by Rhys Bowen
“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said, wishing that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had let a few more people know I was coming so that I didn’t have to keep on explaining myself.
“Oh, you’re the famous Lady Georgiana, are you? Mother’s done nothing but talk about you. She’s frightfully excited. You count as a coup.”
“Really?”
“Well, yes, I mean it’s close to claiming you have royalty at your party, isn’t it?” Her face lit up. “I say, isn’t your mother Claire Daniels? Used to be a famous actress? Well, the village is buzzing with the rumor that she’s come down here for Christmas. Is that true?”
“I gather it is,” I said. “But nobody’s supposed to know. She’s working on a new play with Noel Coward.”
“Noel Coward? I say. How frightfully exciting. That livens up our dull little corner of the world a bit, doesn’t it? Is that why you agreed to take up Mother’s little offer?”
“Partly,” I said. “And partly because I wanted to escape from an even duller place than this.”
“Can there be anywhere duller?” She laughed. “I’m Hortense, by the way. The daughter of the house. Sorry I wasn’t here last night. I was staying with friends in Exeter.”
Hortense Hawse-Gorzley, I thought. What on earth made people choose such names for their poor children? She must have read my thoughts because she grimaced. “I know. Dreadful name, isn’t it? But I’m usually called Bunty. Don’t ask me why. No idea.”
“And I’m Georgie,” I said.
“Jolly good. I was dreading we’d have to go through the title and formality stuff. I hate that, don’t you? I suppose it’s because I don’t have one. Complete envy.”
I laughed. “You wouldn’t find my current situation very enviable.”
“Really? I should have thought you’d have a frightfully glamorous life—balls and parties and chaps lining up to marry you.”
“Hardly lining up. There have been a few, but they were all half imbecile and utterly awful. I wouldn’t have turned down a halfway decent offer.” I noticed her gear. “Have you just been out riding?”
“Yes, I have. Splendid morning for it. Do you ride? Stupid question; of course you do. You’ve probably got stables full of oodles of horses.”
“Not oodles, but I do have a horse at home.”
“Better than the ones we have here, I’m sure. We used to have splendid horses, but of course that’s all past now. I gather the family used to be quite rich once. Tin mines in nearby Cornwall. But they closed and Daddy invested the last of the money in America. Right before the crash of ’29, as it happened. So we’ve been in reduced circumstances ever since. But I shouldn’t be talking about it. Mummy doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”
“Your family eats a good deal better than mine does,” I said, sitting down with my heaped plate.
“Ah, well, we have the home farm. We live on what we can grow and raise most of the year. And Daddy is building up a breeding herd of Jersey cows. Lovely clotted cream, as you’ll soon find out.”
She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “If you like I’ll show you around the village after breakfast.”
“I think I’m supposed to be helping your mother,” I said. “Doesn’t she have masses to do before the first guests arrive?”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re supposed to actually do anything.” She grinned. “You’re just supposed to be yourself. Lend authenticity to the whole charade.”
“Charade?”
She lowered her voice and whispered, “They’re all paying guests, my dear. Only don’t for God’s sake let her know that I told you. It’s Mummy’s brilliant idea to make some money. Ye Olde English Christmas with ye olde aristocratic family. Apparently some people are prepared to pay a lot for that.”
So now it made sense—the diverse guest list and Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s flustered preparation for them. And that was why she wanted a young woman of impeccable social background.
“It should be rather fun, actually,” Hortense, or rather Bunty, went on. “Better than the usual dreary Christmases we’ve been having lately. My brother’s arriving tomorrow and bringing an Oxford chum and Mummy’s invited a cousin who is absolutely dreamy and we’ve been promised a costume ball as well as all the usual village festivities, which are rather amusing in their way.” She paused and a worried look came over her face. “Oh, Lord. I hope they won’t cancel the village things because of what happened to poor old Freddie. You heard, did you, that our neighbor Freddie Partridge shot himself on our land yesterday? I quite liked him, you know. At least he wasn’t boring like most people around here. And he played some jolly good tricks on people. I loved it when he bunged up the pipes of the church organ with dead rooks and the organist pumped harder and harder and suddenly they all came flying out all over the congregation. Mr. Barclay, the pompous little chap who plays the organ, was furious. But then, it’s very easy to upset Mr. Barclay. He takes himself far too seriously.”
