10

Splendid Isolation

“We do not stand on ceremony in this household,” Lady Graverly announced. “We genuflect before it.”

We were standing in the foyer, the only source of light provided by the pale morning sun shining through the stained-glass window to the left of the front door. It was my first day on the job, and I was feeling nervous and excited—and hungry. After a restless night, I had slept through my alarm. I had hoped to duck into the kitchen for a quick bite, but Lady Graverly had been waiting at the foot of the stairs when I came down, a peevish look on her face. She had begun the orientation session immediately, her commanding voice rising above the gurgling of my stomach.

“I hope you do not intend to dress like this every day,” she said, scrutinizing my attire. “Perhaps you thought we would be moving furniture?”

I looked down at my black dress pants, cashmere sweater, and patent leather shoes, perfectly clean, pressed, and of excellent quality. “Is something wrong?”

“As an employee of Graverly Manor, you are expected to wear a three-piece suit and tie or classic tuxedo at all times. I find an ascot to be an exquisite complement to the manor’s exalted ambience. Colorful ties are strictly forbidden, naturally, as are ties with nontraditional patterns, cartoon characters, and any material aside from the finest silk.”

“Not to worry, I’m not a loud tie-type of guy. As for a three-piece suit, I haven’t worn one since I was twelve.” It had been for my father’s funeral, but I kept that part to myself.

Arching her brow disapprovingly, she resumed her overview. “Each morning breakfast is served at seven, lunch at noon, tea at four, cocktails at seven, dinner at eight. That is the schedule, and you are expected to respect it.”

“You provide all that for your guests?”

“Certainly not; this is my schedule. Guests enjoy a lavish English buffet breakfast each morning between the hours of seven and ten, and cocktail hour in the parlor each evening at seven. I attend when possible—it pleases guests so—but my hectic schedule does not always permit. You, however, are obliged to attend without exception. You will note the words ‘cocktail’ and ‘hour’ are singular. Should a guest wish to indulge further, a fee is placed on his or her account. Is that clear, Mr. Lambert?”

I nodded slowly, making a mental note to abolish these rules the moment I took over.

“You think me stringent,” she said, “but you will feel much the same way in time. If rules are not clearly communicated, guests will take liberties. Because they are staying in a private home, they fancy themselves entitled to the same courtesies as a relative or friend. They expect the intimacy of a private home and the services of a large hotel. Can you imagine a hotel guest wandering into the kitchen at midnight to help herself to a snack—and then becoming indignant when a surcharge appears on her account? It’s simply preposterous.”

“Sounds like you get some challenging guests at the manor,” I remarked.

“I adore my guests and will do anything for them. But yes, they do get on my nerves on occasion. When it all becomes too much, I take a suite at the Four Seasons, if only for a few hours. There I can be myself. I enjoy a glass of wine, afternoon tea or an evening meal, and I return to the manor rejuvenated.” A twinkle of humor appeared in her eyes. “Whereas my guests come here to escape hotels, I go to hotels to escape my guests. I do my best to screen out undesirables, but occasionally one slips through.”

The patter of footsteps drew our attention to the stairs. A pair of shapely legs nicked with razor cuts appeared, and for a breathtaking moment I thought Clarissa Larch was stark naked. Then the hem of a black silk negligee came into view, followed by her body, its contours visible through the sheer material, and finally a shock of black hair.

“Why, speak of the devil,” Lady Graverly said under her breath.

Clarissa reached the bottom of the stairs and lifted her arms in a loud stretch. Her eyes were smudged with last night’s mascara.

“Good morning, Clarissa!” I said cheerily. “How’s the lip?”

She squinted at me as though she had no idea who I was. “What time is it, like six am?”

“It’s nine thirty, Miss Larch,” Lady Graverly said. “I presume you just arrived home?”

“I was sleeping, actually, for the first time in about a week, and I was awakened by a shrill voice. I thought the Queen had dropped by and someone was strangling her.” She wandered down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Hope I’m not too late for breakfast.”

“Miss Larch,” Lady Graverly called after her. “This is not a sorority house. You are expected to use the bathrobe provided in your room.”

“That ratty old thing? I thought it was a bathmat.”

I grinned, watching Clarissa disappear through the doorway, and then turned to Lady Graverly.

Her eyes were livid. “Mr. Lambert, at Graverly Manor we always address our guests by surname and title. It creates the necessary distance between guest and innkeeper. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” I said affably. “As you wish.”

“Now where were we? Oh, yes. As innkeeper, you are required to greet guests upon arrival regardless of the time of day. You are to attend to their needs in a gracious and dignified manner. Graverly Manor has achieved its lofty reputation due to my personal touches, and guests will be deeply disappointed if I am not present to welcome them. A generous amount of goodwill and charm will be required on your part to appease them. Over time, perhaps, they will come because of you.” She blinked her eyes in rapid succession, a gesture that suggested she considered this unlikely.

