Empty Nest (3 page)

“I live in the village,” I said, stirring milk into my coffee. “There's a terrace of cottages along the high street. Mine's the one in the middle. It's quite convenient—the TIC is so near.”

“That sounds lovely,” the beard's wife said, smiling as if to point out that I did not, in fact, live in the village—I lived here, with Linus.

“His Lordship is having a bit of repair done to Julia's cottage,” Vesta said.

I hurried to add details. “The other cottages were unoccupied except for the one at the end, and that couple moved in with their daughter in Ipswich. I was the only one that needed rehousing, and Lord Fotheringill suggested I bunk here for the duration.” I hoped this made the arrangement sound like a Girl Guides holiday camp. The beard's wife made no reply.

I didn't like silences—I always felt as if I must fill them. “I'm in the north wing. The turret room. It's lovely.” This was as far away as possible from Linus's suite in the south wing—did I need to point that out? I knew that more than one eyebrow had been raised when I made the move. I kept telling myself not to call attention to the situation, but I had a talent for ignoring my own advice.

My further efforts were waylaid by the appearance of a stranger in the doorway. He looked well over six feet and thin. Some tall men hunch their shoulders, as if trying to shave off an inch or two, but once this fellow had ducked to avoid knocking his head on the lintel when he stepped in the room, he straightened right up again. The light fell across his face and showed a Roman nose and a thick thatch of dark blond hair almost but not quite curly; it just avoided falling in his eyes. He looked to be about thirty—a few years younger than I was. His casual moss-green trousers and chestnut jacket were made for him—literally, I thought. He scanned the group until his eyes rested on Linus, and he smiled—a smile he didn't look fully committed to.

“Hello, Father. I've come home.”

“Cecil!” Linus set down his coffee and crossed the room, his arms out and a wide smile on his face. He stopped short of Cecil, even appeared to step back slightly, as if he'd hit some force field. He held out his hand, and father and son shook. “What a wonderful surprise. Come in—look now, you know most of our guests.”

Linus's face was flushed with pleasure as he led Cecil round the group. I stood up to wait my turn and saw Cecil's eyes flicker my way for an instant. I tugged at my hem.

Most of the guests knew Cecil as a lad—each one laughing and indicating how much shorter he had been at age eight—followed by the businessman and his wife, and Vesta and Akash. He greeted each one with some semipersonal comment or question. It was what I imagined it might be like meeting the Queen—a pleasant nod, a brief exchange. I waited for my moment and hoped I wasn't sweating through my pink lace.

“And now, Julia,” Linus said, resting his hand lightly on my elbow. “I'd like you to meet my son, Cecil.” That was wrong—Linus was doing it backward, wasn't he? Cecil belonged to the house, and so I should be presented to him—but instead, Linus was presenting his son to me, as if I were…

“Hello. Ms. Lanchester, isn't it?” Cecil extended his hand and smiled warmly. “I'm so pleased to meet you.”

I could breathe again—if Cecil didn't mind that Linus got it wrong, then I wouldn't mind, either. “Hello. What a lovely surprise for everyone—and for me, too. I've heard so much about you.” I knew nothing about Cecil, only that he seemed to get into unknown predicaments at regular intervals.

The beard started up a story about Cecil as a lad—something about building a bunker in the dahlia bed one summer—drawing in all the others except for Cecil and me. We stood apart, quiet for a moment, until he said, “Although I've been away, Ms. Lanchester, I do follow what's happening on the estate, and I must say I'm quite impressed at what you've been able to accomplish in such a short time—the outdoor supper, your walking festival event.”

“Thank you—and please, call me Julia.”

Cecil kept his eyes on the earl as he bent his head over and said in a quiet, even tone, “I suppose that means you'll call me Cecil.”

A cold wind swept round me. “Not if you don't want me to.”

He turned to me, broke into a warm smile, and shook his head. “No, forgive me—of course, you must call me Cecil. We are, after all, both working toward the same goal—the successful management of the Fotheringill estate.”

