Page 19 of One More Christmas at the Castle
Maria took the tray from Henry and placed it on a large coffee table.
‘Here are the new staff, Mrs Powys. I thought you would want to see them now.’
There were three people in the room: a small, mousy-looking woman, who I was sure was Cousin Lucy; a tall, thin, elderly and imposing-looking lady standing by the window, who Maria was addressing; and a dark-haired man seated by the fire, who turned his head to reveal an improbably handsome face with high cheekbones, a straight nose, beautifully moulded lips and dreamy, lilac-grey eyes fringed with long black lashes.
It was a heart-stopping face – and mine did just that. For, despite the almost twenty years that had elapsed since I last saw him, there was no mistaking who it was.
Xan Fellowes.
5
The Scarlet Tide
I stared at him, transfixed, feeling a tide of scarlet wash over me like wildfire and then vanish as quickly, leaving me ice cold.
Just in that instant, I saw him as the tall, willowy, dreamy and devastatingly handsome youth of nineteen, who had stolen my heart during that long-ago summer … and then that image was replaced by Xan as he was now: older, but no less attractive.
My momentary reaction had, I hoped, gone unnoticed. Certainly Xan hadn’t yet looked at me, for his strangely beautiful light eyes were gazing at Henry, with a puzzled expression.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said. ‘But where from?’
‘School. I’m Henry Rudge and I was two years below you at Rugby.’
‘That’s it!’ Xan got up, dislodging a small brown-and-white spaniel from his lap and shook hands, like Victorian explorers meeting unexpectedly in the jungle, though I don’t suppose they would have followed it up with hearty thumps on each other’s backs.
‘Yo, dude!’ Henry said, and they both grinned, though I have no idea why. Henry can besoeighties, sometimes.
Anyway, their exchange gave me a chance to get a grip onmyself and turn to greet my employer – only to discover that she was gazing at me with a very strange expression onherface. I’m familiar with the one of someone who has ordered a donkey and been sent a giraffe, because I get that all the time – but there somehow seemed to be a little more to it this time.
‘How do you do, Mrs Powys?’ I said politely, giving her the smile that Henry always says makes me look like Pallas Athene on a bad day. ‘I’m Dido Jones and this is Henry Rudge.’
‘I’m very well …’ she murmured absently, her pale blue eyes still wide – and then she seemed to come back to herself and her attention suddenly switched to Henry.
Recalled to duty by my mention of his name, he bestowed on her one of his most engaging smiles and said he was very pleased to meet her.
‘You were at school with Xan?’ she asked in her clear, clipped voice. ‘And you’re a Rudge? One of the Shropshire Rudges?’
‘The merest tiny twig on the outermost branch. I was only at Rugby because one of my uncles paid the fees,’ Henry said, cheerfully. ‘I’m the poor relation, earning an honest crust as a house fairy – and I hope Dido and I can lift all the cares of the household from your shoulders, leaving you free to enjoy a truly heavenly Christmas.’
This was said in his usual effulgent fashion and I could see Mrs Powys didn’t know quite how to take him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Xan grinning again, though Lucy Ripley was sitting with her mouth slightly open and her small, beady dark eyes glazed over. It made her look half-witted, but was probably just her default expression.
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Mrs Powys said crisply, recovering herself, ‘since that is what I am paying you a fortune for. Now, you obviously know Mr Fellowes, who is staying here until the New Year—’
‘I refuse to be Mr Fellowes – just call me Xan, both of you,’ he said, and his eyes met mine for the first time, though he showed no sign of recognition, or even, come to that, interest.
Mrs Powys looked a little disapproving at this informality, but introduced us to Miss Ripley and said we might as well addressheras Lucy, since even Maria did so.
‘Of course, there’s so little formality these days and I’m sure I’m quite happy for you to do so and—’
‘Yes, Lucy,’ said Mrs Powys, ruthlessly cutting across her. I got the feeling that if she hadn’t, Lucy would have rambled on disjointedly for hours.
There was no suggestion that we call Mrs Powys by her Christian name and I hadn’t really expected that.
Maria had unloaded the contents of the tea tray on to the low table and went out with some used coffee cups. Lucy poured tea into two cups, but Xan helped himself to the coffee. Perhaps, like me, he wasn’t a tea drinker.
Mrs Powys had seated herself on a buttoned velvet sofa and now contemplated us coolly.
