Christmas at Whitefriars: A Novella Page 6

  They certainly weren’t shy. They ushered Mary inside and held the door for him as well. Inside was appalling. Unwashed dishes and half-empty bottles cluttered the tables. Clothes were draped over every available piece of furniture. A violin lay abandoned on the floor and a cello was propped in the corner. Several other stringed instruments were balanced atop mounds of dirty clothes.

  Another man lay dozing on a small settee, although he opened a bleary eye and rolled upright when he saw Mary. The men were obviously related… all of them with similar curling black hair and handsome faces.

  “Who here speaks English?” he asked.

  There was a long pause during which a cat slinked forward and Mary squatted to scoop it up. The three brothers exchanged glances, and finally the one on the settee pushed himself to his feet, pulled on a battered old soldier’s jacket, and offered his hand.

  “Marco,” he said, then made a pinching gesture with his hand. “Little bit English.”

  “Tell your brothers I intend to start charging ‘little bit rent’ for this gatehouse. Ten shillings a month, beginning in January.”

  “You can’t do that!” Mary gasped.

  “Why not?” He kept his gaze darting among the brothers. They didn’t say anything, but given the transformation on all three faces, they understood what he just said and didn’t like it.

  “They don’t have any form of income. They’re musicians,” she said. “Everyone knows musicians are poor. It comes with the territory.”

  “Yes,” one of the brothers said before Marco nudged him and sent a silencing glare.

  “It costs me nothing to let them live here,” Mary said. “They buy their own food and fuel. And I like having them here. Where’s the harm?”

  The harm was that this estate seemed to be supporting a camp of vagrant nomads, and that wasn’t the image he wanted for Whitefriars. At least the Papadakis brothers kept their squalor confined to the interior of the building, not scattered all over the yard like the potters.

  Leasing the tower room was bad enough, but housing a collection of misfits in the outbuildings seemed to be her objective. She actually liked having these outsiders here. It wouldn’t get any better unless he reined her in.

  “Let’s head outside.” He shot a surly glare at Marco. “You and I will discuss this later,” he said before leaving. It was appalling that Mary let herself be used like this, and he intended to put an end to it.

  Chapter Five

  Mary followed Everett outside, scrambling for a way to defuse his anger. The Papadakis brothers brought a flash of warmth into her world with their endlessly cheerful presence. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been able to converse much, or that they’d been taking advantage of her benevolence, she needed them here. The Parks, too. Socrates and Sarah Park weren’t nearly as much fun, but they were solid and dependable and because of their age they almost felt like a second set of parents.

  It was hard to keep up with Everett’s stride, and the cold air winded her. “Slow down,” she urged as they crossed the stone bridge spanning the creek.

  Everett whirled to face her. “Everything I’ve seen at Whitefriars is unacceptable. Completely unfit for paying guests. The shabby outbuildings, the inadequate heat, the substandard food, the—”

  “Our food isn’t substandard!”

  He snorted. “The dinner last night featured muffins that didn’t rise properly and the fish was overbaked. The Whitefriars name implies culinary excellence. Any paying guest has a right to expect as much instead of bland meals from a mediocre cook.”

  She blanched. Mrs. Galloway had been their cook ever since Mary could remember. True, the meals at Whitefriars leaned toward the country cooking that was hearty and filling rather than delicate and refined, but she loved Mrs. Galloway. It was Mrs. Galloway who used to bandage her skinned knees and who comforted her the one and only time she’d had a beau. When Jerome Zaxby decided life in London suited him better than a crumbling country estate, it was Mrs. Galloway who listened to Mary’s heartsick ramblings. When the estate was at its worst and the ceiling in the music room caved in during a rainstorm, Mrs. Galloway worked beside her through that awful night emptying buckets and helping salvage the eighteenth-century tapestries.

  “Don’t you dare say anything bad about Mrs. Galloway,” she warned.

  “I’m sure she’s a fine woman, but she’s not a fine cook,” he snapped, his blue eyes unbelievably cold and hard. “She can’t deliver the quality a guest would have a right to expect if they come to the house that is the symbolic image of my entire company.”