It was becoming clear that Lady Andrew Graverly was not a morning person. I missed the warmth and conviviality of cocktail hour, when she had lavished me with praise, got liquored up and flirty, and called me an aristocrat. Now I was being treated like a servant.

“Elinor,” I said, deciding to dispense with the silly formality whether she liked it or not, “mind if I duck down to the kitchen to grab a coffee and a quick bite? I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

“Why, yes, I do mind,” she said, looking shocked by my audacity. “I have two hours to spend with you, young man, and it shan’t be wasted while you chase after licentious women. The manor will be extremely busy soon, and I will not always be here to provide guidance. Graverly Manor has achieved its renown due to strict adherence to the cherished traditions of British—”

“With all due respect, I understand that tradition is important here—and you’ll be happy to know that providing excellent service is one of my strengths. Maybe we could move on to more practical concerns, such as reservations policies and procedures?”

“Policies and procedures? What on earth do you mean? It’s frightfully simple. The phone rings. I answer it, if convenient, and qualify the caller. If the caller sounds suitable, I quote rates. Should he wish to reserve, I record his name in the ledger. What more do you need to know?”

I nodded to the monitor on the desk. “The system isn’t computerized?”

“For heaven’s sake, child, Graverly Manor has only eight rooms. A hospitality student from Mexico brought that vile contraption in last summer and built a website for the manor. In fifty years, I haven’t needed a computer, and I can’t imagine why I would need one now. Lincoln likes to tap away at it occasionally, but as far as I’ve seen, he accomplishes nothing.”

“Are room rates recorded in the ledger, then?”

“Certainly not. Our rates vary considerably.”

“According to season, day of week, room type?”

“Yes, and also the caller.”

“You screen callers?” I said, recalling my mystery shopper call. “Children are not welcome at the manor?”

“Children are banned. As are Germans, Spaniards, and Italians, who are informed without exception that the manor is sold out. Germans are rude and aggressive, stuffing blocks of cheese into their suitcases and whatnot. Spaniards are uncivilized, always breaking things and never tipping staff. And Italians will steal anything that isn’t nailed down. The French are marginally more tolerable, but they are contemptuous of anything that isn’t French, and I accept their reservations judiciously, charging a premium for their arrogance. I used to furnish this house with priceless antiques, but no more. You will learn not to grow attached to anything at Graverly Manor. Everything and everyone leaves, is broken, or disappears.” Her eyes grew wistful, and she turned to gaze at a large portrait on the wall of a British cavalryman on a prancing horse.

“Was that Lord Graverly?” I asked gently.

“No, no. I purchased that painting at a flea market years ago for twenty-five dollars.”

“Your target market must be the British, then?”

The phone began to ring, but Lady Graverly made no move to answer it. “Not at all,” she said. “The English are lovely, naturally, but they consider Canadian heritage mildly amusing and entirely irrelevant, like schoolchildren performing a Shakespearian play. Only Americans properly appreciate Graverly Manor. Here they enjoy the pomp and splendor of a distinguished British estate but with superior food and better plumbing and without having to cross the Atlantic Ocean. Americans will believe anything told to them in a cultured British accent. They leave generous tips to ingratiate themselves to staff, a flagrant extension of their foreign policy of bribery and coercion. I do not discourage the practice, for nothing abates the incessant whingeing of servants better than money.”

“Do you want me to answer that?” I asked, nodding to the phone.

She looked down at the phone as though not having heard it. It had stopped ringing. “They will call back if it’s important.”

“Don’t the staff answer the phone?”

“Lincoln tries to answer when he hears it, but by the time he reaches the phone the caller has usually hung up. I do not encourage it, really. He has all the warmth of an executioner and becomes flustered when asked questions. Agnes is forbidden. Last week, she confirmed a number of reservations without first consulting me, and she neglected to record them. I suspect she’s illiterate, as many of her countrymen are. We really have no idea who might show up at the door.”

The mention of Agnes’s name made me wince in recollection of last night’s incident. “Is Agnes here today?” I asked.

“Mondays and Tuesdays are her days off. Lincoln is off on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Please follow me.”

As we made our way up the stairs, I asked if there was a guestbook I could browse through to get an idea of guest feedback.

“There used to be, but I grew weary of the comments.”

“Lots of complaints?”

“It was all praise, naturally. Every guest wrote a variation of the same trite comments. Reading them became a bit tedious.”

“I see,” I said, thinking back to the TripAdvisor comments, which told a different story. It was typical of travelers not to complain in person, allowing management an opportunity to rectify the problem. It was more punitive to post a nasty, anonymous comment online.

