Page 129 of One More Christmas at the Castle
On automatic pilot, I consulted today’s list and made crème brûlée and two batches of brandy butter, before taking a break in our sitting room, with a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of Jaffa Cakes for comfort.
Then I got Plum’s lead and took him out for a little airing. I’d thought we might go down and see if anything new had flowered in the Winter Garden, but when I looked over the balustrade at the edge of the lawn, I saw Mrs Powys, Olive and Nancy making their way down to it and, far below, small figures moved on the icy surface of the pond.
Dom’s slight figure was unmistakable, and he didn’t seem much better at skating than me, though he did stay upright and moved about more.
I didn’t need binoculars to know that the other two, arms linked as they circled gracefully around the lake, were Xan and Sophie.
I turned away quickly and took Plum up the drive instead, under the sheltering intertwined branches.
When we reached the top, I found the road was still a narrow,snowploughed lane between banks of snow, though the exposed tarmac surface was oddly dry.
Maria and Andy’s cottage had that shut-up and empty look, though Henry, to whom they had given the keys, had popped in a couple of times to make sure the pipes hadn’t frozen, or any other calamity happened.
The other cottage, which I knew was occupied by an elderly shepherd, showed a faint haze of blue-grey smoke from the chimney and hens were running in and out of a tumbledown outbuilding next to it.
I stood in a reverie by the crumbling gatepost for a few minutes, until Plum barked to let me know it was time to go back to the Castle.
‘Where did you get to?’ I asked Henry when I found him in the Garden Hall, taking off his boots and padded jacket. ‘You went to make Simon’s room ready and never came back!’
‘I thought I’d just hike over to Simon’s for half an hour to see if he’d turned into an icicle yet.’
‘And had he?’
‘Not quite, though the room with that small log burner is the only vaguely warm one in the house. He’s really looking forward to coming over here in the morning.’
Henry went to put a bit of laundry in one of the washing machines and I fetched the Christmas cake from the larder and put it in pride of place on the tea trolley: it had to be cut some time, and why not now? It looked absolutely splendid, if I said it myself.
I added plates, napkins and a pearl-handled cake knife, and then it was all ready to go through, apart from making the tea and coffee.
It had been bitterly cold outdoors, so those who had ventured out would probably be glad of a hot drink and the glowing fire in the sitting room.
They seemed to appreciate the cake, too, for when Henry fetched the trolley later, the bright red paper band had been peeled back and it was minus a generous segment. Two of the little snowbabies had been dislodged from the top and were now sitting on the cake board, so I washed and dried those carefully and put them away, before glancing at the clock: Xan usually came in to feed Plum around this time.
And as if on cue, I heard his deep, mellow voice outside in the passage – and also the unmistakable higher-pitched one of Sophie.
I was out of that kitchen and up to my room in less time than it took to say ‘unwelcome ingredient’.
I applied a little make-up to my angrily flushed face and then re-did my hair into a style Henry always refers to as ‘Warrior Princess’: gathered high on the back of my head and wound about with one braided strand, so the long ponytail projected out and swung heavily when I moved.
Thus fortified, I went down again, cautiously checking the coast was clear before fully opening the door to the kitchen.
‘The coast is clear,’ Henry said, spotting me. ‘Sophie wanted to see where the dear little doggy ate his dinner, though really I think she’s just superglued herself to Xan – and he wasn’t looking too pleased about it, if you ask me.’
I shrugged. ‘He must have had a lot of practice in discouraging overeager women in the past, so I’m sure he could deal with Sophie if he wanted to.’
‘He has beautiful manners, though, Dido, and it’s probably a little difficult, since she’s a fellow guest.’
I wasn’t impressed by this argument and changed the subject. ‘Have you laid the dining table?’ I asked pointedly. ‘And I hope you’ve decided on a starter?’
‘Triangles of French toast with pâté – easy-peasy,’ he said. ‘If that’s crème brûlée in those ramekins in the fridge, are you going to let me caramelize the sugar on top, with that special little blowtorch thing?’
‘I suppose so, if you’re careful. I think Dom might prefer you with eyebrows.’
He grinned and, then, taking a very sharp knife, began to slice thick rounds of bread each into two very thin ones, ready for his French toast.
He still had all his fingers when he’d finished, though, which was something.
When Henry had beaten the gong for dinner, and carried through the huge and wonderfully golden steak and kidney pie, I followed with a jug of thick gravy.
