Silent Night Read Free

Armagnac. Won’t come
out until Wellington surrenders, he says, and that leaves Mr. Aquinas to do all
the organizing of the household.”
    I sat down and put my fingertips to my temples, rubbing hard.
“We have one fallen tree, one destroyed Rookery, one delusional butler and no
good brandy. Is that what you are telling me?”
    “And the cook’s down with piles and more than half the staff
are suffering from catarrh,” she added maliciously.
    I looked to Brisbane, who was smiling broadly. “God bless us,
everyone,” he said, spreading his arms wide.
    * * *
    The situation was rather worse than Morag had described.
Hoots had taken not just a bottle of Armagnac but all the decent liquor and locked it up in his room along with the
keys to the silver, the wine cellar and the pantry. The cook was indeed down
with piles, but the rest of the staff had succumbed to a rather virulent cold
that left them wheezing and hacking in various corners of the house. A few had
taken to their beds but the rest dragged about, sniffling moistly into
unspeakably sodden handkerchiefs. Father had given Aquinas carte blanche to
manage the house until Hoots came around. No one had yet wrested the keys from
Hoots, so dinner the first night consisted of bottles of beer from the village
pub and bread toasted over the drawing room fire. Portia took hers to the
nursery to eat with Jane the Younger while the rest of us made an impromptu
party around the fireplace in the vast great hall.
    Impromptu and awkward. Father, sunk in a sort of black gloom,
said scarcely a dozen words, and Aunt Hermia—Father’s younger sister and the
nearest thing we children had to a mother—struggled to fill the silences. I
noticed none of the usual decorations had been hung, and I wondered if Father’s
grim mood was a result of the fact that so few of us would be present for
Christmas. No matter, I decided. He would come round as soon as everyone
gathered for Twelfth Night.
    I smiled at the footman who came to poke up the fire. A local
lad, he had been with the family a number of years and, like all the footmen at
Bellmont, was called William regardless of his real name. This one was William
IV.
    “Hello, William.” He gave me a courteous bow but did not
smile.
    “Is everything well with you and your family?”
    “Yes, my lady. Thank you for asking.”
    He withdrew at once and I turned to Aunt Hermia. “What ails
William? He has always been such a pleasant, chatty fellow.”
    She shrugged. “Heaven help me if I know.”
    “He isn’t holding a grudge about what happened the last time is
he?” I ventured. “I mean, we did apologise about him beingpoisoned.” 3
    “He might still have died,” Father countered, levelling an
accusatory gaze at Brisbane. “I seem to remember someone having to force the
poor boy to regurgi—”
    “That is quite enough, Hector. And you’ve got it very wrong,”
Aunt Hermia cut in sharply before Father could continue. “The other victims
required Brisbane’s interventions. William slept it off. He woke with nothing
more significant than a towering headache.” She turned back to me. “He has been
out of sorts for days now, as have most of the staff. So many are out with
illness, the rest have worked doubly hard to carry on. We cannot seem to find
replacements in Blessingstoke.” She broke off suddenly, darting a quick glance
to my father.
    Brisbane noted it. He turned to Aunt Hermia. “You are having
troubles with the locals? But you have always hired in from the village.”
    “Never again,” Father thundered. “I will not have a pack of
cowardly, pudding-hearted—”
    Aunt Hermia raised a hand. “That will do , Hector.” She spoke to Brisbane. “But he is not wrong. In the
last few days, it has become impossible to entice them to work at the
Abbey.”
    “What reason do they give?” Brisbane enquired. I smiled to
myself. He regularly worked on behalf of her Majesty’s government in essential
and secretive ways, and