Once they were seated, Martha bustled into the room, muttering absentmindedly to herself. For as long as Alex could remember, she’d served their plates personally, an unnecessary gesture, in his opinion. He bit his tongue and remained silent, having learned not to argue with her skewed logic. Better to go ahead and agree with whatever she said or did and get it over with. She’d win eventually, anyway.
“Evenin’, boys,” she rasped, voice rough from too many years of cigarettes. Alex detested the things, blaming them for his mother’s untimely death. Unfortunately, he’d never been able to convince the formidable Martha of the error of her ways, and though she reeked of her favorite vice, he didn’t pull away when she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly on the cheek.
“Good evening, Martha,” Paul and Alex replied in unison.
The true master, or rather, mistress, of the Anderson abode rounded the table to kiss and hug Paul before uncovering the fragrant dishes and serving their plates.
“Mmm… it smells wonderful. Tell me, Martha, what’s the special occasion?” Paul asked.
“Mr. Anderson told me you boys liked my manicotti and asked me if I’d fix it tonight.” No matter how many years she’d worked for Alfred, she still insisted on calling him “Mr. Anderson” and often reprimanded Bernard for referring to their employer by his first name in her presence.
Kissing and hugging her employers was acceptable in her world, as was rapping a knuckle with a wooden spoon if proper manners weren’t observed by the younger members of the household. However, calling them by their given names amounted to a taboo in her book, a concept thoroughly confusing to Alex. He chose not to comment, merely smiling at her playful teasing. “I always do what I’m told to do… except when I don’t.” She chortled at her own joke.
Ignoring her behavior, as they’d all learned to do, Paul asked, “That’s pretty thoughtful of him, but why would he ask when he couldn’t be here to enjoy it too?”
“Beats me,” the housekeeper said. “He asks, I say ‘yes, sir!’” Even Alex, a seldom visitor, knew her claim to obedience to be stretching the facts a bit. Alfred loved Martha’s cooking and she had reminded Byron of his Great-aunt Lucille, so the household either politely ignored her little quirks or quietly accepted her eccentricities for their entertainment value.
After she’d filled their plates, Martha stepped back from the table, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is there anything else I can be gettin’ ya before I leave ya to your meals?”
“No, Martha, that will be all.” Alex smirked, noticing the wooden spoon peeking from the pocket of her apron. Some things never changed. Beneath the table he rubbed knuckles that still recalled the punishment for hands straying onto the bread platter without waiting to be properly served, though it’d been a good fifteen years since he’d last been reminded.
A sidelong glance caught Paul rubbing his own knuckles, and Alex bit his cheek to keep from laughing. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d occasionally forgotten his manners.
The moment the woman’s ample body disappeared through the kitchen door, the chandelier dimmed and then went out entirely, plunging the room into darkness. Before he had a chance to react, Alex heard retreating footsteps and, a moment later, the strike of a match. A brief flare highlighted Paul’s features as he lit a candle.
The hall door opened and Bernard stepped in, flashlight in hand. “Forgive me, sirs, it seems there’s an isolated power outage. I sent Isaac out to the fuse box to correct the problem. Would you like me to move your meals into the kitchen? It wasn’t affected.”
It didn’t escape Alex’s attention that Bernard arrived a split second after the lights went out. The butler must have been waiting outside the door until the proper moment. Keeping his observations to himself, Alex waited to see how the obviously staged scene played out.
Paul held the candle in one hand while shielding the flame with the other, slowly working his way around the room, igniting wicks, until the soft glow of a dozen tapers washed the walls in warm light. The flickering glow created an interesting play of shadows and light over Paul’s features, painting auburn highlights across his damp hair. A captivated Alex murmured, “No, Bernard, that’s all right. Evidently, we’re to dine by candlelight tonight.”
“If there’s anything further you need, please let me know,” Bernard replied with a stiff bow. He retreated into the hallway, pulling the door closed, not quite succeeding in hiding his satisfied smile from Alex’s watchful eyes.
NOW, how did that happen?It would have been ingenious to manipulate an intimate, candlelit dinner between the nephews, but as much as he’d like to take credit, Byron couldn’t.
He found Bernard in the kitchen, dining with Martha. If Byron could have drawn breath, he would have sighed. Those wonderful meals, lovingly prepared by the peculiar old cook. How many times had he and Alfred dined at the same table where the boys were now seated, enjoying culinary masterpieces crafted by her skilled hands? Ah, to be young again.Or to be alive again.Byron frowned, though no one could see him to notice.
He was passing through the kitchen, literally, when a snippet of conversation caught his attention.
“I must arrange for an electrician tomorrow.” Bernard spoke dramatically, gracing his dinner companion with a conspiratorial wink. “I certainly hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with the wiring.”
“Ah, don’t get your shorts in a twist, Bernie. It’s nothing a flick of the finger won’t cure,” the cook replied with a lopsided smile.
“I beg your pardon?” Had Bernard always sounded so stuffy?Must get his fusty airs from Alfred,Byron commented to himself, snickering. As much as he loved the man, Alfred’s high-brow Boston raising had provided plenty of opportunities for teasing over the years, especially in light of Byron’s own small-town upbringing.
Martha cocked her head to the side. “Did you hear something?”
Bernard failed to hide his annoyance. “No, and neither do you, you deaf old crone. Now, don’t change the subject. What did you mean?”
“Jeez, there ya go again, getting bent out of shape over nothin’.”
“Martha, sometime within this decade, please.”
The housekeeper snorted. “And they wonder why you never married.”
Byron hovered nearby, floating weightlessly in the shadows. He loved a good argument, and the servants’ squabbling provided quality entertainment.
“As God is my witness, woman! Cough it up before I strangle you, killing you from asphyxiation and me from a massive coronary as I attempt to wring the life out of that thick neck of yours.”
