A Country House Christmas Read online

  She was too excited to eat much tea although her favourite seed cake was on the table, and she soon asked Fräulein’s permission to leave her and go downstairs. Mike the terrier was waiting by the door and slipped out as she opened it. He always appeared with schoolroom tea, remained while they had it and took his share, but nothing would induce him to stay one minute after it was cleared away, and if possible, as now, he left before. For this reason Phyllis could never feel any great affection for Mike.

  Back in her own room she scrambled into the muslin frock and tied the sash as best she could, which was not very well. Louisa, the French maid she shared with Lettice and Hilda, would still be at her tea, especially as some visiting maids would have arrived by now, and it would be a shame to ring for her. Tea for the upper servants was always served in the housekeeper’s room, ‘the Room’ being reserved for the more solid meals. It was from ‘the Room’ that the procession headed by Truelove and Mrs. Campbell started, making its way round the cloisters to the servants’ hall, there to eat the first course of meat and vegetables with the underlings in perfect silence. Then, again in procession and doubtless to the great relief of ‘the Hall,’ back they went to finish the rest of the meal in ‘the Room.’ Here Phyllis had been told Truelove made himself very pleasant to the ladies and no doubt they had great fun, as additional male society was provided by Withers, Sir Thomas’s valet, and any visiting valets who happened to come. Mrs. Campbell was scornful of Truelove’s conversational powers—“Tales one’s ’eard over and over again,” was how she described them, but this opinion was not shared by the ladies’ maids.

  A few years ago when Lettice was still in the schoolroom, and Richard at his private school, they would all on occasion be invited to tea in ‘the Room,’ and there were few things more enjoyable. In the first place, the tea, at which Truelove presided, was of the most sumptuous and luscious kind, with unusual things like shrimps and sardines, and of course, crackers. Also ‘the Room’ itself was so delightful with its Tudor panelling and chimney-piece, just like the one in the Long Gallery—it certainly added to the enjoyment. After tea they played games with forfeits, Truelove again taking charge; Withers, Mrs. Campbell and the ladies’ maids were allowed to be present and joined in the games. It was all the greatest fun, and Phyllis much regretted that these happy parties were now things of the past.

  She knew her grandmother was arriving earlier than the others and also, she thought, Cousin Amy, a great favourite at Vyne and without whom no Christmas party was complete. They would be having tea in the saloon, so down the passage she ran again, through the door at the top of the grand staircase and down it to the first floor where all the principal rooms were placed.

  Here, as on the floor above, a passage ran round three sides of the central court, the entrance hall filling the fourth. The staircase, late seventeenth century with classical balustrading, rose from a side hall with rectangular oak pillars at one end of which was the door of the library, at the other that of the saloon. A year ago the huge house was still lit entirely by oil lamps. On the staircase they had stood precariously balanced on the broad tops of the newel posts at each turn of the stairs. It was a marvel there had never been a catastrophe. Now a large electric chandelier flinging its powerful lights upwards brightly illumined the family portraits covering the staircase walls—Elizabethan Sir Piers between his two wives: Dame Margaret, a tall full-length in yellow hooped skirt, long, narrow bodice and triple strand, knee-length pearl necklace; Dame Dorothy, rather tight-lipped, in severely tailored black, large white ruff, small, high-crowned hat, her pet monkey on her lap, and her predecessor’s pearls. On the end wall hung the huge picture of Thomas Vayne, traveller and Egyptologist, friend of the Prince Regent (who had condescended to borrow money from him), in eastern dress, his hand on his horse’s neck, his Arab servant squatting beside him. He it was who had committed the atrocity of the tower and several other vandalisms, but to his credit stood the fine late Georgian dining-room and the Orangery, which despite its glass roof had managed to achieve beauty.

  Just as Phyllis reached the first floor a tall figure in grey emerged from the lower level mounting the short flight of stairs from the entrance hall three steps at a time. Mr. Blunt also had arrived early.

  “Phyllis—my only joy! Why weren’t you there to greet me when I arrived? Closeted with old Gruffenough, I suppose. Come and kiss your Uncle Blunt.”

