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“Indeed. The tour begins through the front door and makes a loop through the former state rooms, which have become receiving rooms, and then through the dining room, the smaller dining room, which is now the breakfast room, on to the morning room, the music room, the library, and then up oneof the back staircases to tour some of the older bedrooms, the ballroom, the portrait gallery, and then back down the Tudor staircase, through the old hall, and then out through the door.
“And all of the rooms are decorated?” Cara asked, struggling to keep up with Mrs. Booth who had no problem chatting and climbing stairs at a brisk pace.
They’d reached the second floor and were now starting up the stairs to the third floor. “Some more than others, but they all have something festive. It’s quite an undertaking but we start early, right around November first, and then are ready mid-November when the first weekend tour begins.”
Cara switched hands on her suitcase as they reached the top of the third floor. The view of the entry and the decorated tree from their vantage point was just beautiful. “How beautiful,” she sighed.
Mrs. Booth paused, her gaze sweeping from the dome above to the stunning marble floor below and nodded. “It is.” She looked at Cara and her expression softened. “And I’m glad you think so, too.”
They walked down a rather narrow hall on the third floor, reaching a room halfway down the hall. Mrs. Booth opened the door, then reaching inside, flipping on a light switch, revealing a handsome room with heavy beams running across the ceiling. The bed was a huge four-poster almost in the middle of the room, with drapes hanging in all four corners.
Mrs. Booth went to the tall thick windows splashed with rain, closed the wooden shutters on the inside and then drew the heavy brocade curtains across them. She pointed out features in the room. “There’s a nice dresser and a wardrobe for your hanging things. And at night because it will get cold, draw the drapes on the bed and it will keep you warmer. It will be less drafty. Mind you, you will feel the chill in the morning when you get up. There is a little space heater over there. You can runit at night if you’d like, but do turn it off whenever you leave the room, and also, keep it far from the drapes at the windows and bed. Don’t need a fire.” She smiled brightly. “All this wood—some of it four hundred years old—is quite dry. It’d go up in a flash.”
Cara made a mental note not to turn on the heater at all. She didn’t want to be the reason the manor burned down.
“We made some improvements on this floor,” Mrs. Booth continued, “and you’ll find that you have your own en suite bath. Many years ago it was a dressing room for the lords and ladies, now it serves a better purpose with plumbing.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Oh, years now. I grew up on the estate. My mother was here, my grandmother was here. We love this place like it’s our own, and the Sherbournes have taken care of us, too, purchasing some property adjacent to the estate so that when I retire, I’m still close. Can’t imagine living far from here. This is home.”
“Do you have children?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Two. My son is in London, in banking. My daughter is also in London and a graphic designer. Kim just married a year ago, and Tony, just a few years younger than Lord Sherbourne, has four children. Sending Kim and Anthony to university was the best thing I did. I’ve been quite happy here, but they wanted more. It’s a very quiet little village, and not for everyone.” Mrs. Booth had turned on the lights to the bathroom, opened a cupboard, pointed to towels. “The water will take a little bit to warm up. Just be patient.”
She returned to the bedroom, moving to a tray on a table in the corner. “Just fill this kettle up when you want to use it. It’s electric, so plug it in, turn it on. You also have a cup and saucer, tea, instant coffee and sugar, and some ginger biscuits, should you wake up in the middle of the night and want something. Butif you make it to morning, do head downstairs and I am sure Mrs. Johnson will be happy to take care of you.”
“Thank you so very much. You’ve been incredibly kind.”
“I’m normally here every day from eight until six, but I’m off soon to London for Christmas, so if I can do anything for you before I go, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.”
“Mrs. Johnson, the cook, arrives at seven, with breakfast served at eight. When you see her later, let her know what you’d like in the morning and she’ll manage it. Porridge, eggs, toast. Lord Sherbourne likes his big breakfast on weekends, on weekdays he prefers a simpler breakfast. Would you want American coffee in the morning?”
