Empty Nest (4 page)

Early the next morning, Mrs. Bugg knocked lightly on the door and, hearing no protest from me, entered with my cup of tea.

“It's a delight to see him again,” she said, “but if only he had sent word, I'd've been more prepared. Adam said nothing to me—I wonder does he even know. The first I heard of it was from Thorne saying I'd better get a cup of tea up to Master Cecil before I see to you. And who's this other fellow? Thorne saw to him, or I'd be even later than I am now.”

She handed me my tea, and I sipped while trying to get up to speed. When she had petered out and busied herself opening the drapes, I glanced at the time.

“You're five minutes past your usual time,” I said. “I'd hardly consider that late.” And she had little to do for me—although I'd grown quite fond of the express delivery of this morning cup of tea, I'd forbidden her from dressing me or running my bath.

Mrs. Bugg bent over to straighten my shoes under the chair. When she stood, I saw she'd picked up a worried expression.

“I'm sorry we'd no other place else for Mr. Peacock than down your corridor. We're not short of rooms, just rooms that are ready. I've spent most of a fortnight getting the lodge in shape for Mr. Addleton's arrival today. Back and forth, back and forth.”

The new estate agent would live in the former gamekeeper's lodge, which sat in a copse behind the Hall and across the fields. The stone cottage had been abandoned for thirty-five years—part of Linus's austerity movement when he had inherited from his father. He had taken on a huge responsibility. The estate—with its twenty-mile perimeter—comprised not only the Hall and the village, but also the abbey ruins, various light-industry sites, two hamlets, woods to manage, and an assortment of small farms.

“It's promising that Linus feels he's at last able to hire an estate agent—the last one retired ages ago, didn't he?” I asked.

Mrs. Bugg took my cardigan, which she had left folded on a chair the evening before, and refolded it. She nodded. “With so many of the farms back in production and more housing needed and not a vacant shop in the village—well, at last there's a great deal of business to oversee.”

Repairs had been necessary for the new overseer's lodge to be habitable—I'd heard something about squirrels' nests in the crumbling chimney and field mice in the cupboards. When the workmen had finished, the baton was passed to Mrs. Bugg to make the small stone cottage a home. She had uncovered several pieces of good, solid Victorian furniture in the attic of the Hall and had them moved to the cottage. She had also shuttled linens and kitchen equipment out, and although I had not seen the interior, I was sure it would be comfortable.

“His Lordship is at breakfast with Master Cecil and Mr. Peacock. Will you join them?”

“No!” I grasped the bedcovers to my chest to ward off even the thought of such a thing. “Thorne,” I said, offering a reasonable excuse. “Thorne will be waiting for me.”

I walked into my little alcove and opened a window and stuck my nose out. A clean, crisp day, the sun drying the dew off the beech leaves as they turned to gold. I'd walk to work. I dressed in my uniform, laced up my trainers, packed heels in my bag, and went off in search of a slice of toast, with a bag of laundry under one arm. I'd start that before I left—I meant to do all my own washing, but like as not, Mrs. Bugg finished it and took it up to my room before I had returned.

When I reached the landing, I heard a voice above me—something about the value of wall coverings. I looked up to the next landing to see Freddy Peacock and Louisa Larkin studying the enormous eighteenth-century tapestry—a rendition of the fifteenth-century altarpiece showing St. George killing the dragon.

Louisa worked at the Royal Oak—one of our two village pubs—but she had many other skills, including tutoring, which she carried out not in an office, but in her large flat above the pub or at a table in the Sudbury library. That's how she'd met her boyfriend, Adam Bugg—librarian and ciderman. Adam, Mrs. Bugg's son, had spent several years renovating an old orchard on the estate, made Bugg's Best, and had offered to host our Cider Day on Saturday.

Mrs. Bugg more than approved of the relationship. She treated Louisa as her daughter-in-law, longed for grandchildren, and did not attempt to disguise her wish that Adam and his girlfriend would hop to it. The couple didn't seem to mind her encouragement, but then, they didn't seem to be in a hurry, either. Louisa continued to live above the pub and Adam in a bedsit in Sudbury.

I watched as Freddy pointed to the saint's lance in the tapestry. He took a step closer to Louisa and said something; Louisa took a step away, turned to him, and lifted an eyebrow before returning her gaze to the wall. From my vantage point I could see Louisa in profile—her slightly receding chin, chestnut-colored ponytail heavily highlighted with gold, and one dimpled cheek. She was dressed in casual brown trousers and a sweater the color of hawthorn berries.