While she talked she had managed to consume large amounts of food. She got up to refill her coffee cup. “I think my father really wanted me to marry Freddie, so that he could get his hands on all that extra land. Now I’m not sure who will inherit it. I don’t think he had any close relatives.”
At that moment Lady Hawse-Gorzley came in, pushing back her hair from her face. “Oh, there you are. You girls have met, I see. Splendid.”
“Is there something you’d like me to help you with, Lady Hawse-Gorzley?” I asked.
“We could use more holly and some mistletoe too, if you girls would like to take a basket down to the churchyard. I want the whole place decorated with greenery—festive atmosphere in every room, y’know. Oswald has gone out looking for the Yule log.”
“Yule log?” Bunty laughed. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far?”
“Nonsense. It’s part of the traditions of Christmas. We’ll go out with the guests on Christmas Eve and have one of the horses drag in the Yule log. If only it snows we can put it on a sledge and drink hot toddies and sing carols as we bring it home.”
Bunty shot me a look. “While the happy peasants dance in the snow and tip their forelocks, I suppose.”
“Don’t be facetious, Bunty. I’m counting on you to get into the spirit of the thing. So off you go and bring back as much holly and ivy as you can carry. And you might see if the vicar could spare us some more candles. We’ll need an awful lot, especially to light the ballroom for the costume ball.”
“We do have electric light, Mummy.”
“Yes, dear, but candles are so much more atmospheric, aren’t they? A masked ball by candlelight. Think of it.” And she looked quite wistful.
“Come on, then, Georgie,” Bunty said. “I’ll find some shears and off we go.”
“And could you possibly stop at Dickson’s cottage and tell him I’d like to go through things with him later this morning, if he doesn’t mind?”
Bunty turned to me. “Dickson’s our former butler. He grew so ancient that he had to be put out to pasture, but we dust him off for formal occasions. He’s an old dear, actually. Almost like one of the family.”
I put on my coat, hat, and gloves and we set off down the driveway. We stopped first at the gate cottage, where we were shown into a spotless little room and Bunty gave her message to the former butler. He looked extremely elderly and frail, but was dressed formally with stiff collar and black jacket, as if ready to spring back into action again. When she introduced me he gave a correct little bow.
“What an honor, my lady, that you would choose to grace our little corner of England. And how is the health of their dear majesties?”
“I haven’t seen them since Balmoral but they were well then, thank you.”
He sighed with relief. “One does worry so much about His Majesty’s chest,” he said. “Given the current behavior of the Prince of Wales. Tell me, have you actually met the American woman?”
“Yes, I have,” I said. “Many times.”
“And is she . . .” He p
aused, searching for the right words.
“As dreadful as they make out?” I smiled at his embarrassed face. “Oh, yes. Quite as dreadful.”
“I feared as much. The boy was always weak. Still, one hopes that he will buck up and do the right thing when the time comes.”
Privately I didn’t share his optimism, but I nodded and smiled and we took our leave. As we came out of the gates and into the village we noticed several groups of villagers, standing in tight knots, talking animatedly. A cluster of men outside the pub glanced furtively in our direction, then went back to their chatter. There was something unnerving about this, a tension in the air as if something was being plotted. Bunty didn’t seem to notice there was anything odd in their behavior.
“So here’s the sum total of Tiddleton-under-Lovey,” she said. “One pub, two shops, one school, one church on the green and a few cottages.”
“What about that nicer house beside the school?” I asked. “Is that where the schoolmaster lives?”
“Oh, no, he has a cottage on the Widecombe road. That house belongs to the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Three elderly sisters who have lived there all their lives. Their father left them quite well off and they never married. We used to call them the Three Weird Sisters and spy on them when we were growing up. You’ll meet them over Christmas, I’m sure. Mummy always invites them to Christmas lunch.”
