Keeping the Castle Read Free Page B

weight, m’dear,” said Sir Quentin, gallantly offering his wife the best of the available chairs.
    “No, my love, you take that one. Think of your lumbago. I shall be quite comfortable here.” And she sank down onto a rather rickety specimen at my left elbow. We paused, holding our collective breath as the chair creaked, swayed, and then steadied.
    Satisfied that all was secure for the moment, my mother offered tea and cake to Lady Throstletwist.
    “Demmed cold in here,” complained Sir Quentin, chafing his hands together.
    “Quentin!” scolded his wife.
    “Oh, do bring your chair up closer to the fire,” urged my mother.
    “What fire?” he demanded, peering into the cavernous fireplace, which was so large it had in fact been used in days gone by to roast whole oxen. He squinted at the small blaze far at the back of the firebox. “Hmm, hmm, I see. Yes, I suppose there is one in there.” He held his hands out hopefully towards it.
    “Now, Quentin, I told you to dress warmly. I always do when we visit Crooked Castle, even in August. You know how the winds go rushing up and down these halls, whatever the season. One might as well be living in a perpetual cyclone,” said Lady Throstletwist, complacently stroking her cashmere shawl down around her plump form. She and her husband owned Yellering Hall, a cheerful modern house with a great many fireplaces, all blasting out prodigious amounts of heat. “Why your grandfather chose to build this place in such an exposed situation, hanging out over a cliff on the North Sea,” she said to my mother, “I will never know. You haven’t even an ocean view from inside this great, dark barn.”
    “Some tea will warm you, Sir Quentin,” Mother said, handing him a cup.
    “Thank you, m’dear,” said Sir Quentin, looking with sad eyes down into the cup of pale brown water.
    “One lump or two?” she asked, her hand hovering over the lid of the elaborate silver sugar caddy. I awaited his answer with some trepidation.
    Sir Quentin brightened. “Oh, is there sugar? I’ll have—”
    “None.” Lady Throstletwist finished his sentence. “Sir Quentin is watching his waistline.”
    This was manifestly untrue. Sir Quentin was as slender as a blade of wheat. It was simply that Lady Throstletwist had guessed that, handsome as the caddy was, it in fact contained no sugar lumps. I had used the sugar for the cakes, which had been meant to last the week but which were swiftly disappearing. I smiled at Lady Throstletwist gratefully; now Mama need not know the empty state of the sugar caddy.
    “Very wise,” said my mama. “I daresay you shall outlive us all, Sir Quentin.”
    “Have you heard about the arrival of Lord Boring’s party?” Lady Throstletwist enquired, changing the subject. “Quite an excitement for us here in quiet little Lesser Hoo.”
    “I believe five young men are coming to enliven our neighborhood,” said Miss Clara.
    “I must differ with you, my dear Miss Clara,” said Lady Throstletwist. “I have it on excellent authority that there will be six!”
    “Miss Sneech and Mr. Bold,” announced Greengages gloomily, showing yet two more neighbors, our vicar and his niece, into the room.
    “How delightful,” said my mama. “Greengages, more tea and cakes please.” Greengages looked at her reproachfully, but took the tray and went to boil more water in the kitchen. After seeing our new visitors seated, I took the opportunity to excuse myself and followed him.
    “Oh, miss,” wailed the cook when I showed myself in this domestic office. “Whatever shall we give them to eat? Your lovely little cakes are gone.”
    “Is there any bread?” I asked.
    Cook allowed as how there was a bit of bread, “But I was planning on it for breakfast.”
    “Never mind breakfast. Slice it very, very thin and toast it—carefully, mind, don’t burn it—then spread it with butter.”
    “Nay, there’s none, miss,” said Cook dolefully.
    “Plain will have to do,