Chapter 10
Morgan bounced onto the tips of her toes and placed a chubby-cheeked St. Nick on an upper branch. “What happened to Brett? I thought he was helping us decorate.”
“He’s upstairs sequestered away in his office, claiming he needs to finish drafting a contract before the office shuts down.”
“He needs an intervention,” Morgan joked. “A work intervention.”
“I agree. Brett reminds me so much of his father, eating, sleeping, breathing work,” Elizabeth sighed. “Quinn’s planning a much-needed break for them after Christmas. Hopefully, she’ll be able to drag him away from his desk long enough to enjoy it.”
“Eventually he’ll get hungry and emerge from his work cave.” Morgan finished emptying the box of ornaments.
“I haven’t talked to Captain Davey or Denver, but I’m sure the ferries and planes are packed this morning.”
“No doubt. Which reminds me, I need to head to Locke Pointe before too long to get the guests to the airport and harbor.”
Working as a team, she and her grandmother put the finishing touches on the library’s tree.
Although there were several other trees, each themed and sprinkled throughout the massive estate—the largest in the formal entryway foyer, another in the living room, as well as the sun room and dining room—Morgan’s favorite was a cozy corner tree in the kitchen’s breakfast nook.
Most were decorated by the staff except for the tree they were currently working on, which held family mementos with touches of whimsy. Because of their sentimental value, Elizabeth insisted on handling them herself.
“I love the decorations,” Morgan said. “It reminds me of the tree in Locke Pointe’s living room.”
“Are you and Wyatt planning a special celebration at Looking Glass Cottage?”
“Christmas night. I made him breakfast this morning before he left for the mainland.” Morgan told her grandmother about his siblings gathering at their parents’ home. “His dad is having some trouble getting around.”
“Old age isn’t for the faint of heart,” Elizabeth sighed. “Some days I feel fit as a fiddle, while others I feel every second of my age.”
A clattering sound ensued. Mrs. Arnsby appeared, pushing a cart into the room. “The tree looks stunning.”
“Thanks.” Elizabeth’s sharp eye gave it the once-over. “Morgan and I did a splendid job if I do say so myself.”
“I thought you might like a break and a spot of tea.”
Morgan hung the wooden nutcracker on the tree branch and hurried over to help the cook unload the cart. Along with tea was a tower of treats—scones with miniature jars of raspberry jam, deviled eggs, finger sandwiches and her personal favorite, Mrs. Arnsby’s classic sponge cake with fresh cream.
“This all looks yummy.”
“I love a good English tea.”
Elizabeth patted the seat next to her. “Come join us, Jane. You’ve been working hard getting ready for our Christmas Eve celebration and deserve a break as well.”
The cook hesitated. “Thank you. It will be nice to get off my feet for a minute.” She daintily perched on the edge of her chair and poured another cup of tea. “I’ve been tinkering with the Christmas pudding recipe and think I might flambé it.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat, a look of concern flitting across her face. “With fire?”
“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Arnsby hurried on. “I have some long matches I can use.”
“Are you sure…”
She waved dismissively. “It will be fine.”
“Regardless, I think it would be best if Morgan and I were on hand to supervise.” Elizabeth shot her granddaughter a side glance, giving her a knowing look to remind her of a previous incident when Mrs. Arnsby had sparked a bananas foster fire by adding a pinch too much rum to the sauce, inadvertently triggering the smoke alarms.
“When I found out Morgan was stopping by to help decorate, I made a special batch for us to sample.”
Morgan’s eyes lit. “A special batch?”
“This version of Christmas pudding is a traditional recipe, dating back to the mid-1840s and includes a unique twist.”
“What…”
Mrs. Arnsby held a finger to her lips. “Showing you will be much more fun. Like I said, I made a special cake for the three of us to sample.”
The conversation shifted to the impending storm. Although Morgan held out a slim hope that the blizzard would shift, fizzle out or weaken, from everything she’d heard it had strengthened and continued barreling toward them.
With the tea and decorating finished, Morgan helped load the tray with the leftovers and empty dishes.
Taking a shortcut through the butler’s pantry, Elizabeth and Morgan followed the cook into the kitchen. Crossing the threshold, the senior Easton stopped in her tracks. “Good heavens. It looks like a tornado tore through here.”
Morgan peered over her grandmother’s shoulder, her eyes growing round as saucers. Pots and pans were piled high on top of the stove. Flour, sugar, spices and other baking supplies lined the counter. “A baking tornado,” she joked.
“I’ve been up to my elbows experimenting but will have it cleaned up before you can say Ebenezer Scrooge.
” Mrs. Arnsby wheeled the cart off to the side and made a beeline for the center island.
“I just took the pudding off the stove. It’s been steaming and simmering all morning.
Four hours yesterday and another four today. ”
Morgan’s jaw dropped. “You cooked the pudding for eight hours?”
