The Last Baronet Page 26

  Down by one of the bridges across the moat Mary could see Tom talking to the pretty waitress. As she watched they sank, by mutual consent, down onto the wall, clearly happy to be in each other’s company. Emily was on her knees at the water’s edge, apparently feeding fish from her fingers. There was laughter. Tony had gone for what he described vaguely as a ramble. (In actual fact he gone to the stables to make the acquaintance of the horse he was to ride the following day, but Mary was not to know that).

  ‘I shall probably go back to work,’ Mary told her Mother. ‘I know that will please you. I shall have to take a retraining course but I know that I have to do something constructive with the rest of my life. The children are no longer dependent and next year Emily will go to university. It will do Tom good to have to look after himself. I may even get my painting brushes out again, but first of all a change of house. Oh yes, most definitely a change of house.’

  Mary’s conversation was suddenly terminated by a veritable tide of exuberant Shih Tzu’s as the family came racing into the rose garden through the archway in the yew hedge with Harry Featherstone puffing along behind taking seriously his promise not to allow them anywhere near the waters of the moat. Spotting Mary, the most affectionate and sociable member, together with the most athletic grey and white Shih Tzu, flew along the gravel path to greet her, the grey and white Shin Tzu landing with a flying leap on the seat beside her, upsetting the casket and causing the top to become detached and a gritty, greyish, lumpy substance to pour onto the ground.

  ‘My mother,’ explained Mary to Harry, scooping her up and throwing her over the roses. ‘She loved gardening and roses in particular, and was a life-long supporter of the National Trust. She adored romantic old houses and never got to live in one. She would have so loved this place and I know this was exactly what she would have wanted.’ Mary Pomeroy lobbed a particularly knobbly, grey chunk cheerfully into the centre of the rose bed. ‘And now I have the perfect excuse to come back as often as I wish.’ And with a final caress for the most affectionate member of the family, Mary walked away towards her children.

  *

  ‘My, now that is a truly magnificent knife.’ Henry Lamb watched with admiration as Rupert sliced rapidly through a turkey breast. ‘It must be extremely sharp to cut through the breast so cleanly.’

  ‘It certainly is.’ Rupert slid two slices of fragrantly steaming turkey breast onto a warmed plate to which he added a moist cake of stuffing, two chipolatas and a bacon roll. He looked enquiringly at Penelope. ‘Will that be enough for you, Mrs Lamb, or can I give you a little more?’

  ‘Oh, good heavens, I couldn’t possibly manage any more than that, Mr Truscott. I have a very small appetite.’ Penelope patted her solid midriff. ‘My stomach is rather delicate. I am a martyr to it.’

  ‘I expect you have a fine collection of knives in your kitchen,’ said Henry Lamb pleasantly. ‘A knife for every occasion? A knife for every purpose, no doubt?’

  ‘We have indeed.’ Rupert lifted Henry Lamb’s portion of turkey aloft on the blade. ‘A good set of professional knives is the first essential in any kitchen, commercial or otherwise.’

  ‘Knives for gutting and boning, I suppose?’ enquired Henry Lamb. ‘Heavy duty knives for butchery? Cleavers?’

  ‘We have all of those, Mr Lamb, and more besides. Would you care for bread sauce for your turkey? Cranberry?’ Side dishes of Brussels sprouts with fried breadcrumbs, pancetta and chestnuts; roast potatoes and parsnips as well as a dish of creamy mashed potato with a well of melted butter on top were set upon the snowy cloth together with a miniature tureen of piping hot gravy. ‘I do hope you will enjoy your meal, Mr and Mrs Lamb.’

  ‘Henry,’ said Penelope when Rupert and his trolley had moved along to the Maitland-Dell table, ‘Henry, may I please have the benefit of your attention?’

  Henry, who had been watching Rupert’s knife slide through Mrs Maitland-Dell’s portion of turkey breast with a faraway expression on his face, looked back at his wife with benevolence. ‘But of course you shall have my attention, my dearest; what is it you wish to say?’

  Penelope looked solemn. She picked up her knife and fork and put it down again. She straightened the napkin protecting her substantial thighs. She said, ‘I have something very important to tell you, Henry. It is difficult to know where to begin.’

