Home for Christmas (15 page)

The pince-nez was gold rimmed and loose at the joints, snapping shut when she least expected it to. When a person or occurrence took her eye, she snapped it open with a flick of her wrist. She did that now, peering at her nephew then slamming it shut with an air of finality.

‘It’s far too stuffy in here. I’m off to the conservatory; red cheeks are only for young girls.’

Out of sight of those present, she swiped a tear from her eye whilst muttering that old age was not for the faint hearted.

Sarah Stacey stood pale faced and shaking behind Sir Avis’s wheelchair, watching Rudolfo Credenza prowling the room like a caged tiger looking for a meal.

Unexpected and uninvited, the man had bowled into the house late the previous night. Sarah was in no doubt that he wasn’t there to wish the old man the greetings of the season. Like his sister, Sir Avis’s wife, he never did anything unless there was something to gain by doing so. The reason had to be that news of the master’s illness had spread to Brighton where Lady Julieta was biding her time until Sir Avis died.

Husband and wife had neither seen nor communicated with each other for years. Sir Avis tolerated being married to her, but preferred her at a distance. He didn’t like her and that was that.

‘So perish the thought of loving her. And who,’ he would ask with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘would want to go to bed with a woman who prays her husband will depart from sin?’

Aloof in both appearance and manner, Rudolfo circled the ballroom, carefully avoiding estate workers and household staff for whom he had nothing but loathing.

Of all the most outlandish ideas, he thought, holding a party for the estate workers was the most outlandish of all. Let them eat their own Christmas dinner bought with the wages they earned. He had always entertained the view that his brother-inlaw was too generous by far.

He sought out the few guests who didn’t have work-worn hands or smell of carbolic soap.

Robert, Sir Avis’s nephew, Rudolfo thought was polite but not over friendly. Sylvester he regarded as ‘promising company’, in that he was very much like himself. His main ambition in life was to feather his own nest, though at this stage, Sylvester did appear to have some scruples left. Rudolfo surmised that as he got older, the young man would become more self-indulgent, vainer and ultimately more vulnerable to his own vices. Sylvester Travis Dartmouth was a typical son of the English upper classes, a man living in an insular environment, the ugliness and poverty of the outside world kept firmly at bay.

Tiring of conversation with Sylvester, his dark Spanish eyes searched the room for more interesting company. He principally wished to meet Sir Avis’s doctor. He knew immediately he had found him when his gaze landed on a tall, distinguished figure, impeccably dressed and smiling a lot. The young woman standing beside him was quite striking, a vision in a pale green dress.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah Stacey. She had strayed from the protection of Sir Avis, who was presently slumped in his wheelchair, halfway between wakefulness and absolute fatigue.

‘Mrs Stacey. You are still here.’

Sarah eyed him as though she wished she could kill him with one look from her violet eyes.

‘Yes, Mr Credenza.’

She nodded a brief welcome, one she didn’t feel. ‘An odd time for you to arrive,’ she said to him. ‘Your business with the master must be very urgent indeed.’

‘My business with Sir Avis is none of your concern,’ he said coldly.

‘The master’s health
is
my concern.’

‘Mine too. And my sister’s.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I’m sorry to disappoint her, but he’s been better of late and likely to be here for quite a while yet,’ she said, though she didn’t believe that to be the case at all. Still, she would not give Julieta the satisfaction of knowing that Sir Avis was growing weaker day by day and close to death.

Rudolfo’s face, a structure of angular cheeks, a long chin and deep-set eyes, stiffened. His nostrils, like black pits of indefinable depth, flared in anger.

‘My sister’s husband has invited me to stay and as for the urgency of my business that is for him to judge, not his cook!’

Sarah’s voice trembled and a terrible coldness came over her, as though her skin had been touched with frost.

‘I care for the master’s health as well as his stomach …’

‘And warm his bed too!’ Rudolfo’s eyes narrowed, his black hair gleaming beneath the lights of the room, as though it were one expanse painted on to his skull.

‘I will say only this to you, Mrs Stacey,’ he hissed. ‘My sister never forgets or forgives and neither do I. Do I make myself clear?’

