God Rest Ye Royal Gentlemen Page 2

  “Dear Granddad, I do hope you will come and stay over Christmas. I miss you and it would be perfect if you were here.” I knew better than to mention the words “house party” to him. Any trace of posh or formal would make him shy away, since he came from a humble background and felt ill at ease among the upper classes. (In case you don’t know my family history, my mother was a famous actress who married a duke, so I had one grandfather who had lived in a Scottish castle and one who lived in a semidetached in Essex. I adored him.)

  I addressed the envelopes, put on stamps and had just deposited them on the tray in the front hall for the postman to collect when Mrs. Holbrook appeared. “Oh, there you are, my lady,” she said. “I wonder if you’d come down to the kitchen for a moment.”

  Alarm bells sounded in my head. “Oh dear. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  “Not at all, my lady. It’s just that it’s pudding day.”

  “Pudding day?”

  “Yes, November twenty-fifth. A month before Christmas. Always been pudding day in this house. The day the Christmas puddings are made. And it’s always traditional for the lord or lady of the house to come and give a stir for good luck.”

  “Oh, right.” I gave a sigh of relief. Not a disaster at all. “I’ll fetch Mr. O’Mara. Perhaps he’d like to be part of this.”

  I hurried back to the study. Darcy looked up, a trifle impatiently this time. “What is it, Georgie?”

  “Mrs. Holbrook has invited us to come and stir the pudding.”

  “What?”

  “It’s pudding day, apparently, and the lord and lady of the house are supposed to give the puddings a stir for good luck.”

  “I really need to get this stuff off to the post,” he said. “Do I have to be present to ensure good luck?”

  “I suppose not. . . .”

  He saw my face and pushed back his chair. “Of course I can spare a few minutes. We have to make sure we have good luck next year, don’t we?” And he put his arm around my shoulders, steering me out of the room. He really is a nice man, I thought with a little glow of happiness.

  Down the hallway we walked, past the dining room, through the baize door that led to the servants’ part of the house and down a flight of steps to the cavernous kitchen. On rainy days I expect it could be rather gloomy unless the electric lights were shining. Today the windows, high in the south wall, sent shafts of sunlight onto the scrubbed tables. Queenie was standing at one of them, her hands in a huge mixing bowl. She gave us a look of pure terror as we came in.

  “Hello, Queenie. We’ve come to stir the pudding,” I said.

  “Oh yeah. Bob’s yer uncle, missus.” She sounded distracted. I noted she now called me “missus” instead of “miss.” I suppose it was a small step forward. After several years she had never learned to call me “my lady.” Or perhaps she knew very well and was just being bolshie about it. I sometimes suspected Queenie wasn’t quite as clueless as we imagined.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “ ‘Wrong’?” Her voice sounded higher than usual.

  I walked toward the pudding bowl, with Darcy a step behind me. Inside was a big sticky mass of dough and fruit. It looked the way puddings were supposed to look, from my limited experience.

  “It’s just that you had both hands in the bowl when we came in. Doesn’t one usually stir with a spoon?”

  “What? Oh yes, right.” Her face had now gone red. “It’s just I was looking for something.”

  “ ‘Looking for something’?” Darcy sounded puzzled, but then he hadn’t had close contact with Queenie for as long as I had.

  Her face was now beet red. “It’s like this, you see. A button was loose on my uniform again. I meant to sew it on but I forgot and I was giving the pudding a bloody great stir when all of a sudden—ping—it popped clean off and went flying into the pudding mixture and I can’t for the life of me find it again.”

  “Queenie!” I exclaimed. I knew I should be firm with her and scold her for not keeping her uniform up to snuff, but it really was rather funny.

  “What exactly is this button made of?” Darcy asked. “It’s not celluloid or something that might melt when it’s cooked, is it?”

  “Oh no, sir. It’s like these others.” She pointed at the front of her uniform dress, where there was now a gaping hole revealing a red flannel vest. “I think it’s bone.”

