“Well, then, I’ll leave you to dress for dinner,” she said. “We’re not usually that formal when it’s just family, but over Christmas we’ll be going the whole hog. Living up to the spirit of the thing, y’know. You’ll hear the first gong at quarter to eight for sherry.”
And with that she left me. It was only when I looked in the mirror that I realized I was still wearing my hat. I grinned to myself as I sat down. This was a good place. The house had obviously seen better times, that was clear. So had the Hawse-Gorzleys. Which made me wonder why they had chosen to embark upon such a lavish house party this year and who these guests were, coming from Yorkshire and India and even America to be part of it.
Chapter 6
GORZLEY HALL, TIDDLETON-UNDER-LOVEY, DEVON
DECEMBER 21
Good dinner last night. I think I may have fallen on my feet here!
I awoke to find Queenie standing over me, with a tea tray in her hands.
“Morning, my lady,” she said. “I’ve brought your tea.”
I sat up, examining her closely to see if she had been bewitched overnight or whether someone else was actually impersonating her.
“Are you feeling quite well, Queenie?” I asked.
“Yeah. Never felt better,” she said. “I like it here, miss. Them servants don’t look down their noses at me. In fact, I’m the only lady’s maid what is in residence at the moment so the cook asked me if I’d prefer to have my meals brought to my room or I’d like to eat with the rest of them. How about that, eh?”
“And what did you say?” I took a sip of deliciously strong hot tea.
“I said I wasn’t too proud to sit down with the rest of them. And she said good, ’cause they were going to be run off their feet with this house party.”
“Lady Hawse-Gorzley has asked that you assist the other ladies who will be coming,” I said. “You can do that, can’t you? I do hope you won’t let me down and do anything too dreadful.”
“Oh, no, miss. I’ll be real careful, I promise. I won’t set anyone on fire or nothing. I’ll stay away from candles.” (This because she had set her former employer on fire with a wayward candle.)
“I am glad to hear that, Queenie. I’ll be wearing my Rannoch tartan skirt and my green jumper today.”
“Bob’s yer uncle, miss. It’s going to be a lovely day.”
I got out of bed and went over to the window, to find that my room faced the orchard where the body had been found. What a strange thing to have happened. I stared down at the bare trees, wondering which one he had been climbing and what exactly he’d intended to do. They weren’t very big trees. Had he really been intending to aim the rifle at one of these windows—at this one, maybe? I shivered and turned away. Well, I wasn’t going to let the accidental death of a man I didn’t know spoil my Christmas.
I came downstairs to find the front hall taken up by the most enormous Christmas tree, which four men were attempting to raise into place while being bossed around by Lady Hawse-Gorzley.
“Morning. Slept well?” she barked up at me. “Splendid. Breakfast in the dining room. Can’t stop now or they’ll smash the chandelier.”
I went through into the dining room to find places set at one end of the long table and a good smell coming from a number of silver tureens on the sideboard. I was just filling my plate with kidneys and bacon and wondering if it would be greedy to add some kedgeree to the mix when a girl came into the room. She was wearing riding breeches and a hacking jacket and her face was glowing as if she’d just come from the cold air.
“Hello,” she said, looking at me curiously. “Who are you?”
“Georgiana Rannoch,” I said, wishing that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had let a few more people know I was coming so that I didn’t have to keep on explaining myself.
“Oh, you’re the famous Lady Georgiana, are you? Mother’s done nothing but talk about you. She’s frightfully excited. You count as a coup.”
“Really?”
“Well, yes, I mean it’s close to claiming you have royalty at your party, isn’t it?” Her face lit up. “I say, isn’t your mother Claire Daniels? Used to be a famous actress? Well, the village is buzzing with the rumor that she’s come down here for Christmas. Is that true?”
“I gather it is,” I said. “But nobody’s supposed to know. She’s working on a new play with Noel Coward.”
“Noel Coward? I say. How frightfully exciting. That livens up our dull little corner of the world a bit, doesn’t it? Is that why you agreed to take up Mother’s little offer?”
“Partly,” I said. “And partly because I wanted to escape from an even duller place than this.”
“Can there be anywhere duller?” She laughed. “I’m Hortense, by the way. The daughter of the house. Sorry I wasn’t here last night. I was staying with friends in Exeter.”
Hortense Hawse-Gorzley, I thought. What on earth made people choose such names for their poor children? She must have read my thoughts because she grimaced. “I know. Dreadful name, isn’t it? But I’m usually called Bunty. Don’t ask me why. No idea.”
“And I’m Georgie,” I said.
“Jolly good. I was dreading we’d have to go through the title and formality stuff. I hate that, don’t you? I suppose it’s because I don’t have one. Complete envy.”
I laughed. “You wouldn’t find my current situation very enviable.”
“Really? I should have thought you’d have a frightfully glamorous life—balls and parties and chaps lining up to marry you.”
“Hardly lining up. There have been a few, but they were all half imbecile and utterly awful. I wouldn’t have turned down a halfway decent offer.” I noticed her gear. “Have you just been out riding?”
“Yes, I have. Splendid morning for it. Do you ride? Stupid question; of course you do. You’ve probably got stables full of oodles of horses.”
“Not oodles, but I do have a horse at home.”
“Better than the ones we have here, I’m sure. We used to have splendid horses, but of course that’s all past now. I gather the family used to be quite rich once. Tin mines in nearby Cornwall. But they closed and Daddy invested the last of the money in America. Right before the crash of ’29, as it happened. So we’ve been in reduced circumstances ever since. But I shouldn’t be talking about it. Mummy doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”
“Your family eats a good deal better than mine does,” I said, sitting down with my heaped plate.
“Ah, well, we have the home farm. We live on what we can grow and raise most of the year. And Daddy is building up a breeding herd of Jersey cows. Lovely clotted cream, as you’ll soon find out.”
She pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “If you like I’ll show you around the village after breakfast.”
“I think I’m supposed to be helping your mother,” I said. “Doesn’t she have masses to do before the first guests arrive?”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re supposed to actually do anything.” She grinned. “You’re just supposed to be yourself. Lend authenticity to the whole charade.”
“Charade?”
She lowered her voice and whispered, “They’re all paying guests, my dear. Only don’t for God’s sake let her know that I told you. It’s Mummy’s brilliant idea to make some money. Ye Olde English Christmas with ye olde aristocratic family. Apparently some people are prepared to pay a lot for that.”
So now it made sense—the diverse guest list and Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s flustered preparation for them. And that was why she wanted a young woman of impeccable social background.
“It should be rather fun, actually,” Hortense, or rather Bunty, went on. “Better than the usual dreary Christmases we’ve been having lately. My brother’s arriving tomorrow and bringing an Oxford chum and Mummy’s invited a cousin who is absolutely dreamy and we’ve been promised a costume ball as well as all the usual village festivities, which are rather amusing in their way.” She paused and a worried look came over her face. “Oh, Lord. I hope they won’t cancel the village things because of what happened to poor old Freddie. You heard, did you, that our neighbor Freddie Partridge shot himself on our land yesterday? I quite liked him, you know. At least he wasn’t boring like most people around here. And he played some jolly good tricks on people. I loved it when he bunged up the pipes of the church organ with dead rooks and the organist pumped harder and harder and suddenly they all came flying out all over the congregation. Mr. Barclay, the pompous little chap who plays the organ, was furious.
