Chapter 5
KAI
Ishiver as I walk back to the house. I should’ve worn a coat outside even though I was only planning on a quick walk, but the view distracted me enough to sit for a while and then the gardener guy came along.
Jason. He was also very distracting, with his broad shoulders and strong arms, brown hair just long enough to sink your fingers into, and warm brown eyes.
Yeah, I noticed his eyes. They were kind and friendly.
Sitting next to him was calming after the turmoil of the last few days.
He probably has a gorgeous wife and brood of children, though. The good ones always do.
Entering the hall straight from the garden, I turn towards where I think the kitchen is.
I should spend some time learning my way around.
I still haven’t counted all the bedrooms. I only arrived back last night, much to the surprise of Jones when he discovered me banging on the door after finding it locked.
When he said that I should’ve called them and he could have had a room ready for me, I realised I didn’t even know how to contact my own house, my own staff.
It had never occurred to me, never having any of those before and not needing to.
I told him I was fine, found the first room with a bed in it, and fell asleep straight away.
Then I was awake early this morning and headed out into the gardens.
Jason was the first person I’ve seen so far. But now I need coffee.
I find the kitchen from the delicious aroma alone . . . something smells good. When I open the door, Mr Jones jumps up like the chair had scalded him, and the older lady spins round from the counter with a mixing bowl in her hand, her mouth forming a little O.
“Did you need anything, sir?” Jones asks a little sharply. “If you’d buzzed, I’d have brought you anything you needed.”
“Buzzed?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. He points to a panel on the wall where there’s a series of lights, all with names of rooms against them. “They are very um . . . old-fashioned.”
“I believe it was the sixth earl who had these installed, and before that there would have been bell-pulls. They’re very effective in a house this size. The seventh earl, god rest his soul, didn’t think they needed upgrading.” He bristles slightly and I feel like I’ve said something wrong.
“Neither do I,” I say and he unwinds a miniscule amount. I don’t add that there’s no point as the house is for sale. But even then, I don’t like the idea of having someone coming running at my beck and call.
“Then how may I help you?” he asks.
“I came in search of a coffee.”
“Of course, and where will you be for me to bring it to you?”
“I thought I’d have it here, in the kitchen,” I reply and see a look pass between him and the lady.
I’ve seen enough period dramas set in large country houses to know about the upstairs and downstairs divide, but this is the twenty-first century, surely none of that actually exists nowadays.
Though maybe it does, with the whole buzzer thing.
As soon as the house is sold, I’ll be back to living by myself, or with Tate.
I won’t be waited on then, so I’m not going to start now.
“Look, I don’t want to spend the next month, or however long, not being able to walk into my own kitchen for a coffee, so I’m staying here.”
“Very good, sir,” he says, and I can practically hear his teeth grind as he heads over to a kettle and starts the process.
“What can I smell, it’s amazing?” I ask as I take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Cottage pie. It’s for dinner later,” the lady answers, putting aside her mixing bowl.
“I can’t even remember the last time I had cottage pie,” I reply and she gives me a warm smile. I might not go in for being waited upon, but I could certainly put up with being cooked for if it’s as delicious as it smells.
“Do you want something now, you must be hungry? Can I make you a sandwich?”
“Yes please.” I nod. I often either forget to eat or can’t be bothered. I don’t usually eat much anyway, but I am hungry now. Perhaps it was the dose of country air this morning.
She places a plate with a very modest looking cheese sandwich on it on the table, and I’m quite relieved. I was half expecting something fancy and unrecognisable, but cheese is perfect.
“I don’t suppose you have any Branston, do you?” I ask, and a minute later a jar appears along with another smile. I spread a generous amount on my sandwich.
“Here you go, sir,” Jones says, putting the mug of coffee down in front of me.
“Thank you, and you can stop calling me sir.”
“Oh! Would you prefer my lord?” he asks. I glance up at him, and instead of the sarcastic look I expected, I see a deep frown. It was a genuine question.
“No, if anything that’s even worse. I don’t want to be called anything like that, just Kai will do.” His look tells me that he’d rather die than do that, and I sigh. I might have lost that battle. I turn my attention to my coffee, ready for some much needed caffeine.
I take a swig and nearly spit the whole thing back out. It’s probably the worst I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve drunk some pretty disgusting coffee in my time.
“Is there anything wrong, sir?”
“That’s . . . that’s . . . barely coffee,” I sputter, and I take a bite of my sandwich to try to remove the awful taste from my mouth.
I swallow it down feeling marginally better.
“Don’t you have a coffee machine? Or even a decent instant?
Whatever that was, it tasted like it had been ground last century and made with river water. ”
Jones just stares at me, his jaw set and his frown even deeper.
“We’re all tea drinkers here. Can I make you a tea or hot chocolate?” The lady breaks the silence.
“Hot chocolate please,” I reply. I’m not much of a tea drinker myself. Jones turns on his heel and leaves the room, like he can’t stand the sight of me. I sigh again. It’s going to be a long couple of months at this rate.
“I don’t think he likes me,” I say as she replaces my mug with one full of hot chocolate.
