Home for Christmas (16 page)

Robert took a deep breath, sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and began his tale.

‘There was once a lordly knight who lived in an old house like this. He was having an affair and deeply in love with his best friend’s wife, but wouldn’t hurt him for the world, and so they carried on in secret.

‘Everything might have continued like that, until a murder occurred in the local town. Witnesses said the murderer looked just like the knight. At his trial, he said nothing in his defence, but looked as though his thoughts were elsewhere. The truth was he’d been in his lover’s arms that night. She had not stepped forward to give him his alibi but he loved her so much, he would not betray her.

‘He went to the gallows without saying a word in his defence. He would not declare the truth; he’d been in the arms of his best friend’s wife. And so he was hanged.’

Robert leaned forward, his eyes looking into Lydia’s, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands reaching for hers.

‘When the night is dark and the wind wails forlornly, his lover still visits his grave to this very day, asking his forgiveness for not speaking up, and declaring she will love him forever.’

‘Scary,’ said Agnes, barely suppressing a shiver. ‘Now me. The old master of this house, centuries ago, once seduced a lowly serving maid. In fact, she had a child by him, but when he decided to marry a rich American heiress, he had the maid and the child walled up, down in the cellars. And there they are to this day, nothing left of them except skin and bones. Every so often, you can hear the baby cry and the woman beg for something to eat. But the poor things, it’s too late. Sylvester is staying and he’s gobbled everything up.’

‘Ha!’ cried Robert, throwing back his head, his laughter loud enough to wake the dead.

Tears of laughter trickled down Lydia’s face.

‘Now you,’ said Agnes. ‘Can you tell us a ghost story?’

Lydia didn’t regard herself as much of a storyteller. ‘I don’t know. I’m no good at telling stories.’

Robert smiled at her, bending forward so that she could smell the brandy on his breath and see little flecks of silver in his eyes.

‘Just tell us something to scare us. Something we don’t know much about.’

So she told them about the Kinski family she had visited in the East End of London, of bugs walking up the walls, of children with no shoes, ragged clothes and little to eat.

‘They’re not ghosts,’ Agnes protested.

‘Not yet,’ said Lydia, her expression sad as she gazed into the fire.

She could feel that Robert was eyeing her silently. She didn’t raise her eyes to meet his gaze because she wasn’t sure what she would see there. He might think she was weak in the head. What was it her father had said? Only a fool worries about what they cannot change.

‘You’re very brave,’ said Robert. ‘I don’t know what this world would be like if it wasn’t for people like you.’

‘I think you’re brave too,’ said Agnes, gazing up into Robert’s eyes, her hand resting on his knee.

The following morning the white mist that had been as diaphanous as a curtain thickened. The parkland, the trees, the green, and even the stable-yard clock, became shadows, grey forms in the breathless white.

It had snowed during the night. This morning the world was hushed beneath a blanket of whiteness; no birds sang. There was no wind, no sound of cattle lowing or movement over the gravel drive. It was as though the mist had drowned everything in silence.

Quartermaster stalked along the landing, his footsteps light, despite his bulky frame. Every morning he did the same, carrying Sir Avis’s breakfast tray with both hands. The contents of the breakfast tray never varied; porridge liberally laced with sugar and brandy, a boiled egg, one piece of bread and butter, plus a little marmalade. A pot of tea would follow on a separate tray, though not until he had eaten whatever he could manage and given it time to digest.

Setting the tray down on a convenient side table just outside his master’s bedroom door, Quartermaster raised his fist and knocked.

There was no answer. The butler did not consider this to be unusual as Sir Avis was a heavy sleeper and hard of hearing.

Following his usual routine, he knocked on the door for a second time and turned the knob.

‘Breakfast, Sir,’ he said as he always did, holding the silver tray before him.

Again, there was no response.

After setting the tray down on an oak coffer used to store blankets, Quartermaster flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. No electricity. He didn’t question why, but lit the oil lamp that was sitting on the bedside table, a box of matches beside it.

‘Sir?’

Leaning over the bed, he reached for his master’s shoulder. Shook it.