The coldness Sarah felt intensified. ‘You make yourself very clear, Sir. I wouldn’t expect anything else from someone who knows no better. Breeding will out, as they say over here. A lady has to be born a lady; marrying into it is not enough.’

She saw his jaw clenching and knew she had gone too far. But she couldn’t help herself. The arranged marriage between Sir Avis and Lady Julieta had been destined to fail. Sir Avis was by nature a philanderer who loved women – all women; he was not and never had been husband material. Sarah understood that but loved him and accepted him as he was.

The moment when she thought Rudolfo might shout, or hit her, passed. He collected himself, drawing in a deep breath as though he were swallowing all her comments, digesting them for future reference.

Eventually he said, ‘Let’s hope there’s not too much of a scandal when he passes. I take it the stately looking gentleman over there is this Doctor Miller that I’ve heard so much about.’

She nodded, her warmth returning, her blood seeming to flow and warm her veins again. ‘Yes. Doctor Miller, Sir.’

‘And the girl? Who is she? His daughter or his wife?’

A wave of supreme satisfaction swept over him when he heard the young woman was his daughter.

‘Pretty. For an English girl.’ His black nostrils flared over his thick, dark moustache.

‘She’s half German. Doctor Miller is from Dresden.’

‘Really?’

‘His daughter is a nurse.’

Rudolfo turned back to make another sharply observed comment, but Sarah Stacey, having no wish to spend another minute in his presence, had fled.

As she always did when she tired of the big parties and a host of invited guests, she headed for her kitchen. The heat from the ovens would keep the kitchen warm all day and through the night too.

Still shaking following the confrontation with her ladyship’s brother, she opened the door from the kitchen to the scullery where she slumped on to a stool, covered her face with her hands and cried.

‘My dear.’ Rudolfo Credenza took hold of Lydia’s hand and kissed it.

Lydia felt the coldness of his lips through the fine cotton of her elbow-length gloves.

Eyes that dissected as much as looked at a person, studied her further, even when he was speaking to her father.

‘I hear you have done a very good job of keeping my brother-in-law alive, Doctor Miller. He sings your praises regularly.’

The truth was that the first time he’d heard Sir Avis sing the doctor’s praises was tonight, but Rudolfo had never been a man to let truth get in the way of expediency.

Lydia felt her flesh prickle beneath the gaze of the dark eyes that were so hungrily devouring every inch of her.

Rudolfo might be darkly handsome and elegant of manners, but she instinctively didn’t like him. He was, she decided, a man who used flattery to inveigle himself with those he wished to trust him, an arrogant man who possessed a high regard for himself and contempt for others.

‘My dear Sir,’ said her father, preening his own thick moustache with one hand, whilst holding a wine glass in the other. ‘Your compliments are very much appreciated. I have done the best I can for Sir Avis, though as you may or may not be aware, he is very poorly.’

‘No doubt Sir Avis will trumpet your good services among the upper classes and your fame will spread far and wide as a result of that.’

Lydia noticed her father positively bloomed in response. He was making inroads with the landed gentry, and that could only serve him well. ‘I am glad to be of service.’

Rudolfo jerked his chin at Lydia. ‘A skilled man with a beautiful daughter. Perhaps we could dance later.’

‘Do excuse me, but not tonight. I have a headache.’

She felt her father eyeing her in disbelief; the dashing man with dark eyes and long chin looked disappointed.

‘Never mind. Another time perhaps.’

His attention went back to her father.

‘I feel we have met before. The theatre perhaps?’

Doctor Miller sipped at his sherry. ‘I do go to the theatre on occasion, although of course I am a busy man …’

Lydia detected a distinct change in his expression, a dot of red rising on each cheek. He looked suddenly boyish as though rightly accused of raiding an apple tree.

He had indeed been attending the theatre a lot more of late. Was something – or someone – attracting him there?

‘Of course,’ said Rudolfo. ‘Perhaps somewhere else. I like the theatre very much. I like the pretty actresses, so refreshing I think.’

Doctor Miller looked unsure how to answer. ‘I wouldn’t really know,’ he said at last. ‘Do excuse me. I must have a word with my daughter in private.’

‘Come,’ he said to Lydia, his hand resting on her shoulder.

‘Who is that man?’ she asked.