Were we? That was news to me. I had never heard Cecil's name mentioned when it came to estate business.

With everyone attending to the story, no one—except me—saw Thorne appear at the doorway. He held four brown leather bags, one under each arm and one in each hand, which rendered him incapable of walking through the door without turning sideways first. Instead, he stood in the corridor waiting.

“Excuse me,” I said to Cecil, and walked over to Linus, who was in the middle of an anecdote about toddler Cecil and a bowl of custard. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. Linus beamed and stepped back to let me in on the telling. “I believe Thorne needs a word.”

Linus caught sight of his butler and left the group, hurrying to the door. Just as he reached the threshold, a man appeared from the corridor and stood in front of Thorne. The butler stepped back, swaying slightly, and announced, “Mr. Freddy Peacock, your Lordship.”

Freddy Peacock stood framed by the door. He had no need to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the lintel—far from it. He was a stout fellow, looked older than Cecil by a few years, with short black hair that glistened, a creamy complexion, rosy, chubby cheeks, and full lips.

“Good evening, all,” Freddy said, addressing the group as if we were his audience.

“I've brought Freddy with me,” Cecil said from near the fireplace. “Come in, Freddy, let me introduce you.”

I made to rescue Thorne, who looked as if he might topple at any moment. “Here, let me help,” I said, taking hold of one of the cases.

“It's all right, Ms. Lanchester,” Thorne said, tugging back. “I'm balanced.”

“You are not a pack animal,” Linus said. He removed the bags Thorne had secured under his arms and looked at the monogram. “These are Mr. Peacock's?”

“Yes, your Lordship. I've taken Master Cecil's bags up to his room, and he asked me to sort out lodging for Mr. Peacock. Shall I put him in the Mulberry Room?”

The Mulberry Room, named for its view of the enormous tree in the garden below, was down the corridor from my own room. Linus glanced my way, a frown worrying his brow. “No, not the north wing.”

“It is the only room ready for a guest at the moment. Or should I ask Mrs. Bugg to make up one of the rooms in the south wing nearer you and Master Cecil?”

Linus shook his head. “I don't want to bother Sheila this late.”

“I don't mind sharing the north wing with Mr. Peacock,” I said. The bedrooms were en suite, so it wasn't as if he'd surprise me in the bath. I would be at one end of the corridor, and he would be at the other.

Sighing, Linus said, “That's very good of you, Julia. It's just that I didn't know Cecil was arriving—and bringing a friend along. We'll sort something else out tomorrow, if you're sure it won't be an imposition.”

“Not having a conclave without me, are you?” Cecil stood at his father's elbow and flashed a smile. “Here now, Thorne,” he said, taking up the last two cases the butler held and the two his father had set on the floor. “Freddy is well able to carry his own bags. Sorry we arrived without warning, Father. I had thought to ring first, but then I didn't quite get round to it.” He waited, face solemn and eyes wide.

“There's no need for that, Cecil. This is your home,” Linus said.

As I had heard it, Hoggin Hall had not been Cecil's home since his mother and Linus divorced when Cecil was about ten—some twenty years ago. Although at the moment, this grown man looked for all the world like a ten-year-old boy not quite sure of himself.

But with Linus's words, the hesitancy on Cecil's face broke. “Freddy's a friend from London,” Cecil said, appearing to address Thorne and me. “We worked at the Auction Rooms. He was eager to have a look at the French tapestries, and so I asked him along. Where will you put him?”

“The north wing,” Linus said.

Cecil's gaze shifted to me. “I understand you're staying at the Hall, too, Julia.”

“Yes, only until my cottage is repaired, then I'll move home again.”

“Well, it's lovely to have you here,” Cecil replied. I marveled at his magnanimous attitude. I'd lived in the village only since last winter, but I had the impression that Cecil seldom visited. And now here he was, lord of the manor. In waiting. “I'll get myself unpacked,” he said, and headed for the stairs.