  “Well, in that case nothing to worry about,” Darcy said breezily. “If someone finds it—well, people are supposed to find charms in puddings, aren’t they?”

  “Silver charms,” I pointed out.

  “We’ll tell them it’s a tradition of the house, going back to the Middle Ages,” Darcy said. “It’s a button made from the bone of a stag that was shot on Christmas Day.”

  “Darcy, you’re brilliant.” I had to laugh. “Just as long as someone doesn’t swallow it or break a tooth. Please keep trying to find it, Queenie. Only use a fork and not your fingers.”

  “Would your ladyship like to stir now?” Mrs. Holbrook asked. She handed me the big spoon. I took it and stirred.

  “You’re supposed to wish, my lady,” Mrs. Holbrook reminded.

  “Oh, of course.” I stirred and you can probably guess what I wished for.

  Then Darcy stirred and I wondered if he was wishing for the same thing. Mrs. Holbrook opened a little leather box and handed us the silver charms. “You’ll want to drop these into the pudding,” she said.

  “Oh yes. What fun.” We dropped them in, one by one: the boot, the pig, the ring and silver threepences.

  “And the bachelor button,” Darcy said, dropping in a silver button and giving me a grin.

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Holbrook said. “I’ll help Queenie look for the unfortunate button, don’t you worry. We’ll find it between us.”

  As we came up the stairs from the kitchen Darcy put a hand on my shoulder. “Now do you agree that we need to get a proper cook before Christmas?”

  Chapter 2

  November 26

  London

  Off to London to see Zou Zou. What could be nicer? I do hope she can help me find a cook or, better still, find a cook for me. She knows everybody. Although I’m not sure we can afford the sort of cook she might find. . . .

  When we were getting ready for bed last night Darcy mentioned casually, “I think I’ll have to go up to town in the morning.”

  “Oh?” I tried not to sound too interested.

  He looked up from untying his shoes. “The letter that came in the afternoon post contained a couple of things that need sorting out in person, I fear.”

  I now tried to show that I wasn’t alarmed. “That doesn’t mean you’ll have to go away, does it?” (I should probably mention, for those of you who haven’t met Darcy, that he doesn’t have a proper job but he takes on assignments for a nebulous branch of the government. In other words I suspect my husband is a spy!)

  “I don’t think so,” Darcy said. “Don’t worry. I plan to be home for our first Christmas together as a married couple, whatever happens.”

  “That’s good news.” I gave him a bright and confident smile. “I’m so looking forward to it. And planning it with you will be half the fun.”

  He took off his tie and draped it over the back of a chair. Some of you may be asking yourselves why Darcy is undressing himself in our bedroom and not being undressed by his valet in his own dressing room, as is right and proper for a man of his social standing. Well, the answer to that is that he doesn’t have a valet. He’s always been an independent sort of chap and besides, he’s never had the funds to employ a valet. He might be the son of a lord, just as I am the daughter of a duke, but neither of us inherited money. Actually now I do have a maid, a little local girl who is sweet and willing and amazingly accident free, which is a miracle after years of Queenie’s mishaps. Yes, Queenie was my maid before she became the cook. But most nights I don’t need my new maid’s help to undress. It is hardly taxing to take off a jumper and skirt, is it?

  “You know,” Darcy said, adding his shirt to the pile on the chair, “you could always come up to town with me in the morning. Go and see Zou Zou and ask her advice on finding a proper cook. She knows everybody.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I haven’t seen Zou Zou in ages and I can give her the Christmas invitation in person. And I could also pop down to Essex to see Granddad and make sure he’ll join us.”

  “Not until you’ve been to an agency and hired a cook”—Darcy wagged a finger at me—“or we’ll have more strange unidentifiable objects in the Christmas dinner.”

  “Oh golly, yes.” I had to laugh. “That was a bit much, wasn’t it?”

  “Face it, Georgie. The girl is a disaster, isn’t she? We should probably send her back to my aunt and uncle, who seemed to like her for some reason.”