‘Sir Avis’s brother-in-law.’

‘What did he mean about seeing you before? About the theatre?’

‘You know I like to attend the theatre.’

She noticed the flush had spread slightly.

‘Do you know any actresses?’

‘No! No! Of course not!’

They left the heat of the room for the coolness of the conservatory where he dabbed at the sweat that had broken out on his brow.

Lydia regarded her father carefully as she realised the likely cause of her father’s embarrassment. ‘Who is she?’

‘What?’

He looked astounded.

‘The actress.’

‘How dare you?’

Again the flushed cheeks, the denial in his voice, but not in his eyes.

Lydia sighed. ‘Father, it’s none of my business. If that’s what you want, then so be it.’

Robert, who had come in to ask her for a dance, interrupted them.

She went with him gladly, though not before throwing her father a tight smile and a comment about doing whatever made him happy.

Doctor Miller stood there once she’d gone, thinking about how he should deal with this.

Rich patients were the lifeblood of his profession. They had the wealth but they were also fickle, determining that the lower classes should abide by a moral code they themselves were more likely to break.

Rudolfo Credenza worried him. His face was familiar. He had an inkling that Rudolfo knew his actress friend Kate. Perhaps he was even one of the many admirers she had been friendly with before taking up with him. Eric grimaced. He knew how narrow minded and superior people could be. The fact of the matter was that he couldn’t give her up and neither could he hurt her feelings. He was infatuated with her and that, he realised, was a damning fact.

The party for Sir Avis’s employees had ended, the estate workers returning to their homes to while away their evening in front of a fire, stupefied by food and drink.

Following a brief respite, the domestic staff was back on duty, catering to the needs of their employer and his guests.

A cold buffet was laid out in the dining room. Satiated, Lydia only picked at it. Only Sylvester piled up his plate and went back for a second helping.

At last, even he was full, sprawled out in a chair by the fireplace, legs akimbo, loud snores coming from his mouth whilst his aunt played cards with the other invited ladies.

Eric Miller had asked if anyone would like to play a game of snooker.

The last person he expected to join him was Aunt Peridot. He looked somewhat alarmed at the prospect of playing a woman.

‘She’ll beat you,’ said Robert, his eyes shining with amusement, his smile directed at Lydia.

Once they were gone and while Sylvester was still snoozing, Robert took hold of Lydia’s hand.

‘Ghost stories. A piece of pie down in the kitchen and ghost stories.’

‘You tell ghost stories?’

‘It’s traditional.’

With her hand clasped tightly in his, they ran all the way along the passage on the first floor landing.

He stopped in the shadow of a large armoire, its carved frontage swirling with leaves and clusters of acorns.

Before Lydia could think, Robert’s lips were pressed on hers.

‘I couldn’t help myself,’ he said to her. ‘I’ve wanted to do that all day.’

Lydia stroked his face. ‘And I had to wait all day.’

‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing her hand again, dragging her down the stairs through the servants’ hall and into the kitchen. The air was still thick with the rich smells of turkey, gravy and vegetables and the range was still hot, the room warm and cosy.

Agnes was sitting in an armchair to one side of the fire with her feet up. She smiled directly at Robert, though she froze on seeing that he was holding Lydia’s hand.

Sarah, her mother, who had been hard at work since early that morning, sat dozing in an armchair, her head resting on her hand.

‘Ghost stories, Agnes!’ Looking pleased with himself, he pulled up two more chairs and settled down, his fingers linked across his trim waistline.

‘We always tell a ghost story at Christmas,’ he explained. ‘Sylvester’s usually here with us, but at present he’s in the land of nod. You know him,’ he said to Agnes with a wink. ‘Too much food and too much drink. I didn’t have the heart to wake him.’

‘I bet you didn’t. So who’s first?’ said Agnes. Her features had turned quite wooden in her effort not to show her hurt. Robert looked at Lydia quizzically. ‘This is how it goes. I tell a ghost story, then Agnes tells one, and then you do.’

‘You do this every year?’

‘We do,’ said Agnes, ‘though it’s usually only the two of us, three if you count Siggy,’ she added, almost as though it couldn’t possibly work with more than that number. ‘You first,’ she said to Robert.