“Cecil,” Linus called to his son, who paused and looked over his shoulder. “I'm very glad you're here.” And yet when Cecil continued and Linus turned round to me, his face was washed of color. “Well, then,” he said, straightening his jacket, “I'll just see how Mr. Peacock is getting on.”

No need to worry about Mr. Peacock in a crowd of strangers, apparently. He seemed to know a bit about almost everyone present—or at least about the contents of their houses. “Eighteenth century, isn't it?” he asked the beard. “And you've a Gainsborough still in the family.” And to the baronet, “That Georgian silver teapot of yours went for a pretty penny, now didn't it? You give me a ring if you have another precious piece you'd like to off-load.” The baronet raised an eyebrow, but took the card that Peacock proffered.

Freddy turned to me and—with a wide smile on his face—let his eyes make a quick trip down to my heels and up to my face again. Linus appeared beside me.

“Julia, may I present Mr. Peacock, a friend of Cecil's. Mr. Peacock, Julia Lanchester.”

“It's just Freddy,” he said. With a small bow, he took my hand and kissed it. “Julia Lanchester—enchanted.”

Freddy Peacock was a bit much. I had the urge to pull my hand away, but kept my manners and responded with a nervous giggle. “Very nice to meet you.”

“Thorne will show you to your room, Freddy,” Linus said, gesturing to the butler. “Is there anything we can get you?”

“I wouldn't say no to a sandwich,” Freddy said. “Any old thing—chicken and ham, egg and cress. I do like a sandwich just before bed. Is that something I could get sorted out? I wouldn't want to be any trouble.”

I would've told Freddy Peacock to go make his own sandwich if he was that hungry, but Linus only smiled. “We'll get one straight up to you.”

“Thank you, your Lordship. It's very good of you to put me up. And perhaps a whisky with that?” Freddy hoisted his bags and said, “Lead on, Thorne,” and off they went.

Around us, the party began to dissolve, everyone shaking hands, commenting on the late hour, and edging toward the corridor. The group migrated to the entry, where Thorne, always where he needed to be, stood at the door, ready to deal out coats and hats.

Vesta and Akash hung back. “Do you want me to come in all day tomorrow?” Vesta asked me as she buttoned up. “I could quite do, it's no bother.”

I shook my head. “No, I'll be fine until after lunch. But you could bring along a couple of bottles of Bugg's Best Cider with you. I'd like to have it for the meeting with Linus—it's a fine example of a product made right here on the estate, and as Cider Day is this weekend, I'll be going over the agenda.” Linus had grown to trust my judgment when it came to running tourist activities on the estate, and I knew this meeting was only a formality to keep him abreast of the schedule. Still, it never hurt to have a visual aid.

When the door had closed, Linus, with a glance to the south wing, said good night. A bit distractedly, I thought. I was left with Thorne in the vast, empty entry, dazed at how abruptly the evening had ended. “Well, I suppose I'll be off to bed, then. Good night, Thorne. See you in the morning.”

I pulled myself up the wide stairs, relying heavily on the oak banister as I took the turn to the north wing. I saw a light under the door of the first room, and a shadow moving across the floor, and thought Freddy must be settling in. In my own room, the fire burned low and inviting. Weariness weighed me down. I stripped off my dress and held my pajamas to my chest. Soft flannel for these many weeks I'd lived at the Hall.

Tonight, pajamas didn't seem proper attire for my nightly journey down to the kitchen to make myself a mug of cocoa. Instead, I pulled on a pair of trousers with frayed cuffs and my mum's old, shapeless cardigan, and checked myself in the mirror—I looked as if I'd been dressed from the remains of a church jumble sale. I struck a Marilyn Monroe pose, blew a kiss to my image, and headed downstairs.

