Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas by Cathy Bramley

think that’s a very sweet name. I meant giving up her family and her wealthy lifestyle.’
    â€˜What can I say?’ he smirked, leaning back and resting his hands behind his head. ‘I was worth it.’
    We laughed for a moment before his face grew serious.
    â€˜I did tackle her about that,’ he said, ‘because I was worried that one day she might regret it. But you know what she said?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜She said that when you fall in love with someone, you fall in love with the person they are and not their job or their bank balance and that people are people and we shouldn’t put one above another.’ He sniffed. ‘So I married her and we’ve been together for over fifty years.’
    â€˜Oh, Jim. That is the sweetest thing I ever heard.’ I reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘And did her family ever forgive her?’
    â€˜Yes. Old Albert was quite a decent chap in the end. So all was well.’
    â€˜A happy ending,’ I said, standing to leave. ‘I’m glad. I’d better be off; our celebrity chef is due any second and I want to check that Jenny doesn’t flirt with him too outrageously.’
    â€˜Hold on, aren’t you going to tell Santa what you want for Christmas first?’ He settled his red hat on his head and rested his hands on his tummy. ‘Go on, I’m ready.’
    â€˜Oh gosh,’ I chewed my lip. ‘Let me think.’
    I wanted to be Ben’s girlfriend, I wanted Lady Fortescue to be overjoyed for us and I wanted the airmail letter from Italy to bring good news . . .
    My shoulders lifted in an almighty sigh. ‘I want the impossible, Santa.’
    â€˜It’s Christmas, Holly, anything can happen.’ He laughed, tapping his nose. ‘You might get lucky.’
    I kissed Jim’s cheek and said goodbye, pausing in the workshop to stand on a stool and fix Andy’s mistletoe posy to the ceiling with a pin.
    Let’s hope Jim is right
, I thought,
maybe this Christmas I will get lucky
. . .

Chapter 6
    I left Jim in his cosy grotto and scurried across the courtyard to the café, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the icy wind. But despite the cold, I paused for a moment at the door.
    Decked out in its festive finery, the café looked delightful. Jenny had suggested that all the decorations in here should be in keeping with the Elizabethan food event she was running today. So we had held back on the silver glitter, making use of the abundant greenery from the grounds instead. Swags of bay, laurel, holly and ivy ran along the serving counter and around the ceiling beams, adding traditional festive charm. Tall fat candles encircled with rosemary and thyme coronets created a gentle glow and the overall aroma when I opened the door was rich and pungent.
    The usual café tables and chairs had been put into storage for the day and the space had been set up theatre-style around a demo table near the kitchen doors. Jenny had purloined a couple of electric hobs from somewhere although they didn’t have an oven out front, so one of her helpers would be on hand to ferry food to and from the kitchens. Rachel, Jenny’s sous chef, was at the table arranging a series of ceramic dishes full of ingredients for Daniel’s menu.
    And there, sitting at a table to the side of the demo area, almost concealed behind a pile of cookery books, was Daniel Denton himself.
    Our celebrity chef had arrived.
    I had watched three episodes of his series
Kitchen Secrets
last night back-to-back, so I thought I knew what to expect. His TV persona was of an enthusiastic octopus on speed; he waved his arms endlessly, darted from cooker to fridge to workbench as though his pants were on fire and he could crack an egg with one hand while stirring cheese sauce with another. Even his blond floppy hair seemed to be in constant motion. I felt exhausted just watching him and to top it off the show was set to