A moment later, she saw why. Entering in a line with Clifford at the head, her four staff appeared each holding aloft two plum puddings dancing in blue flames. This brought everyone to their feet, clapping wildly. Fearing the lump in her throat would be the end of her, Eleanor tried to hide her emotion by glugging from her water glass.
Lunch over, the women among the guests cleared the tables. The men then rearranged them into two long serving stations for the Christmas drink and second pudding.
A flurry of ladies served behind the tables, having to call out to be heard over the hubbub. Their matching red-and-white-striped pinafore aprons and caps adding a seasonal holiday feel to the already festive atmosphere.
In front of each table, a line shuffled forward. On the drinks table, Mrs Trotman handed out a generous glass of her secret recipe Christmas mead, which the guests savoured as they moved forward. They then handed the empty glass to Polly, who washed it up in a bowl and placed it on a tray ready for the cook to use again.
On the other table, Mrs Butters and her helper, the local vicar’s housekeeper, handed out slices of Mrs Trotman’s equally secret chocolate yule log.
Eleanor beamed at her cook. ‘Gracious, it’s working like clockwork.’
‘Right it is, my lady,’ Mrs Trotman said, pouring another glass of Christmas mead.
Eleanor shook her head at the cook’s quiet efficiency. ‘What an amazing job you ladies are doing. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves immensely.’
‘Most folk are having a fine time, except folk like him.’ She nodded to Conrad Canning standing in the queue to get his yule log. ‘Old grumpy drawers over there’s never got a good word to say. Only a minute ago he was arguing with another gentleman in the queue.’ She leaned in and dropped her voice. ‘Can’t understand what women see in him. No use having eyes as blue as the sky if there’s no heart to go with them.’
Eleanor looked across to Canning. He seemed his usual surly self. But then he saw her looking at him and for an instant his features changed. It was ridiculous, but he looked almost… saintly? At peace? She was sure he nodded almost imperceptibly, as if guessing her thoughts. A moment later he turned away from her to accept his yule log. When he turned back and left the line, his face had set itself into his habitual scowl. She remembered the odd conversation they had had earlier in the day. What was it, he said?
Mrs Trotman interrupted her thoughts, holding out a glass of Christmas mead. ‘It’ll help with the shock of getting that cut to your cheek, my lady. Shall I send Polly for some more ointment?’
At the sound of her name, the young maid spun round from the washing-up bowl, flinging an arc of water over most of the queue, Mrs Butters and Eleanor. She gasped and ran round with a soggy tea towel, which she held out with a trembling hand.
‘So sorry, your ladyship.’ She grabbed the top of her apron with her mouth and sucked nervously on the edge of the lace.
Eleanor smiled and gently tugged the apron free. ‘No harm done, Polly.’
‘Yes, my lady. Sorry, my lady.’ The maid scuttled back to her station.
Eleanor took a sip of mead. ‘Mrs Trotman, that is truly delicious, very warming. Just what our runners need if it starts snowing. Although I’m not sure the race should go ahead if the weather turns.’
But her cook didn’t hear, being deep in conversation with the jittery maid. ‘Polly, my girl, what did I tell you?’ She pointed at the bowl Polly was washing the glasses in. ‘Don’t wait until you can’t see the bottom to change the water, girl.’
Polly peered into the bowl. ‘But, beg pardon, it looks quite clear, I thought.’
Mrs Trotman shook her head. ‘Joseph! How full is the barrel?’
Joseph, the Hall’s gardener, strode over. ‘Plenty of space for lots more washing-up water still, Mrs Trotman. No point letting it go to waste when I can put it to use in the greenhouses.’
Over in the food queue, many of the fun-run entrants were staring longingly at the rapidly declining mounds of yule log. Eleanor watched Mrs Butters and her helper each place a slice on a square of newspaper. They then twisted the corners, securing the yule log, which they handed to the waiting runners.
Deciding that her next job should be to check the outdoor stage where they’d present the prizes to the race winners, she turned to go.
Before she could leave, Mrs Butters caught her eye. The housekeeper mouthed, ‘Gladstone?’
Eleanor shook her head and mouthed back, ‘Sorry, no idea.’ Just then Clifford appeared, marching towards the kitchen with a contrite bulldog lumbering alongside him.
Good, no need to worry about Gladstone, but what about the weather, Ellie?
Polly appeared at Eleanor’s elbow, her hands trembling.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked the girl with genuine concern.
Her maid’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘Must have been the whistling, my lady.’
‘Whistling?’
‘Yes, my lady. Red sky this morning, that means sailors’ and shepherds’ warning. Then someone whistled right when everything was red and changed the wind. Now the storm’s coming. I don’t like storms, my lady.’
Eleanor peered out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the darkening sky and shivered. ‘Neither do I, Polly.’
Four
‘Ah, Lady Swift!’ a cheery but disembodied voice hailed her as she neared the stage.
A hand then appeared clutching a shiny brass loudhailer.
‘Reverend Gaskell, is that you?’
A ball of tousled grey hair and a pair of thick spectacles above a clerical collar bobbed up. ‘Indeed, it is, Lady Swift. I, err… may have taken a brief tumble. I was retrieving this masterful speaking device of Mr Edison’s own invention.’ He hauled himself up to his full five feet five inches by leaning on what appeared to be a long-legged tripod. Beaming at Eleanor, he looked the epitome of Christmas in his red wool jacket over a purple shirt and matching jumper, his felt derby sporting a silk rose in the mauve hatband. ‘However, thanks to our Good Lord, I am all in one piece. “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine,” Proverbs, chapter seventeen, verse twenty-two. Gracious, but I see you may have met with a small calamity yourself. Are you alright, dear lady?’
‘Perfectly fine, thank you.’ Eleanor smiled and held out her hand in greeting.
Reverend Gaskell dropped the loudhailer, which hit the stage with a resounding clonk. ‘Oops!’ He pumped her hand exuberantly. ‘Such a wonderful day. Thank you for so generously hosting this Christmas lunch and games for our most-deserving little community! I found myself still awake in the early hours this morning, full of excitement for all the fun and laughter that will ring across Henley Hall’s grounds.’
Eleanor stared up at the now dark-grey sky. ‘I only hope the weather holds. I don’t suppose you could pull any extra strings on everyone’s behalf and arrange for this snow to hold off until the Christmas fun run is over? The first and last sections are so steep I’m concerned someone will break something if the going is slippery.’
Reverend Gaskell chuckled. ‘What a charming idea, but I’m not sure I have quite such influence above!’ The vicar picked up the loudhailer. ‘It is such an honour to be the official Christmas fun-run starter, dear lady. It is quite the highlight for me, and rather ironic as I fear “sporty” is not a term that has ever been bestowed upon me.’