Page 10 of Christmas All the Way

She moved back and beckoned them over the doorstep. Keeley found herself in a cool, dimly lit hallway panelled in dark wood, with a black-and-white tiled floor and a wide, curving staircase at the far end. It was quiet, once the heavy front door swung shut and blocked out the city beyond; the only sound was the tick-tock of a majestic grandfather clock that stood at the foot of the stairs. Keeley took a breath and let it out, allowing the hush to roll over her, and wondered if she was imagining the thrum of expectation in the air, the sense that something, perhaps the house itself, was breathing along with her. She glanced at Xander, wondering if he noticed it too, and saw he was studying her, a half-smile playing around his lips.

Beside them, Poppy stirred. ‘You know your way round, Xander, so I’ll leave you to it,’ she murmured, then flashed an almost nervous look Keeley’s way. ‘I really hope you enjoy it.’

With a final nod, she hurried along the hallway and disappeared through a door in the well of the stairs. Xander raised his eyebrows. ‘Ready?’ he asked Keeley, who nodded. ‘One last thing before we start – Delores was a great believer in letting the stories of the house speak for themselves, and recommended visitors spoke as little as possible as they moved from room to room. Are you okay with a silent tour today?’

Once again, Keeley felt a faint shift in the atmosphere, the barely there suggestion of a quietly drawn-in breath being held in anticipation. ‘Of course,’ she said, trying to rein in her imagination. ‘Lead the way.’

The first room they entered was through a door on the right of the hall, and had clearly been dressed as an eighteenth-century dining room. It was dominated by a large, oval table, surrounded by ornate, silk-padded chairs, and laden with food and drink. Plates were filled with ripe grapes and cheese, although some appeared to have been abandoned part way through eating, and glasses glistened with ruby wine. A Baroque melody rumbled quietly in the background, overlaid by the discreet sounds of a meal being taken: the chink of cutlery, a murmur of voices, the faint tinkle of bell-like laughter. Somewhere nearby, a man cleared his throat and the sounds faded, leaving only the unobtrusive meander of the harpsichord. Keeley stood transfixed in the doorway, her gaze roving the room, admiring the exquisite attention to detail and obvious care that had been taken in setting the scene. Her impression was that she was the invisible observer of the family in whose home she stood, peeping through the veil of time to catch a glimpse of their daily lives, if not the family members themselves.

They were wealthy, she thought, moving nearer to the table and studying the half-carved roast in the centre, the assortment of fruits and other expensive treats. Now that she was closer, she could see that the food was real and the realisation drew a small gasp of surprise. How often did it need to be replaced? She made a mental note to ask Poppy later. She wandered away from the table, turning her attention to the paintings that adorned the walls. One was a portrait of a stout, red-cheeked man in a luxurious brown periwig, standing proudly beside a handsome black hound. A discreet brass plaque declared him to be Jerome Lestrade and it was dated 1751; there was no mention of the dog, which Keeley thought was rather a shame. The neighbouring painting was a landscape, the richness of the colours dulled a little with age but still recognisable as a French village scene, and Keeley recalled Xander had mentioned the house had once belonged to Huguenot weavers who had emigrated from France. Perhaps this painting was a reminder of the home they had been forced to leave behind in the face of religious persecution.

Moving around the table, she felt her shins suddenly grow warm and was surprised to see a fire glowing in the hearth. At Juniper Cottage, they rarely lit the fires in summer but she had to admit that it lent an authenticity to the scene, as well as lacing the air with a hint of coal and wood smoke that mingled with the heady scent of cloves and oranges. A rich family would take pride in showing they were able to afford to burn fuel all year round, she supposed. Propped against a candlestick on the mantelpiece, she spotted a gilt-edged invitation to a ball at Blandford’s Assembly Rooms, addressed to Jerome Lestrade, Esq and family – another sign of the family’s respectable position in society. Keeley reached up to run a finger over the curved black lettering, before recalling where she was and thrusting her hand into her pocket. She doubted the invitation was old – very few of the flourishes on display were, for all they were authentic to the period – but she had far too much professional respect for the hard work that had been put in to create the exhibits to overstep the mark.

