by Vicki Delany
“No, thank you.” I remembered to smile. “I’m working.”
“Working? That will never do.” Sir Nigel had dispensed with the Harris Tweed and wore a white seersucker suit with a red-and-gold paisley cravat tied jauntily at his throat. He waved his glass at me. His hand shook, his eyes were tinged red, and his baritone voice trembled.
“I think we’re about to sit down, Sir Nigel.” Gerald blinked through his coke-bottle glasses, and he shifted his leather bag. He was not holding a drink.
“In that case, get me another glass to take to the table,” Nigel said. “This lady will be seated next to me, of course.”
I shook my head. “Working. Have a nice time.” I wasn’t going to stand there arguing.
I turned and almost collided with Renee. She ignored me and spoke directly to Nigel. “Speaking of working, buddy, that’s why we’re here, don’cha know. We’re no better than any of the other working stiffs. These folks have paid a lot of money to meet you. Not to watch you drinking up most of the champagne single-handedly.” A few of the onlookers began to edge away; others moved in closer. Someone lifted their phone and snapped a picture. Renee was not smiling, and she was not attempting to keep her voice down. The harsh sun shone fully on her face, revealing the network of small lines radiating from the edges of her mouth. Her eyes were hidden beneath her sunglasses. Rebecca had told her she was here to work the crowd and she’d better get to it, and Renee was now determined to pass her anger on.
Gerald plucked at his boss’s sleeve. “Why don’t we move along, Sir Nigel?”
“Sir Nigel,” Renee barked. “Lord Muckety-Muck. Prince Broadway. I’ll try to act impressed.”
I glanced quickly around. I didn’t see Rebecca or Pat anywhere. I did, however, see Irene crossing the lawn at a rapid clip, heading our way. Reporter’s instinct for trouble, I guessed. Leslie had reappeared, and I could tell that something had happened. She’d been bubbling with excitement when we’d arrived, but now her face was drawn and her eyes dull. Bickering between the volunteers, I thought. I had other things to worry about right now.
I touched Renee’s arm. “Why don’t I show you . . . ?”
She shook me off. “Plenty of good American actors could have taken the part,” she said. “We didn’t need some aging has-been from England.”
Nigel’s top lip curled up in a sneer. “I was surprised to hear you’d be playing the role of Miss Stapleton. I mean, really, my dear, at your age, wouldn’t you be better in the part of Mrs. Hudson?”
Renee tossed the contents of her glass in Sir Nigel Bellingham’s face. Gerald squealed. A woman screamed. A man said, “Hey, there!” Irene snapped a picture. Nigel stood in the sun, blinking. He made no move to wipe the liquid from his eyes. Leslie pulled a tissue out of her apron pocket and started to dab at the actor’s face. Nigel pushed her roughly away. “Will you leave me alone, woman. Stop pestering me.”
I thought Jayne’s mom might burst into tears. “I’m only trying to help.”
“When I want your help, I’ll ask you for it. And that is unlikely to happen.”
Irene took another picture as Leslie turned and ran toward the kitchen door.
I grabbed Renee’s arm and almost jerked her off her feet. “That was totally uncalled for. Come with me and cool down.”
She pulled herself out of my grip. “Shouldn’t you be in your kitchen?” Spittle flew. “Haven’t you got pots or something to scrub?”
I kept my voice low. “You can insult me all you want—or all you think you are, because to my mind doing an honest day’s work to earn an honest wage isn’t at all a bad thing.”
“Don’t you think you’d be better off minding your own business?”
“It is my business to see that this tea is a success. And let me remind you, yours as well.”
I had no interest whatsoever in this woman and her insecurities, but as long as she was arguing with me, I was able to lead her away from Nigel and the crowd of onlookers.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” Rebecca stood at the bar, clapping her hands. “Can I have your attention, please?”
Conversation drifted to a halt. Renee gave me one last poisonous glare, and then she switched on her professional smile as though someone had flicked the switch to the Chihuly chandelier. She stood taller, straightened her shoulders, and crossed the patio to where the rest of the actors were joining Rebecca. Renee gave Nigel a warm smile, and he offered her a slight bow.