  Henry Lamb took a sip of his wine. He smiled sweetly at his wife. ‘Begin at the beginning, my treasure,’ he suggested. ‘It is as good a place as any to start.’

  Penelope’s gaze sharpened. ‘Sarcasm is not helpful at moments like this, Henry. I was hoping for a sympathetic ear.’

  ‘And you shall have one,’ promised Henry comfortably. ‘You shall have two sympathetic ears. What is it, my darling? What have you to tell me?’

  ‘It’s about Ensleigh Gardens,’ said Penelope. ‘I want to talk to you about Ensleigh Gardens.’

  ‘Ensleigh Gardens, my sweet? What is it about Ensleigh Gardens?’

  ‘Before we left home, Henry, I rang the agent and told him we were no longer interested.’

  ‘No longer interested, my beloved, but I thought you were very interested, I thought it was all settled.’

  ‘It is not settled, Henry, that is what I am trying to tell you; that is what I am trying to say. We are not going to retire to Ensleigh Gardens. I have decided against it.’

  ‘Decided against Ensleigh Gardens, Penelope? Not going to Ensleigh Gardens after all? But where will we be going, my love, if we don’t go to Ensleigh Gardens?’

  ‘We will not be going anywhere, Henry,’ said Penelope. ‘We are not going anywhere at all.’

  ‘Not going anywhere?’ Henry looked at his wife in astonishment. ‘Whatever can you mean, my love, not going anywhere at all?’

  ‘What I mean, Henry, is exactly what I said; we are not going anywhere,’ said Penelope firmly. ‘I am not going anywhere with you. I am going to live in a very nice one-bedroom flat quite near to my sister in Tunbridge Wells.’

  ‘A one-bedroom flat in Tunbridge Wells?’ Henry repeated in amazement. ‘But, Penelope…’

  ‘No buts,’ said Penelope. ‘I am going to live on my own, Henry. I would like you to know that I have considered my options most carefully and my decision must be regarded as absolutely final. The matter is not open to negotiation. All of my arrangements are made.’

  ‘But Penelope, my sweetheart, I thought…’

  ‘I know what you thought, Henry, and I realise that this will be a great shock to you and I am very sorry, but I have to be honest and say that the thought of spending the rest of my life with you hanging around the house, messing around with your dusty old books, fiddling about with string and cardboard boxes, is more than my flesh and blood can stand. I just can’t put up with it, Henry, it simply isn’t on. The truth of the matter is that I just can’t put up with you.’

  ‘But, Penelope, beloved, we have always been…’

  ‘We have not always been anything,’ said Penelope sharply. ‘I have always found you extremely irritating. You have always got on my nerves. It isn’t just your books, it is everything about you. I don’t like your ingratiating manner. I don’t like your simpering voice. Your ridiculous endearments set my teeth on edge. I don’t like your silly smile and I can’t stand your hair. I have never liked you very much at all,’ said Penelope with feeling, ‘I can’t think why I married you in the first place. Probably because I doubted that anyone else would ever ask me.’ Penelope picked up her knife and fork.

  Henry Lamb looked at his wife in a speculative manner for a few moments before picking up his own knife and fork. There was a silence for some minutes as the Lambs applied themselves to their turkey which, by this time, was not as hot as it might have been. After a goodly interval Henry Lamb said, in a conversational tone, ‘It’s a funny thing that you should be going to Tunbridge Wells, Penelope, it is a very odd thing altogether that you should have made alternative arrangements, because I have made some alternative arrangements o
f my own.’

  Penelope stopped eating. She stared.

  ‘I am going to live in Suffolk,’ said Henry.

  ‘You?’ Penelope was incredulous. ‘In Suffolk?’

  ‘Oh, I have always been extremely fond of Suffolk, Penelope, I have always had a very soft spot for Suffolk, and I have a few regular customers here, as well you know, my darling. I have taken the lease of a small retail outlet with a one-bedroom flat above at Snape Maltings. What do you think of that, my dearest? What do you make of that for alternative arrangements?’

  Penelope’s jaw dropped in disbelief. ‘You mean you… you’ve already… I don’t believe it! Why Henry, you little worm…’

  ‘Well, I could hardly spend the rest of my life being henpecked by you, my darling, could I? Being nagged and browbeaten by you, Penelope? Being bullied and tidied up and vacuumed around by you, my dearest, I couldn’t face it; it would be more than my own flesh and blood could stand.’