“Good morning,” I called up.

They both looked over the banister and smiled.

“Morning, Julia,” Louisa said, breaking away and coming down the stairs to me.

Freddy followed, and they walked with me to the kitchen. The journey gave Freddy plenty of time for a discourse on the history and value of a carved oak cabinet he'd examined earlier.

When we reached the swinging door, it swung open and Adam Bugg walked out. He had cropped brown hair and a tanned face—not your usual librarian.

“We've just dropped off a load of wood,” Adam said. “Will you let Thorne know?”

“Of course,” I said.

I introduced Adam and Freddy. They shook hands, and Freddy said, “That's me away. I've a great deal to do and such a short time. Adam”—he nodded—“delighted to meet you. And, Louisa.” He took her hand and kissed it.

Adam's gaze went from their hands up to Freddy's face. Louisa rolled her eyes, removed her hand, and tucked it in Adam's pocket.

“And we're set for Saturday, Julia?” Adam asked.

“We are,” I said.

Adam kissed Louisa on the cheek.

“I'll see you later,” she said.

We parted ways, Adam out the kitchen door and Louisa stopping at the sink to chat with Mrs. Bugg. Freddy wandered down the corridor a few steps before peering at a small, dark, and heavily framed oil painting of a river and mill.

“Fascinating,” he said when he saw me watching him. “So good of Cecil to ask me along—I've been eager to see what the old pile holds. Professional curiosity, you know—I'm an antiques appraiser.”

You're a nosy parker, that's what you are. “The Hall is open to the public this afternoon,” I said.

“Oh, don't worry about me, Julia—I'll stay out of the way.”

“No, it's just that if you aren't already busy, I thought you might like to be one of the visitors. I'm sure Cecil has told you loads about his family's history, but the docents are quite knowledgeable, and you'd get a tour of the place.”

“Splendid,” he said. “It'll be a good start.”

I filled in the rest of the sentence for him—a good start at appraising the contents of the Hall. As I took the stairs down to the laundry room, an unpleasant thought flew into my head and roosted in a dark corner—Cecil wanted to take over the estate in order to sell up.

No antique sideboards belowstairs—its bare walls and floor told the tale of the utilitarian life of staff in days gone by. Beyond the small laundry and lining the long corridor were the former servants' quarters and workrooms, now used for storage and most locked tight, and an enormous area that had been the kitchen, divided into sections by a series of stone arches. The only active areas were the laundry at one end and Thorne's rooms at the other end. I had seen them once when I had taken him a cup of tea—they were bright, comfortable, and well furnished. A good abode for a butler.

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. Mrs. Bugg and Louisa had settled at the table with cups of tea. I toasted my bread, buttered it, swept the crumbs into the sink, and said goodbye, walking out the door to where Thorne waited. He had stuffed his trousers into Wellies, wore a heavy overcoat over his dark suit, and a hat that would do a Russian proud. He had binoculars in his hands, and I pulled my small ones out of my coat pocket.

“Good morning, Ms. Lanchester. What do you think?” he asked, his eyebrows, like a tangle of wiry silver over his matching silver frames, lifting slightly. “Will the redwings still be in the hedgerows?”

Since I'd moved into the Hall, Thorne had recalled his boyhood love of the outdoors, and we had fallen into morning walks round the grounds several days a week, during which his face took on a healthy pink hue.

We walked down to the far corner of the formal gardens and out the gate to a semiwild shrubbery, where we stopped in the sun and listened to sparrows chittering.

I glanced sideways at Thorne. “So, Master Cecil returns,” I said. Because, after all, who better to squeeze for information than the butler? Thorne and I had grown a bit closer during our walks, and that gave me the nerve. I needed to get a bead on Cecil's intentions—if he did indeed have notions of selling first chance he got, Linus would need to be told.

“He was a delightful young fellow,” Thorne said. “We're always happy to see him return.”

“And bring along a friend,” I said.

“Yes, Mr. Peacock,” Thorne said, obviously requiring a bit more prodding to offer up anything else.

I looked over my shoulder toward the graveled courtyard in front of the Hall and realized what was missing. “They didn't drive? Did they come out in a cab?”