Theater people are weird. Almost as weird as Sherlock Holmes people.
“I was about to send another search party out for you,” Jayne greeted me as I came into the kitchen. “Where have you been?”
“Performing other duties as assigned.” I threw Donald’s ulster over the back of a barstool and slipped Jayne’s camera back into her tote bag. “Everything looks good, and they’re doing the welcoming thing now. I think I got some usable shots.”
Jayne’s mum stood by the fridge, sipping a glass of water. I gave her a reassuring smile and was pleased to get a small one in return. She put the water down, wiped at her eyes, blew her nose, put her tissue into her pocket, and took a deep breath. She then joined her four volunteers, who were lined up like soldiers on parade. I almost expected Leslie to walk up and down the line inspecting them. “The five of us will serve. I’ve asked Mrs. Franklin to remain at the gate in case of late arrivals.”
“Good to know.” Jayne pointed to the twenty-four three-tiered trays, piled high with food. “Place two trays in the center of each table. They’re all the same, so it doesn’t matter which one goes where, but put the first two on the head table. Do you have your direction sheets?” The volunteers checked their apron pockets and nodded. “I’ve written out the list of ingredients in case you’re asked, but if you have any questions at all, ask Fiona.”
Fiona waved.
“Take the tea out first and then come back for the food. The Earl Grey is in the pots with green or red flowers and the Darjeeling in the blue ones. Tell them that, so they can choose the flavor they want.”
A woman put up her hand. “What’s the difference?”
“Darjeeling is thinner, lighter in color, and slightly spicier,” Jayne said. “We have decaf green tea as well, but it won’t be on each table. Gemma will circulate with it for anyone who wants it. Tell them that too.”
“I will?”
“Yes, you will. Try not to pour tea down anyone’s cleavage, Gemma.”
“That only happened once,” I reminded her. “And it was toward the end of the meal, so the tea was getting cool.”
“It lives large in my memory.” Underneath her nervous anticipation, Jayne was smiling ever so slightly. “Stay alert and keep watch on your assigned tables, but don’t hover. Once the teapot is empty, bring it back in and Jocelyn will fill it.”
This time it was Jocelyn’s turn to wave.
“Break a leg,” Jayne said, and the women headed out, gripping their teapots, chattering like excited birds.
I picked up the pot Jayne indicated for me. “Dare I ask what’s got you so pleased?”
“Me? I’m pleased because everything’s going well.” Her blue eyes twinkled.
“Everything was going well before I went outside. I wonder what might have happened in the short time I was away. Oh, yes. Edward Barker came in looking for you. Date tonight?”
Her face fell. “Nothing ever surprises you, does it, Gemma?”
“Sometimes it does.” Renee Masters acting like a spoiled diva in front of a hundred and eight well-heeled donors certainly had. As had Sir Nigel Bellingham, legend of stage and screen, publically insulting both her and Leslie Wilson.
I reminded myself that their behavior was none of my business. I had tea to serve.
Chapter 4
The tea went off without a hitch. All the actors, even Renee and Nigel, were charming and entertaining, and the guests seemed to be enchanted. A place had not been prepared for Gerald, and he’d taken a seat at the patio table. As I passed
, having refilled my pot, I suggested he go into the kitchen and ask Jocelyn for a cup of tea.
“Can’t leave. I have to be here at his beck and call. Yup, there he goes. Another Prosecco is needed.” I glanced down the lawn to see Nigel holding his glass aloft. From here, it looked as though he was waving his arms about to illustrate a point.
“Those eyeglasses you’re wearing are good,” I said. “I can’t tell that it’s empty.”
“It’s always empty,” Gerald said. “Except when it’s full.” He shifted the bag across his chest and got to his feet. No one was staffing the bar, but a bottle sat in a silver ice bucket. Gerald grabbed it, poured a glass, and carried it across the lawn.
Shortly after, people began pushing back their chairs and getting to their feet. A number of the guests were regulars at the tea room, and some of them slipped into the kitchen to offer Jayne their congratulations. No one congratulated me on the precision of the slicing of the sandwiches or on the excellent pouring of decaffeinated green tea (no mishaps this time), but I basked in their praise nonetheless.
