“Cottage pie. It’s for dinner later,” the lady answers, putting aside her mixing bowl.
“I can’t even remember the last time I had cottage pie,” I reply and she gives me a warm smile. I might not go in for being waited upon, but I could certainly put up with being cooked for if it’s as delicious as it smells.
“Do you want something now, you must be hungry? Can I make you a sandwich?”
“Yes please.” I nod. I often either forget to eat or can’t be bothered. I don’t usually eat much anyway, but I am hungry now. Perhaps it was the dose of country air this morning.
She places a plate with a very modest looking cheese sandwich on it on the table, and I’m quite relieved. I was half expecting something fancy and unrecognisable, but cheese is perfect.
“I don’t suppose you have any Branston, do you?” I ask, and a minute later a jar appears along with another smile. I spread a generous amount on my sandwich.
“Here you go, sir,” Jones says, putting the mug of coffee down in front of me.
“Thank you, and you can stop calling me sir.”
“Oh! Would you prefer my lord?” he asks. I glance up at him, and instead of the sarcastic look I expected, I see a deep frown. It was a genuine question.
“No, if anything that’s even worse. I don’t want to be called anything like that, just Kai will do.” His look tells me that he’d rather die than do that, and I sigh. I might have lost that battle. I turn my attention to my coffee, ready for some much needed caffeine.
I take a swig and nearly spit the whole thing back out. It’s probably the worst I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve drunk some pretty disgusting coffee in my time.
“Is there anything wrong, sir?”
“That’s . . . that’s . . . barely coffee,” I sputter, and I take a bite of my sandwich to try to remove the awful taste from my mouth. I swallow it down feeling marginally better. “Don’t you have a coffee machine? Or even a decent instant? Whatever that was, it tasted like it had been ground last century and made with river water.”
Jones just stares at me, his jaw set and his frown even deeper.
“We’re all tea drinkers here. Can I make you a tea or hot chocolate?” The lady breaks the silence.
“Hot chocolate please,” I reply. I’m not much of a tea drinker myself. Jones turns on his heel and leaves the room, like he can’t stand the sight of me. I sigh again. It’s going to be a long couple of months at this rate.
“I don’t think he likes me,” I say as she replaces my mug with one full of hot chocolate.
“It’s not that, he’s just worried.”
“What about?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink. It’s much better.
“He was the seventh earl’s butler for thirty years, long before I met him. It’s all he knows how to do. This is a time of change for him. With you selling the place he knows that the chances of finding another position are slim. Nobody wants butlers any more. He loves it, though, he gets a sense of pride out of the job. He sees you asking him not to call you sir as a rejection of the old ways, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t move with the times, but he feels it keenly.” She picks up an apple and starts cutting it into slices, arranging them in a dish. I don’t know how to answer that right now. I haven’t really thought about the impact my uncle’s death would have on those who’ve worked for him for so long. Instead, my mind snags on one thing.
“You say before you met him. Are you married?”
“Twenty years last July.” She smiles broadly. “I was trying to set up my own business, baking pies, savoury and sweet ones. We met at a village fete where I had a stall. The old cook here had left and Bob had come to buy some to tide them over. When the earl tried them he told Bob to track me down and offer me a job. I readily accepted. I prefer making the pies to tryingto market them. Seems Bob couldn’t resist them either, and we were married a year later.”
It’s a lovely story and I find myself smiling as she tells it. I finish my sandwich as I push the plate away.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I know Mr Nagle read it out the other day when we heard the will, but forgive me if I wasn’t in a state to take it all in.” I only knew Jones as Mr Nagle had referred to him directly.
“It’s Martha, dear,” she says, and I’m grateful she doesn’t add a sir. It seems she doesn’t have the same problem Jones, or ratherBobhas.
“And please, can you tell me about the other staff so I don’t look awkward in front of them too?” I ask and receive another smile. She comes to join me at the table, taking a break for a few minutes as she goes through the list explaining who everyone is and how long they’ve worked at the hall. They’ve been here the longest. Simone fifteen years, Jordan and Jason around eight years, and Courtney for a couple of years, since she left school at eighteen.
“Isn’t it curious that you’re related? Not all of you, but you and Mr Jones are married, then there’s a mother and daughter and also two brothers?”
“Well, we feel like a big family most of the time, but I know what you mean. The earl would only have people working here he could trust implicitly. Your uncle was a very private man and could only tolerate people who wouldn’t gossip.”
“About what?” It’s not the first time something mysterious has been alluded to. She rises from the table and takes my empty plate and mug to the sink. I realise I’m not going to get anyanswers from her. Jason wouldn’t give me any information either. Well, they’re definitely trustworthy, they won’t even give away anything even after his death. But the fact my uncle had secrets intrigues me, and I decide to see what I can find out myself. I can do it as I explore the hall.
I wander from room to room, trying to create a mental map, while marveling at the huge paintings and tapestries as well as the antique furniture. I try a few drawers in some of the bureaus I come across but find nothing that will help me on my quest. But then, I didn’t expect it to be that easy.
