“Yup, I’m about to be the butler in a real-life castle.”
“I thought you said you were a personal assistant,” Frank said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, well, it looks like neither of us are beyond telling a few little white lies, doesn’t it?” I said, climbing back into the car and waiting for him to do the same.
“So”—Frank grinned with a glint in his eye—“what you really are is a manservant. I like the sound of that—a lot!” His hand slowly wandered over to my thigh and began to massage it.
“How we doing for time?” he said, leaning in to kiss me.
“Frank, I’m not sure if this is a good idea. I mean somebody could drive past and see us.” The words were tumbling out of my mouth and my brain was telling me that this was a really bad idea, but even so I found myself wrapping my arms tightly around his neck and succumbing to his volley of kisses.
“Frank, I must get on,” I said, eventually pulling away from him.
“Sure, I understand,” he replied, starting the engine.
The road clung to the perimeter of the estate, and when it narrowed to a single track I felt sure we had somehow missed the entrance, but as we drove slowly under a dense canopy of trees it opened up again, and the green was replaced by the gray of the stone wall. Two minutes later we arrived at the gates of Castle Beadale.
In contrast to the traditional wrought iron work of the gates, I noticed a very modern CCTV camera, beneath which was a high-tech intercom system with two buttons: one marked VISITORS and one CASTLE. When the gates silently swung open I took a deep breath, readying myself for my final farewell with Frank and the beginning of my new life at Castle Beadale.
“Looks like they’re expecting you,” he said, rolling the car slowly forward over a cattle grid and onto the estate.
“What happened to dropping me at the gates?” I asked.
Frank said nothing, just pointed at the vast gap between us and the tiny outline of the house in the far distance.
“Still wanna walk?” He laughed as he slowly drove toward the castle.
The grounds stretched out in every direction, so much so that it was impossible to see where the estate ended and the real world began.
The unsealed road meandered through the center of the estate, which was wild and unkempt. I’d been expecting formal gardens by Capability Brown with straight lines and frivolous topiary, but instead it felt like we were driving through remote Scottish Highlands. And it felt like we were being watched.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw something move behind the cover of a densely wooded copse, but tried to ignore it. The car juddered as we rolled noisily over another cattle grid, and seconds later a dozen or so huge stags bolted from the cover of the trees, scattering in every direction. I slammed my foot on an imaginary set of brakes at the same time as Frank applied more gentle pressure on the real ones.
“Wow! I’ve only ever seen one of those on the label of a bottle of Scotch,” he said with a faint trace of wonder in his voice.
“Just make sure you don’t kill one of them—it wouldn’t be the best way to start my new job.”
As the castle drew nearer the road forked, and a hand-painted sign marked TRADESMEN directed us off to the left, through an ivy-covered arch leading to a large cobbled stable yard. Frank brought the car to a complete halt and turned off the engine.
“So, this is good-bye, is it?” he asked.
“Looks like it,” I said, reaching for the door handle. He leaned over and took hold of my wrist.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Honestly, it’s nothing. I just really need to go.”
I looked across the yard and noticed a farmhand leaning on his shovel outside one of the stables, eyeing Frank and me suspiciously. The old guy was making no attempt at concealing his curiosity, and I was tempted to ask him what he was staring at, but then, looking back at Frank behind the wheel of his ridiculous yellow sports car, I realized it was pretty obvious.
“But you got all weird with me after we stopped for petrol. Is it something I said?”
At that moment all I wanted to do was get out of the car and start my new job. I didn’t want a scene, especially with Farmer Giles watching my every move. But there was something about Frank that made me act irrationally, and the next thing I knew I was frantically rummaging around in my pocket.
“There!” I said, tossing the note at him. “I don’t know whose car this is, but tell your ‘mate’ thanks for the loan.” Frank stared down at the tiny piece of paper like I had just tossed a live grenade into his lap.
“Where did you find that?” he asked, beginning to laugh.