She was so drawn in by the attention to detail that it was only when a floorboard creaked loudly over by the window that she remembered she was not alone. Glancing across the room, she saw Xander looking apologetic. The sight of him pulled her back to the present and it occurred to her that she had no idea how much time had passed since entering the room. The background sounds had changed, the harpsichord had been replaced by a gently tinkling piano and, beneath it, she caught the faint tread of footsteps, as though the family were moving around the rest of the house. It was all so well done, she thought in admiration, and realised she was eager to see what the other rooms held. She drifted towards the door, assuming Xander would understand she was ready to explore further. He did, directing her along the hallway to the next door.

This room was smaller and had all the trappings of a gentleman’s smoking room. The décor was rich burgundy; lush silk drapes shaded the window, giving the room a more intimate feel, and the wallpaper was dotted with gold fleur-de-lys. Two chairs stood at odd angles to a small card table, as though pushed back in haste, and a third lay on its side. It appeared the card game had been abandoned partway through; hands had been thrown haphazardly onto the table and the wine goblets were only half drunk. The scent of tobacco floated above the smoke from the fire, and Keeley discovered a table in one corner that held a bowl of loose brown leaves and a partly filled polished pipe. She bent to breathe in the aroma, delighted all over again that this sensory aspect had not been neglected. There was no music, simply the ticking of a carriage clock on the mantelpiece, beside which she found several IOU notes addressed to Jerome Lestrade tucked behind delicate porcelain ornaments. It seemed he was a skilled gambler as well as a successful weaver.

From the hall, a narrow flight of stairs led down to the kitchen. Light filtered dimly through an uncovered skylight window in the far wall, and Keeley was once again struck by the uncanny sense of the room having been inhabited just moments before she and Xander entered. A rolling pin lay upon the kitchen table, beside a thick roll of pastry and a pie dish. Covered bowls sat at one end and it was all Keeley could do to resist the temptation to lift the checked cloth and peek underneath. A tall cone of sugar took pride of place beside a bowl of unpeeled fruit – another clue to the wealth of the Lestrade family, because sugar was not cheap. The dresser against the wall was crowded with jugs and tiny cups, with rows of a blue-and-white dinner service propped behind, while blackened pots and pans hung above the range in the fireplace. The air was rich with the sweetness of steeping fruits, causing Keeley to wonder whether the cook was in the middle of preparing a plum pudding for the evening meal. The thought made her mouth water. Perhaps she might treat herself to something fruity from M&S when she returned to the station.

Back in the hallway, the polished wooden staircase was lit by a shimmering chandelier and led to a sumptuous bedroom with an enormous, silk-draped four-poster bed, its sheets and counterpane rumpled from sleep. Several dresses hung from frames and a dressing table in a corner by the window held a matching hairbrush and mirror set, along with a cluster of stoppered glass bottles that Keeley guessed might contain perfume. But it was the unexpected discovery of a purring cat in the middle of the bed that delighted her the most. At first, she assumed it was stuffed, but then it yawned and stretched and began to groom its back legs. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed softly, drawing Xander’s attention.

‘That’s Ebenezer,’ he whispered, reaching out to rub the cat’s head. ‘He’s the Lestrade family cat, feared by mice up and down Folgate Street.’

Keeley nodded in reply, smiling as she watched Ebenezer lick his fur with complete disregard for their presence. It was another perfect touch, although she suspected he might wreak havoc in the dining room below. She was willing to bet he was quite firmly removed every time he tried to enter.

