“The place is huge.”
“That it is. And there have been some grand parties held here over the years.” She sounds wistful as she stares almost unseeingly at another grand fireplace, this one big enough to roast an ox. “Important families and foreign dignitaries. Even the Queen.”
“Wow! The Queen? Was her visit recent?”
“No, it was some years back. Back when Prince Charles wore short trousers. My mother worked here back then. Her granny was in service here before her. Oh, the tales she had to tell. In those days, over a hundred servants were holding this place together.”
“How many work here now?”
“Fifteen.”
I stop in my tracks. A house this size, not to mention the land, running on a staff of fifteen? I hurry after Chrissy as she turns a corner, then reaches out to push against what looks like a wall. It’s actually a door. A door that leads to a passageway with a serviceable green carpet and plain painted white walls. “We call this the backstairs.”
“For the servants?”
She nods in agreement.
“Not to be seen or heard, so they just arrive in the room like magicians?” She frowns, and as I don’t want to annoy or offend, I return to the previous topic. “How does a house this size survive with fifteen staff? I mean, how does all the work get done?”
“Not by magic,” she replies pointedly. “Most of the traditional service roles were done away with by technology. Indoor plumbing made chambermaids obsolete, and electricity and central heating did away with the housemaids. Modern kitchen appliances meant kitchen and scullery maids were no longer necessary. We have a maintenance team of four. You’ll probably see them around the place. Then Cameron heads up the grounds staff. I’m in charge of keeping the house shipshape, including the rooms and exhibits. Mari helps me out, as does wee Sophie, and Mari works in the education centre, too.” Just great. Mari who wants my cottage and job. “The pair also help keep the private residence in order. Then there are the lot who runs the souvenir shop and the café.”
“So, gone are the days of butlers, valets, and ladies’ maids.” Yeah, so, I might have read a regency romance book a time or two. Maybe more. I’ll never tell. And neither will Nana’s racy reading selections, even if I had begun appropriating her Mills & Boon bodice rippers from the age of twelve.
“Oh, we still have a butler. Mr McCain. A proper stickler he is, for all he’s only a young man. He travels with himself, that is, the duke, along with the chef, and of course, the duke’s personal assistant. He also usually arrives with a few friends,” she adds with a tired-looking smile.
“Just three of you take care of cleaning this whole place?” I ask, thinking of the massive staircase and the vacuuming, dusting, and polishing that must need. How can anyone afford to heat a place like this, let alone keep it clean? Which might answer a few questions about why my cottage was so cold last night, not to mention why the hot water was rationed.
“It’s no’ so bad. We all do our bit, and we also have a cleaning company contracted to keep on top of things.”
We make our way along the very plain hallway, then down a much less fancy set of stairs than the ones we walked up earlier.
“And here we have the kitchen,” she says, pushing on a modern fire door. “I thought we’d have a cuppa while we wait for Lady Isla to arrive.”
“Sounds good.” I hope they have coffee. Tea is okay for warming your hands, but nothing says bing! like coffee.
The kitchen is something else. One entire wall is taken up with an antique yet pristine oven range. Four double-doored ovens gleam black, and countless copper pots hang from the wall behind, polished to the kind of sheen you can see your face in. The rest of the kitchen is equally as striking but much more serviceable. Burr walnut cabinetry and marble countertops, a commercial range with all the gadgets. A scrubbed pine table, easily twelve feet long, sits under three high fan-shaped windows with an assortment of mismatched chairs gathered around it. Other than the range, the only modern appliance in view is a commercial-sized refrigerator at the far side of the room.
“Is this a working kitchen?” I watch as Chrissy pulls open a kitchen cabinet to reveal an electric kettle, teapot, and other tea trappings.
“Dougal, the chef, uses it to cater for large groups. Formal dinners, weekend guests, and the like. But when s—when his grace is here by himself or with a smaller party, Dougal usually cooks in the family kitchen. “Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
She pulls out a fancy-looking French press—yes!—as she goes on to discuss how many days a year the castle is open to the public and how popular the gardens are. Every inch of this place seems to make money, the gift shop and coffee shop are weekend cash cows, and the dower house—traditionally used for the widow of the last duke—is rented out for weddings. She also tells me a little about how a couple of Hollywood’s elites recently stayed while the castle was used as a location for an upcoming blockbuster movie.