“This is not funny, Frank!” I barked at him. “You are a great guy. I like you, I really do, but it could never work between us. So this is good-bye. You’ve made a mug out of your girlfriend . . . or boyfriend. It doesn’t matter to me which, but I’d rather you didn’t try to do the same to me.”
He stopped laughing and was beginning to look a bit sheepish, so I took the opportunity to get out of the car in as dignified a fashion as I could manage. I hoisted my two bags out of the back and allowed them to land with a thud on the cobbles.
I tentatively glanced over at the guy by the stables, but thankfully he now appeared to be more interested in shoveling huge piles of horseshit than in me.
“So, thanks for the lift, Frank. Seriously, I appreciate it,” I said, extending my hand into the car for a gentlemanly handshake. He responded by doing the same, but when he took my hand he yanked me firmly toward him, sending me completely off balance and headfirst into the car. He said nothing, but planted a huge, passionate kiss on my lips that, given my rather awkward position, I was unable to resist. When he moved his head away from mine, he spoke.
“I can explain if you’ll let me. I do not have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, I swear. But there is a vacancy going for the latter. If you want to apply, I could fast-track your application.” He winked.
I could feel my face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and lust as I struggled clumsily to plant my feet back on the cobbles. Eventually, after some undignified flailing around, I was out of the car and upright again.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” I said, smoothing down my ruffled hair. “The last thing I want is the entire estate to know I’m gay. This is not London you know! For all I know they still put gay people in the village stocks and pelt them with rotten fruit around here.”
As I strode away from the car my cheeks felt hot, and my heart was pounding wildly inside my chest.
“Call me when you have had a chance to settle in, and maybe you’ll let me explain,” Frank shouted, but I didn’t bother to turn around. I heard the car move slowly out of the yard, and after he was gone I stood in front of the door marked DELIVERIES. I took a breath before ringing the bell, but was stopped in my tracks by an unfamiliar voice.
“Bell doesn’t work,” the old farmer shouted, pointing his shovel in the direction of the door. I cursed Frank under my breath for putting on such an embarrassing show in front of one of the locals. The one thing I could ill afford to happen was for this little display to get back to Lord Shanderson. I’d be on the next train back to London before I’d even had a chance to unpack.
“Cheers,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
I knocked hard on the door, willing someone to open it quickly as I could feel the farmer’s eyes burrowing into me from across the yard. My knock was immediately rewarded by the sound of barking dogs. The canine chorus persisted for a few minutes until I heard footsteps from the other side and a voice that silenced the cacophony almost at once.
“Shut up, you stupid animals. Otherwise you’ll all be going down, and it won’t be in bloody history!”
The door opened to reveal a tall, willowy woman dressed rather austerely all in black.
“Hello, I’m . . .”
“His Lordship’s new butler, yes, I know. We’ve been expecting you.”
&nb
sp; She ignored my outstretched hand as well as my two cumbersome bags and simply headed down the dimly lit corridor, leaving me on the doorstep. I lugged the bags over the brass threshold and began wheeling them behind me, trying to keep up.
“Be careful of the tiles,” she barked over her shoulder. “This floor has just been buffed; I don’t want it covered in scratches, thank you.”
Jesus! This woman was quite the welcoming party, I thought as I struggled to carry the bags without their coming into contact with her precious floor.
She stopped abruptly at one of the doors off the corridor and opened it, signaling for me to enter. It led into a huge, brightly lit kitchen filled with the unmistakable smell of baking bread coming from an ancient range neatly tucked into a cavernous fireplace. In the center of the room was an imposing pine table surrounded by old chapel chairs. Its surface looked freshly scrubbed, and in the center was a battered enameled jug filled with wildflowers. This was the kind of country-house kitchen interiors magazines constantly tried (and failed) to replicate, but it was obvious from the ancient copper pans, the pitted flagstone floor, and the rickety old dresser filled with mismatching jars of preserves that this was the real deal.
