Four Funerals and Maybe a Wedding Read online

  Then the worry returned. Had Plunkett got his hands on my letter and was maybe reading it before he delivered it to me? Or had he even destroyed it? I couldn’t see any reason to do so, other than sheer spite, but it certainly had not been on the salver in the front hall when I had left.

  I drove on into the small town of Haywards Heath and found the offices of Eaton and Harris, solicitors. When I introduced myself there were whispered conversations and I was whisked through immediately to the inner sanctum, where Old Mr. Eaton resided.

  He rose from his seat and extended a hand to me. “My dear Lady Georgiana. Welcome. What a pleasure to see you here. Please, take a seat.”

  He had a shock of white hair and would have made an excellent Father Christmas. I pulled up a comfortable leather chair. “Mr. Eaton, I wonder if you have been told that Sir Hubert has invited me to make Eynsleigh my home after my wedding?”

  He nodded, still smiling. “He did discuss the matter with me. I told him it was an excellent idea. When do you intend to move in?”

  “I am actually staying there at the moment. Sir Hubert suggested I have everything to my liking before I take up residence with my husband.”

  “Splendid.” He rubbed his hands together. “And you find the place to your liking?”

  “The house is as lovely as I remember it,” I said, “but to be truthful I’m having a little problem with the staff. They don’t seem to be of the level of Sir Hubert’s former servants.”

  “No? I am surprised.” He was staring at me with raised eyebrows. Since his eyebrows were like two large prawns this was quite startling. “Of course we were sorry to lose such a wonderful old retainer as Rogers, but I thought that we had managed to find a suitable replacement. So Plunkett is not what you expected?”

  “He is not,” I said. “And I don’t think he’d be what Sir Hubert wanted either.”

  Mr. Eaton shook his head. “Dear me. He came with the highest of references. His former employer seemed most satisfied with his work.”

  “That’s what I find puzzling,” I said. “Maybe he sees me as a young thing of no consequence and therefore is not bothering too much, but his manner is not that of a good butler.”

  “This is most distressing,” Mr. Eaton said.

  “Did you interview him personally?” I asked.

  “No, I did not, but I put the matter in the hands of a good agency in London and they wrote to say that they had found a suitable replacement for Rogers and sent me a copy of his reference.”

  “Do you still have that copy?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure we do.” He rang a little bell and a middle-aged woman in a navy two-piece suit appeared. She was the sort of woman who has every hair in place. “Miss Tompkins. Would you bring me Sir Hubert’s file? We need the reference for the latest butler.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Eaton,” she replied and left the room only to return remarkably quickly with a large file box. This she opened; then she handed Mr. Eaton an envelope. He opened it and passed it to me.

  I read:

  It is with great pleasure that I recommend my former butler, Charles Plunkett. He has been exemplary in his duties, most solicitous to his employers and scrupulously honest at all times. His knowledge of wines, of silver and of protocol is unsurpassed and I believe he would be comfortable running even the largest of homes smoothly.

  I looked up. “Golly,” I said. “I don’t know what to think. He has been most slapdash in his behavior toward me.”

  “That’s shocking, my lady. I too do not understand this. Would you like me to give him a talking-to on your behalf?”

  “Very kind of you, Mr. Eaton, but I think I shall have to learn to handle my own staff and I had better start now.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He clapped those big meaty hands. “Sometimes servants need to be put in their place.”

  “Let me ask you—if I wanted to dismiss any of the servants, would I be allowed to?”

  His face clouded. “Oh, I’m not sure about that one. I mean, if Sir Hubert saw fit to employ someone, one could hardly go against his wishes, at least not without putting the matter to him.”

  “No, I see that. It’s just that the cook, Fernando, is not what I would wish.”

  “The cook was hired recently, through an agency I believe, after the old cook wished to retire. I think you would be quite within your rights to dismiss him if he didn’t prove to be suitable.”