“And what about the pub?” I asked, looking at the sign swinging in the chill morning breeze. “The Hag and Hounds? What’s that about?”
“Local history.” Bunty grinned. “We had a local witch, you know. Back in the 1700s. They wanted to catch her and bring her to trial, but she escaped onto the moor. They chased her to the top of Lovey Tor with a pack of hounds and then burned her at the stake. We have a festival to celebrate it every New Year’s Eve. You’ll be able to see just how primitive we are down here in Devon. This way.”
And she turned from the street to the path around the village green, then stepped through the kissing gate into the churchyard. Rooks rose cawing and flapping.
“Damned nuisance,” she said. “They peck out the eyes of newborn lambs, you know. So let’s see where there might be any good holly left.”
As we made our way between ancient gravestones the church door opened and a woman came out. She had spinster written all over her, the sort of woman one always sees coming out of churches and doing good works. She wore an old fur coat that might have been “good” once and a shapeless hat and those strange lace-up shoes that old women seem to favor. And she came toward us, head down against the wind, holding her hat on with one hand.
“Good morning, Miss Prendergast,” Bunty said and the woman started in surprise.
“Oh, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, you gave me a start,” she replied in a breathless, twittering little voice. “I was completely lost in thought. I have just been working on the church flowers for Christmas. I was planning to surround the crèche with holly but Mr. Barclay told me absolutely not. He said that holly did not grow in the Holy Land and thus it would not be authentic. Really, he is such an objectionable man, isn’t he? An absolute stickler for detail and always insists on his own way. I’m sure our Lord wouldn’t mind being brightened up with some nice red holly berries around him.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Bunty said. “And may I present our guest Lady Georgiana Rannoch. Georgie, this is Miss Prendergast.”
“How do you do,” I said.
She looked stunned. “Oh, my goodness. It’s almost like having royalty visit the village, isn’t it? Delighted to make your acquaintance.” She bobbed an awkward half curtsy. “So you’re here to enjoy the splendid festivities Lady Hawse-Gorzley has planned, are you? I am so looking forward to them myself. Lady Hawse-Gorzley has been kind enough to invite me to join you for the Christmas banquet. Such a treat when one lives a simple lonely life like mine. But I mustn’t keep you.”
And she went on her way.
“Another weird woman?” I asked.
“No, she’s no weirder than the average village spinster. A bit twittery and rather nosy, I suspect. And she’s a relative newcomer, too. She moved here about five years ago. Looked after her aged mother somewhere like Bournemouth. When the mother died she sold the family home and bought that cottage next to the church. Used to come here on holiday as a child, one gathers. And I must say she’s proving to be an asset. Every village needs a willing spinster, don’t you think? Always volunteering for good deeds.”
We found some good holly bushes and started cutting branches. Isn’t it interesting the way they always love to grow near graves?
“We still have to find mistletoe,” I reminded Bunty.
“I don’t really see why.” She gave me a grin. “I’m not sure there will be anybody for you to kiss, apart from old colonels whose mustaches will be frightfully spiky.”
“Nonetheless, your mother asked for some. And didn’t you say you have a dreamy cousin coming?”
“I didn’t say there was nobody for me to kiss,” she replied with a wicked grin. “I believe I saw some on the big tree next to the middle cottage. Yes, look up there. I hope you’re good at tree climbing.”
We came to the big elm and saw there was indeed mistletoe growing from an upper branch.
“I suppose I’d better go up,” Bunty said. “Mummy would never forgive me if you fell and broke your neck. Here, give me a leg up.”
I was just hefting her off the ground when she looked down the path, squinted into the sunlight and said, “Hello, who is this?”
I looked too. A small round silhouette was coming up the path toward us. He recognized me at exactly the same moment I recognized him.
“Blimey, strike me down with a feather,” he said, his face lighting up. “What the dickens are you doing here?”
