Page 16 of A Winter By the Sea
When everyone sat down, Mamma asked Mr. Hornbeam to say a blessing, and he graciously obliged.
They had invited Mr. Gwilt to join them for the meal, but he had politely declined, saying he would eat with Mrs. Besley and Lowen belowstairs, as he usually did since becoming one of their staff.
Sarah wondered how Claire was spending Christmas in Edinburgh. Recalling their great-aunt’s strict, stern reputation, Sarah guessed the woman would not countenance a joyful celebration. In all likelihood, Claire would endure a long, somber worship service, plain food, and the avoidance of recreation or entertainment of any kind.
Sarah silently prayed for her older sister as the meal began.
Together they ate slices of savory Christmas pie filled with seasoned pigeon, duck, and forcemeat, and decorated with pastry fruit and leaves. They also had roast chicken and potato pudding, followed by a traditional plum pudding as well as Mr. Bernardi’s quince tart. So much for a “simple” dinner.
Mamma lifted another forkful of tart. “Mrs. Besley has outdone herself.”
“I agree,” Sarah said. “However, Mr. Bernardi made the quince tart—just as Their Royal Highnesses shall be eating today.”
“Goodness, we are privileged.”
“Indeed. It is delicious,” Miss Reed said appreciatively.
Sarah refrained from further comment.
Later, as they were clearing the table, Sarah heard the front door slam. She stepped from the dining room in time to see Mr. During loping up the stairs by twos, case in hand, snow on his hat and shoulders, probably in a hurry to make sure the precious plate chest was still secure.
Recalling what Mr. Thomson had told her about the man’s mother and sisters, Sarah’s heart softened toward him.
She went belowstairs and filled a plate with food left over from their dinner, in case Mr. During had not been invited to dine with the upper staff as Mr. Thomson had been. She doubted that a table-decker would be considered “upper staff,” keeper of the plate or not.
She carried the heaping plate up the back stairs and knocked on the door of the Oak room.
“Yes? Who is it?” came the startled reply.
“It’s Miss Summers.”
A moment later, the lock clicked and the door inched open. Uncertain blue eyes peered out at her. Apparently assured by her appearance, he opened the door wider.
“Everything all right?” he asked. “The spare key has not gone missing, has it?”
“No, no. Everything is fine. I just wondered if you might be hungry.” She lifted the plate in offering.
He glanced at it. “I am hungry, actually. I forgot to eat today in all the excitement.”
No wonder the man was so thin.
“Then here you are. Christmas pie, roasted chicken, potatoes, plum pudding, oh, and a small piece of quince tart Mr. Bernardi made. I’m afraid there was not much left. Everyone found it too delicious to resist.”
He accepted the plate. “Thank you, Miss Summers. That is very kind.”
“I suppose this is different from the Christmas dinners you are accustomed to.”
He lifted a slim shoulder. “Not really. I have been in the duke’s employ for nearly four years—in Brussels and Germany and London and now here—and holidays are all basically the same. Workdays, sometimes with a glass of cheer in the servants’ hall or an extra bob or two on Boxing Day. But before that, yes. Christmases with my mother and sisters were joyous occasions.”
“You must miss them.”
His eyes took on the look of frosted glass. “I do, yes.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy the food. Do let me know if there is anything else you need.”
Mr. During nodded, yet his gaze remained distracted, and she knew without asking that he was remembering Christmases far more pleasant than this one.
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