The mid-morning was beautiful, clear and quiet.  The sun was high enough to be warm and the air cold enough to be crisp.  And the only sound in the world was the crunch of the finely-packed gravel under their feet.  Janet had insisted on a wool hat, duffle coat (buttoned to the neck), long wrapped scarf, and mittens, and Emily felt like a waddling bear — but this was the first time she’d been out in nearly two weeks, and it made her giddy.  Dreyfus, on the other hand, wasn’t sure about the borrowed boots (they seemed a little big) so he was literally watching his step.  At the end of the driveway, they crossed the road and went through a slight stand of trees into a huge winter meadow, still spotted with frost. 

“Wow!  This is fantastic,” Dreyfus said. “Is all this yours?”

“Mm-hmm.  All the way past those hills to the airfield, and that used to be ours also, but my great-great somebody gave it to the government during the war.  We used to run cattle here, but that was before my time.”

“And you’re the Duchess?”

Emily stopped and crinkled her nose at Dreyfus.

“I knew you were Lady something-or-other, but nobody told me you were royalty.”

“Royalty?  We’re not royal.  Who told you that?”

“Nobody.  I just assumed.  Duchess.  Royalty.”

“Noooo,” Emily scoffed and started walking again, “It’s only a name.  James I gave us the title in 16 – uh – I don’t know, because all the other families around here were Catholic.  We’re not royal.  Far from it.”

The path was wide enough for both of them, and they walked side by side.

“What about you, Sinclair?  What’s your story?”

“No story.  My family never heard of James I.”

“C’mon.  The last time I saw you, you had a gun in your hand, and you were selling my finger to the highest bidder.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but insurance adjustors don’t carry guns.  They don’t barter body parts.  And they sure as hell don’t scare the shit out of Russian gangsters.”

“You lost your accent.”

“Don’t change the subject.  What happened there?” Emily asked seriously.

Dreyfus thought about it. “If you recall, I wasn’t selling your finger: I was negotiating a price – that started off with your head.”

“That’s true.  I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“You did.  Extravagantly.”

Emily looked puzzled.

“You don’t remember much about the loft, do you?” Dreyfus asked, carefully manipulating the conversation.

“No,” Emily shook her head ruefully, “Between the pain and the painkillers, not much.  I remember those tall windows: they were gorgeous.  And the fireplace and the soup.  Oh, God! I remember the soup! That was the best soup, and I remember ….”

Emily eyes flickered, and she stopped talking and stopped walking.  Dreyfus turned his head.

“We didn’t?” The question was real, “Did we?”

Dreyfus smiled and laughed.  He put his hand up. “No.  Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my sex consensual.”

Emily tucked her chin into her scarf and slightly closed her eyes. (“Why not?” she thought.) “I would have consented,” she said evenly.

Dreyfus laughed again. “I was talking about me.  You’re very aggressive when you’re stoned.”

“You bastard!” Emily swiped at him with her mittened hand, missed, took a step sideways to try again and tripped.  Dreyfus grabbed her by the hips to keep her from falling.

“Tarmac!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Emily twisted away from his hands and knelt down.  She pulled a flat black lump out of the grass and held it like a prize.

“I knew it.  The minute I tripped, I knew it.”

Emily looked around, trying to orient herself.  Dreyfus just stood there, wondering what was going on.  Emily turned back to the ground, wiping the grass with her mitten, and then reached down with both hands.  Dreyfus jumped forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he said, pulling her injured hand away. “What are you doing?”

Emily stopped.  She looked at Dreyfus and laughed nervously. “I guess this looks pretty silly, doesn’t it?”

Dreyfus nodded.

“Hmmm.  It’s complicated.” Emily stood up and brushed off her knees. “One of my stupider ancestors was mad for tarmac – um – pavement – um,” Emily searched for the word, “Asphalt!  He asphalted everything.  All the footpaths, the fences, along the streams, random places for no reason.  Anyway, Billie and I decided to get rid of it.  We did the footpaths and all the obvious places, but it keeps coming back.  It’s everywhere.  It’s like a war, and every time we find it, we tear it out.  This must be another overgrown pathway of some kind.  I was just going to pull out a bigger piece so we’d be sure to find it again.  But….”  Emily held her hand in the air.