On Jayne’s instructions, the workers cleared the leftover food from the plates—sea gulls were already circling—but the rest of the cleanup would wait until the guests had left.
“Drat,” said one of the volunteers as she carried in a tray on which nothing remained but crumbs, and not many of those. “I was hoping to snag one of those brownies.”
“Mmm,” said another around a raspberry tart.
Rebecca’s head popped into the kitchen. “We’ve one more special moment planned. Come out, all of you. You’ve worked so hard and done such a marvelous job, you deserve to enjoy it.” Rebecca noticed that Jocelyn had begun laying out the extra sandwiches held back for the volunteers. “Bring your food with you. You’ve done so much in support of the festival, and it’s much appreciated.”
Most of the crowd had gathered around the patio. Prosecco was being served again, but there weren’t many takers. Everyone was stuffed to the gills with scones, sandwiches, pastries, and tea.
Rebecca clapped her hands for attention, and conversation died.
“I hope you all enjoyed that,” she said. Loud cheers. “I’d like to thank Jayne Wilson from Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room in West London for that delicious repast.” Jayne blushed and bowed to much applause. Eddie was the most enthusiastic clapper of all.
“My thanks also to Leslie Wilson and her team of marvelous volunteers. Without the hard work and support of people like them, like you all, the festival would not exist.” More applause. “Leslie, ladies, take a bow.”
Someone had dragged a patio chair to the bar area for Mrs. Franklin. She punched the air in triumph, and the audience applauded enthusiastically. Two of the volunteers curtsied deeply with practiced flair. The older one of the pair staggered as she tried to straighten up and had to be helped. She blushed and giggled and said something about “not as young as I once was.” Rebecca hesitated for a moment, giving Leslie a chance to accept her thanks. Everyone looked around, but Leslie was nowhere to be seen.
“She’s still working, I assume,” Rebecca said. “Now for a special treat, I’ve asked our honored guest, Sir Nigel Bellingham, to recite a few lines from The Hound of the Baskervilles. Sir Nigel.” She smiled broadly and extended her right arm, palm up in invitation.
Nigel stepped forward. He tripped over his own feet and almost fell into Rebecca. Her smile didn’t falter one inch, but the lines around her eyes tightened. She plucked the half-empty champagne flute out of his hand.
He turned to face the crowd and blinked rapidly. Then he composed his face into serious lines. It was amazing, I thought, how an actor could seemingly change his physical appearance with nothing more than a shift of posture and a few small gestures. The years melted off Nigel, he grew several inches, his eyes hooded and blazed with a fierce intelligence. I could almost smell the scent of pipe tobacco, feel the damp fog, and hear the clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels across cobblestone streets. “Bear in mind, Sir Henry,” he rumbled in his deep resonant voice, “one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor . . . when . . . I mean, in those hours of darkness when . . . when . . . the powers of evil are exalted.” He hiccupped, and the entire edifice crumbled and the pretense disappeared as though into that London fog. His mouth opened, but no further words came out. He closed it again. He hiccupped again.
Gerald shouted for a glass of water.
“That is to say . . . when the powers of evil . . .” Nigel swayed. He might have fallen had Pat Allworth not grabbed him by the arm. “Are you unwell, Sir Nigel? Dear me, is it the heat of the day? Jet lag, maybe? Why don’t you rest for a few moments?”
Sir Nigel Bellingham burped. Pat recoiled. Whispers ran through the crowd.
“Bear in mind, Sir Henry,” said a deep voice from the midst of the onlookers. People stepped aside to let Eddie through. I’d thought him too modern and too handsome, with his playful California-surfer-boy looks, to play Sherlock Holmes, but gravitas settled over his shoulders like an Inverness cape as he recited the lines.
People turned from watching Sir Nigel being led away to Eddie performing.
I glanced at Jayne beside me. She was beaming, and the light of love—or at least the light of momentary infatuation—shone in her eyes. Oh, dear.
Nigel was helped to a chair at the patio table. Someone produced a glass of water. Gerald leaned over him, while Pat and Rebecca, each more furious than the other, watched. I edged closer in a brazen attempt to listen in.
