Kate Kingsbury: Mistletoe and Mayhem

“Doing what?”

“You know full well to what I’m referring.”

Baxter’s stern features relaxed, and he gave her a rueful smile. “So I am, my dear. I deeply apologize. How may I make it up to you?”

“You can tell me what is troubling you so. It has to be more than a mere picture in a newspaper.”

As an answer, he stretched out his hand and patted hers. “Nothing more than that, I assure you. Now finish your pheasant before it grows cold.”

She searched his face for a moment or two before picking up her knife and fork. He could deny it all he liked, but she knew her husband. Something was distressing him, and the very fact he wanted to hide it from her told her it was significant. She would not rest comfortably now until she knew exactly what had drawn those furrows on Baxter’s brow.

Down in the kitchen, Pansy groaned as she lifted a tray full of dirty dishes from the dumbwaiter. It was the job she disliked the most. The maids piled the trays so high she could hardly lift them, much less carry them across the kitchen to the sink.

She lived in fear that something would fall off the tray and she would have to pay through the nose to replace it. In order to avoid that at all costs, she edged across the tiled floor one step at a time, holding her breath. That usually aroused the ire of Mrs. Chubb, however, who invariably yelled at her, making her jump, putting the dishes in even more peril.

She had almost reached the sink when the dreaded protest bellowed out behind her. “For pity’s sake, Pansy! Get a move on with those dishes. You’re taking all day!”

Although she’d braced herself for the housekeeper’s explosion, Pansy was helpless to prevent the violent jerk of her body. The dishes rattled, and a precious cup wobbled back and forth at an alarming angle.

In a desperate bid to save it, Pansy lunged forward the last two steps and smacked the tray down on the counter. The cup leapt from the tray and landed on the floor with an almighty crash.

Michel swung around from the stove, his tall chef’s cap bobbing up and down. “ Sacrebleu ! What a clumsy oaf you are! You make me spill ze gravy all over the stove. Now you clean it up, oui ?”

Pansy promptly burst into tears.

Muttering under her breath, Mrs. Chubb hurried over to her and patted her shoulder. “There, there, no need to carry on. Just pick up the pieces.” She glared at Michel. “And you can clean up your own stove. You know full well she didn’t do it on purpose.”

“She never do it on purpose,” Michel roared. “She is clumsy, that one. Clumsy like an elephant.” He slammed a saucepan lid down hard on the stove, making Pansy cry even louder.

“Now look what you’ve done.” The housekeeper fished a large white handkerchief out of her apron pocket and handed it to Pansy. “Come now, child, blow your nose. It’s not the end of the world.”

It might just as well be, Pansy thought, as she obligingly trumpeted into the handkerchief. What with Samuel paying her no attention and the new maid flapping her eyelids all the time at him, this was going to be a miserable Christmas.

“Here.” Mrs. Chubb took the handkerchief from her and tucked it back in her pocket. “I’ll pick up this mess. You can take the tray up to Mr. Mortimer. He’s requested his meal in his room tonight.” She pointed at the tray on the kitchen table.

Pansy wrinkled her nose at the steaming bowl of soup and two thick slices of bread. Sitting next to it was a plate of fried roes with beans on toast, and another dish piled high with carrots, peas, and a large slice of steak and kidney pie smothered in gravy.

“I’ve already sent up a bottle of sherry and a decanter of brandy, so ask the gentleman if he would like a cup of tea and we’ll take it up later.”

Pansy went on looking at the tray. All that food smelled all right but she didn’t have one teeny bit of appetite to enjoy it. The thought of eating just made her feel sick.

“Well go on, girl! Don’t stand there gaping at it. Take it up to room nine.”

Her thoughts shattered, Pansy leapt for the table, bumping her hip against it as she reached for the tray. “Ow… that hurt!”

Michel muttered something and crashed another saucepan lid down on the stove.

Pansy grabbed the tray and fled out the door.

Crossing the lobby, she spotted Ellie hovering in the entrance to the hallway. Pansy frowned. The guests should all be in the dining room, and that’s where Ellie was supposed to be, helping Gertie wait on the tables. If it weren’t for that blinking girl, she’d be helping Gertie instead of carrying a tray that weighed a ton all the way upstairs to room nine.

She reached the stairs and started up them. As she turned into the curve of the staircase, she glanced down again. Just in time to see Charlie, the footman Gertie had mentioned, dart across the lobby, pull Ellie out under the kissing bough, and smother her face with his.

Mesmerized, Pansy stood and watched. At least it wasn’t her Samuel who was acting in such a scandalous manner. Her lips twitched. She wouldn’t mind at all if Samuel acted that way, as long as it was her he was kissing.

“Excuse me, I’d like to pass.”

Pansy jumped back from the railing, slopping soup over into the dish beneath it. Her face flamed when she saw one of the guests glaring down at her. Muttering apologies, she slammed her back against the far railing and waited for him to descend the stairs before peeking over the banister again.

Ellie and Charlie had disappeared, which was just as well, considering Sir Walter Hayesbury was now striding across the lobby to the hallway, obviously late for dinner and even more obviously put out by it.

Pansy scrambled up the rest of the stairs and hurried down the hallway to room nine. It would be just her luck for Mr. Mortimer to complain because his dinner was cold. Then she’d be in hot water.

Reaching the door, she tapped lightly on it and waited for a response. Nothing but silence greeted her, and after waiting for several anxious seconds, she curled her fingers and rapped loudly on the door.

“Yes, yes! What is it?”

The voice from the other side of the door sounded grumpy and harsh. A voice Pansy didn’t like at all. “It’s the maid, sir,” she called out. “I brought up your dinner tray for you like you asked.”

A couple of grunts answered her, then the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door opened an inch or two and a bony hand appeared. “Give it to me.”

“I can’t get it through that space without spilling everything, sir.”

“Oh, very well.” The door opened slightly wider. “Bring it in and put it on the bed.”

Gritting her teeth, Pansy lifted her knee and nudged the door open. Inside the room a small oil lamp, turned down low, flickered on the bedside table. The stocky figure of Mr. Mortimer stood with his back to her by the window, staring out, though he couldn’t possibly see anything since it was pitch dark outside.

Pansy glanced at the back of his head, then let out a small sigh as she placed the tray carefully in the middle of the bed. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Encouraged by the small gesture of appreciation, Pansy went on brightly, “Mrs. Chubb said to ask if you would like a cup of tea brought up later. I’ll be happy to bring it up for-”

“No tea! I want nothing else.”

Startled by the gruff tone again, Pansy backed away to the door. “Very well, sir. I’ll be back to pick up the tray, then-”

“I’ll put it outside when I’m finished. Now please, just go away and leave me alone.”

Pansy was only too happy to oblige. She slipped outside and closed the door a little firmly to show her displeasure, then marched back down the stairs full of righteous indignation. How dare he talk to me that way! Still steaming, she charged across the lobby and ran full tilt into Gertie coming the other way.