Page 15 of One More Christmas at the Castle
‘Honey, we’re home,’ I said … and oddly, I had felt a sudden affinity with the house the moment I’d pulled up outside this older, mellower part of it.
‘And here’s the welcoming party,’ Henry said somewhat optimistically, as the studded oak door under its carved lintel slowly opened to reveal a small woman with dark hair streaked with grey, beetle-black eyes and a belligerent expression.
Her arms were crossed over her bosom and if she wasn’t holding a rolling pin and demanding to know what time of night we called this, she looked as if she might do at any moment.
‘That’s not exactly how I pictured the Poor Relation,’ Henry said thoughtfully.
4
Welcome Party
Of course, shewasn’tthe Poor Relation at all. I’d been prepared to bet that Cousin Lucy would not be wearing an old-fashioned cotton wrap-around floral pinafore over a black dress with a full skirt. This ensemble was teamed with purple Crocs.
‘You are the temporary help?’ she asked in a deep, slightly accented voice as we approached, huddled shivering into our anoraks. The question seemed a bit redundant, since most people don’t drive around in dark green vans with ‘Heavenly Houseparties’ painted in large gold lettering up the side.
‘Youare Mr and Mrs Rudge?’ she added, looking doubtfully first at me and then Henry, whose rose-gold curls were being blown about by a savagely icy wind. His cheeks were as pink as any cherub’s and his bright blue eyes round and innocent.
‘Not exactly. This is Henry Rudge, but I’m Dido Jones,’ I said, with my best professional smile and holding out my hand. ‘We’re business partners, not a married couple.’
She looked at my outstretched hand as if uncertain what to do with it, then barely touched my fingertips before dropping it.
‘I am Maria … Maria Stuart.’ She stepped back reluctantlyto let us into a flagged hall. It was surprisingly warm, which boded well for the rest of the house.
So this, I thought, was the cook/housekeeper with the convalescing husband we’d been told about, and whose duties we’d come to take over temporarily, but if she was pleased about that, she was hiding it well. Still, she might just be naturally dour.
‘Pleased to meet you, Maria,’ said Henry as he passed her, and his beaming smile and plummy accent seemed to take her aback even more than our appearance. We never do seem to be quite what people expect.
‘I hope we’re not putting you to any trouble,’ Henry said. ‘I thought the person I’d been emailing, Lucy Ripley, was to meet us.’
‘The Lady’s godson arrived early, so Lucy took the coffee through to the sitting room after lunch. I was to wait and show you the kitchen quarters and where you are to sleep. Then later this afternoon, the Lady will see you when she rings for tea.’
‘The Lady?’ I questioned. There had been no mention of any titles in those emails that had been bouncing into Henry’s inbox and passed on to me.
‘Mrs Powys. You will wipe your feet well,’ she added ferociously, before leading the way down a passage to her left, past several closed doors and then through a swinging, green baize-lined one into a big, bright kitchen.
I caught Henry’s eye and he winked at me. Permanent staff were sometimes inclined to be territorial, so our arrival would often be met with resentment, however much the extra help was needed, but if this was the case with Maria, Henry would soon soften her up and have her eating out of his hand.
It was possible, however, that she wasn’t resentful at all and her belligerent expression was her usual one, the effect enhanced by thick, straight, dark eyebrows that almost met in the middle.
‘What a lovely kitchen, and so warm, too!’ enthused Henry, removing his coat and draping it over one of the wheelback chairs around a big, dark pine table. ‘We’ve hadsucha long, cold journey – perhaps we could have a hot drink, before you show us round?’
‘I only show you the servants’ wing, where you will spend most time,’ she replied, which putusin our place. ‘Lucy, she will show you the rest of the house later.’
‘Super,’ said Henry in his usual sunny way, and she frowned at him, which was not a good idea, since the eyebrows joined into one dark, hairy caterpillar.
I thought she must be impervious to his charm, but then her expression softened slightly and she turned and began filling the kettle.
‘You want tea?’
‘Coffee, perhaps, if it isn’t any trouble? Dido doesn’t drink tea and I prefer the herbal kind,’ Henry said.
‘I do not like the tea either,’ said Maria. ‘But I make it very well, the way my husband likes it – dark and strong.Mashed,’ she expanded, with emphasis, as if this was a mysterious extra rite.
Henry shuddered. ‘It sounds wonderful – but another time, perhaps.’
She spooned a generous amount of ground coffee into the largest cafetière I’d ever seen, filled it with boiling water and then set it on the table, along with three mugs advertising Rowenhead Roman Fort, a sugar bowl and a carton of milk from the fridge.
She also, slightly ominously, fetched two fat ring binders and one of those concertina filing boxes and placed them to one side, before sitting down and pressing down the plunger of the cafetière with the air of one detonating a block of flats.