The room beside the bedroom was a nursery, bedecked with dolls and wooden toys and containing a small bed as well as a silk-covered cot. Nursery rhymes played in the background, overlain with the sound of giggling and the occasional muted wail of a baby. From there, Xander waved her up another flight of stairs. The rooms on this floor were a stark contrast to those below. Bare floorboards creaked underfoot as they explored by the light of flickering lanterns hung on the walls. There were no heavy silk drapes at the windows; indeed, the sound of the wind whistled around them as though squeezing through gaps in the frames. Nor were there comfortably upholstered chairs, ribboned dresses or tables laden with food and sweets, and the hearth was black and unlit. These were the servants’ quarters and the difference between the lifestyles of the affluent Lestrade family and those who served them could not have been more marked, although Keeley knew positions in a household like this would have been highly sought after. The unexpected change of tone made her feel slightly melancholy, as though she had somehow broken the spell of gentility to reveal the reality beneath.

But wasn’t that exactly what a good recreation of the past should do – to encourage its audience to reflect upon more than one side of the story? The house was less a museum and more an immersive art installation but Keeley could see what Delores Semple had been aiming for. It was a snapshot of life in the eighteenth century, perhaps even a celebration of the skills those refugee Huguenot weavers had brought to the city, and it was done to perfection. Keeley had no doubt she could begin her tour all over again and find fresh treasures and other hidden delights to admire in every room. It was, she concluded, a wonderful feast for the senses. Delores had been right about the silence, too; it had only made the experience more magical.

She turned to find Xander watching her from the doorway, his expression unreadable. ‘Ready to go back downstairs?’ he asked, his voice startling in the hush even though he hadn’t spoken loudly.

Keeley nodded. ‘Ready. I hope Poppy is happy to answer questions because I have around a million.’

He grinned. ‘I thought you would. Let’s go and find her.’

She assumed that much like at Juniper Cottage, there were areas of the house that were off limits to the public. Xander tapped on the door Poppy had disappeared through when they had first arrived, and it was opened after a few moments to reveal Poppy. ‘So?’ she asked, eyeing Keeley with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. ‘What did you think?’

‘I loved it, of course,’ Keeley said, keen to reassure her. ‘It’s all so thoughtfully done, nothing is out of place or anachronistic. In fact, it’s practically time travel.’

Poppy clapped her hands, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, that’s exactly what I hoped you’d say. Although Delores wasn’t above the occasional in-joke. There are a few hidden Easter eggs hidden around the house if you know where to look.’

‘I can imagine,’ Keeley said. ‘There’s so much detail that it would take three or four visits to take it all in and even then, I bet I’d miss things. But tell me, how do you keep the food from spoiling?’

Poppy launched into a detailed description of the preservation process the edible exhibits underwent, while Keeley nodded along. ‘Some things, like the tobacco, are simply refreshed every few days to make sure they smell strongly enough. We use the same supplier Delores chose – they’ve been in business for almost four hundred years, although they only sell online these days.’

‘You should come back at Christmas,’ Xander put in. ‘The whole house is decorated and the meal in the dining room becomes a festive feast that includes a whole goose.’

Keeley’s eyes widened at the thought but Poppy laughed. ‘There I have to disappoint you. The roasted goose is a painstaking imitation of the real thing, mostly to prevent Ebenezer from stealing it.’

‘Yes, I was wondering how you stopped him wrecking your displays but I suppose the preservatives put him off.’

‘That, and the fact that he is extremely spoiled and well fed by everyone who works here,’ Poppy said wryly. ‘Technically, he lives next door but his owners are out at work all day and we’ve given up trying to keep him out. Visitors love seeing him about the place.’

‘I bet they do,’ Keeley said, recalling her own enjoyment when she’d discovered the gently purring cat on the bed. ‘Do you have other living characters around, when the house is open to the public?’

‘No,’ Poppy said. ‘Delores was determined that people should be able to interpret what they see for themselves, without being guided what to think. She believed the house would speak to everyone differently, if they were open to listening, which is why we recommend silent visits, although the stewards don’t enforce it during the day.’

Keeley thought back to her own experience, and all the details she might have missed if Xander hadn’t suggested they honoured Delores’ instructions. ‘The silence was wonderful,’ she replied. ‘I loved the background sounds.’