“Quite all right now,” Nigel said.
“Give him a few minutes,” Gerald said. “He’ll be fine shortly.”
“He’ll be fine,” Pat said, “when he sobers up. Although that doesn’t appear to ever happen.”
“Perhaps it’s the heat.” Rebecca saw me watching. “Gemma, do you have any food left over? I expect Sir Nigel didn’t have a thing to eat, he was so involved in chatting to his guests. One of those nice sandwiches would help settle him.”
“I’ll find something,” I said.
The kitchen was quiet. I put two roast beef sandwiches on a plate, tucked in a napkin, and carried the food outside. Gerald took the plate out of my hand and mumbled something that might have been, “Thank you.” Then again, it also might have been, “Get lost.” Pat and Rebecca had left the two men alone.
Thunderous applause, appreciation mixed with relief that the climax of the afternoon had been saved, broke out. Eddie took a deep bow. “Let’s hear it once again for the master chef herself, the source of our delightful tea, Miss Jayne Wilson.”
Blushing furiously, Jayne stepped forward. Eddie swept up her hand and pressed it to his lips. More applause, more clicking of cameras and smartphones. Irene had cleared out before the tea, so at least the tale of Sir Nigel’s fumbling failure at acting wouldn’t make the front page of tomorrow’s Star. Renee stood on the sidelines, ignored, phone in hand, glaring at Eddie and Jayne.
Gradually, people began to leave. The bar was closed and the food cleared away, but a handful of guests lingered. A young couple walked hand in hand across the lawn to the water’s edge. Eddie and the other actors, some of whom I hadn’t met, continued chatting to admirers. Renee had put her phone away and was flirting playfully with two elderly gentlemen. Donald was talking to Grant, no doubt asking him if he wanted to buy a playbill. Jayne and Jocelyn had melted back into the kitchen, and Fiona herded the volunteers as they gathered up the rest of the dishes and table linens. Rebecca stood at the side gate, bidding her guests good-bye, and Pat was deep in conversation with a man I’d noticed earlier. He was in his late forties, permanently tanned, with manicured hands and perfect teeth. His few strands of graying hair were pulled off his face and tied at the back of his head into a man-bun. The watch around his left wrist was a Rolex Oyster, and a thick link of gold chains circled his right. He wore pink Bermuda shorts, a white golf shirt, and handmade Italian loafers without socks. H
e didn’t appear to have come with anyone and had spent most of the party by himself, simply observing everything. Other than a casual greeting or polite exchange, he’d engaged in conversation only with Pat, who spent a lot of her time with him. Fussing around him, I would say.
Sir Nigel sat at the table, all alone, nursing a glass of water. Even Gerald had momentarily disappeared. I was heading in Nigel’s direction, planning to ask if he needed anything, when Leslie Wilson marched across the patio with strong determined steps, her face set into hard lines. She stopped in front of Nigel and stood close, very close, to him. “It’s time for you to hear a few truths,” she said.
I left them alone and went into the kitchen to help Jayne pack up her dishes. The volunteers were gathered around the table, enjoying their sandwiches and the leftover pastries and chattering about the day. “You did good,” I said.
“I did. Oh, and the tea went okay too.” Jayne laughed. “Isn’t Eddie an absolute dream?”
“Only if you like the handsome, charming type,” I said, and she laughed again.
Before much longer, the rented dishes were packed away, the leftover food either eaten or wrapped up as a treat for husbands, and the volunteers said their good-byes. Fiona and Jocelyn collected Mrs. Hudson’s serving trays and most of the special tea sets and placed the boxes by the back door, ready to be taken out to the van, while Jayne put leaves of Darjeeling into the Sherlock Holmes pot and added freshly boiled water. She then produced a plastic container with a secret stash of scones and poured the tea into four of the Holmes cups she’d held back. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m starving.”
Fiona, Jocelyn, Jayne, and I lifted our cups in a toast.
After the chaos of the past three hours, Rebecca’s kitchen was almost as sterile as it had been when we entered. We talked about highlights of the afternoon as we sipped tea and ate. “I hope they do this again next year,” Fiona said. “A couple of out-of-town guests asked me for the address of the tea room.”