  “He says he won’t leave until Sir Hubert tells him to go.”

  Now he looked worried. “And do you wish to dismiss him immediately? Can you not give him some time to learn your wishes and your ways?”

  “I suppose I could,” I said slowly.

  “That’s the ticket.” He beamed. “Now, was there anything else I could do for you?”

  “About the money for the household accounts,” I said.

  “The bank handles it,” he said. “The Westminster, here in Haywards Heath. Is there a problem?”

  “Well, no.” I hesitated, not wanting to hint that Sir Hubert was being stingy with us. “It’s just that the amount was adequate when there were just household staff, but if my husband and I want to entertain . . .”

  “Then I suppose you would have to do so out of your own funds, if you do not find the amount adequate, my lady.” I was being told off. Clearly he thought Sir Hubert had done the right thing and I was somehow being ungrateful. Perhaps I was. After all, I was being given free accommodation and a staff to run it. So Mr. Eaton was quite right. I should be supplementing the amount from my own purse. . . . If I had a purse, that was. Oh dear, it looks as if it will be rice and custard for the rest of my days here.

  After a few more pleasantries I thanked him and left. I realized, as I drove away, that I had not asked him about Mrs. Holbrook’s bequest and whether it came from Sir Hubert. Actually I was glad I had not done so. He might have seen it as none of my business what Sir Hubert did with his money. The one thing I had learned was that Plunkett had been an exemplary employee with Lady Malmsbury—unless he had forged his reference? That was not unknown. I’d have to wait to see what the current earl said about him.

  Chapter 17

  FRIDAY, JUNE 28

  EYNSLEIGH, SUSSEX

  This evening I am to meet the Dowager Lady Anstruther. A little nervous about this. I’m not sure I’m good with batty old women. Also I’m of two minds whether to write to Sir Hubert about her. I mean, if he had put her in a home for her safety, wouldn’t he want to know that she had escaped? I’m not bound by Plunkett’s promise to her. The problem is I have no idea where to reach him, other than the British consulate in Buenos Aires. He wrote to me from a hotel in Chile, but he’d be long gone from there. How utterly frustrating! I wish I knew what the right thing is to do in this circumstance. I suppose she is safe here and can be looked after until he returns. And it’s not my problem.

  As I drove up the drive to the house I was again struck by the great beauty. The red brick glowing. The leaded, paned windows sparkling in the sunlight. The strange, curly Elizabethan chimneys, the great oak and beech trees providing a backdrop and the fountain now playing merrily. Perfect, I muttered. I pictured myself showing it to Darcy for the first time. When was he going to come home? I wondered. Why didn’t he ever write? Of course I knew the answer to that: because he couldn’t let anyone know where he was. Wretched man!

  I left the Bentley and went up the front steps. Plunkett met me as I was crossing the foyer.

  “A nice drive, my lady?”

  “Yes, thank you, Plunkett. Has the post been delivered yet?”

  “Why, yes, my lady. There are letters for you waiting in the morning room. Shall I bring coffee?”

  “Yes, please do.”

  I went through feeling very pleased. All was now sorted out. Plunkett’s behavior to me could be put down to his nervousness at having to conceal a batty relative and to worry about her behavior. Now I finally had a butler.

  I saw the two letters lying on a silver salver, placed on a low table by the window. I noticed, with trepidation, that one indeed bore the royal coat of arms. I looked at the other in the vain hope that by some miracle it could be from Queenie. Then I recognized Belinda’s handwriting and smiled.

  I opened the royal one first. One does. It was in Her Majesty’s own hand, not written by her secretary. So a personal note. I read:

  My dear Georgiana,

  We have received your invitation and gladly accept. I trust your preparations for the upcoming wedding are going well. Elizabeth and Margaret are excited to be bridesmaids. Margaret especially—she loves dancing around in frilly frocks. Elizabeth would be quite happy to wear her riding britches all the time! I gather the dressmaker will have the dresses ready for a first fitting soon. I am anxious to hear details.

