Page 28 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Probably because she told him I did. I don’t know why – to hurt him, maybe, by saying she’d been screwing the help? Or to hurt me – because she tried her best, she did. She made no secret about what she was after, and it was quite the task to keep saying no. I have my rules and I stuck to them, but she’s a beautiful woman. She wasn’t used to being rejected, and she never quite forgave me for it. So before she finally left for her new life in the South of France – as you do – she put the boot in.’
I turn this information around in my mind, suddenly understanding the sense of underlying conflict between the two men. Charles’s pride has been injured, and he blames Ryan for at least part of that.
‘Haven’t you, I don’t know, just told him it’s not true?’ I ask.
‘He’s never asked. He just believed her, and I’ll not be lowering myself to the lord of the manor and begging forgiveness for something I never did.’
Ah, I think. Charles isn’t the only one who is proud. I shake my head, amazed at the stubbornness of them both.
‘Well, that sounds insane to me, but what do I know? I’m just a visitor. I hope you figure it out anyway.’
He shrugs, and is obviously ready to change the subject.
‘It’s no big deal. Now, darling Cassie, I still have work to do, and I plan on doing plenty of drinking while I do it. It’s time for me to get you back to the big house.’
ELEVEN
Dressing the Bancroft Manor Christmas tree is like a military operation, with Allegra as commander-in-chief.
The tree is positioned in the grand lobby, and is so tall we need ladders to reach the top. Allegra is moving between the ground floor and the landing at the top of the stairs, where she can gaze down from the banister, get a bird’s eye view of matters and tell us loudly where we’re going wrong.
It’s actually a lot more fun than it sounds, and I’m now fairly used to hearing her cut-glass voice raised to screeching levels as she informs us we need ‘more lights to the left, less robins to the right!’
The whole place smells deliciously of pine needles, and Roberts has set up a CD player with traditional Christmas songs to put us in a festive mood.
The decorations themselves were packed away in wooden chests, which themselves smelled of pine as soon as their heavy lids were lifted. Inside we found a charming mix of old and new, battered and pristine, and I look on in delight as each new treasure is produced.
Some of them are clearly Victorian, and I have no idea how such delicate items have survived for all this time. I hold one ofthe beautifully painted glass baubles up to the light, admiring the way it seems to shimmer with an iridescent purple sheen.
‘There used to be twelve of those,’ Roberts informs me. ‘But over the years, there have been grave losses. Now we’re down to two. You can blame Lord Charles for the demise of three of them. He buried them in the vegetable patch, then dug them up the next day pretending they were ancient artefacts he’d discovered. Seemed very confused when they were in smithereens.’
He glances over at the man himself, who is on ladder-climbing duty and looking delightfully scruffed-up today – hair ruffled, a light golden stubble on his face.
Charles laughs, and replies: ‘What can I say? I was going through my Indiana Jones phase. I think I stole all the Champagne and wine glasses and set them up in the barn as well, so I could pretend I was finding the Holy Grail…’
‘You did do that!’ shouts Allegra from her spot on the landing. ‘And you almost blinded yourself trying to use a whip! Frightful child!’
‘Thank you, Mother, for that glowing endorsement. Now, am I going to be stuck up here all night? How are the upper branches looking?’
‘We need more!’ Georgina cries, holding up extra baubles. They’re a lot less classy than the Victorian glass, but in their own way just as sweet – obviously hand-made by children, little papier-maché angels with huge, cartoonish smiles and pipe cleaner arms. Some look older than others, some have two wings, some have one, and a couple have lost both. I suspect this is a family tradition – that each child makes their own contribution, and they’re kept and cherished for as long as possible.
Georgie passes them up one by one for her father to attach to the tree, and Allegra immediately shouts out that he needs tomove them to a different spot. I spot a grimace from my angle, but he remains stoical and does as he is told.
It is a huge privilege to have been asked to join in with this particular Christmas ritual, and not one I’d expected. I wasn’t at all sure of the etiquette of my stay in the Bancroft home – at the end of the day, I am merely a paying guest who got lucky with a spectacular upgrade. I’d assumed I’d be spending evenings in my room – now much warmer thanks to Roberts’s interventions – to avoid intruding on their private time. But as I’m fast learning, this family might be posh but they are not sticklers for protocol.
This will be my fourth night here, and it’s been a lot of fun. When I got back from helping Ryan a few days ago, I was invited to bake with Roberts in the vast kitchen. Despite my fatigue, I loved every moment of whizzing, mixing and pounding, and between the two of us we made light work of producing a small feast.
‘I wonder if they’ll be as good as Eileen’s,’ I’d said, gazing at a tray of apple tarts.
‘Well, that would be expecting a miracle, Cassie,’ he’d replied as we started to clear up, ‘Mrs Devlin is in a class of her own. But these will keep us going for a few days, and I do find baking clears the mind wonderfully, don’t you?’
Last night was pronounced Games Night, and the big table in the Blue Room was cleared to make way for a variety of board games – an ancient version of Monopoly with London streets and landmarks, checkers, Buckaroo, and sets of Top Trump cards ranging from sports cars to Lord of the Rings to dinosaurs.
It got quite competitive, with Roberts and myself the only ones not taking it very seriously. Georgie was vicious at all of them, Charles was way too invested in Buckaroo, and every time Allegra lost any of the games, she’d fold her arms across her chest and say: ‘Well, it’s because of my Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?’instead of admitting she was beaten. I guess if you’re going to be stuck with a terrible disease, you might as well use it to your advantage. It didn’t really work though, because Georgie would simply reply: ‘No it’s not! You’re just crap at games, always have been!’
It is loud and raucous and disrespectful, and not at all how I would have expected the British aristocracy to behave. I wonder if it’s this riotous round at Buckingham Palace?
Tonight, after a laid-back dinner in the kitchen, has been dominated by ‘doing’ the tree. I can tell that we’re nearing the end when Allegra shouts down at us: ‘All right, squadron, ready for the cherry on top!’