“Vera will be here shortly to show you your accommodations, but in the meantime I suppose you should take a seat,” she said, waving a bony finger in the general direction of a chair. She left the room without another word, letting the door slam behind her.
On the far side of the room above a row of ceramic Belfast sinks were large picture windows looking out over farmland at the rear of the estate. I was just admiring the view when a voice from behind made me jump.
“Have none of those buggers offered you a cuppa?”
I turned to see a short, squat woman I guessed to be in her sixties, wearing a dirty old Barbour jacket and a knitted bobble hat. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was holding a wooded trug filled with vegetables still covered in wet mud. When she banged it down I couldn’t help thinking that whoever had scrubbed that table wouldn’t thank this woman for covering it in soil.
“I’m Vera,” she said, pulling off a gardening glove and shaking me by the hand with firmness that took me by surprise.
“Nice to meet you, Vera, I’m—”
“Anthony, yes, I know. We’ve been expecting you.”
She shook off her coat and slung it on the back of a chair en route to the range.
“Right, let’s have that cuppa,” she said, sliding the kettle onto the hot plate of the Aga. Something told me now was not the time to ask if she had any Guatemalan espresso.
“That would be lovely, Vera. I’m parched.”
I watched her glide around the kitchen fetching clean cups, taking a sugar bowl out of the cupboard, and filling a small jug with milk with a practiced ease that suggested this was entirely her domain. On the other side of the kitchen a face appeared around the top of a split door leading out to the garden.
“Vera, His Lordship asked me to let you know that he won’t be back for tea. He’s just gone off to the saddlery in Westcourt Village,” he said in a West Country accent.
I literally gulped when I saw whom the voice belonged to. He was about six feet tall with tousled sandy hair and a light covering of stubble along his strong jawline. I could only see him from the waist up, but he looked like he was wearing riding gear.
“Come in, George; don’t just stand there,” Vera said.
He reached in, unbolted the door, and strode purposefully into the kitchen.
“BOOTS!” Vera yelled at him.
As he bent down to pull off his muddy boots, the fabric of his jodhpurs stretched across his thighs, almost causing me to spill my tea. Now I could see the whole picture, he instantly reminded me of the brooding love interest in a Jilly Cooper miniseries I saw on TV as a horny teenager. Ever since then equestrian wear has held a certain erotic fascination for me that I’ve never really been able to shake.
“Time for a cuppa, George?”
“ ’Fraid not. His Lordship wants me to ride out one of his horses before he gets back,” he said, smiling warmly at Vera whilst managing to blank me out completely.
“Wouldn’t mind a bit of cake to take with me though.” He eyed a plate of Victoria sponge on the table between us.
“Hi, I’m . . .” I said, standing up to greet him.
“Yeh, I know who you are,” he replied, ignoring my outstretched hand. I felt my cheeks flush as my hand just hovered there, waiting to be shaken.
Arsehole! I thought, pretending to look at my watch and sitting back down.
Vera was too busy wrapping a huge slice of cake in waxed paper to notice George’s bad manners, but I was fuming.
“There you go, George, now bugger off!” Vera said, beaming with what looked like genuine affection.
George pecked her on the cheek and headed back out the door without even looking at me, let alone saying good-bye.
“Such a lovely boy,” Vera said when he was gone.
“Really?” I said. “I thought he was a bit rude if I’m being honest.”
“Oh, don’t pay any attention to George; he’s just a bit shy, that’s all. He’s not long out of the army, so we are still trying to housebreak him.” She laughed.
Moments later the door half opened again, and George’s face peered round it. He was smiling this time.
“Sorry, totally forgot me manners—welcome to Castle Beadale, Anthony,” he said with a wink before heading out the door.
“Top up?” Vera asked with the teapot already hovering over my cup.
I smiled and nodded, so Vera poured the tea and placed the pot between us on the table.
“So, Vera, what do you do here?” I asked.
