the Gooches might not be entirely welcome at Edge Manor. She went upstairs, smiling.
Daisy, Miller, and the Tyndalls stepped out into the street.
“Jack, how could you!” Babs exclaimed. “Father will be furious.
If you want his blessing to go off and build aeroplanes, inviting a couple he’ll strongly object to isn’t the way to go about it. And tomorrow, of all times, when the cream of two counties will be there to meet them!”
As the Vauxhall touring car pulled up before them, Jack said with youthful exuberance, “Don’t worry, Babs, we won’t tell the parents they’re coming, and we’ll keep them apart. Wait and see, it’ll be all right on the night.”
Having been advised that Lady Tyndall always had breakfast in bed, Daisy decided to follow suit the next morning. When she got up, the sun shone in a pale blue sky without a hint of a cloud. From her bedroom window, she saw three men and two small boys down on the lowest terrace of the gardens.
Several more figures moved about in the meadow beyond, where the bonfire had visibly grown. From their motions, she guessed they were pitchforking faggots on top of the heap.
She put her notebook and a couple of pencils in her handbag and went downstairs. In the hall, servants scurried about, dusting and sweeping in last-minute preparations for the party.
“Do you know where Miss Gwendolyn is?” Daisy asked a housemaid wielding a feather duster.
“In the kitchen, I think, ma’am. Down the passage there, ma’am.”
She pointed to a door to the right of the fireplace. “Just across from the dining room.”
An unusually sensible arrangement, Daisy thought, recollecting mansions where the kitchens were separated from the dining room by miles of draughty corridors. Edge Manor, long and narrow, was bisected by a single passageway, its only natural light a large fanlight above the door.
Stepping through, Daisy recognized from a previous visit the dingy watercolours of local landscapes, painted by some long-ago lady of the family. The passage was used mostly by servants and seldom by guests.
To her left were the doors to the drawing room and dining room, and at the end, if she remembered correctly, one to the combined smoking/billiard/gun room, whence a staircase led to Sir Harold’s den. To her right, a row of baize doors gave access to the usual of-fices: the butler’s pantry (where Jennings must be polishing his silver— or snoozing), the housekeeper’s room, the servants’ hall, kitchens, sculleries, larders, broom cupboards, back stairs and cellar stairs, and so on.
In fact, she was faced with a positive plethora of baize doors, none exactly opposite the dining room door. She was trying to decide between the two nearest when Gwen came out of one, looking harried.
“Oh, Daisy, were you looking for me? I’m so sorry! I’m being a rotten hostess this morning. The thing is, the aspic didn’t set and the mayonnaise curdled and Cook panicked. She just needed soothing. Everything’s under control now. Mother’s doing the flowers.”
“Judging by the displays I’ve seen, she does a wonderful job. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Good gracious no. You’re a guest. But I can tell you, if Father did the catering instead of setting up the fireworks, he wouldn’t be so keen on his Bonfire Night party! It’s not just the buffet supper here: We provide sausages and potatoes for the village people to cook in the bonfire embers, and gingerbread and drinks and so on.”
“You mustn’t feel you need to entertain me. I’m not a guest today, I’m a journalist. I’ll just poke around and try not to get in anyone’s way.”
“Bless you, Daisy!”
“It won’t upset Sir Harold if I go down to watch him setting up, will it?”
“I dare say he’ll be delighted. Jack and Martin are down there, too.”
“I think I saw your nephews.”
“I expect so. I hope Father isn’t letting them mess around with the fireworks . . . and that he’s
Daisy, Miller, and the Tyndalls stepped out into the street.
“Jack, how could you!” Babs exclaimed. “Father will be furious.
If you want his blessing to go off and build aeroplanes, inviting a couple he’ll strongly object to isn’t the way to go about it. And tomorrow, of all times, when the cream of two counties will be there to meet them!”
As the Vauxhall touring car pulled up before them, Jack said with youthful exuberance, “Don’t worry, Babs, we won’t tell the parents they’re coming, and we’ll keep them apart. Wait and see, it’ll be all right on the night.”
Having been advised that Lady Tyndall always had breakfast in bed, Daisy decided to follow suit the next morning. When she got up, the sun shone in a pale blue sky without a hint of a cloud. From her bedroom window, she saw three men and two small boys down on the lowest terrace of the gardens.
Several more figures moved about in the meadow beyond, where the bonfire had visibly grown. From their motions, she guessed they were pitchforking faggots on top of the heap.
She put her notebook and a couple of pencils in her handbag and went downstairs. In the hall, servants scurried about, dusting and sweeping in last-minute preparations for the party.
“Do you know where Miss Gwendolyn is?” Daisy asked a housemaid wielding a feather duster.
“In the kitchen, I think, ma’am. Down the passage there, ma’am.”
She pointed to a door to the right of the fireplace. “Just across from the dining room.”
An unusually sensible arrangement, Daisy thought, recollecting mansions where the kitchens were separated from the dining room by miles of draughty corridors. Edge Manor, long and narrow, was bisected by a single passageway, its only natural light a large fanlight above the door.
Stepping through, Daisy recognized from a previous visit the dingy watercolours of local landscapes, painted by some long-ago lady of the family. The passage was used mostly by servants and seldom by guests.
To her left were the doors to the drawing room and dining room, and at the end, if she remembered correctly, one to the combined smoking/billiard/gun room, whence a staircase led to Sir Harold’s den. To her right, a row of baize doors gave access to the usual of-fices: the butler’s pantry (where Jennings must be polishing his silver— or snoozing), the housekeeper’s room, the servants’ hall, kitchens, sculleries, larders, broom cupboards, back stairs and cellar stairs, and so on.
In fact, she was faced with a positive plethora of baize doors, none exactly opposite the dining room door. She was trying to decide between the two nearest when Gwen came out of one, looking harried.
“Oh, Daisy, were you looking for me? I’m so sorry! I’m being a rotten hostess this morning. The thing is, the aspic didn’t set and the mayonnaise curdled and Cook panicked. She just needed soothing. Everything’s under control now. Mother’s doing the flowers.”
“Judging by the displays I’ve seen, she does a wonderful job. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Good gracious no. You’re a guest. But I can tell you, if Father did the catering instead of setting up the fireworks, he wouldn’t be so keen on his Bonfire Night party! It’s not just the buffet supper here: We provide sausages and potatoes for the village people to cook in the bonfire embers, and gingerbread and drinks and so on.”
“You mustn’t feel you need to entertain me. I’m not a guest today, I’m a journalist. I’ll just poke around and try not to get in anyone’s way.”
“Bless you, Daisy!”
“It won’t upset Sir Harold if I go down to watch him setting up, will it?”
“I dare say he’ll be delighted. Jack and Martin are down there, too.”
“I think I saw your nephews.”
“I expect so. I hope Father isn’t letting them mess around with the fireworks . . . and that he’s
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