  ‘Well, of all the… and when were you going to inform me of these alternative arrangements of yours?’ Penelope demanded.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t intending to inform you about anything,’ said Henry Lamb in an unruffled tone. ‘I wasn’t going to say a word.’

  ‘You mean you were just going to sneak off?’ Penelope was incensed. ‘You were just going to move out without any explanation!’

  ‘If I had carried out my plan, my precious one, no explanation would have been necessary.’

  ‘What plan? Why not?’

  ‘Because I was going to murder you,’ said Henry Lamb.

  Penelope gave a bark of laughter. ‘Murder me? You! Don’t be ridiculous, Henry. You haven’t the nerve for murder. You couldn’t kill a fly.’

  ‘Well, of course I couldn’t.’ Henry Lamb smiled affectionately across the table at his wife. ‘It was just a fantasy. It was just a pipe-dream. It was just silly old Henry indulging in a little make-believe.’

  ‘Murder?’ Penelope raised her napkin to her mouth to stifle her mirth. ‘You? Why, last Christmas you had to leave the kitchen when I opened the bag of turkey giblets!’

  ‘That was a personal phobia, Penelope,’ said Henry in a wounded voice, ‘and it is a little unkind of you to mention it, if I may say so. I just could not bear to look at the neck. It looked rather like… it reminded me of my… well, whatever it reminded me of, I didn’t like it. It was a most distressing experience.’

  Penelope wiped her eyes with her napkin. ‘Oh, Henry, you are priceless, absolutely priceless.’

  ‘Am I, my darling? Am I really priceless?’ Henry Lamb smiled sweetly at Penelope. ‘Silly old Henry,’ he said. ‘Ridiculous old Henry. What a silly old, ridiculous old, priceless old Henry I am.’

  *

  Mrs Maitland-Dell had invited Harry to join her at the table for Christmas lunch. It was really rather pleasant. The family, having already dined, were lying under the table with paws outstretched front and back (this being another well-documented peccadillo of the breed). The dining room was lovely, the panels between the ornamental plasterwork of the ceiling had been picked out in pale yellow and great garlands of holly and ivy and old man’s beard had been hung on the pale yellow plaster above the polished panelling. The stone frieze over the fireplace (wherein burned a genuine log fire) bore the Rushbroke coat of arms and festive arrangements of spruce and ivy and gilded fir cones twinkled in the light of dozens of creamy wax candles.

  The previous evening Mrs Maitland-Dell had experienced a moment of discomfiture. It had been nothing to do with the ambience, the food or the service, but it had a lot to do with Harry. Mrs Maitland-Dell had taken a chair by the library fire after dinner with the family around her. Harry had dined with Sir Vivian, Len, and Norman and very jolly they had appeared too. Alone at her table Mrs Maitland-Dell had felt quite left out. When Harry had returned to enquire if there was anything she required, Mrs Maitland-Dell had graciously suggested he return to his new found friends until it was time for the family to take the air before bedtime.

  Harry on holiday was a rather different Harry to the one she knew. They had agreed that he should wear his own clothes and they suited him. Relaxed and companionable, he mixed easily. He was quite good looking in a rugged sort of way and in good shape for his age. It had occurred to Mrs Maitland-Dell that Harry would soon be of an age to retire. She wondered what would happen then. The thought of having to share her home with someone else, of having a stranger in the house, was quite intolerable. As if anyone else would look after her, would love and care for the family as Harry had done. She could not imagine it. And as the family members dwindled, as had begun with poor dear Freddy, she would not be in a position to take on new members, to cope with puppyhood, she would be too old herself. Thinking about it, looking across at Harry, so debonair in his tweeds, so manly and friendly, so popular and companionable, she had come to a decision. Rupert had just delivered a tray of drinks to the gentlemen’s table. Mrs Maitland-Dell had raised a dainty hand in his direction. ‘Mr Truscott, a moment of your time, if you would be so kind...’

  Now she said to Harry, ‘I have something to say to you, Harry, and it may come as a surprise, perhaps even a shock.’

  Harry’s first thought was that he was going to be made redundant. Whatever would he do? His heart clenched. Life without madam and the family was not to be imagined.