“No, the gentlemen were driven up from London by a young woman in a small red sports car.”

“A friend of Cecil's, do you think? A girlfriend?”

“I believe that unlikely after witnessing Mr. Peacock's long goodbye to the young woman last evening.” Thorne raised his binoculars and aimed in the middle of a thicket of elder. “There's a great deal to be said for discretion.”

I trained my field glasses off to the right, focusing on a gray squirrel gnawing on an acorn. I wondered if Michael and I had been discreet. He had been to dinner at the Hall a few weeks ago. It had been a merry evening—Vesta and Akash had come out and Nuala had stayed, and we'd had our own quiz night with Thorne as quizmaster. Michael had lingered long enough that the others had gone to bed, and so we had no need of covert operations to get him up to my room. And he had taken care on his way down again a couple of hours later, unobserved by anyone in the household. At least I had thought so at the time.

Our morning wildlife moment finished, I stashed my field glasses in my bag and walked away from the Hall to intersect with an overgrown footpath—a shortcut to the road. Movement caught my eye and I looked back to see Cecil and Louisa standing outside the service door that led belowstairs. Cecil bent his head down toward her and said something, and Louisa replied, putting her hand on his arm and shaking her head. I squinted between holly leaves, turning my ear to catch a word, but distance and my inability to read body language only left me full of questions about their exchange. Friendly? Intimate? Furtive? And how did they even know each other?

I set aside speculation of intrigue at the Hall and instead concentrated on my anxiety about the afternoon's meeting. I arrived at the TIC at five minutes till ten o'clock, unlocked the door, and turned the sign to “Open,” standing for a moment to see the tourist center as the estate agent or Cecil might.

The TIC had started its life early in the year as an empty room—the size of the rest of the small shops along the high street. A counter cut the area in half—in front we had racks of leaflets, a small shelf of local books, posters of places to visit on the estate, postcards, and a tray of bits and bobs. We sold only key chains and magnets with an image of the Hall—we weren't in the retail business. Our shop window displayed images of local scenes and promises that we could recommend the best restaurants, day-tour itineraries, and spots to picnic or camp. The loud but unspoken message was that the Fotheringill estate embodied everything a visitor might desire.

Behind the counter we had a desk with laptop—the printer sat at our feet—a counter with electric kettle, and sink, with shelves above and tiny fridge below. Our loo—about as large as those on an airplane—was at the back. Taking up the bulk of the workroom was a small table and two chairs. I retrieved the other two, which we kept stacked in a corner, switching on the kettle as I passed.

My walk had inspired nothing to describe—or defend—the concepts and policies of the TIC. If Addleton or Cecil sensed my weak spot, they'd be on me about my grand plan for tourism like a bullfinch on a flower bud.

The big picture wasn't my strong point. Michael had taught me—was still teaching me—about how to think on a large scale. Summer suppers in the village, the Christmas Market, Boxing Day Bird Count—these ambitious ideas scared me to death, but I had dived in headfirst, and as the summer supper had gone so well, I'd kept on. But the truth is, I'm more comfortable being the detail person. My sister, Bianca, says that Michael is like those ancient Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland films that our American mum loved to watch. Michael would be the one to say, “Let's put on a show!” while I'd be off to the side sorting out how many chairs to hire for the audience.

I wasted the morning dusting the front window and counter while a tightness developed in my chest and I found myself short of breath. I took a walk at lunch down to the corner shop and bought a sandwich from Akash to clear my head, but when I returned to the TIC, I left the sandwich on the counter and began rearranging our racks of leaflets. When the bell above the door jingled, I jumped, and a stack of
Vikings—Marauders or Model Citizens?
scattered across the floor.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” Vesta said, setting her bag down and joining me on the floor to gather leaflets.

“I had no idea it was so late.” Vesta's arrival meant that Linus and company would not be far behind. “Vesta, I'm not sure I'm up to this—the new estate agent and Cecil both are coming with Linus. I'm afraid they'll expect some polished sales presentation.”

The Vikings restored to their slot, we went to the back, where Vesta unloaded her bag—including two bottles of Bugg's Best—and noticed my sandwich, still in its wrapper.

“You've not had lunch? Don't you want a bite before they arrive?” She got out four teacups and set them on the counter. “I don't think you have a thing to worry about—they'll be impressed with the breadth of your activities.”

“Do you think we should have a mission statement?”