  Catching both her hands in his, Mr. Blunt was about to greet her affectionately, but drew back with a start of surprise.

  “Great heavens, child—your hands are like nutmeg-graters! It must be because you don’t dry them properly. Yes—look! They’re nothing like properly dried.”

  So that was why her hands were so chapped that to put the glycerine jelly on at night was pure agony. Blushing furiously and mumbling something unintelligible, Phyllis snatched her hands away. She knew she always hurried too much over her toilet, but to be told about it by Mr. Blunt or anybody but Fräulein or Louisa was humiliating. Shrugging his shoulders, Mr. Blunt opened the library door and closed it behind him, whilst Phyllis fled in the opposite direction towards the saloon.

  The door of the saloon opened on a scene of almost unreal loveliness; not the unreality of a stage setting, much more like an exquisite dream—a scene of comfort, elegance, beauty, not quite of this world. It was a large, lofty room with walls of darkly glowing cedar-wood, Corinthian pilasters arranged in pairs dividing the long panels and each of these adorned down its centre with swags of elaborate wood-carvings. From looped garlands and palm leaves and cupids’ heads hung a host of diverse objects, bunches of fruit and flowers, musical instruments, trophies, fish and birds, all carved to the life in soft yellow pear-wood by the hand of the master—the one and only Grinling Gibbons. The ceiling was decorated with gilt scroll-work of Italian design, and from its centre like a great golden flower the carved wood chandelier spread its aura around. From standards and wall brackets artfully shaded with mother-of-pearl a constellation of lesser lights added its lustre and the whole reflected in glasses and polished panelling made the room seem to be enveloped in a haze of gold. Over the three long windows curtains of bright yellow damask shimmered and scintillated in the lights and melted in the shadows to a clear, translucent green. Above them curved the gilt plumes and arabesques of fantastically carved canopies. Opposite the door a glass large enough to reflect three-fourths of the scene gave just a suggestion of magic to the room and its contents: inlaid, ormolu-mounted commodes whose marble tops held pieces of old Dresden and Chelsea china; bureaux and tables with spiral legs; an ancient harpsichord and high-backed Queen Anne chairs all of pale yellow walnut. A tall leather screen painted with flowers and birds protected the sofa where Lady Vayne sat beside her mother, and on the other side of the hearth, with its blazing fire in a cut steel grate, Lettice, on a Queen Anne settee, sat talking to Cousin Amy.

  Dividing the actual room from the one in the looking-glass rose a hedge of chrysanthemums, scarlet poinsettias and lilies. Elsewhere stood pots of fuchsias and gloxinias. There were long-branching, many-coloured carnations and small, clustering, bright pink begonias, and on one table two or three lilies of the arum family shaped like scarlet parasols with long yellow spikes, standing up stiffly in a tall vase.

  A little shyly Phyllis advanced to kiss her grandmother, who was so frail she had to be treated like a piece of china.

  “Ah, here’s little Phyllis! How are you, darling?”

  The gentle old voice was very broken and croaky, but the speaker still had great beauty; looking at her one could see the Lady Vayne of years to come. On her head she wore a graceful arrangement of lace which might have been called a cap but was more like a mantilla, and under it her still plentiful grey hair was charmingly arranged.

  Grandmamma, thought Phyllis as she kissed her, always smelt like babies, of violet powder and orris root.

  Unconsciously tactless, she turned with obviously greater pleasure to greet Cousin Amy, who was al
ways so jolly—never had she been known to say a cross word and her store of amusing anecdotes was seemingly inexhaustible. It was a pity she could not be spared from the piano to take a part in the play.

  Lettice soon noticed Phyllis’s badly tied sash and started tweaking it into shape. Cousin Amy wanted to know all about the play and whether Phyllis knew her part. She had found a very pretty song, she said, which, if Mr. Blunt approved, ought to fit perfectly into the play and would not be difficult to sing. Lettice said rather caustically that would be a good thing, and she hoped it was a short one. Phyllis blushed and looked awkward.

  “Never mind, darling,” said her mother, “you’ll do it all right.”