Over the next hour, Lady Graverly guided me through the guestrooms, providing commentaries about the furnishings, décor, and the reigns of the monarchs the rooms were named after. She appeared to take special pleasure in reporting the atrocities and tragic ends of royal figures. “Mary I was called Bloody Mary for having hundreds of religious dissenters burned at the stake,” she said brightly as we finished up in the Mary I suite. “I do adore the Tudor monarchs.”

The last room was the Edward VI room on the third floor, where Clarissa had gone back to bed. “My least favorite room,” Lady Graverly said loudly beside the door. “Edward VI was the son of Henry VIII and his third wife, Jane Seymour, who died due to complications during childbirth. He was crowned in 1547 at the age of nine and died in agony six years later, his body ravaged by measles, smallpox, and tuberculosis. The bed in this room is said to be the very bed in which he expired.” She gave a wicked smile.

Downstairs, she showed me where to find cleaning supplies and equipment, although it took her some time to find them and she seemed only dimly aware of their functions. Next we reviewed the contents of the breakfast buffet, which, in spite of my growing hunger, looked sparse and unappealing—and unnecessary, considering there was only one guest. In the kitchen, her vague references to recipe books, ingredients, and utensils made it obvious that she did none of the cooking.

Again I was drawn to the view of the oak tree in the back yard. As I lingered at the kitchen window, I spotted a stout, black-haired woman exiting the private quarters. “Who’s that?” I asked.

Lady Graverly came to the window and peered out. “That is the woman who cares for my private apartment.” She pulled the drapes shut. “Shall we continue?”

We returned to the foyer. “Lincoln is out shopping for groceries at present, but he has prepared a detailed list of items to review with you in the afternoon.” She went to the door of her apartment. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Lambert.”

Once again, she had called an abrupt end to a meeting, without giving me a chance to ask questions. “Lincoln will tour me around the rest of the house, then?” I asked.

She turned around. “You have seen all there is to see.”

“Isn’t there a basement or cellar?” Lynne Crocker’s claim that there wasn’t one that she was aware of hadn’t been convincing.

“I showed you the laundry room downstairs. There is nothing else.”

“What about your apartment? I’d love to have a look, considering I’ll be living there soon.”

“Mr. Lambert, my private quarters are strictly off-limits. When I am on the other side of this door, I live in splendid isolation. It is the only way to maintain my sanity, given the enormous demands of running this household. You shall see it in due time. In the meantime, should you dare to disturb me there, I shall call our arrangement off at once.”

“What if there’s a fire?”

“A fire?” A flicker of worry passed over her eyes. She went to the supply closet behind the reception desk and reached inside, pulling a set of keys from a hook. “In the event of an emergency, these keys will allow you access to my apartment. A thorough sweep of my quarters must be conducted prior to evacuation. Otherwise you are forbidden to trespass. Is that clear?”

“With all due respect, as the purchaser of this property, I have the right to see the entire house.”

“Until such time as we agree to sign a formal transfer of ownership, I am the owner of this house, and you are my employee. I expect you to govern yourself accordingly.”

“Elinor, I have no intention of signing anything before I’ve seen every inch of this house.”

Her eyes flashed. I half-expected her to cry out, “Guards, seize him! Off with his head!” But she broke into a grand smile. “Why, Mr. Lambert, I had no idea you could be so assertive. You will do well as master of this household. Good day, then.”

She slipped inside her quarters, pulling the door closed.

Upon returning to my room that night, I found a three-piece navy suit and paisley ascot laid out on my bed. Lifting the coat, I ran my fingers along the fine material, admiring the elaborate stitching and gold buttons. A matching silk handkerchief was tucked into the breast pocket. Mystified, I wondered if the suit had belonged to Lord Graverly. Opening the coat, I found a Holt Renfrew tag stitched into the inside pocket and realized it was brand new. A gift?

Unable to resist, I tried on the jacket and stood in front of the mirror. It fit perfectly. Pulling the ascot around my neck, I tried to figure out how to tie it and eventually gave up, letting it drape over my shoulders like a scarf. The clothing was far too old-fashioned and showy for my tastes, and the ascot made me look pompous, but the overall effect was surprisingly pleasing and perfectly suited to the manor. I turned left and right, touching my chin and posing, thrilled by the transcending effect of such fine clothing. “Once in a while the good lord makes a mistake,” Lady Graverly had said. “A blueblood is born into a common family …”

A hard lump drew my attention to the vest pocket. Inside I found a small blue box from Tiffany & Co. Opening it, I pulled out a gleaming gold pocket watch on a chain. There was a card inside the box: “To Trevor Lambert, my prince. Welcome to Graverly Manor. With all my love, Lady Andrew Graverly.”

A rush of blood rose up my neck, and my ears and face flushed with embarrassment. I hastily replaced the watch and slipped the box into the vest pocket, hanging the suit and ascot in the closet. Tomorrow, I would return them. Not only could I not accept such lavish gifts, but I was quite certain that any feelings of indebtedness to Lady Graverly were to be carefully avoided.