Vesta wrinkled her nose and her pearly frames levitated slightly. “Seems a bit corporate, doesn't it? And what would we say—‘The mission of the TIC is to make you enjoy yourself, so get to it'?”

I snorted with laughter, but choked when the bell jingled. Linus, dressed in his usual tailored tweeds and still sporting his trouser clip, led the way, wheeling in his bicycle and leaning it against the wall. Cecil followed, wearing British country chic—leather elbow patches on his flannel-lined canvas jacket, and sharply ironed seams. Last came the estate agent.

He was taller than Linus but not quite reaching Cecil's height, in his mid-fifties with mostly brown hair in that shade that might've been blond when he was younger; short on the sides, it had a distinct wave on top. He had well-defined cheekbones, a thin nose, and a weathered look. Not a bad-looking man, only a quite serious-looking one. His canvas trousers were soft and well-worn, his clean boots polished but broken in, and his sheepskin coat retained a dried leaf or two.

Rushing out from behind the counter, I slapped a smile on my face that I hoped didn't come across as maniacal. My heart rose in my throat, causing my voice to squeeze out with an accompanying unpleasant quaver.

“Hello, good afternoon to you all.”

Linus took off his helmet and said, “Julia, may I present Geoffrey Addleton, our new estate agent?”

I put my hand out and swallowed a small cry, surprised at his firm grip and the rough calluses pressing against my palm. “Mr. Addleton, I'm happy to meet you.”

“Ms. Lanchester,” he replied, nodding.

“Where were you working before this?” I asked.

“Dorset.”

His gaze was unflinching, as if daring me to ask more. “The entire county?”

He squinted one eye at me. “No, at a house near Beer Hackett—a few miles from Yeovil.” He stepped back and took in his surroundings. “A good space here—it would bring in a fair rent if it were let as a shop.”

And I was turned out on the street? I gave a tinny laugh.

“Isn't the tourism center partially funded from the Heritage Lottery Fund?” Cecil asked.

“Yes,” I said, surprised that he knew. “We have a two-year grant. And I hope that the TIC can benefit the estate more than the rent from a shop would. Please, come through and sit down.” I gestured to the back and introduced Vesta.

They settled at the table. Linus had an encouraging smile for me, bless him—Addleton and Cecil offered nothing. It was quite close in the back, with three men and Vesta and me.

“I thought we'd begin today with a little taste of what's to come. On Saturday, Adam will have an old-fashioned screw press for the children to watch, and he'll have the larger press in the cider house going as well.” I turned my back to them, opened a bottle, and began filling the teacups, but my hands trembled and I spilled. Vesta reached over and covered my hand with hers, and I could feel her calm warmth seep through my skin. I gave her a quick smile and a nod before she went out front to keep an eye on the door.

“Here now,” I said, turning to the men with cups in my hands, “is a sample of Bugg's Best Cider, made locally on the estate.”

Geoffrey Addleton looked at my offering. “Are we drinking in the middle of a work day?” he asked.

I plunked his cup down in front of him. “It's a cup of cider, not a fifth of gin.”

Had I said that aloud? I cut my eyes to Linus, who only smiled more broadly as he took up his sample. “You're not required to drink on the job, Addleton, but I for one am delighted for a taste.” He raised his cup to me, and I took up my own.

“I'm not opposed to a drink, your Lordship,” Addleton said, dispatching his own sample in one swallow, “although I'm more of a whisky man.”

Cecil followed suit. “Adam and I used to play in that orchard when we were boys—do you remember, Father?”

“I remember a fair number of scrapes and bruises from the two of you falling out of old apple trees.” Linus, with a distant look in his eyes, smiled at his son before turning to me. “Thank you, Julia. And now, shall we begin?”

With that cue, my nerves stretched to their limits. I sat on my hands so that no one would see them shake. “I'm delighted that you were all able to be here today so that I can talk about our overarching goals and aspirations for tourism on the estate.” I stopped and swallowed.

Linus drew out a small notebook—he always liked to jot down details. Addleton crossed his arms and looked at me. Cecil set down his phone and, with an index finger, pushed it to the center of the table. “You don't mind, do you, Julia, if I record the meeting?”

I stared at the phone, transported to a few months previous when a detective sergeant interviewed me about a grisly murder that had occurred near Marshy End. He had used a phone to record my statement. I lost all ability to take a deep breath and had to rely on shallow panting. “Not at all,” I whispered, then cleared my throat.