  “That child’s grown,” said Grandmamma, who was sometimes a trifle obvious.

  Withers came in with Charles, the second footman, to remove the tea-table, which with all its equipment of silver and eatables still stood in front of the sofa; Truelove, of course, was busy with the tree. Quickly, deftly, noiselessly they removed it and withdrew.

  “You’re sure you’re not tired after your long drive, Mamma darling?” Lady Vayne enquired tenderly of her mother. The long drive had been twelve miles in her closed carriage from the neighbouring estate, where she still reigned as châtelaine with her bachelor son. It was from here that her eldest daughter had come as a girl to marry young Thomas Vayne of Vyne.

  “Don’t you think you ought to go to your room and rest?”

  But, emphasising each word with a narrow, long-fingered hand: “Not tired at all,” said Grandmamma, “not tired at all.”

  “Come and hold my skein of wool for me, Babbles,” said Lady Vayne, who was knitting a pair of stockings for Richard.

  How could she sit so calmly winding wool, thought Phyllis, taking her place on the footstool beside her mother’s chair, when they were on the verge of such delirious excitements; and the crowd of visitors on the point of arriving. Even now they might be on their way up from the station. Ruggles, the coachman, had gone to meet them with the horse-drawn omnibus, and Cullen, the under-coachman (now the chauffeur), with the new Daimler, which he had only just learnt to drive. They might at this moment be disembarking at the entrance porch, with John the hall-porter and the footmen waiting for them and Truelove escorting them across the courtyard and up the steps into the hall. There they would only pause long enough to take off their overcoats before coming up the short flight of steps to the first floor, and some of the men of the party might go straight into the library, but most of them would come in here. One could not hear a sound, but they might be coming now. At that instant the opening of the door and the sound of clumping boots on the polished boards made her jump up. But it was only Richard with Cousin Harry, who must have arrived with Mr. Blunt and been all this time in private session with Richard.

  The boys were at school together, Harry being slightly the elder. Exclamations of pleasure at the appearance of this young male contingent came from the sofa, decidedly more so than when Phyllis had made her entry. Did Harry want tea? Should she have it brought back? his aunt wanted to know. But Harry thanked her and said no, he had had tea at Crewe. Lady Vayne’s fond gaze never left her son as the boys came forward to pay their respects to the ladies. No doubt she was thinking what was perfectly obvious, that he was the better looking of the two. Their clothes were much alike, but Richard wore his with a difference, an easy grace which belonged to him.

  Phyllis had once heard her father say with the nonchalant air which masked his pride: “Richard could do anything,” and judging solely from her own experience she felt this was true.

  Sir Thomas took no interest in the Turf and owned no racehorses; there was no hunting within twenty miles of Vyne and there was hardly an acre in the entire park where thanks to the rabbits it was not perilous to gallop a horse, so perhaps for these reasons and lack of encouragement they were not a horsy family; but with this rather surprising exception, Richard seemed to have a natural aptitude for all forms of sport. He could shoot almost as well as Uncle William. He could throw a fly better than his father. He drove a longer ball at golf than anybody except the professional who lived in the village and sometimes played with them on the hilly nine-hole course in the park. All Phyllis knew of the game she had learnt from Richard, and he had taught her with patience and skill, giving encouragement as well as criticism. He took wonderful photographs with his German camera which he developed himself and showed her how to develop her own. He had in addition a pretty wit, and for Phyllis his judgment upon people and things was final.

  It was not yet decided what career Richard was to adopt. Sir Thomas was for Diplomacy, Uncle William for Parliament, Lady Vayne for the Guards. Richard himself kept an open mind. There was plenty of time anyhow, as he was still only in his middle teens.