Down the stairs again to the front hall. It was in the silence of the night that the Hall impressed me with its enormousness, and when I moved through the front entry, I felt like a mouse scurrying across an empty stage. Two sconces on either side of the door remained on through the night, lighting my way so that I didn't trip over the Axminster rug under the entry table. The original rug had been damaged when part of the Hall's roof collapsed in 1819 after a heavy snow; this replacement had been secured in the 1930s. The lovely peony pattern echoed the flowers in the herbaceous border in June, and had been selected by the current earl's vegetarian grandmother.

Bits of Fotheringill family lore bobbed unbidden to the surface of my mind since I had written out the history of Hoggin Hall for our docents. The volunteers—mostly pensioners from the village—manned the rooms and corridors three afternoons a week when the house opened to visitors. I knew more about Queen Anne–era loos than I would ever want to admit.

I turned toward the ground-floor level of the north wing. Here, below my room—and Freddy's room—was the more pedestrian side of the Hall. Mrs. Bugg resided at the garden end of the wing, in three rooms that had been made into a small flat. She and Thorne were the only staff who lived on-site, with Thorne belowstairs at the opposite corner of the house—the young women who cleaned and the gardeners worked for businesses on the estate and lived elsewhere. Nuala's café sat at the other end of the wing, under the same turret that passed through my room above. Occupying the space between was the Hall's expansive kitchen.

One light burned over the deep farm sink in the kitchen, and the pots and pans that hung from hooks over the range threw odd shadows across the floor. But I needed no other light—I'd been in and out late at night often enough to know my way round. I'd always been careful to clean up, but Mrs. Bugg knew her domain and had sensed my presence after hours. Now, any night I came down, I found a small saucepan, a mug, and the tin of Cadbury's cocoa left out on the counter, leaving only the milk for me to fetch from the fridge.

With hands wrapped round my mug, I retraced my steps, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs when I saw a light spilling out from the library door. I walked over and peeked inside, thinking I should switch off the lamp, and saw Linus sitting close to the fire, leaning forward in his chair with his hands folded, staring into the embers. I thought to back out and leave him to his contemplation, but he saw me and stood.

“Julia, come in.”

“I was just…” I held up my mug, knowing it looked as if I had made myself quite at home despite all my protestations that I didn't live here. “Would you like cocoa?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you. But please, if you have a moment, come sit down.”

My own room called me—my own fireplace, and my phone by my bed. There might be a text from Michael any minute. If I couldn't hear his voice or feel his touch, at least I could see the words he sent me. But I couldn't be ungracious to my host, who looked as if he needed a friend. I sat on a low stool on the other side of the fireplace; the initial heat had dissipated to a comfortable wave of warmth.

“Cecil settled in?” I asked.

“He was on the phone when I went up, and so I didn't bother him.” Linus returned his attention to the fire. He took a breath as if to continue, but instead exhaled with a sigh.

“You must be glad to have him home.”

Linus smiled broadly, but I saw sadness in his eyes. “We've had so little time together over the years,” he said, “I feel as if I barely know him. He would come for his holidays, of course, when he was young—but that's only a few weeks in the summer. And these last years, he's been back so seldom. I mostly see him when I go down to London.”

I thought of Cecil's announcement at the door—“I've come home”—and wondered if there had been other great homecomings that hadn't worked out. “He seems happy to be here,” I said. It was the sort of thing to say when you didn't really know anything of the kind.

“Cecil gets his height from his mother's side of the family,” Linus said, following his own conversation thread. “Isabel's father was quite tall.”

I nodded. If Linus needed to share a list of Cecil's high points—so to speak—then I would listen. “And Cecil works in…antiques? He mentioned the Auction Rooms.”

Linus's smile faded. “He's tried his hand at a few things. Of course, he's the heir to the Fotheringill estate, and I've always hoped he'd become interested in its running, but—until now—he's shown no sign of it.”

“Well, sometimes it takes us awhile to get to where we need to be. Look at me,” I said, holding out my free hand, palm up, “change of career at thirty-seven.”

“It was my lucky day when that happened,” Linus said, the smile returning to his face and crinkling up his eyes.