Dreyfus let go of Emily’s raised hand and reached down.  He found the end of the pavement, steadied his feet, and — with both hands — pulled straight up.  There was a snap as the asphalt broke, and Dreyfus stumbled forward with the effort.

“Big enough?” he said, regaining his balance.

“Perfect.  Just put it on the path, so we can find it.”

Dreyfus set the black lump down, and Emily placed the smaller piece beside it.  She smiled at him as if they were now comrades in arms.

“Anything else I should watch out for?  Dinosaur bones?  Dragon’s teeth?”

“No,” Emily laughed again, “Let’s go get the dogs.  Dilford Cottage is just beyond those trees.”

Dilford Cottage was straight out of a 19^th century sketchbook – grey slate, thatched roof, bony fingers of hawthorn and ivy climbing the walls. Dreyfus had never imagined places like this even existed.  There was a short wooden gate across the path, but no fence.  Emily stopped a couple of paces up the path and put her hand up.

“You need to stay here for a minute.  The dogs don’t know you.”

“There’s no fence.”

“Just, just stay here.”

Emily opened the gate and closed it behind her.  She walked up and pounded loudly on the door.

“Mrs. Dilford,” she shouted and opened the door, “I’ve come for ….”

Three medium-sized black and white tornadoes erupted at Emily’s knees.  They twisted and chased and dodged and darted, and Emily staggered back a little from the weight of them around her legs; but, Dreyfus noticed, they didn’t jump up or bark.

“Hello, dogs!” Emily took off one mitten and scratched and patted each one in turn — each one dancing and pushing for extra attention.  One of them stopped, gave Dreyfus a suspicious stare, then went back to the hand that was scratching him.

An older, square-shaped woman appeared at the door.

“I just came for the dogs, Mrs. Dilford,” Emily shouted. “I hope they weren’t too much trouble.”

“No, not at all,” the woman shouted back. “They were good company.” She paused. “Our Billie said you had an accident, dear.  Are you alright?”

“On the mend, Mrs. Dilford, on the mend.  How are you?”

“Still good, still good.  I’ll put the kettle on if you have the time?”

“No, I’m with someone at the minute.” Emily turned slightly so Mrs. Dilford could see.

“Ah, that’ll be your Mr. Sinclair.  Pilot, is he?”

Emily laughed, “Insurance.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Dilford considered that.

“Well, we best be off.  Will I see you at the market?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be there.”

“Alright, then.  See you then, and thanks again for the dogs.”

“No trouble.  Anytime.  Mind how you go.” Mrs. Dilford disappeared back into the house, and Emily took the few steps to the gate – the dogs still around her feet.  She opened it and stepped through.  The dogs stopped and stood, anxiously waiting.

“These are my dogs.  What do you think?”

Dreyfus raised his shoulders and tilted his head.

“No, you have to say something.”

“Like what?”

Emily laughed “I don’t know.  How about ‘Emily Perry-Turner is the sexiest woman in the world’?”

“You’re joking?”

“You don’t think I’m sexy?”

“Of course I do, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Dogs!” Emily’s voice was a command.

The dogs flew through the gate, and Emily closed it behind them.  They ran out and back and danced around Emily’s feet.

“They just had to hear your voice,” Emily said as they came over to get a sniff of this stranger.

Dreyfus stood self-consciously still.  He didn’t know much about dogs. “Are they vicious?”

“No, they’re pussycats.” Emily reached her hand into the neck of one and scratched, “Aren’t you. Yeah. Big suck.” Emily looked up, “But they’re very protective.  Five or six years ago, one of our EU advisors thought it would be cute to shake the ladder I was standing on.  I yelled, and he got 18 stitches.  Since then, I’ve been cautious with visitors, but everybody else around here spoils them rotten.”

“Oh,” Dreyfus still didn’t move, “What’s the trick with the gate?”

“No trick.  When they were puppies, Billie and I trained them not to leave Dilford’s yard.  Collies are smart, and they love to learn things.  Billie and I taught them all kinds of stuff.  It was a long summer.”

“What are their names?”

Emily shrugged and shook her head.