  As to the guest list: I wonder if we should not include the Bavarian princess you never did manage to host (the real one, I mean). Who else are you planning to invite from among our European relatives? If there are any monarchs involved I feel that the king and I should offer them hospitality at the palace.

  Regarding your honeymoon: the king and I would like to offer you the use of Balmoral before we all descend on the place for the usual shoot in August. As you know it is so quiet and peaceful and the staff will take care of your needs.

  I looked up and stared out of the window. Then I sighed. Balmoral wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for a honeymoon. After all, I had grown up in a similar Scottish castle a few miles away. They tend to be cold, drafty and bleak. What’s more, it had tartan carpets and tartan wallpaper, and there isn’t anything much more depressing than that. Darcy had said he would come up with somewhere to go, but I had pictured a romantic setting like Lake Maggiore, where we had just stayed, or even Nice, where Mummy had a charming little villa. One could hardly enjoy a honeymoon with oodles of servants shadowing one’s every move. Maids would barge in with morning tea, thus stifling any bouts of early ardor. But could I say “No, thank you” to her? And had Darcy planned anything better?

  I went on to the second letter, from Belinda. She told me how hard she was working and how satisfied she was with her progress. I’d be thrilled with the dress, she was sure. And as for those bridesmaids gowns . . . she thought they were exactly what little princesses should wear to a wedding. She had been requested to bring the designs to their residence so that the duke and duchess could see them, and she wondered if I’d come up to London on that day so that I could see my dress and accompany her to 145 Piccadilly. She added that she was surprised to find they weren’t living in a palace. She was a bit nervous about showing her designs to royalty and I knew them well. She went on.

  How are you enjoying being lady of the manor?

  I must pop down and see you when you’ve settled in. Rather a change from when you first came to London and camped out in your family home eating baked beans because they were the only things you knew how to cook. And speaking of cooking . . . my new maid, Huddlestone, will have to go, I’m afraid. She can’t, or won’t, cook. She says she was trained to be a lady’s maid, not a general dogsbody. Since I can’t or won’t cook either I’ve been living on hampers from Harrods and Fortnum’s. Rather an expensive way to eat, don’t you think? So I regret that Huddlestone must go. She was a sour-faced old puss, anyway. No sense of humor and very prudish. If I ever did invite a gentleman home (which I won’t, of course, having renounced men for the rest of my days), she’d be so disapproving that the poor chap would flee in dismay!

  I smiled as I folded the letter. Poor Belinda. She and I were both having servant problems, but I thought that hers were more easily solved. I glanced down again at the queen’s letter. One should respond to the queen immediately, but I did not want to accept Balmoral. In the end I thanked her and said that I did not know what plans my future husband had for our honeymoon as he was away at the moment, but I would let her know as soon as he returned. Then I stamped the letter and went to put it on the hall table. That was when I noticed a telephone sitting there. A small miracle! I decided to try it out immediately and call Belinda. Then I decided to telephone Mummy first. She might need chivvying along to check on the agency that had sent Plunkett.

  “Operator, would you connect me with Claridge’s, please?” I said. I waited and then the Claridge’s operator came on the line.

  “You have the former duchess of Rannoch staying with you, I believe,” I said. (Mummy was eager to bolt from the realities of being a duchess but more reluctant to give up the title, which she used whenever she was in London.)

  “We do, madam. But I’m not sure—”

  “This is Lady Georgiana, her daughter,” I cut in.

  “Of course, my lady. One moment please.” And I was connected.

  “Hello?” I heard Mummy’s voice, a trifle breathless. Then: “Thank God, Georgie. I’ve been trying and trying to reach you. I called and called what I thought was the right number, but nobody answered. I was desperate. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “What’s wrong, Mummy?” She sounded distraught.

  “Everything. Everything is wrong. Oh, Georgie, my life is in ruins.”

