Page 17 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘I’ll take a small brandy, thank you.’
He nods, and pours drinks for all three of us. He definitely doesn’t have thatDownton Abbey‘below stairs’ feel to him – Roberts is clearly part of the family.
He holds up the crystal decanter, and announces: ‘Lady Georgina seems to have been sneaking the booze again, Charles.’
Charles rolls his eyes and explains: ‘Georgina is my daughter – although I sometimes wonder about that. I think it’s entirely possible my ex-wife had some kind of liaison with Satan. You’ll meet her in due course. I suggest adopting the brace position at all times.’
The words are harsh, but his tone is indulgent – Georgina is clearly the apple of his eye. We sit on the couches closest to the fire, and the two of them catch up. I half-heartedly listen as Charles describes his business meetings in London, and Roberts fills him in on ‘estate matters’.
I’m happy enough just looking around, noticing something new and interesting everywhere my eyes settle – a Bakelite phone with a rotary dial, a magnificent chess set with a game half-played, a giant dinner gong made of dimpled copper. It’s like sitting in an especially comfortable museum display.
‘Where’s the dog?’ I ask, when I spot a basket in one corner.
‘That was Jasper’s,’ replies Charles, staring at it in a slightly mournful way. ‘He was the last of a long line of Springer Spaniels, and sadly went to the great walkies in the sky a few months ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’
‘No need to be. He was almost seventeen, and it was his time. I keep thinking we need a puppy to liven the place up, but it’s quite a commitment.’
‘True. I get stressed by keeping my house plants alive, never mind an actual living creature. Though I got herded by a dog called Eejit earlier today.’
‘Ah, the stray who knocks around the village?’ he says, smiling. ‘Poor thing seems happy enough, I suppose, but nobody can find his owner. No tag, microchip – nobody seems to be missing him.’
I nod, and start to ponder Eejit a little more deeply than I should. He seems like a good dog, a useful dog – whyisn’tsomebody missing him? Has he been thrown out, replaced by something younger and shinier? And am I even thinking about Eejit now, or just imposing my own feelings on a random pooch? Anyway, I remind myself, Eejit is, as Charles says, happy enough, even if he doesn’t have a conventional life.
I’m pulled out of my reverie when I hear Roberts say: ‘Alexa, play Ella Fitzgerald.’
Within seconds, the singer’s rich, bluesy voice fills the room, and I can’t keep the surprise from my face.
‘All mod cons, as you see,’ Roberts adds. ‘We even have flushing toilets, and a Netflix account.’
‘No television though?’
‘Of course not – that would be dreadfully common!’
I’m happy enough here, but I know I’m also not quite ready to sleep. I am not great at sleeping. Since things ended with He Who Shall Not Be Named, I’ve constantly struggled to drift off. At home I’ve got into the habit of walking every night before bed, and I’ve kept that up in England.
‘Would you mind,’ I ask, ‘if I went for a little stroll? Just around the outside of the house. I won’t wander off into the woods or anything stupid. I just… well, it’s part of my routine.’
I feel slightly embarrassed as I say this, as though I am admitting weakness, but Charles meets my eyes and says: ‘Not atall. We all have our routines, don’t we? The things that help us get through the day. Do you want any company, Cassie?’
I am tempted to say yes, because I am only flesh and blood. It’s been a long time since I took a night-time stroll with a handsome and attentive man, and I know it would be potentially quite romantic. But instead I smile gently, and say: ‘Thank you, but no. I won’t stay out for long, if you need to pull up the portcullis or anything.’
He grins at me, and replies: ‘Not a problem. Stick to the paths, and we’ll leave the lights on. Here, take this…’
He stands up, and pulls a large fleece jacket from a crammed coatrack. He helps me into it like the gentleman he is, and I am enveloped in that gorgeous cologne of his. I try not to sigh out loud, and make my farewells.
I head back outside, my feet crunching on the gravel as I wander around to the side of the house. More windows, more statues, more doors. The place is a warren. The lights play over the grass and the trees, casting shadows and creating a sense of mystery as I explore.
I find a vast formal garden laid out behind the house, with closely trimmed lawns and neat rows of bushes and plants. The landscaping flows up to the wide steps of a stone terrace. The room behind the floor-to-ceiling windows is in darkness, but the glimpses I catch suggest that it is enormous, possibly some kind of ballroom. The mansion looks even more magnificent from the back, and I snap a few pictures of the house and grounds, thinking that even my mom and Suzie will be impressed.
I continue my walk, seeing vegetable gardens, flower beds, a small orchard of apple and pear trees and a collection of buildings that look like tiny cottages from a fairy tale.
I’ve just decided to head back inside when I spot something intriguing tucked away at the side of the orchard. It’s a wooden door set into an old stone wall, and as I get closer I see that itis slightly ajar. I push it forward, feeling slightly guilty, and find myself inside the most amazing place.
It’s surrounded on all four sides by higgledy-piggledy walls that look as ancient as the land, and I can’t help reaching out to touch them, feeling the rough, aged brickwork against my palms, trying to imagine the lives of the people who built them.
Enclosed within their protective shield is what I can only describe as a secret garden. Unlike the rest of the place, it’s lush and wild, even in the darkness of a winter’s night. I use the torch on my phone, following a winding path through the greenery. There are tall pines that reach up to the stars, and a massive monkey puzzle tree. Rows of old tree stumps have been scattered about like impromptu chairs, and every inch of the place is covered in something weird and wonderful.
