Guess Who’s (Not) Coming to Dinner
That afternoon, Clementine and Olive and Archie and his friends took a nuncheon, such as it was, on the terrace, such as it was.
Clementine had been worried about whether there would be anything for her to eat. The kitchen seemed well able to supply bread, but she was fairly certain neither Olive nor Archie would allow her to continue to subsist on bread alone. To her relief, Mrs. MacPuddle served baskets of grapes and peaches along with what she supposed were meant to be biscuits. A curious nuncheon indeed.
It was the biscuits that were the problem.
“My goodness,” Lord Featherfinch said after an unsuccessful attempt to bite into one.
“Indeed,” Archie said, making a face and setting his own gingerly back on his plate after a single bite. Clementine had done the same.
Lord Featherfinch regripped his small, hard puck and applied himself to the task anew. After several seconds of chewing, he asked, “Is that . . . anise?”
Clementine popped a grape into her mouth and surveyed the terrace. The setting for their repast wasn’t much more functional than the biscuits, though it was pretty in a ramshackle sort of way. The stone wall between their party and the overgrown gardens beneath them—unlike the remarkable topiary out front that Clementine had discovered on her morning ramble, the back garden appeared not to have been tended in years—was crumbling.
The ground beneath them was in similar condition, as evidenced by the fact that Lord Marsden, who appeared, saying, “Forgive my tardiness; I lost track of time,” tripped over an errant stone and stumbled his way to the table.
“Beware the biscuits,” Lord Featherfinch said as Lord Marsden took his seat.
Olive said, “I’ve consulted with Mrs. MacPuddle and visited the kitchen, where there is but one maid. No cook. Apparently the master of the house does not keep one, not being ‘of a mind to fuss over his food.’”
“Ah, yes, that does not surprise me,” Lord Featherfinch said. “Sir Lionel lives a life of the mind.” He looked around. “Which perhaps explains the . . . state of things.”
“Where is Sir Lionel, anyway?” Lord Marsden asked. “He seems a rather eccentric sort.”
“He is writing a collection of essays on solitude,” Lord Featherfinch said, “so he has gone away to really immerse himself in the sensation.”
“His giant, understaffed Cumbrian castle in which he lives alone not providing enough solitude for the task,” Lord Marsden said wryly.
Lord Featherfinch shrugged. “He has removed to the Outer Hebrides.”
“Mrs. MacPuddle advises that a cook might be borrowed from a nearby estate,” Olive said. “If everyone is in agreement, I shall inquire this afternoon.”
Clementine contemplated Olive, who had been daintily eating a grape as if this were a perfectly normal afternoon in perfectly normal company and not the day after she’d been rescued from a botched elopement with her sister’s erstwhile betrothed.
Everyone was in enthusiastic agreement with Olive’s plan, including Clementine, because this meant her sister would be able to explain Clementine’s unique dietary requirements to the cook. Olive was always attuned to these sorts of domestic details. Clementine smiled gratefully at her sister before remembering that she was, well, not angry anymore, but . . . something.
Regardless, Olive really was going to make some man a marvelous wife someday. Clementine was thrilled that someone was not going to be Theo.
“Shall we reapply ourselves to these beastly biscuits?” Lord Featherfinch asked, and just as they were about to, a slate tile fell off the roof and landed on the stone floor a few yards from them.
“Goodness!” Olive exclaimed. “This is quite the house.”
“It’s haunted, supposedly,” Lord Featherfinch said.
“Truly?” Olive turned, rapt.
“Yes, it underwent a siege during the Jacobite risings and is reportedly haunted by the ghost of a Highlander called Magnus MacCallum.” Lord Featherfinch lowered his voice. “Did anyone hear or see anything unusual last night?”
“Aside from the topiary garden, you mean,” Lord Marsden said drily, and Clementine had to stifle a laugh.
Lord Featherfinch leaned forward, as if he were about to impart a great secret. “I can’t be sure, but I awakened suddenly from the midst of a dream well after midnight, and I could have sworn I heard bagpipes.”
“But mightn’t you actually have heard pipes?” Lord Marsden asked. “Real ones, I mean, not phantasmagoric ones? Wearequite close to the Scottish border.”
“Hmm,” Lord Featherfinch said, and Clementine had the sense that he was disappointed by this application of logic. “I suppose we shall have to undertake a bit of ghost-hunting to be certain.”
Olive made a delighted noise and Lord Marsden an exasperated one.