“Sorry, Father,” Cecil said from the doorway, giving me a start, “just came down for a brandy before I turn in. I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” he said, looking at both of us. His face lacked any expression, but his dark eyes were sharp.

I jumped up. “I was just saying good night.”

Linus walked me to the door. “You are not interrupting,” he told his son. “Would you like to join me in here or take your drink to your room?”

“I'll take it up, if you don't mind.”

I tried to ease myself out the door to escape, but Cecil had put his hands on his hips in a casual fashion and I couldn't get by. The three of us stood as a small group with nothing to say.

“How is your mother?” Linus asked—an obligatory query if I'd ever heard one.

“She's well,” Cecil replied. “Out of the country at the moment. With a friend.”

I did not need or desire the family update. “Yes, well, it's been a long day,” I said.

Cecil shifted and I escaped, but before I got two steps, Linus said, “Julia, do you remember that Geoffrey Addleton, the agent, is starting tomorrow?”

I remembered. For the first time in decades, a full-time agent would be employed to run the business end of the Fotheringill estate. At last, things were looking up, and I knew it was a momentous occasion for Linus.

“You've hired an agent?” Cecil asked. “I didn't know.”

Linus's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, it isn't as if…I've not had the opportunity, but I'm happy to go over the particulars. It would be a great help to get your input on the agent's position.”

And perhaps they could do that without me. “I'm sure it'll all go well,” I said. “I look forward to meeting him.” I'd really have nothing to do with the fellow, as he would occupy his time collecting rents from farmers, sorting out boundary lines, and going over accounts.

“I'll bring him along to the meeting at the TIC tomorrow afternoon—he's quite eager to find out what your goals are for tourism on the estate.”

“Yes, do bring him. What a good idea.”

Great. I saw the easy briefing I had planned for Linus—giving him the rundown for Cider Day and the upcoming Christmas Market—fly away. Now, I'd have to spend my morning getting an introductory packet ready for the agent—perhaps I could just shove a stack of leaflets in his hands.

“I'll come along, too,” Cecil said, shooting my entire day to hell. “I want to make sure I'm up to speed on your plans for the visitors and activities on the estate—your policies and agenda. We don't want to overextend ourselves, do we?”

Our policies? Cecil must've decided to stick his nose into estate doings because he had nothing else going at the moment. Clearly, there were lines of demarcation that needed to be drawn.

“That sounds super,” I said.

Linus looked as if he'd been given an early Christmas gift. “Yes, Cecil, what a fine idea—a fresh pair of eyes to give us feedback. It's just what we've needed, isn't it, Julia?”

“Yes, just.”

My cocoa had cooled by the time I made it back to my room, as opposed to my temper, which had hotted up as I imagined the time I'd waste with Geoffrey Addleton and Cecil. But that anger vanished when I crawled into bed and my phone lit up with a text.

“Freezing here. Doesn't your father believe in hotels?”

I snickered. Much of the filming for Dad's television program,
A Bird in the Hand,
was done at Marshy End, our family's holiday retreat. The cottage sat near the Little Ouse, a river that meandered its way along the boundary of Suffolk and Norfolk, and provided endless possibilities when it came to birds and birdwatching. But not every segment was filmed there—Dad took on the whole of Britain when it came to educating its citizens.

Cumbria was Michael's first on-location filming, and his first taste of how Rupert Lanchester ran the production company: with minimal creature comforts. Dad loved camping, but he knew sleeping rough wasn't everyone's cup of tea, and so he upgraded a notch. Instead of tents, they bunked together in old Boy Scout halls or holiday camps out of season—the more rustic the better. It offered little in the way of privacy for late-night phone conversations. When I had Michael's job as production assistant, I would reserve the rustic sites for the men and book the two or three of us women into a local B&B.

“Wish I was there to warm you up,” I messaged back.

There ensued a string of texts best left unreported—the kind of explicit messages that would make a randy politician blush and left Michael and me in no better condition than when we started. Worse, actually. And filming wouldn't end until after the weekend.