“Dogs,” she said, off-handedly, and looked out into the clear sky.    “Should we give them a good run?”

“They’re your dogs,” Dreyfus said, relaxing now that they seemed to have lost interest in him.

“See the hill over there?  The highest one?”

“The one with the people building a-a-a-a house?”

“Those are pagans, and they’re building a Wicker Man to burn on the Solstice.”

“Pagans?”

“Yes, and I need to have a word with them.  Want to come?”

“Sure.  Maybe they’re the ones who ate Sydney.”

“Dogs!” Emily waved her hand forward, and the dogs shot across the meadow like three blur fur bullets.

“You needn’t worry about Sydney,” Emily started walking. “He spent last night in the village with Hannah and her sister.  And if the rumours about those two are true, you might not see him for the better part of a week.”

“Sydney?” Dreyfus thought. “So, you’re not the nerd you say you are.”

The hill wasn’t steep, but it was long, and Dreyfus could see Emily was slowing down. “How you doing?”

“I can feel it,” she said. “I think we’ll go home after this.”

When they got to the top, they stopped to catch their breath.  There were about two dozen assorted pagans, carrying and stacking and twisting.  The dogs had been there and back at least twice, and they were wandering around uninterested.  Several of the pagans kept working, but most of them were just playing at it, very aware of Dreyfus and Emily’s presence there.  Emily blew out a big breath.

“Stay here,” she said and took a few steps forward.

“Who’s in charge here?” She didn’t raise her voice, but it was heavy with authority.

One of the men stood up, came forward and gave an exaggerated curtsy. “Raven’s Claw of Deene End, at your service, Your Grace.”

“Don’t you play silly bugger with me, Donnie Clifton.  I knew you when you peed your pants in primary.  This is a serious business, and if you don’t want to be serious, find me someone who does.”  Emily clenched her teeth, “I’ll wait.”

Emily’s stare was a cold, unholy quiet.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.  I thought since you brought Mr. Sinclair, this was a social call.”

Dreyfus made a note that everybody seemed to know him.

“It’s not.  And I will bring whomever I want to my hill.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was a sharp edge on Emily’s icy silence.

“Now, here’s a History Lesson.  My family has allowed pagans to burn on Stride Hill since before Christ made corporal.  There’s never been a problem — until last year, when you and your merry band of Wicca wankers turned this place into a rubbish heap.  I won’t stand for it.  If you choose to live like swine, do it at home.  But don’t come here, and don’t call yourselves pagans: you’re not worth the name.”

An urban, gym-slim couple in conspicuous outdoor gear stood up.  He had a branch in his hand.  Dreyfus mentally measured the distance.

“Excuse me!  You can’t ….”

Emily’s eyes didn’t leave Donnie’s face, but her voice cut through the crisp air.

“Dogs!”

The three dogs ran to her side.  Emily pushed her hand, palm down, towards the ground.  The dogs dropped into a low crouch, their backs bowed, their front paws outstretched, their muscles almost twitching and their eyes straight ahead, intent — waiting for the command.

Nothing moved.  No one spoke.  Finally, Emily blinked — and her gaze shifted to the half-built bonfire.

“You’ve got a good turnout this year, Donnie.” Emily paused, “Look, I trust you.  We’ve known each other since we were children.  We used to play on Wither’s Wall, remember.  I know you understand your responsibilities.”  Emily’s voice had softened, “But you need to remind your people.” Emily turned her head just slightly to the couple who had stood up, “Especially outsiders who don’t know our history.  Stride Hill has been here since the time of the Druids, and it’s going to be here long after we’re all dead and gone.  It’s our job to preserve it.  And our families have always done that — for centuries.  Now, I don’t think you want to be the one who mucks it all up.  So, just tell me I can count on you to keep it tidy this year, and that’ll be an end to it.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Donnie said, without hesitation. “We’ll leave it the way we found it.  And I’m very sorry about last year; it won’t happen again.”

“Alright.  Good.  Enjoy your party.  I’ll have Billie bring up a couple of bottles from the Pyaridge cellars — with my compliments.”

Emily turned around. “Let’s go home, Sinclair,” she said and started down the hill.  Dreyfus looked at the dogs.  They didn’t move.  He looked back at Emily who was already several steps ahead.   He took a few big steps to catch up, and they continued down the hill.

