Most of the time Christa was happy in her new lot—she was busy and productive, and she was making friends belowstairs. But whenever she was near Lord Kingsley, she felt an ache of regret for lost possibilities.
Chapter 9
The Kingsley household’s removal to Suffolk was accomplished with reasonable efficiency, and they left scarcely two hours after the appointed time. Most of the staff were being left in London for the summer, but the senior servants traveled with the family. These included Christa, the Morrisons, as butler and housekeeper, Lord Kingsley’s newly acquired young valet, Fiske, and Monsieur Sabine. Many cooks would have preferred a lazy summer in town, but the Monsieur would have taken it as a mortal insult if the family had not required his skills. As with most artistes, his craft was his passion and fulfillment—leisure had no place in his life.
Christa found the two-day trip into East Anglia to be full of interesting new sights. The only parts of England she knew were London and the rolling hills of Berkshire. Suffolk had quite a different character. It was nearly flat—no, not really flat, but gently undulating in a manner subtle rather than dramatic. Windmills broke the line of the horizon and many of the cottages were half-timbered and thatched.
Alex and Jonathan alternated riding outside the coach and sitting inside with Annabelle and Christa. It was Alex who told Christa the story of the town that was eaten by the sea. “Dunwich is not far north of the Orchard. It was a very ancient town, and a prosperous port until the year 1326. Then a great storm swept away over four hundred houses, and three churches as well. Only a handful of buildings remain.”
“Why did the town just fall away like that?” she asked.
“The whole coast of East Anglia is unstable, continually crumbling,” Alex replied. “That’s why there are no long coast roads in Suffolk. The sea kept claiming them, so the roads run from inland points out to coastal villages. That is also why the Orchard is set back from the water and a band of heath land is left along the shore. There is a local saying that the sea is lovely to visit but dangerous to lie with.”
Christa nodded with interest, then pressed her nose to the coach window, eager for a first glimpse of her new home. She gasped in surprise when they emerged from the tree-lined entrance road and pulled to a halt on the circle drive before the house.
“What do you think of it?” Alex asked. “I wager that France has nothing quite like this.”
“It’s perfectly wonderful!” Christa said as she followed the family out the carriage door after the coachman let down the stairs. “A magpie house!”
It was the largest half-timbered building she had ever seen, and a splendid example of the Tudor passion for pattern-making. The multiple gables had a four-lobed design reminiscent of flowers, while the lower structure was herringboned, the whitewashed wattle and daub making a dazzling contrast with the age-darkened timbers. Huge lantern windows were made of leaded glass, and elaborate plaster patterns called pargeting decorated the spaces above doors and main windows.
Christa said thoughtfully, “It is not grand, or even dignified, but it is the mostplayfulhouse I have ever seen.”
Alex chuckled at her frankness; discretion didn’t last long when Christa wasn’t watching her tongue. “‘Playful’ is as good a word as any,” he agreed as he stared at the lively facade of his ancestral home. “It was originally built in the shape of an E, in honor of the great Elizabeth. There have been additions since then, but always in the same style.”
He had not been here in a dozen years, and a curious blend of happiness and unpleasant memories stirred in him at the sight. Alex had spent most of his pre-navy life here, and he fondly recalled riding on the sands, hunting for birds’ nests in the marshes, and learning to sail. Peter Harrington had been his constant companion in those early years, and he had spent as much time at his friend’s house as at his own. They had even shared a tutor before going off to Eton.
But entwined with those memories were recollections of his mother’s periodic depredations as she swept in from London and harassed her servants and children with the casual cruelty of a schoolboy removing the wings of flies. Lady Serena and his father had largely ignored each other except for occasional skirmishes over her spending. However, she had an income of her own and was dependent on her husband only when her extravagance outran her resources.
While Lady Serena was an all-too-vivid memory, Alex’s father was almost impossible to recall, a dim, juiceless figure who stayed in his library or estate office. To his credit, he had left the Kingsley estate in thriving prosperity. Lady Serena’s fortune was added to the total, making Alex a very wealthy man quite apart from the substantial prize money he had won in the last few years. Even after he had established his brother and sister, there would be an intimidatingly large amount left over. He had the family man of business exploring potential investments. He rather fancied himself as the owner of a fleet of merchant ships.