  “Max has found out about some secret of your past?”

  “Worse than that. Far worse than that.” And she gave a great gulping sob.

  Personally I couldn’t think of what might be far worse than Max finding out that she had been sleeping with other men, but she gave a second sob before she said, “His father has died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said because that is what is expected of one on such occasions. Not that I had met Max’s father, and I didn’t have much warm feeling about Nazis.

  “You’re sorry? Not nearly as sorry as I am.” Another sob. “Georgie. Max telephoned me to say that the wedding is off. He will have to take over the running of his father’s business interests, which are many. That I can understand. But he says that his mother is distraught and he will have to stay with her and comfort her.”

  “Well, I can understand that too,” I said. “He’s being a dutiful son. And it only means postponing the wedding, doesn’t it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.” She sounded quite hysterical now. “I always knew that his mother was strictly Lutheran and quite prudish and didn’t approve of me. So Max says that in her current state of distress he wouldn’t feel right going ahead with the marriage. In fact in the circumstances I should stay in London.”

  As all of this gushed out I couldn’t help wondering how Max managed to convey this over the telephone. His command of the English language had always been minimal and Mummy’s German was nonexistent. But I had to be sympathetic.

  “Give him time, Mummy. Let him sort things out with his mother and then he’ll come back to you.”

  “He won’t. I know it. I’ll never see him again. The man I loved. The man I worshipped.” (You can tell why she was a famous actress, can’t you?) “I’m doomed, Georgie. Doomed to a life of loneliness and despair. And how am I going to live?”

  “I’m sure Max won’t be callous enough to cut you off without a penny,” I said. “And you do have that villa on Lake Lugano he bought you.”

  “He bought it for us,” she said. “How do I know if I’m even welcome there any longer? I don’t think he put it in my name. I should have insisted. I should have been more demanding. But I’ve always been so naïve. So trusting . . .”

  Actually she had done rather well from most of her various liaisons. “You do have that little villa in Nice. That’s all yours,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, but one can only go to Nice in the winter. Nobody goes there in the off-season. What will I do then? Where will I go? I have nowhere to spend the summer and I certainly can’t afford to stay at Claridge’s for months and months. I may become a pauper. A beggar on the streets.”

  “Mummy, calm down,” I said. “You are always welcome to come here. It’s pretty basic at the moment but it is a roof over your head and you can stay here until you hear from Max again and decide about your future.”

  “You are such a dear, kind girl,” she said. “I was hoping you’d say that. I know you and Darcy will be living there as newlyweds and I certainly wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

  “That’s still over a month away. Come down now. You always loved this house. You’ll feel so much better and be able to look at things in perspective.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. You’re right. That’s what I’ll do. And I’ll give Max time to miss me and realize he can’t live without me and that he’d rather have me than his boring old mother!”

  You couldn’t keep Mummy’s fighting spirit down for long!

  Chapter 18

  FRIDAY, JUNE 28

  EYNSLEIGH

  Now Mummy is complicating things by coming down to Eynsleigh. And I still have to meet the old woman tonight. Crikey. Feeling rather apprehensive, actually.

  The news that the former duchess of Rannoch was coming to join me was not met with great joy by the staff at Eynsleigh. I informed Plunkett that I would need one of the best bedrooms cleaned and aired, and that Fernando should be informed that from now on meals of the right standard should be prepared.

  “I will inform him, my lady, but I rather think he does his best with limited resources.”

  “I saw a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape on the kitchen table when I went down there,” I said. “If I had not requested it for dinner, I wonder who would have drunk it. Lady Anstruther or the staff? That does not sound to me like limited resources. I’ve already made it clear that I expect the best produce from the estate to be delivered to the kitchen each morning. And the money from the sale of excess produce can now go toward ordering decent food for myself and my mother. If absolutely necessary I shall select the produce myself and collect the income from the shop.”