“Let’s let them think about it for a little minute,” Emily said, anticipating Sinclair’s question. 

Several steps later: “Dogs!”

A couple of seconds after that, the dogs were walking beside Emily like three satisfied soldiers.

“Very impressive.  Are you sure you’re not related to the Windsors?”

“No such luck.  Actually, the truth is, we’re an older family than they are: we’re in The Domesday Book.  Perrys were here in Weldon when William the Conqueror was still called Billie the Bastard.”

Dreyfus laughed. “Speaking of?  Who’s this Billie you keep talking about?”

Emily shrugged. “He’s just Billie.  His father was my father’s estate manager, but he wasn’t any good at it.” Emily made a drinking motion with her hand. “Old Bill drank himself into a three car crash when Billie was a teenager, and Daddy kept him on to do odd jobs and such.  Now, he’s just Billie.  He does all kinds of things around the estate.”

“Like tearing up asphalt.”

“Yeah,” Emily laughed, “Like tearing up asphalt.  You met him.  He was the one who came and got me in London.”

“No, didn’t meet him.  I wasn’t there.  Mrs. Flynn left me a note.  If I’d been there, I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

“That’s good to know,” Emily thought — and kept walking.

Tuesday – Part 8

Dreyfus Sinclair was not having a very good time.  He was cold.  Even with his coat on and his hands over the glowing red electric heater, he could feel the drafty room in his bones.  Yesterday had been miserable.  He’d spent the day playing hurry up and wait for a few odd minutes with Emily, hide and seek with the Pyaridge staff (who were overflowing with May-I-help-you’s) and just hiding from the evil Janet Miller who prowled the corridors like Lady Macbeth.  And when he went outside (twice) he ran into a strange-looking man cradling a shotgun.  Dinner had been a disaster — a table full of local potentates obsessed with drainage and a nervous woman on his left who actually wanted to hear about insurance.  Plus he just realized he hadn’t seen Sydney since he disappeared up the stairs with the Midsomer Murders’ butler, Reynolds.

“The hell with it,” he thought and got up to go find the breakfast room.

“Breakfast is at 8:00, Mr. Sinclair.”

Dreyfus looked at his watch.  So kill me for ten minutes.

The breakfast room was a cavern with a high vaulted ceiling.  For a second, Dreyfus thought about shouting “Helloooo!” to see if it echoed.  But he saw Emily sitting tiny at the far end of the very, very long table and decided not to be flippant.  Instead, he walked in.  At least it was warm.

“Cozy,” he said, halfway up the table.

Emily ignored the remark.  “Good morning, Sinclair.  Did you sleep well?”

Dreyfus took a cup and saucer from the sideboard, set them down on the table and gestured at the carafe of coffee.  “Very well.  But, this morning it was freezing up there.”

“Really?  Hmm.  I’ll have a heater sent up.”

“There’s one in the room.” Dreyfus poured coffee, “And believe me, it’s not up to the task.”

Emily thought for a second then casually changed the subject. “Is Sydney coming down?”

“You better check. I think the penguins ate him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!  It’s not that bad.”  Emily turned her head and shot Dreyfus an annoyed glance.  Dreyfus caught a glimpse of fuzzy pink at her throat.  In one smooth, swift motion, he stepped forward, grabbed Emily’s bandaged hand at the wrist so she couldn’t move it, reached his other hand just under the neckline of her sweater, and before she could react, pulled the collar of her pajamas free.

“Hey!” Emily yelled.

“Flannel!” Dreyfus replied, letting everything go and calmly sitting down again.

“No wonder you’re not cold: you’ve got about three layers on there.” 

Emily adjusted her sweater and her composure. “Alright, it might be a little chilly, but you need to control yourself, Sinclair.  This isn’t Scotland.  Around here, a girl likes to be asked before you stick your hand under her jumper.”

“Good advice,” Dreyfus laughed and sipped his coffee. “But, seriously, what’s the deal?”

Emily shrugged. “Big house, old boilers.  I think the last time they were refit was in the 60s.  Normally, it’s not a problem.  I’m the only one who lives up there, and in the summer it’s quite pleasant.”