  She looked away from his critical scrutiny, landing on the beloved warm stones of the castle. Seeing it through Everett’s eyes hurt, for the grounds were shabby. And maybe the food wasn’t as fine as that served at the Knightsbridge Inn, but no one ever complained. She’d spent the last nine years struggling to restore this place, and yet how quickly he belittled it. She waited the entire year for Christmas when she could share Whitefriars with her family, and all Everett had done was ruin it.

  “I think you’re being very judgmental,” she said, but he continued his rant as though he hadn’t heard.

  “You’re squandering an asset,” he said. “These outbuildings should be profitably deployed or torn down and turned into a garden that would enhance the value of the estate. Whitefriars has the potential to be a model of innovative restoration, and yet you’re doing nothing with it other than collecting a band of misfits.”

  It felt like a slap. It took every ounce of fortitude not to run away, but she forced herself to meet his eyes and speak calmly. “Maybe I’m a misfit, too.”

  That took him aback. For the first time a little starch went out of him and he shifted uneasily. “You’re not a misfit,” he said.

  “What was I doing the first time you saw me?” She was doubled over and on the verge of fainting from nothing more threatening than being away from Whitefriars. He’d treated her decently, but he’d seen her howling weakness.

  “That doesn’t make you a misfit,” he denied.

  Chronic agoraphobia didn’t exactly lend itself to a London season or being able to form proper friendships. Instead, she cared for the graves of long-dead monks and daydreamed about the people who lived here centuries ago. There wasn’t any point in arguing about this, but she needed to make one thing blindingly clear.

  “I don’t care what you think about me, and feel free to look down your nose at the Papadakis brothers, but don’t you dare insult Mrs. Galloway. That woman was more of a mother to me than my real one, and if you hurt her feelings, I’ll come after you with torches and a pitchfork.”

  She strode toward the castle, wishing her legs were longer so she could outdistance him, but he kept apace with her. At least he was quiet. If he said one more insulting statement about Whitefriars she’d combust.

  Nick was leading a saddled horse out of the stables as she arrived. He sent them a good-natured wave as they approached, but she was in no mood for it. Nick was always so cheerful, and right now she wanted to burn something down.

  “Wish me luck,” Nick said as he mounted. “I’m heading into the village to see if I can find something for dinner. What the cook planned isn’t panning out so well.”

  The stress Mrs. Galloway had been put through all so that Everett could enjoy blue food twisted her anger even higher. Couldn’t he understand how hard they’d been trying to please him? Instead, all he could do was insult her home, her cook, and her tenants.

  “What had the cook planned?” Everett asked.

  “Some sort of clotted cream sauce. Since white food is no longer mandatory, I’m out in search of something a little heartier.” Humor danced in Nick’s dark eyes, and maybe he thought this was all a joke, but she was still teetering on the edge of a precipice all because of Everett Wooten’s unexpected visit and irrational standards.

  To her surprise, Everett asked to accompany Nick, who readily agreed. It didn’t take long to saddle another horse and Mary watched as the two men rode away. The village was only two miles down the road, but it felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest as she returned to the house.

  She paused outside the front door, laying her palm over the thick mahogany wood. Castle records indicated this door dated from the seventeenth century. It was embellished with hand-forged strap hinges that each featured the shape of a roaring lion’s head at the end. How she used to gawk at those whimsical lions as a child, even though they’d been crusted over with rust and the wood had been damaged. She’d rubbed her hands raw restoring this door, oiling the wood, buffing away the rust, and paying a master blacksmith more than she could afford to mend the hardware. This door was now as handsome as it had been when first installed hundreds of years ago. She pressed her forehead to the door, sending up a prayer.

  Dear Lord, what is it you want of me? I’ve tried to be a good steward to this estate, but it seems I am failing.

  She hadn’t comported herself well today. She’d been short-tempered and defensive, acting on instinct to protect Whitefriars.

  So is Everett.

  Where had that thought come from? It was a strange thought, but in his own way Everett wanted good things for Whitefriars, too. It wasn’t from any love for the history of the place, it was all about his food company, but over the years he had been consistently helpful to her. For nine years they had been exchanging letters, and he never failed her a single time.