The flesh was cold. Hard.

He straightened slowly. The moment he’d long dreaded had finally come.

It was hard not to break down. Quartermaster was a man for whom duty to Sir Avis ranked alongside breathing to stay alive. They had served in the army together, a bond had been created, and the old man had made him his butler even though he’d not been born into the role. They’d been brothers in arms. That was all.

‘Goodnight, old friend,’ he said softly.

Doctor Eric Miller was called from his room some minutes later. After donning his dressing gown, he grabbed his medicine bag and rushed along the landing.

The first sign to the rest of the household that something was wrong was Mrs Stacey running through the house and down to the kitchen.

The second was Agnes banging on Lydia’s door, falling into the room when Lydia opened it.

‘He’s dead,’ she said, sounding as though she couldn’t comprehend people dying at all. ‘Sir Avis is dead.’

‘Oh, my darling,’ said Lydia feeling instantly sorry for her friend. ‘Come in and sit down.’

Agnes’s vibrant expression was absent, replaced by a stillness born of shock and disbelief.

Lydia bit her lip as she considered what to say next. ‘I’m so sorry. He was such a nice man and very good to you.’

‘He won’t be here any longer. My future is in ruins. I don’t know what I’ll do now.’

‘Everything you always wanted to do.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Agnes biting her bottom lip. ‘I certainly don’t want to remain in domestic service. At least I got to drive the car now and again when Thompson was off. Sir Avis thought it marvellous that I could. But now …?’

Lydia thought about what might be best to say at such a time. What were the right words? Where would she find them?

‘Where will we go?’ said Agnes.

Lydia clasped both Agnes’s hands. ‘What are you talking about, you silly goose? You’ll still be here. I don’t suppose your mother will mind working for somebody else too much.’

Agnes pulled her hands away from Lydia’s and began picking at the embroidered roses on the bedspread.

‘It won’t be the same.’

‘Lydia.’

His voice sounded hollow, as though he were shouting to her along a low, narrow tunnel.

He had caught her running along the gallery, a landing of oak-panelled walls that would have seemed menacing if not for the plasterwork ceiling of leaves and roses in the Tudor fashion.

The gallery was long, lined with doors on one side and lead-paned windows on the other. Persian rugs muffled the sound of her footsteps, so he couldn’t have heard her coming. Robert had been waiting for her.

He beckoned her from a doorway, his body blanketing the details of the room behind him.

‘In here,’ he whispered.

The atmosphere at Heathlands had changed, and because of this, she looked up and down the landing, thinking somebody might appear and tell her she was doing wrong; tell her she had no respect for the dead, entering a room in which she knew she would be alone with him, with Robert Ravening.

Thick curtains prevented any light entering the room. Only the white dustsheets, greyish in the subdued light, were noticeable.

Robert wore an expression of sadness.

They stood there with about a foot between them, both searching for the right words to say.

‘Are you packed?’

They were not the words she’d expected from him, but she answered in the same, dull tone.

‘Yes. I am.’

With the exception of family, everyone was leaving Heathlands.

‘When are you leaving?’

‘Within the hour. My father has done the necessary. The funeral directors …’

She stopped herself from saying that the funeral directors were dealing with the embalming of Robert’s uncle.

‘Lydia. I do know what happens next. My uncle enjoyed his life and I want to enjoy mine. I think I want to enjoy it with you – no – I
know
I want to enjoy it with you.’

Lydia folded her arms across her chest and regarded her fingers. ‘I don’t know what to say. We hardly know each other and this isn’t really the right time …’ She also worried about Agnes’s feelings. It was clear her friend had a crush on Robert.

‘My uncle said that first impressions count. He also said that I should grab an opportunity with both hands. Never wait for tomorrow in case it never comes.’

Lydia felt her fingers tapping at her elbows and still refused to look up into his face.

‘Look, your uncle has just died. Don’t you think …?’

‘Uncle Avis would approve. I’ve just told you why. You know what he also said to me? That the most exciting moment of one’s life is that moment you think you’re going to die. He said it happened to him when he was in the army on a number of occasions. That’s why he was so keen on living life to the full and grabbing the moment.’