Cara wasn’t exactly sure what American coffee was but it sounded like something she’d drink. “Yes, please. But if it’s a hassle—”
“Oh no. Not at all. Mrs. Johnson, before she married, worked for one of the royal families and is accustomed to big groups and lots of entertaining. She always looks forward to Friday when Lord Sherbourne’s family arrives for their traditional holiday meal. December twenty-third is their day together, but Christmas itself is rather quiet here.” Mrs. Booth took a last glance around before walking to the door. “And if you hear rattling or an odd noise, don’t let it bother you. It’s just the old house talking.”
Cara was intrigued. “The house talks?”
“Maybe talking isn’t the right word, but the house does groan a bit, particularly this wing. Lord Sherbourne has the newer wing, but this is my favorite, even if the wind makes things creak. Just know it’s not a ghost—” She broke off, smiled ruefully. “I shouldn’t say that either. But if there are ghosts here, they are the good kind. Friendly and helpful. I have never hadanything negative happen in this place. Indeed, it’s a very happy house.”
Cara didn’t have any idea how dinner would go, but at the same time, she wasn’t particularly worried either. Cara might struggle in some areas, but making conversation was easy for her. As a very little girl, she used to get in trouble for always talking in class, back before kids realized there were smart kids, and not so smart kids. She, with her struggles to read, had been put in the not-smart kid group, and so at school she clammed up, aware that others mocked her for needing special help. Outside of school, she wasn’t afraid of anything—she could run faster than most girls, climb trees that few boys could even climb. She was a good athlete, and adventurous, and she had no problem keeping up with her older siblings, even when they didn’t want her there.
Cara thrived on challenges, provided she didn’t have to read in front of a big group. Public speaking wasn’t her thing, either, but otherwise, she was relatively fearless, and dinner with Lord Sherbourne should prove interesting. She was fairly certain that Lord Sherbourne wouldn’t be the most open person she’d ever dined with, but at least he liked dogs. They could talk about dogs at dinner. She could also ask him about London, since she’d never been there, see if he had any suggestions of things she should do should she return to England. They could also discuss the weather, since they both had experience with rain. And then they could discuss dinner itself. What were they eating, what were they drinking, and so on.
The tepid bath helped revive her. It wasn’t even tepid, it was cold, but it was refreshing and she felt clean and ready for a good hot meal. The food on the airplane had been okay, and she grabbed something at Heathrow between flights—orange juice, a croissant sandwich, a coffee—but a proper dinner would ensure she’d sleep better tonight.
A few minutes before seven, Cara opened her door and headed down the hallway, noting the artwork on the walls, oil paintings, and framed photographs, old photos, charcoals, sketches of the house and gardens. There were photographs of children, too, a photo of a boy and girl in a pony cart, another photo of a boy with an enormous dog, the little boy, leaning on the dog. The photos looked as if they were from over one hundred years old, hard to know the time, but the clothing was sweet, old-fashioned. She wondered who the children were, and imagined life here one hundred years ago and how the house would be the same, but the lifestyle would be so different. No technology, no TV, no noise.
Heading downstairs, she paused on the second landing, and glanced down at the huge Christmas tree, and then up at the glass dome overhead. The lights of the tree reflected in the spectacular glass dome. During the daytime, the marble-columned hall must be flooded with light, now at night, it was just formal and grand. On the main level, Cara could see hallways in different directions. The entry was cavernous. What had Lord Sherbourne said, there were twenty-five bedrooms here? That was a hotel, not a house.
Mrs. Booth was nowhere to be found, but another woman appeared, a woman in her late fifties or sixties, hair drawn into a severe bun, her dark dress covered by a white baker’s apron.
She nodded at Cara. “Good evening, Miss Roberts, I am Mrs. Johnson, or Cook, as Lord Sherbourne refers to me. Are you looking for the dining room?”
“I am,” Cara said. “Am I late?”
