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

The next morning was even colder than the day before with little feathers of frost in the corners of the Emily’s bedroom windows.  The sun was low and long, already cutting a few melting strips across the roofs, but the meadow was still wedding cake white – crisp and even.  Emily thought she felt better but wasn’t sure yet.  She’d spent most of yesterday in bed — asleep and awake — drowsy even without painkillers.  Janet had sent a nurse from the village who changed the dressing (it was smaller now and not so awkward) and said everything looked good.  She also sent the housemaids up with blankets and a portable electric heater.  They took Emily’s work clothes and laid out two heavy sweat suits, black and grey, and a pair of dark tan Uggs.  (Emily wondered if they were from Janet’s personal collection.)  Cozy warm clothes helped Emily’s mood, even though she’d struggled with the drawstring and zipper until finally, giving up, she found a big, bulk knit sweater that was loose enough to pull over her head.  She turned away from the window.  The fireplace looked lonely cold.  When she was a child, there had always been fires going on Christmas at Pyaridge Hall.  She remembered waking up to the sound and the smell of them.  But that was then, and it was time for breakfast and “morning prayers.”

At the top of the stairs, Emily saw the tree, towering in the entrance hall, two floors tall and a perfect cone.  She could see that they’d already strung the lights, and for a second she thought about switching them on in the dim morning but realized that she had no idea where the outlets were.  From the stairs, she could just reach the higher branches, and she touched them with her good hand, rubbing her fingers on the needles.  She leaned out as far as she could over the bannister, closed her mouth and took a deep breath of pine.  It smelled like Christmas, and now it felt like Christmas, and she knew she was feeling better.

Breakfast was the same/same, and Janet Miller was right on time, if perhaps a little more professional than usual.  There wasn’t much, mostly scheduling.

“I’ll need help today to dress for the children.”

Janet nodded.

“Anything special?” Emily added.

“No, the usual: cricket, student garden group.  The Doughty’s daughter won a poetry contest.”

“First name?”

“Uh. . . ” Janet consulted her notebook. “Tynal.”

“Tynal?”

“They’re from Birmingham.”

“Hmm,” Emily agreed.

“Don’t worry: I’ll have Lillian there with the crib.”

“Lunch here,” Janet gestured, “Thank you, thank you.  Then load them back on the bus.”

There was a hum it the air.  Janet noticed, paused and tilted her head. Then, unable to decipher it, she went back to her book.

“Anyway, here’s the details on the pagans.” Janet passed Emily a sheet of paper. “It’s Donald, not Ronald, and he was two years behind us.  It’s called Science and Sorcery, something or other.  I can do this if you like.”

“No, it’ll do me good to scold somebody.  I don’t remember him, though.”

Janet shrugged, “Apparently Billie knows him quite well.”

“Conflict?’

“No.  You know Billie.  He worships the water you walk on.”

Emily smiled and thought for a second. “What did he do with the Jag?”

The hum was louder.  Both women heard it and glanced at the windows.

“Left it in London,” Janet said, turning her head back to the table.  “Brought you home in the Roller.  Carried you upstairs.  Rolled up the rugs.  Banished the dogs.  I finally had to throw him out.”

Emily smiled, remembering close to none of it.

“The dogs!”

“Ah, they’re at the Dilfords.” Janet said, slightly distracted by the hum that was now a noise, “Moping.”

“I’ll bring them home tomorrow.”

The noise was getting louder.  Both women looked at the windows again.  Janet put her hand up.

“Just a moment.”  She got up and went to the window.  Outside, at the end of the drive, there was a school bus turning onto the estate and a full blue sky with – with birds?  Three big black birds were flying – but they weren’t birds?  They were . . . too steady, too symmetrical.

Janet turned back to Emily.

“Come see this,” she motioned.  By the time she turned back, both women could hear the unmistakable whoop/whoop of helicopter blades.  They were helicopters.  In fact, they were three R.A.F. Puma HC support helicopters, flying in formation towards the house.  Emily got to the window just as they settled high over the front lawn.  She looked up and one slowly began to drift down, as the others hovered above it.

“What the ….?”

Suddenly, Emily shot her hand over her open mouth and gave a short I-should-be-embarrassed-but I’m-not, breathless laugh.

“It’s Sinclair,” she said. “My God, it’s Sinclair.” And she laughed out loud.

The two women turned their faces to each other.

“I told you,” Emily said, spun around and ran out of the room.

“Mind your hand!” Janet shouted after her.

She turned back to the window just as the helicopter touched the ground.

Tuesday – Part 5