Bruce Alexander - Smuggler's Moon

And yet it had no grand entrance, no portico with which to impress the visiting aristocracy and nobility; perhaps hereabouts Sir Simon was the only one of his class in residence; perhaps then Deal was his fiefdom.

As these thoughts did thus flash through my brain, a man emerged to meet us and, leaving the door symbolically open behind him, to bid us welcome. Among the landed in the country, a great host of house servants seems to be considered something of an embarrassment. They keep, rather, a number of retainers who are capable of duplicating the work of the rest. The man who came out to greet us was one of these and should not be thought of as a butler. No, indeed, he was no butler, for he lacked the degree of coldness any proper London butler would surely have had. He was simply a Kent fellow of middle years, big and strong-a proper countryman-and he had come out to assure us that we were expected but most of all that we were welcome.

He managed to convey that just by stepping out upon the little porch that was raised a step or two above the ground. He chuckled to himself as he bowed and approached the door of the coach and threw it open.

“Here, miss, give me your hand, and I’ll help you down.”

Clarissa took advantage of the offer and stepped down very lightly indeed. Sir John was next: he did not attempt to jump, as was his wont, but accepted the proffered hand with good grace and hopped down quite nimbly. Only I, who was last of all, displayed a certain clumsiness in exiting the coach; my heel caught in the step, and had the jolly retainer not been there to catch me, I should have tumbled face-first into the dust of the driveway.

“Hi, watch it there, my lad. I’d not want to present you to the master with a broken head. Steady as she goes, eh?”

He pulled himself to his full height, put a hand atop his protruding belly, as if to hide it from sight, then spoke forth in the manner of one who had memorized a piece in order to have it down precisely.

“My master, Simon Grenville, Baronet, was unavoidably called away this day. He deeply regrets not being present to welcome you himself, but he assures you that his household staff will do all that they can to make you comfortable in your rooms until dinner, at which time he will join you.”

“And the horses? Our driver and coachman?” asked Sir John.

”If they will but drive round the house to the stable, sir, the staff there will do all that needs be done for the horses. The driver and coachman will be taken care of by us in the house, you may be sure.”

“And one last question: How may we call you?”

“Will Fowler, sir, and my family has been in service to the Grenvilles for three generations. Now, if you will step this way, please?”

And so it was settled. We were assured that there would be time for a nap before dinner, and that we would be knocked up in time to dress.

“I am grateful for that,” said Sir John to me once we were alone in the room we shared. ”I had briefly entertained the notion of visiting the magistrate. Yet when a man is as bone-weary as I from travel, all he can do is seek rest.”

After we woke and dressed, we were ushered in to the large formal dining room where we found a tall and rather handsome man awaiting us, obviously our host, Sir Simon Grenville. I saw no sign of a hostess-a Lady Grenville-and I wondered at that, but Sir Simon made no immediate explanation, and I thought perhaps there was no Lady Grenville. We took our places, with Sir John at his right, of course, and the longest meal of my life began. There was course after course. Plates of various foods appeared and vanished before me, apparently of their own power-I always seemed to be looking the other way when the server whisked one plate away and put another in its place. And with each course there was a new bottle of wine of a different color and a different flavor put before us. That all this was done according to some intricate plan, and not simply as a demonstration of great abundance, I learned as Sir Simon himself explained his situation to us.

“You will note,” said he, ”that I am alone here. Lady Grenville is on the other side,” he made a vague gesture toward the Channel, ”visiting her family. She is, as you may gather, French. And being French, she brought with her into our happy marriage, a French cook; indeed the finest French cook who ever came to these shores, or so he keeps declaring. His name is Jacques, you see, and Jacques feels unused and unappreciated because we do not often have occasions here in our sleepy little corner of England to make full use of his talents. Especially does he enjoy showing them off to my wife, for she is French, and only the French can fully appreciate their cuisine. Yet she has been away a considerable length of time due to an illness in the family. This is, in fact, the first occasion on which he has prepared a full-course dinner in the grand style in her absence. Ordinarily, that might seem reason to caution you as to its quality. Nevertheless, first of all, Jacques has not been put to the test for far too long, and he has been eager to prove himself. And secondly, say I in prideful mock-humility, I believe his work speaks for itself.”

“Indeed it does,” said Sir John, ”oh, indeed so.”

Had there been any need to do so, I might have raised my voice to second Sir John, for while I commented a moment ago upon the great abundance of the food, it should be said that it tasted remarkably well. It was perhaps a bit too delicately spiced for one, like me, who sought grosser gustatory satisfactions. Which is to say, I knew that the turbot, the quail, and the lamb that were put before me in their diverse sauces were in every way exceptional, yet I still preferred Annie’s well-garlicked beef stew.

“Remarkable coincidence,” said Sir John.

“Oh? What is that, sir?” queried our host.

“That your wife should be away visiting an ill member of her family. So also is my own dear wife. Which of her relations is sick?”

“Pardon?”

“Which family member? Brother? Sister …?”

“Oh, well, her mother.”

“You see? Remarkable coincidence. It is her mother also, whose illness has occasioned my wife’s visit. Remarkable.”

Sir Simon, for some reason, seemed disturbed by this exchange. He signaled the wine server to refill the glasses. Glancing uneasily at Clarissa, who sat next me, I wondered how much more she should or could drink of the wine. It was not that I feared that she would become boisterous or rude, yet she might become talkative. And the conversationalists at this table were to be Sir Simon and Sir John-and no others. Surely she realized that. Clarissa took a sip from the newly refilled glass, then turned to me with a lazy smile upon her face. Her eyes, I noted, were a bit opaque.

“I do regret Marie-Hélène’s absence now, at the time of your visit,” said Sir Simon, resuming their talk. ”Lady Grenville, that is. She would be the ideal guide through this old house. She knows its history better than I.”

“How old is it?” Sir John asked, showing little more than polite interest.

“Oh … let me see. The core of the house is quite old-fourteen-something. Marie-Hélène would have it exact.”

“That is indeed old.”

“There have been three major additions since then. It is one of those old houses which simply grew of its own volition. Why, it even has a ghost or two.”

This was simply too much for Clarissa. Her eyes brightened. ”A ghost! ” She fair shouted it out. ”Oooh! Tell us about it.” And then: ” Ow -Jeremy!”

That last was her response to the kick I gave her in the ankle. As I administered it, I leaned close and whispered, ”Do you wish to have us eating with the servants?”