Addleton looked at the phone and cut his eyes to Cecil before shifting his gaze to me. “About this Christmas Market.”

All right, here it comes,
I thought, he's going to ask about the concept behind putting on such a large-scale event. Why Christmas? Why a market? I steeled myself for the onslaught.

“Yes, Julia, the Christmas Market,” Cecil said, leaning in. “I'm not sure we'll be able to attract enough quality vendors to make it worthwhile.”

“Lord Palgrave has a point,” Addleton replied.

I jerked my head round to see if another inquisitor had entered the room without my knowing, but then I realized Addleton referred to Cecil. As eldest son—only son—to the Earl Fotheringill, Cecil was allowed to take on one of Linus's lesser titles and should have been known officially as Cecil, Viscount Palgrave. But to many people on the estate—as had been the case with the dinner guests the evening before—Cecil hadn't aged a day since he'd moved away with his mother when he was ten. Most people referred to him as Mr. Fotheringill, Mr. Cecil or—in Thorne's case, Master Cecil—regardless of what Debrett's
Peerage
& Baronetage
said.

“We've seventy food and crafts stalls booked—all businesses based in East Anglia,” I replied.

“What about cars?” Addleton asked with a sideways glance at Cecil.

“Sorry?”

“Where will folk from out of the village park?”

This was a trick. He was attempting to lull me into complacency before hitting me with the hard questions about the philosophy of tourism—if there was such a thing.

“Park? Well, we've a field lying fallow at the southern edge of the village—room for a hundred vehicles. Plus the church car park and a few other smaller sites for a total of two hundred. The Boy Scouts will be car-park attendants. And minibuses will be running from Sudbury on the hour.”

“Where will all the power come from to run the electrics?” Cecil asked.

“The green will become a mucky mess from that many people tramping round,” Addleton pointed out.

“The shops won't want all those visitors trying to use their toilets.” Cecil again.

I lifted my teacup to my lips to hide a smile that developed into a giggle, and straightened up in my chair. If Addleton and Cecil wanted to know about portable loos, they'd come to the right woman. I fired back answers.

The barrage of questions lasted almost an hour, until Addleton took a final shot. “Won't the village look like a trash tip at the end of each of the four days of the market?”

“We'll have a roving band of rubbish collectors”—that would be the rowdy boys—“to keep the grounds tidy. Not a stray toffee wrapper will be left.”

The room fell silent. We could hear Vesta finishing up with a visitor.

“Right,” Linus said, standing and rubbing his hands together. “I'm sure you'll agree with me that Julia has everything under control. Now, we've taken up far too much of their time here at the TIC—shall we go? I thought I'd introduce Addleton to a few of our shop tenants, Cecil—you're welcome to come along.”

I stood like a good hostess as the men made their way out the door. Cecil, last to leave, hesitated.

“Julia,” he said, lifting his chin so that he could look down his nose at me, “I would like it if you'd be sure to include me in your decision-making process about these events. I do want to keep abreast of the estate's business ventures.”

“Of course, Cecil,” I said. “I could email you updates.”

“No, there's no need for that. We could meet on a regular basis, each day perhaps. Briefly—I wouldn't want to take up too much of your time.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling through clenched teeth. “I'd be happy to do that.”

Vesta and I watched as the three made their way down the pavement—Linus wheeling his bicycle—before stopping in front of Three Bags Full, the wool shop.

“There now,” Vesta said, retreating to switch on the kettle, “I'd say they were impressed with your plans.”

I followed her and rummaged in our basket of open biscuit packets, found the chocolate digestives, and started in on one before replying. “As long as they don't get two doors down and say, ‘Hang on, we forgot to ask about that mission statement.' ”

Vesta dropped tea bags into our mugs. “Mr. Fotheringill—Cecil—acts as if he has something to prove. Perhaps he's worried he won't live up to his father's expectations.”

Soon after I had first met Vesta, I'd learned she had a talent for seeing through my own defenses, but with Cecil she might be a bit too generous. “Or he just wants to lord it over us—literally.”

“Do these belong to Willow?” Vesta asked, nodding to a shoe box on the counter that held several trays of watercolor paints—mostly used up—a handful of brushes, and a stack of art paper, wavy from the damp.