Then the footmen borrowed from Parrott began to carry through the hot savouries and the
guests flowed into and out of the dining room, carrying plates of food, brimming glasses and finding themselves places at the numerous little tables she had managed to fit in.
‘So delightfully informal,’ said a laughing voice and Hester realised with amazement that it was Mrs Redland and she appeared to be flirting, just a little, with Mr Earle. She looked away, caught Guy’s eye and raised an amused eyebrow. He smiled back and she was lost.
It was not simply that he looked so handsome, although he most certainly did in his elegantly simple evening clothes, with his air of assurance and poise and just the hint of controlled, dangerous power under all the civilised trappings. No, she was back at the moment when she first saw him in her drawing room and recognised her ideal. Her heart seemed to move in her chest and her skin felt hypersensitive as though she was naked and exposed to thousands of tiny, prickling ice crystals.
He is mine, and I love him. And I want him. Oh, how much she wanted him. Hester could feel the colour rising under her skin and dragged her gaze away. But there was no escape while she was in the same room. She moved through the throng of guests into the relative quiet of the hall and turned instinctively towards the kitchen.
‘You can’t go in there, Miss Hester.’ It was Susan, bustling back with a stack of dirty plates. ‘Honestly, what a pickle; we’re having to just stack everything in the scullery, can’t do a thing in the kitchen.’
Back in the drawing room the more mature guests had finished eating and were sitting back with glasses of wine, chatting comfortably. Hester opened the piano and, as she expected, several mamas were not slow to urge their daughters forward. Lucy Piper sat and began to play and three of her friends grouped round and started to sing. Hester found the curate and he needed little persuasion to add his pleasant baritone to the chorus; she suspected he was somewhat enamoured of Lucy.
Half an hour passed pleasantly with a cheerful selection of seasonal songs and carols. Hester, moving from group to group in the dining room, chatting and passing sweetmeats, tried to see what Guy and his two friends were doing, but it seemed that they had nothing on their minds other than conversation. She waited until Guy looked in her direction, then raised her eyebrows in interrogation; he merely nodded almost imperceptibly towards Sir Jeremy, who was talking to a wide-eyed Annabelle Redland.
‘Ooh, Sir Jeremy! What a good idea!’ Annabelle craned her neck and located Hester. ‘Miss Lattimer, Sir Jeremy was telling me that it is a tradition in many houses to tell ghost stories before Christmas-might we do so, do you think? It sounds such fun, and so scary.’ She shuddered dramatically and batted her eyelashes at Sir Jeremy.
‘What do you say, Miss Lattimer?’ he appealed to her. By now all the guests in the dining room were watching for her reply, and, by their animated expressions, it appeared they favoured the suggestion.
‘It seems an entertaining idea,’ she conceded with a smile, then looked around the room. ‘But we cannot all sit in one chamber and it would be a pity to split the party up so definitely.’
‘How about the kitchen?’ It was Mr Earle. ‘Might I go and see?’ Before she could reply he was out of the room.
‘Very impulsive, but means well,’ Sir Jeremy remarked, at which point his friend reappeared.
‘Plenty of room,’ he announced. ‘If you will just allow me to organise this, Miss Lattimer? I would not put you out for the world, but I do so enjoy a ghost story.’ He vanished again, Jethro at his heels, leaving an anticipatory buzz behind him. Already people were discussing good stories and Mr Bunting was being urged to tell the one about the monk in black said to haunt the woods around his previous church.
Hester went back into the drawing room to find that Guy had effectively halted the carol singing by the simple expedient of flirting with the young ladies who had been singing. Jethro and two footmen were removing all the spare chairs to the kitchen and word of the impromptu entertainment was being received with good humour by the matrons.
Hester saw the Nugents standing back in a corner in earnest discussion and went across with an anxious smile. ‘Not, perhaps, the subject I would have raised, given the strange happenings here lately, but I do not think I can divert Mr Earle. I count on you both to support me.’ She linked her arm through Miss Nugent’s, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm with which this was greeted. ‘Just telling stories can do no harm, can it, Sir Lewis?’
He seemed pale, but nodded encouragingly. ‘No, of course not. You must not let these occurrences unsettle you, Miss Lattimer.’
By the time Mr Earle had reappeared and begun ushering her guests towards the kitchen, Hester was prey to rising nerves. Tension seemed to flow from Miss Nugent until Hester felt quite sick with it. She looked around for Guy and failed to see him. What to expect? In the event she found the kitchen spick and span, the table pushed back to the wall, chairs arranged in several half-circles facing the rear wall and the back door and the two cupboard doors hung with black cloth, apparently to keep the draught out.
Candles burned brightly all around the big room and the range was screened by the metal fire shield to keep the heat from scorching the complexions of the ladies nearest it.
Guy was helping people to their chairs and Hester with her reluctant companions found herself in the middle of the front row. She released Sarah Nugent’s arm and Guy touched her wrist as he straightened her chair. Hester looked up at him, but his eyes held no message for her and she shivered.
Mr Earle had assumed the role of master of ceremonies. Hester wondered what, exactly, his occupation was, for in the pleasantest manner possible he had them all in the palm of his hand.
‘Now, then,’ he announced from the Windsor chair he had pulled to the front so that he sat facing the audience with his back to the shrouded back door. ‘Who is to be our first storyteller? A little bird has told me that the vicar has a scary tale to tell.’
Amid much encouragement Mr Bunting came to the front and took the chair while Mr Earle effaced himself. With the aplomb one might expect of an experienced preacher, he told a simple tale with spine-tingling effectiveness and was much applauded as he returned to his seat.
‘Who next?’ Mr Earle invited. Glancing round, Hester wondered if anyone else had noticed that Susan had snuffed some of the candles and the room was perceptibly darker, with deepening shadows in the corners.
‘Mama,’ Annabelle was saying, ‘do tell the tale of Black Shuck.’
Mrs Redland was demurring, but her son joined in his sister’s persuasion and in the end she gave in. ‘This is a tale from Suffolk where I grew up,’ she began as she took the seat facing the audience. ‘The tale of the great black hound of death, which travellers find behind them on the road at night.’
Hester found herself quite caught up. Mrs Redland’s dry, well-bred manner threw the tale into stark relief and made it all the more frightening. Little gasps rose from the young ladies and even the gentlemen were sitting forwards in their chairs, paying rapt attention. The applause was vigorous, almost as if people found relief in the noise, Hester thought, noticing that even more candles had been snuffed.
‘Who next?’ Mr Earle enquired. ‘Lord Buckland? How about that tale you hinted at at luncheon today? A story that could hardly be more apposite for this occasion.’
Guy moved out of the shadows and looked towards Hester quite openly. ‘Perhaps Miss Lattimer would find it uncomfortable.’
Hester laid her hand on Sarah’s as though seeking support and replied, ‘What do you mean, my lord?’