  “Yes,” I said, hesitating. I knew full well that Queenie was a disaster some of the time but she was a good sort and had been jolly brave on a couple of occasions when I had got myself into a bit of a pickle. That was British understatement—when I was almost killed. So I did owe her something and she did make a really good spotted dick!

  “But even if we have a real chef, he’ll want an assistant cook, won’t he?”

  “Now who is getting a little too fancy?” Darcy asked. “You’ll be telling me we need a butler and I need a valet next.”

  “You seem to be able to undress yourself remarkably well,” I remarked as I noted that he was now standing in just his pajama bottoms with a bare chest—and looking jolly handsome, by the way. “Better than I can,” I added. “I seem to have the clasp of my bra caught in my jumper.”

  “Always willing to help.” Darcy came over and skillfully removed both jumper and bra. After that neither of us had anything to talk about for a while.

  * * *

  The next morning was classic November weather: a beastly fog through which we drove at a snail’s pace to the station and then the train crawled, equally cautiously, toward Waterloo. Darcy set off on his own mysterious errand while I caught the tube to Victoria. When I emerged from the Underground station I saw that the white mist of the countryside had been replaced by the dirty brown fog of the city. I recoiled at the sooty smell in my nose and metallic taste in my mouth. Golly, I don’t know how people can live in cities! I made my way to Eaton Square and knocked on Zou Zou’s door. It was opened by her French maid, Clotilde.

  “Oh, my lady,” she said in surprise. “We were not expecting visitors on such a terrible day. I don’t believe my mistress knows you are coming. She is still in bed, I am afraid. . . .”

  “She is not ill, I hope?”

  The hint of a smile twitched on her lips. “No. She stays in bed when she sees no reason to get up. Please, go into the drawing room and I will tell her you ’ave arrived.”

  I was divested of my overcoat and went into a delightfully warm room, reminding me of the first time I had met Zou Zou, or rather Princess Zamanska as I then knew her. At that moment I was at my lowest, sure that Darcy and I could not be married. And she had taken me under her wing.

  I heard her voice now. “Who was it, Clotilde? I hope you sent them away. I have no desire to be sociable today.”

  Then Clotilde’s lower response and then a shrieked, “Lady Georgiana? Why on earth didn’t you say so? Tell her to come up immediately and tell Cook I feel strong enough for some coffee and one of his delicious croissants.”

  Clotilde returned. “Zee mistress says she would be delighted to receive you in her boudoir.” She started to lead me to the staircase.

  “It’s all right. I know the way.” I gave her a smile. “I did stay here once before my wedding, remember?”

  “Of course, my lady. ’Ow is Mr. O’Mara? Very well, I ’ope?”

  “Flourishing, thank you.” I continued up the broad staircase and tapped on Zou Zou’s door. Almost instantly she called, “Darling, come in, please.”

  She was sitting up in bed with her luxuriant dark hair cascading over her shoulders, wearing a pink silk robe trimmed with some sort of fluffy pink feathers. Her face was usually perfectly made up with luscious red lips, but this morning she was as nature had made her—which was still close to perfect. I was never sure how old she was. At least forty, although her skin was still without a wrinkle. She reached out an elegant white hand to me. “Georgie, darling. Just the tonic I need for a beastly day. Honestly when the weather is like this it’s simply not worth stirring. If I could be allowed to fly my little plane, I’d be heading for the South of France as fast as I could.” She patted the sheet beside her. “Come and sit down and tell me everything. Is there a special reason for this visit or are you just being kind to an old, old friend?”

  I perched beside her on the bed, smiling. “You are not old, darling Zou Zou. And there is a double reason for my call. The first is to invite you to join us for Christmas. I thought we’d have a little house party, as it’s our first Christmas at Eynsleigh and such a big house ought to have lots of people in it, shouldn’t it?”

  “Oh dear.” Zou Zou gave a little sigh. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to join in the fun, although it does sound heavenly. I’m having Christmas lunch with friends and then I’m popping across to Ireland for the big race meeting on Boxing Day.”

