As we drove down the great sweep of drive to Longcross Hall, I could see at once that our Christmastide visit was destined to be very different to the times we’d stayed before.
There were people everywhere, buzzing about, carrying things, wheeling things, cleaning things, busy as bees. It was like the Downton Abbey movie when the king and queen were about to arrive. When we’d been before, it had been just us – a strange little teenage island like Lord of the Flies, no adults to rule over us. When the cat’s away, the mice will play. But this time the cats, or in this case the DOGS, were most definitely at home.
Nel drove carefully on the approach to the house, Frogger-dodging all the other traffic in the drive – guests arriving in boxy estate cars or sleek black government Jaguars. Trading vans bearing royal crests delivered not people but pâté, or caviar, or fine wine. When we drew up at the entrance Betty was there, directing operations.
Betty was dressed in the full rig of black dress and white apron, with a lace hat on her iron-grey hair. Unsmiling, she bobbed a little curtsy at us. ‘Welcome back, sir and miss. And miss.’ She nodded grudgingly at me. ‘It’s wonderful to see you back at Longcross. I’ll show you to your rooms.’ Already on the move, Betty was clearly in a hurry. I imagined she had a lot to do that day, with the house at full capacity. She took us through the tradesmen’s entrance and along the kitchen passageway – I like to think it’s because we were regular guests and considered family, but more likely it was because there were far more important people going through the front door.
‘Lord de Warlencourt asks that you change immediately – the meet will be gathering for the stirrup cup at eleven sharp.’
Lord de Warlencourt – was she talking about Henry? Or was he still in hiding and letting Louis wear the title for a few more days? There was no way we could ask – we’d just have to wait and see.
Dodging Longcross’s collection of excitable and flabby Labradors, Betty led us into the flagged passageway leading to the back stairs, and there we saw a familiar face. A figure in a black tailcoat was unloading a crate of wine so large it almost blocked our way. ‘Bates!’ I exclaimed, as if greeting an old friend.
The butler jumped about a mile in the air, almost falling into the dark doorway that was open at his back. I glanced past him and down a stone stairway I’d never seen before – this must be the wine cellar. Bates was obviously stocking it up for the evening – I imagined at a Hunt Ball the booze would be flowing. I glanced at the glass bottles in the crate. They looked dusty, expensive and they all had the same label – Veuve Clicquot 1984. I picked one up out of its straw bedding. It was surprisingly heavy. ‘Ah, I teased. The famous Veuve Clicquot ’84. Perhaps we’ll get to taste it tonight. You seem to have plenty.’ Bates looked a bit doubtful and I got that. It was probably about a thousand pounds a bottle, and too good to waste on us kids. In fact, the butler looked positively ill as he took the bottle from me, cradling it like a baby. ‘Oh, Miss MacDonald, you have to be careful.’ He darted a look at the others and attempted a smile. ‘I mean … the bubbles, of course. You must be very careful with a champagne of this vintage. If you were to shake it – disaster.’ He looked all grey and sweaty – that must be some booze to get so worked up about it.
‘Sorry,’ I said cheerily.
Shafeen nodded behind the butler. ‘Those the cellars?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Bates replied. ‘They go all the way under the house. Longcross has some of the finest wine cellars in England.’
‘Cool,’ said Nel. ‘Maybe we can take a tour sometime.’
‘Of course, Miss Ashton,’ he said, recovering a little now he’d laid the dark green glass down in its straw. ‘But, if you’ll forgive me, miss, not today.’
We got the hint. ‘Yes, yes, you do your thing,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to get changed anyway.’ This was too much information, but I did feel genuinely glad to see someone we knew there – a beacon of familiarity in a sea of scary strangers.
The kitchen clock struck ten just as we were walking through – not much time to change and get our horses. We cantered up the stairs after Betty to be shown to our rooms. I couldn’t quite believe that we’d all have our usual rooms, as we passed about fifty guests just on our short route, bounding up and down the stairs in varying stages of readiness, all talking loudly and excitedly, all greeting us cordially as we passed. They were all much older than us, and I felt sure that we would have been moved to some tiny little windowless bedrooms somewhere in the attic, to make room for the all the government ministers and the royalty. But no – I was in Lowther, and there was Jeffrey on the wall and a bunch of impeccable riding stuff laid out on the bed. I was dropped off first, and in parting Betty said, ‘Lord Longcross’s compliments, but would you all go down to the stable-yard as soon as you are dressed to collect your mounts?’
This was scary enough, but I couldn’t worry about my horse just yet. I had a more pressing concern. Before Betty could close the door I asked, ‘Which room is Miss Morgan in?’
‘Miss Morgan resides in Fenwick, miss – the room she had before Christmas.’
I gave the others a look that meant Meet me there, and as soon as the door had closed and Betty’s footsteps had receded I was out of my room again, padding down the passage to Fenwick.