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“You’re not late, I told you to sleep in.” Her scolding tone is undermined by a smile.
Ian calls out, “Or indulge in morning sex.” He chortles, taking a mountain of food from the steaming chafing dishes.
Liz and Diana glare as Diana remarks tartly, “Inappropriate, Ian. Don’t forget there are children here.”
He puts his plate down, then sits. “Do you mean to say your children don’t know about the birds and the bees?” He smirks.
“I know about birds and bees.” Felicity reproves her uncle with glee. “Dad took us to visit a beekeeper. He wore a white suit and a hat with a, with a…” She screws up her face.
“A veil,” Frank supplies, ever the helpful dad.
“Yeah,” Felicity agrees. “A bail.”
“Right you are, Lissy.” Ian smiles. He raps his knuckles against the table. “I’ll have to be back in town for Thursday, so I’m leaving Wednesday night. Can someone drive me down?”
“On the sleeper?” Cress’ eyes are bright with envy.
“For my sins,” he mumbles.
“Cress is dying to go on the Caledonian.” I produce a comic shudder.
“Of course she is, She’d fit fine. Harder to manage in sleeper compartments when you’re tall.” Ian’s lips twist in a grimace.
“You’re shorter than Max,” she retorts.
“Still tall, short stuff.” He grins at her as he puts down a plate filled with scrambled eggs, mushrooms, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, and beans. Toast balances precariously on the side. His other hand grasps a bowl of porridge.
“What travesty is this?” Dad walks in and surveys the buffet. He glares at Mum, his face twisted in mock disgust.
Mum looks over at the huge antique oak sideboard, “What do you mean, Brian?”
“Come now, Vik, this is no proper breakfast for the family.” His tone is severe, but his eyes are twinkling.
Mum surveys the buffet. “What’s wrong with it? We have syrnitki, vareniki with mushrooms and with cherries, and draniki.”
“Russian muck! No finnan haddie or kedgeree, no tattie scones or black pudding, and where’s the whisky for the porridge?” He shakes his finger at her. “What will Cress think? Not one Scottish delicacy.”
“If you want whisky, you know where it is.” Mum sounds as tart as the cherries in the vareniki.
Cress brings a cup of coffee to the table and sets it next to her bowl of porridge and a heaping plate of bacon, toast, a fried egg, lots of mushrooms, and half a tomato, as well the all the Russian delicacies. No beans. “There’s whisky for the porridge?” She sounds eager.
“I’ll fetch you a wee dram.” Dad walks off toward the library, where he keeps his collection of single malts.
“Bring the bottle,” Ian yells after him. “We all want some.”
Dad raises his hand over his head in an assenting finger wave.
JL frowns at the tureen of porridge. “May I drink the Scotch and skip the oatmeal?”
“Ye’re missing the best part of the meal.” Sean exaggerates his Scottish burr, his voice changing from treble to baritone and back uncontrollably.
Diana glares at her teenage son. “Sean, that’s no way to speak to a guest. Apologize now.” Then, with a sigh, she reaches to rub her back. Les leans into her and takes over as she sighs in relief. Her discomfort is palpable, making my back ache in sympathy.
Sean turns his glower to with a charming smile. “Sorry, Monsieur Martin.”
“Pas de problème, mon ami. And you may call me JL if your parents do not object.” Then he winks at me and whispers, “Je suis rempli de politesse.”
“You’re full of something,” I tell him.
