Lady Hawse-Gorzley pressed her lips together and walked away. During dinner, however, it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink, thus raising Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s spirits considerably because it would keep down the costs and mean more wine for her. She waxed poetic about all the quaint and lovely English customs that awaited them. “We’ve been out searching the grounds for the perfect Yule log,” she said, “and when everybody is here, we’ll all decorate the Christmas tree. And there will be caroling door to door of course, and a hot mince pie and toddy at each house, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Sounds boring to me,” Junior said. His sister nodded agreement.
Lady Hawse-Gorzley went on, “Ah, but Lady Georgiana has some splendid things planned for the young folk. Party games and indoor fireworks and of course the costume ball. Then, after Christmas, all the traditional village events: the hunt, the Lovey Chase and of course the Worsting of the Hag on New Year’s Eve.”
“What’s that?” Junior demanded, interested now in spite of himself.
“It’s all to do with the Lovey Curse,” Bunty said dramatically. “We had a witch in the village who was burned alive at the stake. And she swore she’d come back every Christmastime to get revenge. So every year on New Year’s Eve the villagers go from house to house with drums and pots and pans, making a lot of noise to scare out the hag and ensure a safe year ahead with no bad luck.”
“There’s no such thing as curses and witches, is there, Pa?” Junior said uncertainly.
“Maybe not in America,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There certainly are in England. We are a very old country, you know. This house was built one hundred years before Columbus even discovered your country.”
After dinner Mr. Wexler declined to stay with Sir Oswald for port and cigars and insisted on accompanying the ladies into the drawing room, where it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink coffee at night. “But if you have any malted milk instead . . . ?” Mrs. Wexler said.
“Malted milk?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked baffled. “I suppose Cook could have cocoa sent up to your rooms when you are ready for bed.”
“That would be any time now, wouldn’t it, Mother,” Mr. Wexler said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s our motto. What time is breakfast? We’re always ready for it about seven.”
“Since you didn’t bring a maid, Lady Georgiana has graciously agreed to lend you hers if you need help,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
I thought of the jersey dress, had temporary misgivings, then asked, “Would you like my maid to help you undress?”
They found that most amusing. “Help me undress?” Mrs. Wexler dug her husband in the ribs. “She thinks I’m too feeble to undress myself, Clyde.” She patted my arm. “Honey, at home women are raised to do everything for themselves. We don’t believe in having servants. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Heaven help us,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied when the Wexlers had gone, leaving us alone with our coffee. “I didn’t think guests could be so—”
“Difficult?” Bunty suggested.
“I was going to say ‘different,’” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I have to agree with your choice.”
“Tell them that’s how we do things in upper-class British households and that was why they came here—to see how the other half lives,” Bunty said firmly.
“I did try.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sighed. “But I do hope the other guests won’t prove so . . . different.”
We went to bed. For some reason I couldn’t sleep, but lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the hoot of an owl in the stillness. Random thoughts flew around my head concerning the three mysterious deaths, escaped convicts, the village idiot, the wild girl and the assertion that they were “all crackers” around here. After a while I realized how still it was. The complete silence of the world indicated to me that it must still be snowing and I thought how jolly it would be to have a white Christmas. My dear ones were nearby. There was loads of lovely food and drink and a house that wasn’t freezing. And no Fig for miles and miles. I wasn’t going to let those three deaths, the escaped convicts or difficult Americans spoil it for me.
Chapter 11
GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 23
Other guests arrive today. Hoping they won’t be as difficult as the Wexlers. Not sure I’m cut out for the role of social hostess!
I was awakened early the next morning by the Wexlers tramping down the corridor talking loudly. I didn’t wait for Queenie and morning tea, but went down the hall to the bathroom, then came back and dressed, this time in the skirt from my tweed suit plus a blouse and cardigan—not exactly smart but at least different from the day before. As I came downstairs the butler was standing in the entrance hall. “It’s still not working, my lady,” he called.
He heard my feet on the stairs and looked up at me, then continued. “The telephone line appears to be down. Maybe it snowed during the night, but there is certainly no connection this morning.”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley came through from the breakfast room looking harassed. “It’s too bad,” she said. “Now I’ll have to send the motor into town to deliver the message, I suppose.”
“Is there something I could do?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose you could go to the police station and ask to use their telephone,” she said. “It is an emergency, after all.”
“Emergency?” I felt my pulse rate quicken.
“Yes, I need to let the butcher know that I changed my mind. I do want the geese to go with the turkeys. I’m not a big fan of goose myself—so rich and fatty, isn’t it? But Oswald reminded me that it is the traditional Christmas fowl, so I’m afraid we must serve some. The guests will be expecting it.”
“So you’d like me to put in a telephone call to the butcher?”
“Yes. Skaggs, the butcher. The girl on the switchboard will connect you. Tell him that Lady Hawse-Gorzley changed her mind and she does want the geese delivered early tomorrow morning to go with the turkeys.”
“I can certainly do that for you,” I said.
“Go and have your breakfast first, dear,” she said. “The Wexlers have already finished theirs. It appears they only take some kind of cereal that resembles twigs at home, and they absolutely refused to try the kidneys.” She shook her head as if they were already a lost cause. “There is no huge hurry, although I’m sure the butcher will be busy all day today. And we don’t exactly know when the other guests will arrive so I will be tied to the house all day. And the Wexlers asked about stockings. What exactly do people do with stockings at Christmas?”
“Hang them up for Father Christmas, I believe.”
“Hang them where?”
“Over the fireplace.”
“My dear, with this many people it would look like a Chinese laundry, wouldn’t it? No, I think we’ll dispense with stockings. I’ll have a present for everybody inside a snow house and those who want to can exchange gifts privately or put them under the tree.”
“Oh,” I said, staring at her as the thought struck me. “Are we supposed to give presents?”
“Not you, my dear. Absolutely not necessary.”
I nodded, my brain still racing. We didn’t go in for presents much at Castle Rannoch. I always gave my nephew, Podge, a little something. Binky and Fig occasionally managed a box of handkerchiefs or a pair of gloves. Mummy sent a check when she remembered, but Christmas was certainly a no-nonsense affair with us. This time I had actually brought a small gift for Queenie, but it occurred to me now that I should give my grandfather something too, and also my mother. The problem was that Lady Hawse-Gorzley hadn’t reimbursed me for my train fare yet and I was seriously lacking in funds. I didn’t think that my mother would be satisfied with Ashes of Roses perfume from Woolworths instead of Worth. I’d love to have given Granddad a really nice present—a cashmere scarf or a warm pullover. It felt so frustrating to have no money. For a second I wondered if I could ask Lady H-G for an advance, but my pride wouldn’t let me. At least I’d look in the village shop for small tokens and hope for a miracle.
I ate a hearty breakfast and set off for the village, crunching down the driveway, where the snow had frozen hard all night, and stood admiring the village scene—small boys with sleds, a snowman on the village green, villagers bundled against the cold staggering home with baskets laden with good things and mysteriously wrapped packages. Suddenly it was impossible not to be caught up in the spirit of Christmas.