“It sounds like a long process, but it’s actually quite easy once it gets going. On the plus side, it keeps for days. In fact, the longer it sits, the better it gets.” Mrs. Arnsby hustled around to the other side of the counter. “This particular pudding has an interesting history.”
“It’s fascinating, actually,” Elizabeth said.
“From what I was taught growing up, the tradition of making the Christmas pudding started with Stir-Up Sunday, the fifth Sunday before Christmas,” Mrs. Arnsby explained.
Her grandmother picked up. “I know a bit about it as well. Stir-Up Sunday involved the entire family. Each member stirred the mixture to commemorate the Magi’s journey. It was thought to bring good luck in the new year.”
Mrs. Arnsby tipped a patterned plate with a perfectly round cake sitting in the center.
“This is our sample.” The holiday plate featured mischievous elves dancing around while holding brightly wrapped gifts.
Sporting green tunics trimmed in fur, pointy hats sat atop their heads.
They wore shiny black shoes with jingle bells attached to the ends.
Morgan held her breath, watching as the cook poured a generous serving of syrupy sauce over the top. “Here comes the flambé part.”
Elizabeth grasped Morgan’s arm, instinctively pulling her back.
With the flick of her wrist, Mrs. Arnsby lit the match and held it over the syrupy concoction.
Whoosh! A bright orange flame shot up from the center.
Morgan clapped her hands. “It’s like dinner and a show.”
“Very entertaining, Jane.” Elizabeth nodded in approval. “Your Christmas pudding will be a brilliant addition to our celebratory meal.”
“Thanks. Like I said, through trial and error and an entire kitchen of dirty dishes, I have it perfected.” She extinguished the flame before grabbing a knife and cutting three generous slices.
She handed one to Elizabeth, the second to Morgan and kept the third for herself.
“A word of warning: eating the pudding is where the other part of the tradition starts.”
“What Jane is trying to say is, eat carefully. There are treasures hidden inside.”
Morgan sawed off a small piece of the pudding and nibbled the end. The flavors mingled with the rich sauce melted in her mouth. “This is tasty.”
“Tastier than it looks,” Mrs. Arnsby beamed. “The cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves give it a holiday flair. Keep eating until you find your treasure.”
Morgan carved off another piece, this time biting into a raisin while tasting a hint of fresh lemon.
She noticed a glint of something shiny poking out.
“There’s something in here.” Using her fingernail, she plucked a silver coin from the moist mixture and held it up. “You baked a coin in the pudding.”
“Which signifies wealth. This is a good sign and means your next year will be prosperous.” Elizabeth dug into hers and found a ring. She laughed out loud. “This little gem is late to the party.”
“What does a ring signify?” Morgan asked.
“It represents a future marriage.”
“What about you, Mrs. Arnsby?”
The cook sliced through her piece until she hit a solid object. Cutting around the corners, she pulled out a thimble. “Woe to the recipient of the thimble.”
“It’s bad luck?”
“The thimble represents spinsterhood,” Elizabeth explained.
Mrs. Arnsby shrugged. “I’m perfectly content being single for the rest of my life.”
“This was fun.” Morgan rinsed the coin off and tucked it in her pocket. “Are there charms in the cake you made for Christmas Eve?”
“You betcha. We all have a shot at health, wealth, marriage or…in my case…spinsterhood.”
One of the kitchen helpers appeared. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone at the door.”
“Who is it?” Elizabeth asked.
“A man and a boy. They’re asking to speak with Mr. Easton.” The woman told her Brett’s office door was closed, and she didn’t want to interrupt. “I could hear him talking, so I didn’t want to bother him.”
“I’ll find out what they want.” Mrs. Arnsby hustled out of the room.
Morgan glanced at the clock. “I need to head back to Locke Pointe and make sure the guests are packing up.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Elizabeth warned. “Once the storm starts rolling in, the roads will drift shut, especially the side streets.”
“And the airport and ferry will shut down.” Morgan grabbed her keys and purse. “Are you staying put until the storm passes?”
“I am. Jax and Mrs. Arnsby stocked up. Gerard, Quinn, and even Prissy will be coming by later to stay here until it’s over.”
Morgan shook her head in amazement. “I have to say, Priscilla is like a new person.”
“New and improved,” Elizabeth joked.
Mrs. Arnsby rushed into the kitchen, a frantic look on her face. “Thank goodness Morgan is still here.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Jane, you’re pale as a ghost. What is wrong?”
“The man and boy. I-I think you need to talk to them. They’re waiting in the foyer.”
“Did they tell you who they were and why they’re here?”
“I…uh.”
“Jane, you’re worrying me.”
“The man introduced himself as Jeff Blakely.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to go pale. “And the boy?” she whispered.
“His name is Tristan. Mr. Blakely claims Tristan is here to meet his father, Brett.”