Home for Christmas by Lizzie Lane Page B

her breath. There he was! He didn’t leave the servants to deal with his luggage, but joined in with them, slapping them on the back, wishing them the seasons’ greetings and asking who was coming and whether they were here yet.
    Robert had finally arrived.
    She fancied he looked a little taller, more mature, more masculine than the last time she’d seen him. Then he would, she counselled, seeing as he was now at Sandhurst, a capable young man destined to be a capable young officer. If there was ever a war that is, possibly in some far-off land where British soldiers were needed to quell a native revolt.
    She was out of sight, hidden behind the curtain, yet she could tell when he smiled in her direction that he knew she was there. Then he was gone.
    Another car pulled up behind that in which Robert had arrived.
    The corners of Agnes’s mouth turned downwards at the sight of Robert’s cousin, Siggy, Sylvester Travis Dartmouth; a mouthful of a name for a thickset young man who had hair that was almost white and ice-blue eyes. Unlike Robert, he left the unloading of his luggage to his valet, a short-legged terrier of a man, who scurried along behind him loaded with baggage.
    Siggy was also at Sandhurst but might not have been if his family had not paid his way, unlike Robert who would have got there on his own merit if he’d needed to.
    The French clock on the mantelpiece chose that moment to remind her that time was getting on, tinkling like a bunch of spoons as it struck the time.
    Agnes spun out from behind the curtains. Her heart was racing, her cheeks were pink and all she could think of was finalising her duties as fast as she could.
    She’d checked the welcoming snacks laid out on the sideboard, simple things by the standards of many grand old houses: strips of cold pheasant, cheeses, game pie, pigeon breasts stuffed with apricots, apples and sultanas in pastry cases, chocolate truffles covered in coconut, fruits, breads, cold sliced sausage and peeled prawns wrapped in smoked salmon.
    She’d also retrieved the port, brandy and whisky from the tantalus, plus port, a dark red Burgundy and a crisp German white that Sir Avis hoped would please his new doctor.
    ‘There,’ she exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction. Everything was in place, the glasses sparkling, the silver spotlessly clean, the porcelain plates gleaming as though shiny and straight from the kiln.
    As she turned to leave, she spotted her reflection in the huge mirror above the marble fireplace. The face and figure looking back at her was something of a surprise. She was wearing her dark blue dress, her white apron and cap. Normally she hated her uniform, as she’d never really noticed how good her pale complexion looked when she wore a dark colour. Her hair was always wild, so it was no surprise to see escaped tendrils curling around her pink cheeks and falling below her jaw line.
    It had been her plan to change into something more alluring and less like a uniform once she’d done all she had to do.
    She scooped off her cap that had slipped sideways thanks to the thickness of her hair. On a whim, she also removed her white apron. The dress was of good quality and made her complexion look luminous. Her eyes sparkled. Her pink lips parted to reveal pearl-white teeth.
    The navy blue dress was simple, but very effective. As an afterthought, she took out the locket Sir Avis had given her. Once again, she studied her reflection, liked what she saw and smiled. A rose needs no gilding, her mother had once told her. For the first time she thought she knew what that meant.

Chapter Eight
    It was the twenty-third of December. The guests for Christmas were arriving by car and carriage.
    A chill mist drifted over fallow fields, through copses clinging like gauze around the railway station and farm labourers’ cottages.
    Lydia sat looking out of the window of the taxi that had brought them from the railway station at Ravening Halt and decided that Heathlands was