Silent Night: A Lady Julia Christmas Novella. Deanna RaybournЧитать онлайн книгу.
I had already sent our butler, Aquinas, and my maid, Morag, down by the earliest train to remove the dust sheets and light the fires. I had ordered a simple supper of Brisbane’s favourites along with a hamper of the best wines from his cellar. Everything would be absolutely perfect for our winter idyll.
I sighed happily and settled my hand into the crook of Brisbane’s arm as the carriage swung onto the long drive leading to the Abbey. Father’s gardener, Whittle, stood just inside the gates with one of his under-gardeners, Wee Ned—a stooped, elderly man who was fondling a bit of topiary. They raised their caps as we passed, and I waved before turning to Brisbane.
“I am so happy we will finally be able to spend time here together, just the two of us,” I added with a meaningful glance at my sister. She put her tongue out at me, an action that Jane the Younger immediately copied.
“Julia! Look what you have taught her! She looks like a common ape.”
I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but the chimneys of the Rookery were just visible above the treetops. Nothing would induce me to quarrel with my sister when bliss was so shortly at hand.
Brisbane gave a slow smile and I remembered the very excellent bed I had ordered installed. Brisbane was most particular about the sturdiness of our beds, and with good reason, I reflected with a pleasant sigh of anticipation.
“I shall send word to Father that we will not be up to dinner tonight,” I whispered.
Before he could reply, Portia gasped. Jane the Younger, startled, shrieked in response, and I turned to where Portia was pointing.
In a little clearing of trees, nestled in a shrubbery of ancient roses, stood the Rookery. Or what was left of it.
The outer walls were still intact, but where the roof should have been there was nothing but rubble. The remains of an enormous oak listed drunkenly against the crumbling south wall, the ground beneath it gaping and wounded where it had torn free.
“My house!” I wailed.
Brisbane’s face was grim. “It looks as though we shall be spending Christmas with your family after all.”
The raven stirred in his cage, fluffing his deep, oil-black feathers and saying in an ominous voice, “Tragedy and woe.”
And from the depths of the basket on my lap, Nin the Siamese began to howl.
The Third Chapter
Call up the butler of this house,
Put on his golden ring;
Let him bring us up a glass of beer,
And better we shall sing.
“Here We Come A-Wassailing” Traditional English Carol
Settling into the Abbey was only marginally less demanding than the Peninsular Campaign. The staff turned out to greet us and it took every last one of them to shift the bags and boxes and cages and baskets from our carriage and the baggage wagon into the Abbey. Built by Cistercians, it was austerely beautiful and enviably spacious as long as one did not mind the occasional ghost. Portia and her assorted pets—she had brought not only Puggy but his greyhound wife, Florence, and an assortment of their ill-begotten pups—took her old room off the picture gallery while Jane the Younger and her nanny were whisked away to the nursery floor. Brisbane and I and our menagerie were given the Jubilee Tower chamber, a rather gorgeous room he had occupied during his only previous stay. It was situated just over the chapel and connected to the old belfry via the bachelors’ wing.
Brisbane looked around as the door closed behind us.
“At least it is removed from the rest of the place,” I soothed. “We shall have some privacy.”
“And hopefully rather fewer dead bodies than last time.” If he was feeling a trifle waspish, I could not blame him. I had promised him a peaceful retreat to the Rookery and instead we would spend the next fortnight nestled rather too firmly in the bosom of my tempestuous family.
Just then the door opened and my maid, Morag, entered. “It’s about time you’ve come. I take you’ve seen the Rookery? His lordship says it weren’t even a very strong wind brought that oak down last night. It were rotted through and through.” Since Morag is never happier than when disaster strikes, she was smiling.
“I saw. I presume you and Aquinas have both been given lodgings here for the duration?”
“Aye. And Mr. Aquinas has been given the task of butlering for the Abbey as Mr. Hoots is having a funny turn.”
“Hoots is unwell?” That was not entirely unusual. Hoots had always been prone to dramatic ailments, usually coinciding neatly with extra work.
“His mind’s slipped a cog. Claiming to be Napoleon, he is. Locked himself belowstairs with a bottle of the earl’s best Armagnac. Won’t come out until Wellington surrenders, he says, and that leaves Mr. Aquinas to do all the organizing of the household.”
I sat down and put my fingertips to my temples, rubbing hard. “We have one fallen tree, one destroyed Rookery, one delusional butler and no good brandy. Is that what you are telling me?”
“And the cook’s down with piles and more than half the staff are suffering from catarrh,” she added maliciously.
I looked to Brisbane, who was smiling broadly. “God bless us, everyone,” he said, spreading his arms wide.
* * *
The situation was rather worse than Morag had described. Hoots had taken not just a bottle of Armagnac but all the decent liquor and locked it up in his room along with the keys to the silver, the wine cellar and the pantry. The cook was indeed down with piles, but the rest of the staff had succumbed to a rather virulent cold that left them wheezing and hacking in various corners of the house. A few had taken to their beds but the rest dragged about, sniffling moistly into unspeakably sodden handkerchiefs. Father had given Aquinas carte blanche to manage the house until Hoots came around. No one had yet wrested the keys from Hoots, so dinner the first night consisted of bottles of beer from the village pub and bread toasted over the drawing room fire. Portia took hers to the nursery to eat with Jane the Younger while the rest of us made an impromptu party around the fireplace in the vast great hall.
Impromptu and awkward. Father, sunk in a sort of black gloom, said scarcely a dozen words, and Aunt Hermia—Father’s younger sister and the nearest thing we children had to a mother—struggled to fill the silences. I noticed none of the usual decorations had been hung, and I wondered if Father’s grim mood was a result of the fact that so few of us would be present for Christmas. No matter, I decided. He would come round as soon as everyone gathered for Twelfth Night.
I smiled at the footman who came to poke up the fire. A local lad, he had been with the family a number of years and, like all the footmen at Bellmont, was called William regardless of his real name. This one was William IV.
“Hello, William.” He gave me a courteous bow but did not smile.
“Is everything well with you and your family?”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you for asking.”
He withdrew at once and I turned to Aunt Hermia. “What ails William? He has always been such a pleasant, chatty fellow.”
She shrugged. “Heaven help me if I know.”
“He isn’t holding a grudge about what happened the last time is he?” I ventured. “I mean, we did apologise about him being poisoned.” 3
“He might still have died,” Father countered, levelling an accusatory gaze at Brisbane. “I seem to remember someone having to force the poor boy to regurgi—”
“That is quite enough, Hector. And you’ve got it very wrong,” Aunt Hermia