“Don’t the fireplaces work?”

“Oh yeah.  When I was young, we used to have fires in all the bedrooms at Christmas.  But the house was full then.  Now …” Emily shrugged again, “Besides, the insurance premiums were killing us.  So, no fires.”

“Insurance.  Bunch of thieves.”

“Says the man.”

Dreyfus spread his hands.  He gestured with his chin. “Give me one of your pieces of bacon.”

“No,” Emily wrinkled her brow. “Call down.  Mrs. Tisdale will make you anything you like.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble for a piece of bacon.”

“No, really.  Call down now, and Janet can bring it up when she comes.”

“Oow, the ubiquitous Ms. Miller.” Dreyfus wiggled his fingers, “Will she be joining us for breakfast?”

“No, we go over estate business every day after breakfast, Morning Prayers.  Don’t you like Janet?”  It was a real question.

“She scares me.  And I think she wants me,” Dreyfus paused, raised his eyebrows and nodded his head slowly, “sexually.”

They both chuckled.

“Careful what you wish for, Sinclair.  You could end up losing more than a finger.”  Emily held her bandaged hand in the air.

Dreyfus smiled to himself.  This was the Emily he’d gotten to know in London.  He’d been worried that she might have changed – fear and trauma can do that.  He was relieved.  It wasn’t that he felt guilty — he didn’t — he’d done what he had to do.  No, this was the Emily he liked.  The one he wanted around.  And it was good to see her again.

“Am I allowed in the kitchen?”

“What?”

“If you two are going to talk drains all day, I want to be warm and close to the food.”

“We’re not going to talk drains all day.” Emily shook her head sarcastically, “Actually, I’m going to walk down and get the dogs this morning.  Come with me?  It’ll do you some good.”

“Okay,” Dreyfus shrugged. “So just direct me to the food, and you and Ms. Miller can plan and plot to your heart’s content.”

Emily thought about it.  It was a serious breach of etiquette.  The staff might not be pleased.  But … that’s what she loved about Dreyfus: he was a different breeze.  And it wasn’t as though they weren’t already talking.  She could well imagine.  Emily closed her eyes to remember and pointed her finger.

“Out that door,” Emily bent her finger left. “Left, then first right.” She straightened her finger. “Follow the hall all the way to the end and down the stairs.  First landing.” Emily opened one eye. “I think.”

Dreyfus drank the last of his coffee, set the cup down and stood up. “Where will I meet you?”

“I’ll be in the entrance hall in about an hour.  Have someone find you a pair of boots.  It’s a bit of a walk.”

Dreyfus met Janet at the end of the hall just before the stairs.  She looked just slightly shocked.  Dreyfus smiled with mischief.

“She’s all yours,” he said.  Then he raised his index finger, “But I get the dogs.”  

Friday – Part 7

Two men jumped down from the helicopter, reached back and grabbed garment bags and suitcases.  The squatted with their heads down until the big machine roared and rose straight up over their heads, as if it was being pulled on a string.  Then they straightened up, adjusted themselves, picked up their luggage and started walking to the house.

“This stunt is going to be all over the parish by midday,” Janet thought, and looked over at the main doors.  They were still closed.  That was good.  All the gossip mill needed now was the Duchess of Weldon running across the front lawn like a meadow fox in heat.

Janet knew Emily wasn’t some lovestruck schoolgirl, but she also knew that smart was no guarantee against getting tangled up with the wrong person.  And love may not always be blind, but even on its best day it was definitely near-sighted.

Janet went back to the table, stuck her pen in her book, pushed her chair into place and went out through the open door.  Time to meet what all the fuss is about.

