‘Good evening, Mistress,’ Mrs. Growell greeted Annie, as she reached the bottom of the stairs. A fire flickered in the grate of the entrance hall, Annie’s table set up just near enough to keep it warm.
Annie gave a sheepish smile, having not seen Mrs. Growell since the flour incident this morning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered.
Mrs. Growell gave a slight tilt of her head in acknowledgement. ‘This evening’s menu is on your table. We will begin with oxtail soup, followed by roasted pheasant, and for dessert we have caramel ribbon infused meringue. Would you like cheese or cured ham as a side dish?’
‘Ah … cheese?’
Mrs. Growell gave a respectful nod. ‘Understood. Please take a seat and I will be with you shortly.’
Annie sat down. The chair and table had been carefully placed for the fire to keep her warm, but not too warm. Lamps lit in alcoves around the high-ceilinged room provided a peaceful ambience. There was only one thing missing.
Company.
Annie had left her phone upstairs, because there was nowhere on the ground floor where she could get a signal. A video call with Julie would make her feel much better, but that was out. She got up and went to a nearby bookshelf, but it was all history books or dusty classics, and nothing took her fancy. With a sigh she found herself pining for the dog-eared twisty thrillers that she bought from the secondhand shop in the arcade, and wondered if they were yet another of the things that identified her as a pauper. Among this grandiosity and wealth, she was beginning to feel a little out of place.
She was just wondering whether it might be worth trying to decipher the first paragraph or two of a Dickens or Austin when the front door opened and Mr. Fairbrother came in, wrapped briefly in a theatrical flurry of snow before he closed the door behind him. Shaking snow off his jacket onto the mat, he pulled off his boots and hung his jacket up on a hook by the door. Then, coming through the second door to the entrance hall which Mrs. Growell had left propped open, he raised a hand in greeting.
‘Good evening, Mistress,’ he said, cheeks flushed from the cold, little lumps of snow caught in his hair starting to melt and dribble down his face. ‘Goodness, is it dinner time already? I suppose I’d better head into the dragon’s lair and see what she can rustle up.’
As he turned to go, Annie put up a hand. ‘Ah … Les? Mr. Fairbrother … would you mind, uh, joining me for dinner?’
Mr. Fairbrother frowned. ‘What, you mean, eat together? Well, I don’t know … Lord Wilf liked his time alone with his thoughts and his books—’
‘I’m not Lord Wilf. And to be honest, I’d practically kill for some conversation. Look, there’s a chair over there. I’ll sort everything out while you go down to the kitchens. And while you’re at it, can you ask Mrs. Growell to come up too?’
Mr. Fairbrother’s eyes widened. ‘You want me to call her up here? I mean, I can ask her, but I wouldn’t hold up much hope. Pretty set in her ways, she is.’
‘Just ask her. Look, three days ago I was dirt poor. I could barely afford a bus ticket and one of my shoe laces was a piece of string. I mean, my jogging shoes—my work shoes are slip-ons—but you get the idea. And I find out I’m the heir to this … empire? I just can’t turn into some aristocratic landowner with a click of my fingers. I just want to be … normal.’
Mr. Fairbrother chuckled. ‘All right. I’ll ask her. But don’t get your hopes up.’
He headed downstairs. Annie got up, went out into the hall where a couple of spare chairs were tucked into alcoves, and carried them back over to the table laid out with her cutlery. She moved her knives and forks—there were three of each; she couldn’t help but smile—and slid the little tablecloth into the table’s centre. She had just sat down when two figures appeared on the kitchen stairs.
Mr. Fairbrother, holding a tray in each hand, wore a wide grin. Mrs. Growell, standing a little beside him with a tray in her hands, looked like someone had asked her to dance a jig, her face fraught with discomfort.
Mr. Fairbrother set down a cheese sandwich across the table from Annie, then laid a tray in front of Annie with a bowl of oxtail soup and a crusty bread roll. A nub of butter sat in a small serving dish. With a long, contented sigh, he pulled out a chair and sat down, then waved Mrs. Growell forward.
‘Come on, Marge. Don’t be shy. Mistress’s orders.’
Mrs. Growell approached slowly, setting another cheese sandwich down on the table in front of a place to Annie’s left. Then, from another tray she took a decanter of wine and set it in front of Annie.
‘We need a couple more glasses,’ Annie said.
Mrs. Growell’s stern visage slipped briefly with a raised eyebrow quickly pulled back into place. ‘I don’t drink … on duty.’
‘Come on, Marge, just a sip,’ Mr. Fairbrother said with a chuckle, getting up and fetching a couple of glasses out of a cabinet near the wall. As he came back to the table, he wiped one on his shirt then blew dust out of the other. As Mrs. Growell stared, horrified, he set the first down in front of him and the second in front of her. As he settled into his seat, she reached out and switched them around.
Annie picked up a spoon and smiled. ‘Isn’t this better? Although, I have to say, that cheese sandwich looks pretty nice.’
‘Locally produced cheddar,’ Mrs. Growell said in a quiet, taut voice. ‘My … favourite.’
‘Do you mind if I swap?’
Before Mrs. Growell was forced into an awkward reply, Mr. Fairbrother chuckled. ‘You can have half of mine, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Although you keep your soup. After that walk we had today, you’ll need it.’
‘What about you?’
‘Ah, I always double down on pudding. And there might be a bit of leftover from that pheasant.’
‘I insist that we share it together,’ Annie said, glancing at Mrs. Growell to see her reaction. Mrs. Growell, however, was staring across the table at the empty chair on the other side.
‘Who … is that for?’
‘It’s for Isabella,’ Annie said. ‘You know, the girl who no one talks about who I’m pretty sure locked me out on the balcony, is hiding the keys, and who runs away every time I try to talk to her.’
Mrs. Growell frowned. ‘Isabella….’
‘Will she be joining us?’
Mr. Fairbrother, wearing a nervous pout, looked from Annie to Mrs. Growell. ‘Marge?’
‘I believe the girl has dined already,’ Mrs. Growell said, still staring at the chair.
‘That’s too bad. Maybe tomorrow?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh well.’ Annie gave a sheepish smile. ‘Shall we tuck in, then?’
‘Tuck in….’
Mr. Fairbrother put his hands together. ‘I’ll say grace.’ Then, with a chuckle, he said, ‘Grace,’ again, then picked up his sandwich and took a huge bite, pieces of grated cheddar dropping all over his plate.
Mrs. Growell rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Les. You’re impossible….’