything anyone says about you by now.”

  “It’s out of my deep respect for Maeve that I wouldn’t want to cause her any unhappiness,” Tony said.

  “Then don’t,” I said, my hand on the doorknob. “Make her happy by staying. You both like each other’s company. Enjoy it.” I walked out the door and shut it behind me. If I didn’t get to the self-catering cottage village in ten minutes, I’d be late. I didn’t want to give Tom an excuse to criticize me. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to pull off this plan. I shrugged off my cardigan, warm from half-jogging during the fine morning. The sun had already burned all the dew off the grass, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I loved it. It was like the heat was pumping my blood.