“Arrggghhh, it touched me! Cold as the grave! I’m done for, so I am!”
Well, yes, his hands were rather chilly as he’d no gloves, but he brought her quivering fingers to his stubbled cheek.
She stilled.
Arched her neck.
“I never thought a spectral so-and-so to have stubble.” Her fingers dragged to his chin. “Wink with your right eye.”
A smile broke. “You know I was never able to do that, Mrs P. It’s me. Tristan. I’m ho–”
“Home!” And he was enveloped in a hug so fierce, he swore he heard a rib crack. “Where have you been?” she wailed into his borrowed greatcoat.
“Ireland.”
She ceased wailing and gazed up. “Ych a fi!What in Saint David’s barnacles were you doing there? They jibber-jabber gibberish over there, they do.”
“I don’t know, Mrs P. They pulled me from the sea and I’d forgotten…everything. My name and my…life.”
She drew back and dabbed at her eyes with her black apron. “I always said you weren’t dead,” she muttered. “Knew it in my bones, I did.”
Tristan felt his lips curve. “You just thought I was a spectre, Mrs P.”
“That’s as maybe, young Lord Tristan. But I can still paddle yourpen olfor insolence, although I’ll feed you up first, so I shall.” The housekeeper narrowed her eyes, her matriarchal instinct to care for them all compelling her to prod at his chest. “You feel like a chunk of old mutton – all bones and no meat. And your hair’s too long.”
“You always did know how to make me feel better, Mrs P.”
She blew her nose on her apron. “Oh, here’s me gibbering on when… There’s a small gathering tonight. Everyone’s in the drawing room. You’d best go in.”
“I thought…” Tristan swallowed, heart rushing like fishermen throwing lobster pots. “Maybe…it would be better if I…went to the kitchens and you brought my family down. One by one. It would be less of a shock for…”
Bony hands settled on bony hips. “Do you remember, Lord Tristan, when you fell in that rose bush and wished the thorns could be plucked out all at once instead of one by one?”
He quirked a brow. “Are you calling my family thorns, Mrs P?”
“In you go! You’ve missed so much what with being dead but now you’ve returned.”
Tristan nodded but wasn’t quite sure all of him had yet returned, would never be whole.
To the housekeeper’s clamorous rattle of the knocker, an unfamiliar butler opened the door, his surprise as to the occupant of his doorstep ruffling his brow for the briefest of moments.
A woman’s song from within the house cut the wintry air, suffusing him with warmth as the lilt of her ancient Welsh words glided to a close.
“That’s Lady Gwen.” Mrs Pugh sidled a glance. “She’s here for Advent and Christmastide.”
“Is she? It will be good to see an old friend.”
With nose scrunched, Mrs P scrutinised him oddly. “Hmm. You still have some mending to do, don’t you? But hog lung stew will set you right.” And she patted his arm. “Morgan,” she declared to the butler. “This is Lord Tristan Cadogan. Who isn’t dead after all.”
Tristan hoped against hope that would not become his customary introduction from henceforth.
“My lord.” The butler bowed but managed the astonishing feat of also retaining eye contact. “One’s family is gathered in the drawing room. If I may?” And without requiring of an answer, he embarked upon divesting Tristan of his sack, hat and greatcoat.
It felt most peculiar, after so long, to be tended upon, and Tristan grabbed a hold of his scarf as it began to be unravelled by the competent Morgan.
“I need it…for my throat.” A lie. But it hid the scar above his nape which was likewise missing a patch of hair. He looked like a fugitive sheep from the shearing shed. “And Morgan… There’s no need to announce me.”
“As you wish, my lord.” With a nod from the butler and another narrow-eyed glance from Mrs Pugh, he was ushered down the hall.