Moved by the passion in his voice, Lydia looked up at him. ‘We are not at war, Robert. And you are not in the army.’

‘No. I’m joining the Royal Flying Corps. Haven’t you heard the rumours? Germany is arming herself, ready to take on the British Empire and wanting to dominate Europe.’

‘Germany?’

Lydia thought of her father; a worldly yet kindly man. A man who had settled in England for the love of her mother. She’d heard rumours, seen her father’s worried frown as he’d read the headlines in
The Times
. When she’d asked him what was wrong, he’d commented that France was worried and so was Russia. He’d looked shaken and a little puzzled. It had occurred to her that he might wish for them to go to Germany.

‘This is all so unreal,’ said Lydia. ‘Like in a fairy tale.’

He smiled. ‘I quite like the idea of being Prince Charming. I don’t know about you, but I feel that we’ve known each other all our lives. We were just waiting to meet.’

‘I’m not so sure about Cinderella.’

‘Perhaps you’re the Sleeping Beauty and I’m the passing prince, immediately taken with you. Was he called Prince Charming too?’ he asked with a laugh.

Lydia shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘You don’t have somebody else, another admirer tucked away somewhere?’

She shook her head again. ‘No. I thought you were in love with Agnes. I mean, you two have known each other all your lives.’

‘Darling Lydia. I knew from the start you were a compassionate sort of girl. Agnes has been my dearest companion since I was a child. All three of us grew up together, me, Agnes and Sylvester, though quite honestly we could have got along well enough without him. We would probably have got fatter for a start.’

Lydia threw her head back and laughed. Clearly Robert must be unaware of Agnes’s interest in him. That, however, didn’t stop her feeling a frisson of guilt as Robert ran his thumb down her exposed neck. She knew the kiss would come even before she felt his lips on hers. All thoughts of Agnes flew out of her head as he kissed her. She also knew he was speaking the truth when he murmured something in her ear about love at first sight.

‘Permit me to call on you,’ he whispered once their kiss had broken apart. ‘Once we leave here.’

She agreed, of course.

Not wishing to be indiscreet, she left the room before he did, walking briskly along the gallery wearing a stupid smile. Anyone who came across her might think her uncaring at the death of Sir Avis, or even drunk. She was, in a way: Robert felt the same for her as she felt for him. He’d even suggested becoming engaged. In the past, she might have questioned such a hasty proposal, but now she didn’t. Life was there for the living, and she intended to live it.

Her smile faded when she considered his comment about going to war with Germany. He didn’t know her father was German, or if he did, he didn’t care. However, that was now. What would happen if they did go to war? What would happen to her father? What would happen to them?

Agnes awoke, blinking into the darkness. What time was it? She knew what day it was. New Year’s Day. The master’s funeral and less than a week since his death.

Her mother made a point of waking her up every morning, but not today. She had not called or shaken her from her slumbers, and yet it must be late.

She glanced at the curtains. Even though it was winter and still dark, it was possible to judge how long she’d been asleep and what time it was.

Seven, she decided, swinging her legs out of bed. It had to be seven and way past the time she usually got up.

Things had changed at Heathlands since the master’s death. The servants whispered amongst themselves and Thompson, the chauffeur, was less guarded than he used to be, sniggering and blowing puffs of smoke in her direction, even though he knew she hated it.

‘Making the most of your last days ’ere,’ he shouted out to her as she wandered down to the lake.

She didn’t bother to answer him. Deep down she knew very well that the world she had always known was about to change, but then, the master himself had told her when she was very small that the world she knew would change as she grew up. He hadn’t said anything about his dying, but then he hadn’t needed to.

Robert, Sylvester and their respective families had returned the night before. So had Lady Julieta and her brother.

One of the maids waiting on table had remarked how the mood at dinner was black.

‘As black as her ladyship’s brother’s hair. Mind you, he didn’t seem too sad if you judged him by the amount of port he was knocking back.’