In the entrance hall, there was utter chaos.  There were open boxes of decorations; a couple of ladders; a thick, half-strung garland stretched out on the floor; several wreaths spilling off a table; holly, candles and a bundle of giant barbershop candy canes on the floor.  The staff who’d been enlisted to help with the tree were casually mingling with the other staff – who just happened to be there for reasons completely unrelated to the gigantic helicopter that had recently landed on the front lawn.  Janet was halfway into the hall and about to take charge when Reynolds opened the double doors.  The low morning sun suddenly burst through the room, and the silhouettes standing on the threshold were surrounded by a crisp, winter light that made them look like two fallen angels still bright with heaven.  But before anyone could do anything or say anything, Lady Perry-Turner, Duchess of Weldon, skipped forward and flung her arms around the neck of the man on the left.  Instinctively, Janet turned her head and shot a fire and brimstone stare at the staff who collectively twitched and immediately found things to do.  Then she turned her head back, stepped forward to the other man and reached out her hand.

“Good morning!  I’m Janet Miller, the estate manager.  You must be Sydney?”

The man smiled – half smiled – it might have been a snarl without the mischief that crinkled in his eyes. “Pleased to meet you, but actually, I’m Dreyfus Sinclair.” He barely raised an index finger, “The young gentleman over there, being strangled, is Sydney.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.  I assumed …”

“No, no; not to worry.  It happens all the time.” Dreyfus set down his garment bag and extended his hand.

Emily let go of Sydney and stepped back.

“Sydney, Sydney!  It’s so good to see you.” Emily almost clapped her hands but thought better of it.

“Yes, ma’am.  It’s good to see you, too.”  Sydney was more than slightly embarrassed.

They all stood there for a couple of seconds in an awkward English silence.  Then Emily swiveled on one heel.

“Hello, Sinclair.”

Dreyfus reached out and delicately took Emily’s bandaged hand.  She didn’t move.  He held it like you would fragile glass and looked into her face. “How does it feel?”

Emily looked up at Dreyfus.  “It hurts,” she said like a whimper and then caught herself.  “And the itch is driving me mad.”

Dreyfus smiled and gently lowered her hand.

Over their heads and through the open doors, Janet could see the school bus pulling up.  Oh, my God!  They didn’t need to add thirty hyper children into the mix.

“Your Grace,” she said.

Emily, confused by the formality (Janet didn’t speak like that) just stood there.  Then, slightly shaking her head in recognition, “Oh, we haven’t ….”

“Actually,” Dreyfus turned back to Janet, “We have.  Just now.  And this,” Dreyfus opened his palm, “is Sydney.  Sydney, this is Janet Miller.  She’s the estate manager.”

Janet and Sydney leaned forward between Emily and Dreyfus in a clumsy handshake.  The murmuring conversations behind them were getting louder.  There was a clatter and exclamations as something fell on the stairs, and outside, Janet could see the bus had stopped.  She straightened back up.

“Your Grace.  The children?”

For a second, Emily’s face was empty, her eyes still on Dreyfus.  Then she looked at Janet and realized what she was saying.

“Of course.” She nodded and turned back to Dreyfus.

“You’ll have to excuse me for the moment: we’re on a very tight schedule this morning.  Reynolds will see to the luggage.  Reynolds?  Would you like to freshen up, or perhaps a coffee?”

“Coffee would be grand.”

“Janet, could you?  In the sitting room.  I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Emily turned back to the staff.

“Lillian, would you meet the teachers outside, please?  Give everyone a minute to clear up the confusion; then the tree is all yours.  And the rest of you are all here to assist with the tree?”  It wasn’t a question, and people started moving.

“Hannah, could you help me upstairs, please?”

Emily turned back to Dreyfus. “Thanks for coming, Sinclair.  I’ll be down in a bit.”

And she turned and walked away.

As Dreyfus watched her go, Sydney moved over towards him and whispered, “I think I’ll atay with the luggage, sir, and get the rooms sorted.”

“They’re not going to steal anything, Sydney.”

Sydney didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know about that.  It feels like we’ve stepped into an episode of Midsomer Murders.”

“Whatever you think, Sydney.” Dreyfus said laughing, and went over to where Janet was waiting.

“You must have a very busy job: the estate is quite impressive from the air.”

“Actually, Pyaridge is one of the smaller Midland estates.  We’re a bit of a backwater here.”

Dreyfus half laughed, “That’s why Sydney couldn’t find a train.”

“No, the trains don’t stop.  We haven’t had a station for over eighty years.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.  Just go through, Mr. Sinclair.  I’ll organize some coffee,” Janet said, stepping aside.

Tuesday — Part 6