  “Oh, so you’ll be seeing Darcy’s father. How lovely for him.” I tried to hide my disappointment.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling. We’ve several horses entered at the race meeting. I’m hoping for great things. Thaddy’s been working miracles with them. He’s so good at it, you know.”

  So there was hope for those two. I really shouldn’t begrudge them their time together. “So that brings me to my second request,” I went on. “I’ve been meaning to hire a proper cook. We’ve been getting by with Queenie’s cooking for too long, but I can’t have people for Christmas and feed them bangers and mash, can I?”

  Zou Zou gave that delicious throaty chuckle. “But I’m not lending you my chef, my darling, if that’s what you wanted. He is more precious than rubies and he stays right here.”

  I flushed. “Oh no. I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing. I wanted your advice on how to set about finding a good cook. I wouldn’t even know where to start or how to know the good ones from the bad ones.”

  Zou Zou patted my hand. “The best way, of course, is to snap one up when someone dies. But failing that, one of the good agencies. They vet very carefully. I’d try the Albany. They know their stuff.”

  I chewed on my lip. “But won’t their chefs be top-notch and thus too expensive for us? We have some of Sir Hubert’s money set aside for paying a cook but not a first-class chef.”

  “You could always advertise in The Lady.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll try your agency first and, if not, I’ll put the ad in The Lady.”

  At that moment there was a tap on the door and Clotilde entered, bearing a tray on which there was a coffeepot, two cups and a plate of pastries. She placed it on a side table, deftly poured coffee and hot milk into the cups and handed one to Zou Zou.

  “Sugar, my lady?” she asked.

  “One, please.”

  She dropped the cube into the cup, stirred and handed it to me. Then she placed the plate of croissants between us along with a small plate and napkin each, then gave a little bow before retreating. When would I ever have a servant like that? I wondered—then reminded myself that Zou Zou had the funds to pay for the best. It must be nice.

  We ate and drank in silence, Zou Zou dipping her croissant into her coffee and me trying desperately not to shower crumbs across her pristine eiderdown.

  “So who else are you inviting for Christmas?” she asked. “Anyone fun?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “My friend Belinda, of course. My mother, if she’ll come from Germany. Maybe some of Darcy’s friends.”

  “Oh my dear. I’m not sure how many of them are house-trained,” she said, giving me a wicked grin. “But some of his relatives, maybe. He does seem to have oodles of them, doesn’t he?”

  “I haven’t met most of them,” I said. “He did suggest his aunt Lady Hawse-Gorzley.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Devon family, on his mother’s side,” I said. “But we spent Christmas at her house once and people got killed with monotonous regularity. It’s sort of put me off.”

  “Well, it would do,” she agreed. “I expect you’ll come up with a jolly set. What about all those girls who came out with you?”

  “I’ve rather lost touch,” I said, not wanting to admit that their lifestyle had seemed a lot grander than mine—their fathers having not lost their money in the great crash of ’29. I slid cautiously to my feet. “I really should be going if I’m to visit your agency. Come down to see us before you go to Ireland.”

  She took my hand and squeezed it hard. “I will, darling girl. And I’ll bring a hamper from Fortnum’s to make up for deserting you over Christmas.”

  I took my leave and came out into the damp and dreary fog. Actually the weather matched my mood. Zou Zou would have been the life of my little party. On the train up to London I had wondered if it was too early for the decorations on Oxford Street and Selfridges’ windows and realized it probably was. And now I had to face a terrifying domestic employment agency. I made my way out of Eaton Square, up Grosvenor Place, successfully negotiated Hyde Park Corner—which was tricky in the fog—and turned up Park Lane. The fog seemed to be lifting a little as I found Curzon Street and peered at the house numbers until I found the agency. My nerve almost left me when I saw the steps leading to an impressive front door.

  “Buck up, Georgie,” I said to myself. “You are the employer here, not some poor girl from the country come to find a job.” I mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell. It was opened almost instantly by a young man with a neat little mustache and a smart charcoal three-piece suit. “Can I help you?” he asked in an attempt at a posh accent.