“What don’t I do here?” she said, letting out a booming laugh. “I’m chief cook and bottle washer. Been here forty years next June.”
“You must have been not much more than a child when you started,” I said, trying to work out the maths.
“Not quite, but not far off either. I keep telling His Lordship I’m still waiting to find out if I’ve got the bloody job! I started as a kitchen maid straight out of school. Back in the sixties we were one of the only houses in Sussex to still have a full complement of staff. When I joined there were footmen, under butlers, parlor maids, ladies’ maids, cook, scullery maid, Mr. Johnson the butler, and Mrs. Heathcoat the head housekeeper. I remember there being two sittings for staff meals, there were so many of us. Oh! Those were the days,” she said wistfully. “We try our best now, but it’s not easy running a house this size with only a handful of us. That’s why we are all so glad to see you, dear. Why don’t we drink up and I’ll show you to your accommodations.”
“How far is my cottage from the main house?” I asked her.
“Cottage?” she replied with a look of surprise.
“Yes, I was told that the job came with a cottage. Rose View, in fact.”
“Ah! Yes, about that. Rose View is being, erm, renovated at the moment, so we’ll have to put you up in the house for now.”
I was a little stunned at the prospect of not getting the chocolate-box cottage I had been promised, but tried not to let my disappointment show. Right now I just wanted to shower, change into my uniform, and get to work. It wasn’t the time to start haggling about the details, but I’d take up the matter with His Lordship just as soon as I got the chance.
I quickly finished my tea and with luggage in tow I followed Vera out of the kitchen and down the windowless corridor into the depths of the castle. She stopped at the foot of a flight of narrow stone stairs, waiting for me to catch up.
The corridor walls were lined with dozens of framed portraits, and Vera smiled as she waited patiently for me to take them all in. The pictures appeared to start at the farthest end of the corridor, nearest the back door, as naïve oil paintings stretching back to what I guessed, judging by the clothes the subjects were wearing, was the eighteenth century. As we moved farther along the pictures moved forward in time from e
arly photographs at the turn of the twentieth century and then, at the far end where Vera was standing, into color photographs taken in the 1970s.
“Play your cards right,” Vera said, “and you could find yourself up there one day.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Who are they all?”
“Those, my boy, are all the servants who have worked at Castle Beadale over the years. It’s something of a tradition here. Every master of the house has a portrait done of his servants on the tenth anniversary of their coming here.”
“Where are you then?” I asked, scanning the photographs for one that might just look like a youthful Vera.
“I’ll let you figure that one out in your own good time,” she said over her shoulder as she began to stride up the stairs.
I dutifully followed, and after what seemed like endless flights we reached the top of the house. I was puffing and puffing whilst Vera, clearly conditioned by years of climbing these very stairs, hadn’t so much as broken a sweat. She shouldered a swing door that opened into a long, narrow passage lit by skylights in the sloping roof. On each side, a dozen or so doors were each painted with a number in faded gold paint. This floor of the castle had obviously been designed to house the servants and, for the time being at least, it was about to do so again. With its scuffed paintwork, yellowed with age, my first impression was that this floor had not been used for many a long year.
“The good news is that you have the whole floor to yourself,” Vera said cheerfully as she stopped at a door at the very end of the corridor. A small brass plate on the door read:
MR. JOHNSON
“After you,” she said, gesturing to me to enter.
Despite the faint whiff of mothballs, the room I found myself in wasn’t at all what I had expected. The utilitarian feel of the hallway was a world away from the luxury of Mr. Johnson’s, now my, room. Curiously, it appeared to be circular in shape and had a tented ceiling held in place by a heavy brass chandelier.
The bed, which dominated the room, was an ancient four-poster hung with drapes perfectly matching the ceiling as well as the curtains framing a row of Gothic arched windows. The bed had been turned back, hotel style, to reveal a large embroidered letter B in the center of the top sheet.
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