Page 19 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘We don’t use titles in the kitchen, dear.’
‘Right. Allegra. Well, Charles has been very kind.’
She raises an eyebrow, possibly at my accent, possibly at my words, and responds: ‘Well, yes. He’s a very kind boy, my Charles. Always has been. And there’ll be no judgement from me about the sleeping arrangements – you young people should grab life while you can!’
Although her pale skin is lined and creased, and she is maybe somewhere in her seventies, she is still incredibly beautiful. Her features are delicate, and her eyes a startling shade of blue that is so deep it’s almost violet. She’s looking curiously from Charles to myself, and I decide to let him handle that one.
‘No, Mother, it’s not like that at all. Cassie is staying with us because she came all the way from New York to stay in Whimsy Cottage.’
‘Why would she do that? Whimsy’s getting a make-over, isn’t it? That handsome young Ryan is supposed to be doing it, isn’t he?’
I see a muscle twitch in Charles’s jaw, and he answers: ‘He is, yes. But perhaps mistakenly, I left it available to book online.’
Everyone very politely sips their tea, and I see Allegra process the information.
‘Right. Well, that’ll be my fault then, won’t it? Nice of you to try and take the blame, darling, but I’m not so doolally that I don’t see what’s happened. I manage the booking system, and I’ve obviously stuffed things up. Cassie, in that case, double apologies – I drag you all the way from America to stay in a dilapidated cottage, and then hold you hostage at gunpoint. I’m like the opposite of your fairy godmother! I hope I get the chance to make it up to you over the next few days.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ I promise her. ‘I love an adventure.’
Of course, that is usually far from the truth – but as I stand here in this strange place with these strange people, I realise that I am enjoying myself. I am enduring circumstances that are outof my control, but for some reason I don’t feel the familiar spiral of anxiety and tension that usually accompanies me.
Allegra nods, and announces that it’s time for bed.
‘I’ll walk you up, ma’am,’ says Roberts, holding out his arm for her to link. ‘Make sure you don’t decide you’re a ninja and try to assassinate the chandeliers.’
‘You’re a dreadful man, Roberts,’ she says, haughtily.
‘I know, ma’am, I know.’
The two of them leave the room in an oddly stately way, like a couple heading to a ball, and Charles and I are alone. He leans back against the counter and sighs. His blond hair is ruffled, and his shoulders are slumped in defeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, once Allegra and Roberts are out of earshot. ‘This must be so hard for you.’
‘Yes, but not as hard as it is for her. A lot of the time she’s absolutely fine, her old self. It’s torture for a woman like her, who has always been in charge of her own destiny.’
‘Are you the only child she has? Are there any siblings to help you?’
‘Not anymore, no,’ he says, in a tone that closes down that line of conversation very firmly. He draws in a breath, stands up tall, and says: ‘Anyway. You really must be tired after all of that. I’ll show you to your room.’
NINE
I am being buried alive, and I smell smoke.
These are the first thoughts that run through my brain as I start to slowly wake up. Well, they don’t so much ‘run through’ my brain as ‘attack it with a sub-machine gun’, and my adrenaline response kicks in. I start to flail my arms and legs, trying to fight my way out of my bonds, and let out a desperate, strangled shout.
Little by little, reality starts to take hold and I realise that I am not being buried alive after all. I am just buried in especially heavy bedding. I take a few deep breaths, slide one arm out, and begin to dismantle my cocoon jail.
Once I’ve escaped, I lie back on the pillow, reminding myself of where I am. I am in a bedroom at Bancroft Manor. I am a guest here, and seem to have accidentally become pals with a British aristocrat. Last night, after his mother attempted a citizen’s arrest, he escorted me here to this large, ornate and fairly cold room.
The bed is a four-poster, the wallpaper is red and gold fleur-de-lys, and I can actually see my breath puff out clouds in the frigid air. Charles had apologised for the temperature,explaining that they only ‘keep up’ the rooms they use, and left me with enough blankets and bedspreads to keep me cosy.
I actually slept exceptionally well by my standards, and the deepness of my sleep probably contributed to my mind getting confused and thinking I was buried alive. That primal fear has now dissolved but I realise, wrinkling up my nostrils, that I can still smell smoke.
I sit upright, shivering slightly as the cold hits my bare shoulders, and sniff the air as I look around.
It doesn’t take long – I hadn’t noticed it last night, but the room actually comes with its own balcony. The French doors leading out to it are wide open, which explains the chill, and a young woman is sitting outside with a cigarette, which explains the smell.
‘Morning!’ she says brightly, as I pull the comforter up to my chin. ‘I brought you a coffee, but then I drank it. Sorry. I’m Georgina. Everyone calls me Georgie, or sometimes George. Sometimes a few other things but we won’t go into that!’