  ‘This little holiday, Harry, was a very good idea, and the hotel is an absolute find. I must congratulate you.’

  That was it then. Madam was going to stay here, live at the hotel with the family, his services dispensed with. A chill crept into Harry Featherstone’s heart.

  ‘I like it so much that I have arranged to purchase one of the apartments they are going to build in the stable block. I am assured that it will be a very high class development. Obviously the family will benefit by having their own home whenever we come to stay.’

  Harry’s world collapsed round him. He put down his knife and fork.

  ‘I shall keep the house on, of course, but I shall spend quite a lot of time here, all this healthy air, this lovely old house, the beautiful grounds, the wonderful food, the service, the company, all here for us to enjoy.’

  Harry closed his eyes. He felt devastated.

  Mrs Maitland-Dell placed a small hand on his arm, the fingernails coloured a delicate shade of peach. ‘Harry, I am tired of being a widow,’ she said.

  A claw of jealousy clutched at Harry’s heart. So she had managed to find a prospective husband. Not that he should be surprised. There was no doubt that Madam was still a very attractive woman. But how? Where?

  ‘I wondered if you would agree to marry me, Harry,’ enquired Mrs Maitland-Dell.

  Harry was so startled he almost fell off his chair. In regaining his balance he trod on the most venerable Shih Tzu who promptly nipped him on the ankle. ‘Me… but Madam, I’m not… I couldn’t possibly presume… I’m not… I mean…’ Harry said with forceful chagrin, ‘My Dad was a London cabbie!’

  ‘I know how you must feel Harry, but now I shall tell you something you don’t know about me. It is not something the late Mr Maitland-Dell liked to dwell upon.’ Madam’s eyes twinkled at Harry mischievously. ‘My father was a fishmonger in Commercial Road. We lived above the shop.’

  Harry stared.

  ‘He started out as a porter at Billingsgate. After which he opened a shop, and after that another shop. When he had six shops we moved to Highgate. When he went into the food hall at Harrods we moved to Blackheath.’

  ‘A porter at Billingsgate? Really?’ Harry gave a shout of delighted laughter causing a disturbance beneath the tablecloth.

  ‘So what do you say, Harry?’

  ‘Oh. I accept, Madam, gratefully, most gratefully and delightfully.’ Relief washed through Harry, leaving him quite limp. ‘My own dear Madam, I can’t think of anything that would be more congenial.’

  ‘Then I think you should start calling me Clarissa,’ said Mrs Maitland-Dell. ‘And do eat your turkey, Harry, before
it gets cold.’

  *

  Yvonne was delivering desserts to the Pomeroy table. ‘I expect you’ll be going to the hunt tomorrow, Tom, will you?’ she asked him.

  Tom grinned up at her. ‘I expect I will.’

  ‘I’ll see you there, then.’ She went off to help Mavis with a family table from the village.

  ‘I think you’ve made a conquest there,’ said Tony admiringly. ‘Nice little number.’

  ‘You had better watch out for her mother,’ said Mary. ‘She’s the one with the flashing hair slides.’

  ‘Really?’ Tony looked round at the village table where Yvonne and Mavis were collecting up cracker debris. ‘She’s not bad, either. Not sure about the red hair though.’

  ‘Stop letching at the staff,’ Emily ordered. ‘Tom’s got something to tell you.’

  ‘Tom?’ Over her dish of trifle Mary looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to say anything yet, not until I’ve firmed up the details, but since Emily has mentioned it...’ he grimaced in her direction. ‘Funny how some people want you to keep their secrets yet don’t give you the same consideration…’

  Emily tried to kick him under the table but missed.

  ‘Ow!’ exclaimed Tony, ‘what was that for?’ He was not about to make a fuss. The lunch had been delicious. And Tony was in love with the grey gelding. Never before in his life had he seen such a beautiful, noble animal and, what was more, it had seemed to take to him straight away. It had greeted him with a nicker of welcome, had nuzzled his pockets and had allowed him to stroke its neck and fondle its ears. Even Nicola, the girl who had introduced them had said, ‘He really likes you. He never does that for me.’ Tony was thrilled. He had elected to ride to the meet, declining Nicola’s offer to meet him there. Tomorrow morning could not come soon enough. ‘So what’s your news, Tom? Getting engaged to that pretty waitress?’