“Granddad,” I said and rushed to him, leaving Bunty suspended in the tree.
Chapter 7
“Granddad, you came! I am so glad.” I hugged him fiercely, feeling the familiar scratchy cheek against mine.
“Well, I couldn’t very well let Mrs. Huggins travel all this way on her own, could I?” he said. “She ain’t been no further than Margate before. But what on earth are you doing here? Did your mum invite you and not tell me?”
“No, she doesn’t know I’m here. I’m actually helping out at the house party at Gorzley Hall. Pure coincidence.”
His little boot-button eyes twinkled. “You know I always say there ain’t no such thing as coincidence, don’t you?”
I laughed uneasily. “Yes, well, we’re both here and it’s going to be a wonderful Christmas. I take it Mummy is already in residence?”
“So is that Coward bloke. Bit of a poofta, isn’t he? And awfully fussy. Likes his eggs boiled three and a quarter minutes, not three, not three and a half.”
I laughed, then heard a slithering sound and saw Bunty lowering herself from the tree.
“Oh, sorry,” I called. “I’ve just had a lovely surprise. Come and meet my grandfather. Granddad, this is Bunty Hawse-Gorzley. She’s the daughter of the house where I’m staying.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Granddad said, holding out a big meaty hand.
Bunty looked surprised, but was too well-bred to comment. “Lovely to meet you too,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind but we’re getting mistletoe from your tree.”
“Not my tree, ducks. Take all you want.”
“I should go inside and say hello to my mother.” I turned to Bunty. “Maybe my grandfather can help you see if there is a ladder in the shed. That will be easier than trying to climb the first bit.”
I knocked lightly and went into the cottage. It was everything a cottage should be and I could tell why Noel had chosen it. Big beams across the ceiling, brass warming pan on the wall, fire crackling merrily in the hearth, copper pots hanging over the kitchen stove. All it needed was a spinning wheel and a white-haired old lady to complete the picture. Instead there was my mother, curled up like a cat in an armchair by the mullioned
window, reading Vanity Fair. She looked up and those lovely blue eyes opened wide.
“Good God, Georgie, what are you doing here?”
“That’s a nice welcome, I must say.” I went across the room to kiss her cheek. “How about, ‘Hello, darling daughter, what a lovely surprise to see you’?”
“Well, it is, but I mean—what are you doing here? I told you Noel and I were going to be working and there’s actually no room and—”
“Relax, Mummy. I’m staying at Gorzley Hall. Pure coincidence that we’re in the same village. I just came down to say hello.”
Relief flooded over her face. “Well, in that case, lovely to see you, darling.” And she kissed my cheek in return.
“Everything all right? All settled in?” I asked her.
“Splendid. Noel’s up in his room, pounding away at his typewriter. Your Mrs. Huggins is doing very well, in spite of Noel’s food fads, and we’ve found a local girl, Rosie, to come and clean for us. At least I hope she’s coming to clean. She should have been here by now.” She glanced at her watch.
I looked out the window and saw a woman break away from one of the tight knots of gossipers and hurry in our direction with a worried expression on her face. It occurred to me that perhaps the gossip was because the villagers had found out about my mother and Noel Coward.
The front door was flung open and the woman came in. “Awful sorry I’m late, ma’am,” she said in a broad Devon accent. “I know I said ten o’clock, but I were that upset—I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, ma’am.”
“About the man who killed himself yesterday? Yes, we were told about that.”
“No, ma’am. Not about him. ’Tis Ted Grover I’m talking about. He were found drowned in Lovey Brook this morning.”
Mummy sat up. “And who is Ted Grover?”
“He were my uncle, ma’am. Owned a big garage just outside Bovey Tracey. Doing awfully well, he were. Owned charabancs and gave tours of the moor. And now he’s gone.” She put her red, work-worn hands up to her face and started to sob noisily. Mummy put a tentative arm around her shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Rosie. I’ll have Mrs. Huggins bring you a cup of tea.”