“It’s not that, he’s just worried.”
“What about?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink. It’s much better.
“He was the seventh earl’s butler for thirty years, long before I met him.
It’s all he knows how to do. This is a time of change for him.
With you selling the place he knows that the chances of finding another position are slim.
Nobody wants butlers any more. He loves it, though, he gets a sense of pride out of the job.
He sees you asking him not to call you sir as a rejection of the old ways, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t move with the times, but he feels it keenly.
” She picks up an apple and starts cutting it into slices, arranging them in a dish.
I don’t know how to answer that right now.
I haven’t really thought about the impact my uncle’s death would have on those who’ve worked for him for so long. Instead, my mind snags on one thing.
“You say before you met him. Are you married?”
“Twenty years last July.” She smiles broadly.
“I was trying to set up my own business, baking pies, savoury and sweet ones. We met at a village fete where I had a stall. The old cook here had left and Bob had come to buy some to tide them over. When the earl tried them he told Bob to track me down and offer me a job. I readily accepted. I prefer making the pies to trying to market them. Seems Bob couldn’t resist them either, and we were married a year later. ”
It’s a lovely story and I find myself smiling as she tells it. I finish my sandwich as I push the plate away.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I know Mr Nagle read it out the other day when we heard the will, but forgive me if I wasn’t in a state to take it all in.” I only knew Jones as Mr Nagle had referred to him directly.
“It’s Martha, dear,” she says, and I’m grateful she doesn’t add a sir. It seems she doesn’t have the same problem Jones, or rather Bob has.
“And please, can you tell me about the other staff so I don’t look awkward in front of them too?
” I ask and receive another smile. She comes to join me at the table, taking a break for a few minutes as she goes through the list explaining who everyone is and how long they’ve worked at the hall.
They’ve been here the longest. Simone fifteen years, Jordan and Jason around eight years, and Courtney for a couple of years, since she left school at eighteen.
“Isn’t it curious that you’re related? Not all of you, but you and Mr Jones are married, then there’s a mother and daughter and also two brothers?”
“Well, we feel like a big family most of the time, but I know what you mean. The earl would only have people working here he could trust implicitly. Your uncle was a very private man and could only tolerate people who wouldn’t gossip.”
“About what?” It’s not the first time something mysterious has been alluded to.
She rises from the table and takes my empty plate and mug to the sink.
I realise I’m not going to get any answers from her.
Jason wouldn’t give me any information either.
Well, they’re definitely trustworthy, they won’t even give away anything even after his death.
But the fact my uncle had secrets intrigues me, and I decide to see what I can find out myself. I can do it as I explore the hall.
I wander from room to room, trying to create a mental map, while marveling at the huge paintings and tapestries as well as the antique furniture. I try a few drawers in some of the bureaus I come across but find nothing that will help me on my quest. But then, I didn’t expect it to be that easy.
I walk along a gallery lined with pictures, all of them portraits, and I stop at each one and read the brass plates at the bottom of the gilt frames.
They’re of my ancestors, starting with the first earl.
It feels strange to look at the faces of people who existed a couple of hundred years ago, who built and lived in this house, and yet I didn’t know about it until a few days ago.
There are portraits of women too, the Countesses of Cavendish.
I work my way along, noting the differences in clothing over the years, until I reach the one that says the seventh earl.
My uncle. I’m finally looking at the face of the man who left me all of this.
I can see my resemblance to him, more so than I look like my father.
He was a handsome man, also blond like me, and we have the same golden amber eyes.
Tall but slim built too. He looks around thirty in the painting, and despite it being only painted twenty-five years ago, around the time I was born, it still has an antique feel to it.
He’s in a suit, navy blue, with the landscape of the hall and grounds in the background.
He looks serious, like he’s weighed down by life already. I know that feeling.
“Your uncle.” A voice startles me and I spin round to see Jones emerging from a door along an adjoining corridor.
I turn back to the painting and Jones comes to stand next to me.
“He was a good man.” I can hear the sadness in his voice. I guess you don’t work for and practically live with someone for thirty years if you don’t like them and miss them when they’re gone.
“I wish I’d met him,” I say.
“He wanted to meet you too one day,” Jones says, and I turn to look at him.
“Then why didn’t he get in touch?” He certainly knew about me. I get that he was estranged from my father, but when my father died, he could’ve reached out. I would’ve liked to have known him and then maybe all this wouldn’t have been such a shock.
“He had his reasons,” is all Jones offers, yet again the tight-lipped staff member.
I’m not going to get any direct answers, that’s for sure.
Another painting next to the one of my uncle catches my eye and I move along to look at it.
It’s of a woman, but it’s not modern—at least not from her dress, which looks straight out of the 1920s, low-waisted and heavy with beads.
A feather boa is slung round her neck and she’s sporting a headdress made from peacock feathers.
It seems like an anomaly among the timeline of earls, and I stare at it.
Something doesn’t look quite right. I squint until I see it, the eyes giving it away.
I look at Jones as he pre-empts my question.
“Also your uncle,” he says carefully, as if waiting for my reaction. My uncle’s secret is hiding in plain sight after all.