  For different reasons which to him seemed valid, Sir Thomas was also proud of all his other children, in particular of his eldest for her shrewd judgment and perception and her already marked success with the opposite sex, and of his youngest, perhaps only because she was the youngest, and, as she herself was well aware, with little cause, for her intelligence. Even now she sometimes felt hot remembering times when he had tried to draw her out in front of visitors and how her efforts to respond must have appeared to outsiders not blinded by paternal love. In fact, this was the only instance when Sir Thomas might have been accused of a slight tendency to show off. Fräulein sometimes felt it necessary to warn Phyllis that her father was not an impartial judge and that far from being of a quick intelligence she was rather slow of understanding. Sometimes Sir Thomas’s ardent wish to prove his child’s ability took the form of general knowledge questions at meals, and this was agonising. He would suddenly ask—“Who was Cordelia?” or “What are the principal rivers of China?” or still worse some question in mental arithmetic. Sometimes Lady Vayne would intervene and protect her, but only too often she was occupied with someone at the other end of the table. Then Phyllis would have to struggle unaided, conscious of Fräulein at her side furiously indignant at her pupil’s failure to do her credit. But, of course, nothing like this ever happened in the Christmas holidays.

  Lady Vayne did not go all the way with her husband where her daughters were concerned, but even she deferred to Lettice’s judgment. One afternoon proposing they should drive over to visit an elderly couple who lived in a ghostly old house supposed to be haunted by several spectres, including that of Charles I, Lettice had said: “Oh, don’t let’s go—it’s so dreadfully boring visiting the old Hampdens,” and Lady Vayne though a little annoyed had given way. A trifling matter, but considering the general ascendancy of mothers over daughters in those times it was significant.

  The door was opening again and this time there was a chorus of welcome from the whole room, for it was Uncle William accompanied by Piers who had been waiting about for his arrival. Responding joyfully he entered and was taken into the heart of the company and of the saloon.

  Following quickly upon his entrance came the big rush of arrivals, including Aunt Lucy and Uncle Andrew, Hilda just returned from the vicarage, and the person most welcome to Phyllis, her cousin Alethea.

  Alethea was about Phyllis’s age and her great friend. They did much the same things and wore the same kind of clothes, but as with Richard and his boy cousin, they looked different, for Alethea was a beauty. Her hair curled naturally, she had regular features and lovely colouring, the grace of her body and its every movement were a delight to watch, but as if this were not enough, she was also blessed with a natural charm of manner deriving from an almost total lack of shyness or selfconsciousness. Now, whilst eager to get Alethea to herself, Phyllis knew she must wait until the grown-ups had paid that tribute in the form of attention which exceptional beauty always receives. And very wonderfully Alethea still received it, with complete modesty and lack of conceit.

  Just for a moment a detached observer gazing over the heads of chrysanthemums and lilies into the depths of the glass where the whole scene was reproduced, a
strange feeling took possession of Phyllis.

  The group round the sofa, the other by the settee, the standing figures round the fire, the flowering lights of the chandelier, the whole room and its occupants seemed like a dream, transient and fleeting, from which she would soon wake to a cold, unpleasant reality. A little shudder ran through her, but turning quickly from the mirror to the actual scene, she was at once immersed again in her warm sea of happiness. No cold breath could reach her. It was real all right, this golden moment, with the people she loved in the place she adored, her beautiful, wonderful home, and it seemed to be going to last for ever.

  The Saloon

  In due course her patience was rewarded. The grown-ups relinquished Alethea and the two little girls were soon excitedly chattering together.

  “Alethea, do you know your part? I know all mine. You must come and see the woodland scene to-night. It’s the best we’ve ever had. And your dress is lovely and so’s mine.”

  Alethea confessed she was not quite sure of all her words, but as her part was smaller than Phyllis’s she would soon learn it. Would they be dining down tonight? No, not till to-morrow night. And here Uncle William strolled over and joined them.

  Of all the grown-ups he entered most whole-heartedly into the Christmas revels. He loved them because he not only loved children but was a child himself at heart. When he played a childish game he was not indifferent if he won or lost. He went all out to win and was not too proud to show regret if he did not. Perhaps he was at his best with little girls. Now he came up to them saying: “Hullo, you two, what’s this I hear about you spending to-morrow evening with Fräulein playing question and answer in German and not coming down to dinner?” They both shouted at him in delighted protest, and Alethea, of course, was ready with a neat repartee. His humour was of the obvious kind which delights children, never above their heads and impossible to misunderstand.