Page 16 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘It is,’ Charles replies, lifting my case from the car, ‘very beautiful – until you see the heating bill! There’s been a house here at least since the Domesday Book, but there’s nothing much left of that version, of course. What you see now is Tudor, and the rest evolved over time.’
‘And you’ve always lived here?’
‘Well, not since Tudor times – I hope I don’t look that old! But my family, in one form or another, yes. It’s survived civil war, two world wars, and numerous complicated family dynamics… but there’s been a Bancroft here for as long as anyone can remember.’
I nod, taking in the grand sweep of the surrounding gardens.
‘And… well, Ryan called you “Lordship”. Was he just being sarcastic?’
‘Ah. Well, he was being sarcastic – it’s his default setting – but technically, it is correct. I don’t use it in everyday life as it’s a bit of a mouthful, but my full title is Charles, Viscount Bancroft de St George.’
He grimaces slightly as he says it, as though he’s embarrassed at the formality, and then shrugs as we gaze at the house.
‘It’s all I’ve ever known,’ he says quietly. ‘And it’s not as perfect as it looks.’
‘I’m sure. Nothing ever is. But… tell me, Charles, if you’re a viscount, does that mean you’ve met?—’
‘The King? Well, yes, at formal events of state and the like. But it’s not like we’re bosom buddies.’
‘I was actually going to ask if you’d met Hugh Grant…’
There’s a little silence, and he laughs – loud, full, hearty. It relieves all of his stuffiness, and makes him look like a completely different person. A far happier one.
‘As it happens, yes. Once. Very nice chap.’
Now he’s mentioned the King, though, I can’t help asking: ‘Wait – so, are you, like, in line for the throne?’
‘Only if several hundred people have some very bad luck first. Including my uncle, who’s an earl. Now, are you ready to go inside? Maybe a nightcap, and then I’ll get you settled? You must be exhausted.’
Oddly, I’m not – in fact I feel energised by the strange twist my journey has taken. But I nod, and he politely gestures for me to go forward. As we approach the grand, formal front door, it swings open, and I jump back at the sight of the man who greets me.
He’s very tall, very bony, and about seven hundred years old. His face looks almost as aristocratic as Charles’s, and his bearing is stiff and regal. The effect is spoiled by the fact that he’s wearing a tatty plaid dressing gown, striped flannel pyjamas and moccasin-style slippers.
‘Ah, Lord Charles. You’re finally home. I thought you were avoiding me – you know it’s your turn to put the rubbish bins out!’
Both men laugh, and hug each other in a way that speaks of a long familiarity.
‘This is Roberts,’ Charles says, introducing us. ‘He’s pretty much a one-man band around here – butler, housekeeper, groundsman, all rolled into one. Roberts, this is Cassie – she’ll be staying with us for a while. She was accidentally booked into Whimsy.’
The two share a serious look, and Roberts replies: ‘Ah. Well, these things happen. And Cassie, he forgot to tell you about mymost important role – making sure His Lordship here doesn’t get too big for his boots.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Roberts,’ I say, noticing that he raises an elegant eyebrow at my accent.
I follow them through into a grand hallway, dominated by a sweeping staircase that is lined with what I presume are family portraits of Bancrofts through the centuries. My eyes widen when I spot an actual, real-life suit of armour in the corner. I really want to whip out my phone and take a selfie for June, but I remind myself to keep it classy.
The men lead me through towards the left, and I immediately notice the difference in temperature. The room we find ourselves in is much warmer, and I remember his earlier comment about the heating bill. I suspect they only heat the parts of the house they actually use.
‘This is where we spend most of our time,’ Charles says, confirming my suspicions. ‘We call it the Blue Room, for obvious reasons.’
It is, in fact, obvious – the walls are all painted in differing shades of blue, and the windows are draped in midnight-blue velvet. The ceilings are high, decorated with ornate plaster-work carved into elaborate floral designs, all flowing around an extravagant chandelier. Despite the formality, it feels warm and lived-in, with comfortably shabby sofas and a roaring log fire in the huge hearth. There are bookshelves laden with paperbacks, and stacks of newspapers and magazines scattered over a large dining table.
‘Cassie, can I tempt you with a drink?’ Roberts says, making his way to an antique mahogany cabinet. ‘Whiskey, brandy, or our local delicacy, crème de badger?’
He sounds completely serious, but I narrow my eyes at him. Roberts is, I think, acting the maggot.
‘Are you messing with a poor American gal, Roberts?’ I ask.
‘Heaven forbid!’
