Back downstairs I gave Granddad his little box and Mrs. Huggins her box of toffees. They were both quite moved.
“Fancy, me getting a present from royalty,” Mrs. Huggins said. “Just wait till I tell them back home at the Queen’s Head.”
“You’re a good girl, my love,” Granddad said, putting an arm around me. “I wish I’d got a present for you, but I had no idea I’d be seeing you. I hope good things come your way soon. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”
“Actually, having you close by for Christmas is the best present I could have,” I said, giving him a kiss.
I felt a rosy glow as I came out of the cottage. I saw Miss Prendergast hurrying across the street, even though there was no traffic in sight. She was holding her shapeless hat firmly to her head, although the wind was hardly blowing, and she didn’t notice me until she almost barreled into me.
“Oh, goodness me,” she said. “So sorry. Didn’t see you. I’ve just come from the Misses Ffrench-Finch. Tried to cheer them up but they are completely devastated, poor dears. They relied on Miss Effie for everything. She used to boss them around dreadfully but they are lost without her. One feels so sorry for them.” And her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to sentiment. “I really wish that . . .” she began, then shook her head firmly. “Can’t undo the past, no matter how sad, can one?”
And she went on her way, up the front path to her cottage door. I stared after her. What did she wish? I wondered. That Miss Effie hadn’t died, or that one of the other sisters had died in her stead? I continued on my way back to the hall.
* * *
THE REST OF the day went smoothly enough. The younger set were in good spirits after the pantomime rehearsal and amused themselves playing board games. The Sechrests and Rathbones played bridge, chatting as they did so about this area and their memories of past hunts and regattas and families they both knew. The Rathbones once owned a house nearby for their home leaves but had been forced to give it up a few years ago, when so much money was lost in the great crash of ’29.
“The memsahib still misses her garden, of course,” Colonel Rathbone said. “It’s too damned hot to work in the garden in Calcutta.”
“The gardeners do try hard, bless them,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but it’s always a losing battle against the heat and then the monsoon comes and flattens everything.”
“Pity it’s not summer or Sandra would love to show you around our garden,” Captain Sechrest said. “Absolutely devoted to her garden, aren’t you, old girl?”
“One has to keep oneself busy while you are away for months,” Mrs. Sechrest said and I noticed that she shot a look at Johnnie Protheroe, who was playing some kind of card game with Bunty that seemed to involve touching her knee quite often.
“So how often do you get home?” Sandy Sechrest asked the Rathbones.
“Every five years.”
“How much longer do you think you’ll stick it out?” she asked.
Colonel Rathbone frowned. “Can’t really say. Of course I’d like to retire to a little place in a village like this. But who knows if we’ll have another blasted war or a native uprising. And who knows what one will be able to afford on an army pension.”
He glanced at his wife, then she looked away. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mrs. Rathbone said. “You give your life to the army and they reward you with a pension that a sparrow couldn’t live on. It’s simply not fair. I should have been like some of the other wives and had an affair with a maharaja and been rewarded for my services with jewels. I know a couple of wives who set themselves up very nicely that way.”
“I wouldn’t have minded an affair with a maharaja,” Sandra Sechrest said dreamily. “They have such lovely dark eyes, don’t they?”
I let the conversation wash over me as I pretended to study a magazine, but I found I could not shake off the tension. The day wasn’t over yet. There was still time for another death.
Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared, clapping her hands. “Time for tea, everyone. We’re serving it a little early so that we have enough light to go out and find the Yule log. And I wanted to check who would like to go to midnight mass at our little church, and who would rather do matins tomorrow morning. Oh, and Darcy dear—do you need me to find out the times of masses at the Catholic church in Newton Abbott?”
And there it was—the reminder of the fact I had conveniently chosen to block from my mind. Darcy was a Catholic. I would not be allowed to marry him.
Chapter 18
DECEMBER 24, EVENING ON CHRISTMAS EVE
Can’t help feeling excited, in spite of everything that has happened.
I tried to push this worry from my mind as we wrapped up warmly and set off to find the Yule log. Monty insisted that we sing carols as we trudged through the snow. The temperature was slightly warmer today so the snow was turning to slush, which would make it hard to drag the log home on a sled. Sir Oswald and Monty were pulling one just in case, but Bunty was leading one of the farm horses attached to a wagon.
This time we set out on the other side of the house, past a lovely formal garden, its statues decorated with crowns of snow and a snowy rim to the lily pond, then into a wilderness area that led up to Lovey Tor. This part of the grounds was full of old oak trees, bent against the cruel Dartmoor wind, as were cedars, yew trees and even a beech or two. When I paused to look back I saw that we had a lovely view of the house and the village beyond, nestled in the hollow between the hills. We could also glimpse another large house through the trees.
“What’s that?” I asked Bunty.
“Oh, that was poor old Freddie’s place,” she said. “I don’t know who it will go to now. He didn’t have any brothers. Perhaps it will be sold and we’ll have frightful nouveau riche bankers who will just come down for weekends.”
“At least you’d have a chance to meet people if they brought house parties with them,” I said and she grinned.
“Maybe they wouldn’t be so frightful. I do so want to marry someone rich enough to keep me. I could do without the title.”
“I agree,” I said. “Titles aren’t worth much in the real world, are they?”
“In your case you could presumably marry someone with a real title—you know—a prince or a duke.”
“That’s what my family would like. They have already tried to saddle me with a frightful Romanian prince. My friend Belinda and I called him Fishface.”
“But you’d prefer a penniless Darcy.” She glanced back over her shoulder to see Darcy far behind, walking with Monty as they dragged the sled.
“Yes, I would, actually. But it probably won’t ever happen. I don’t think I’d be allowed to marry a Catholic.”
“That’s stupid. I’d jolly well ignore them if I wanted to marry someone I loved.”
“I think it’s something to do with the law of England. One can hardly go against that.”
“You’ll find a way if you want to,” she said encouragingly.
We walked on.
“How much further? I’m tired,” Junior whined.
I glanced back again as a thought struck me. This part of the property was close to Freddie’s house, and what’s more, it was full of big, solid trees. If he had wanted to rig up some kind of booby trap then the position here would have been ideal. Why go all the way around to the orchard?
“Here we are,” Sir Oswald called. “This is the one I thought would do. What do you think?”
We gathered around to admire an enormous log—a great fallen oak limb, actually—then worked together to heft it onto the sled, which promptly sank into the mushy snow and wouldn’t move. So we had to use the wagon. Even with all of us lifting and grunting it was jolly heavy and we were glad that the horse had to transport it down the hill and not us. As we made our way home the light was rapidly fading, bathing the world in a dusky pink glow.
“We will take the log into the house and light it after dinner,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “and if all goes well it should burn all through Christmas Day to bring us luck.”