Alex was recalled from his musings as Annabelle and Jonathan started up the shallow steps to the carved double doors of the main entrance. He found himself looking forward to this summer in the country, although he had a few doubts as to whether there would be enough to keep him occupied. A lifetime of naval activity might not be good preparation for becoming a gentleman of leisure.
* * *
Christa liked the low ceilings and rambling rooms of the Orchard even though it lacked the luxury of the St. James town house. The maid’s room in Annabelle’s suite was hardly more than a closet, with plain whitewashed walls and a simple rug hooked out of scrap fabric. It was fortunate that Suzanne hadn’t yet done a major wardrobe for Annabelle for the storage space was quite inadequate.
But there was a light, clean feel to the place, and the old leaded-glass windows looked down into a knot garden that had been laid out when the house was new over two hundred years earlier. The sea lay just over the low ridge beyond the trees that sheltered the house from the wind, and Christa decided to visit it after supper. Annabelle would be sitting with her brothers and wouldn’t need her, and Christa found the idea of a fresh sea breeze irresistible.
By the time Christa had unpacked and sorted Annabelle’s possessions and readied her mistress for an early dinner, she had worked up a proper country appetite of her own. Down in the servants’ hall, she was pleased to discover that the Orchard’s staff welcomed the newcomers with no sign of resentment. It helped that the Morrisons had both grown up on the estate, and hence were not “foreigners.”
Christa was also amused to see how quickly Monsieur Sabine had bullied the kitchen staff into a form acceptable to him. The Monsieur had been regarded with stunned disbelief as he installed his cherished knives, the sacred never-to-be-washed omelet pans, and the ropes of garlic he had brought from London. Mrs. Ives, the modest countrywoman who cooked for the staff when the family was not in residence, had been more than willing to step down in the Frenchman’s favor. As she confided to Mrs. Morrison that night, she knew her cooking “warn’t fit for the gentry.”
The Monsieur had proceeded to put together a divine meal, accompanied by darkly muttered French imprecations. Christa heard some of them as she seated herself at the large oval table in the servants’ hall and could only be grateful that no one else present understood what he was saying. Even the stable lads might have been shocked by his creative profanity on the subjects of the English, the country, the available food stocks, and the local peasants. Nonetheless, the chef did not appear unhappy; Christa had already decided that he regarded grumbling as a superior form of amusement, second only to concocting exquisite new sauces.
Christa and Fiske, the new valet, had been introduced to the other two dozen servants before the meal. It would be several days before she had the names straight, but Christa sensed friendliness behind the faces of these taciturn Suffolk natives.
She was sorry Miranda couldn’t come here for the summer, but the laws belowstairs were immutable—only upper servants traveled with the family. As usual, Monsieur Sabine did not dine with the rest of the staff; he had already taught the junior kitchen maid to serve him in a small parlor that should have been occupied by the housekeeper.
After the meal, Christa excused herself, saying she wanted to walk down to the shore. As she left the kitchen, Mrs. Ives poured a cup of tea and remarked to Mrs. Morrison, “Seems a nice enough lass, for a Frenchy.”
Mrs. Morrison nodded and sipped her own cup of tea contentedly. It was good to be back home in Suffolk, away from the bustle of town. She and Emma Ives were old friends and she had missed these comfortable cozes when they discussed their colleagues and the Quality. “Aye, she’s sweet tempered and willing enough. But she doesn’t have a proper sense of her worth. Treats the scullery maid the same as she does you or me.”
Emma clucked in disapproval of such improper behavior. Greatly daring, the young valet, Fiske, spoke up. “Lord Kingsley is like that—he behaves the same with everyone.”
Both women stared at him until Fiske blushed and cast his eyes down. Speaking in measured tones, Mrs. Morrison intoned, “TheQualitymight forget their proper place, but the likes ofusnever will. And don’t you forget it, lad!”
Completely routed, Fiske muttered an apology and moved to less-exacting company at the other end of the hall. Being valet to the master gave him status in the hierarchy, but he knew better than to tangle with those beldames again.