  “I shall do better,” she vowed. In Galatians, Paul advised let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.

  “Mary? Are you all right?” She pulled back from the door, embarrassed to be caught praying on the front porch as Rosalind opened the door, concern on her gentle face.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Rosalind was such an accomplished woman. She’d travelled all over the world, spoke foreign languages, and had a doctorate in biochemistry. Mary felt so paltry in comparison, a woman who couldn’t even bring herself to leave Whitefriars without risking a debilitating attack of panic.

  “I saw you and Mr. Wooten walking down by the mill. Has he been helpful?”

  He’d been a nightmare, but Mary swallowed back the unkind thoughts. “He pointed out some things that need attention.”

  She must not grow weary of trying to do her best. Eventually Whitefriars would be good enough to please even someone of Everett Wooten’s exacting standards.

  ***

  An hour later Mary hurried to the watermill, anxious to speak with Socrates Park about the state of the mill. Socrates was the man she’d hired to help get the mill back in working order and there hadn’t been much progress on that front. An engineer by training, he knew the mechanics of rotating mills, but he and his wife seemed to prefer the artistry of a pottery wheel instead.

  She’d gotten used to the unkempt yard surrounding the mill, but Everett was right. It looked a mess. The Parks could at least tidy up the yard. Their wagon was back, so they’d returned from town, but the wide sliding doors had been pulled shut and the draperies closed over the windows. Paying an unexpected visit to the Parks was never a good idea. She cocked her ear to listen but heard nothing.

  “Mr. Park?” she asked, knocking loudly. “Mr. Park, are you home?”

  There was some thudding from inside, then a squeal and scraping sound. “One moment,” Socrates called out, his voice muffled. She withdrew a few yards and waited while more scrambling sounds came from inside. The Parks were middle-aged people, but they’d found each other late in life. Socrates was in his mid-fifties and his wife only a few years younger. Unannounced visits always carried the potential for embarrassment.

  One of the double doors pulled open a few inches, revealing Socrates and his wild mane of salt-and-pepper hair, his face flushed with good cheer.

  “Hello, Mary,” he said. “Nice to see you.”

  She drew her cloak tighter. “It’s freezing out here. Can I come in?”

  Socrates glanced behind him, keeping most of the opening blocked.

  “She can come in,” Sarah called out. Mary wouldn’t mind remaining out here a few moments longer, just to be certain all was in order, but Socrates pulled the door wide and tugged her inside. As expected, Sarah was adjusting her bodice and her fading auburn hair tumbled down her back in glorious disarray.

  “What brings you here on this fine day?” Socrates asked.

  “Don’t be rude, offer her something to drink,” Sarah said, then reached for a shawl to wrap around her shoulders.

  Socrates darted across the modest living area to the small kitchen with a stove, cooking pans hanging from hooks, and shelves weighed down with Sarah’s handmade crockery. He eyed the offerings on the bottom shelf. “Tea? Warm milk? Hot cocoa?”

  She shook her head, for there was nothing cozy about her need to speak with them. “I came to see if you have an estimate for when the watermill might be back in operation.”

  Sarah looked concerned as she pulled her shawl tighter, and Socrates rubbed his jaw, the good cheer of moments ago having fled.

  “It might be a while,” he said uneasily. “The drive shaft needs to be replaced and it will need a new grain hopper and sluice gate. That’s a lot of work. Expensive work, too.”

  No doubt. It would probably take years to recoup the investment and she didn’t mind letting the Parks use the space as a pottery studio. But Everett did, and he had the power of that contract.

  “Can you make a list of what still needs to be done, and estimate the costs?” Perhaps if modernizing the mill was too expensive Everett would lose interest.

  “I suppose. Why the sudden urgency?”

  “You know the American investor who helped with financing the castle renovation?”

  Socrates nodded.

  “He’s here, and he is very concerned with the estate turning a profit.”

  Understanding dawned on Socrates’s face. “Oh,” he grumbled. “Americans.”

  She tried to smile. “Yes. Americans.”

  She pulled her cloak tighter, wondering how her entire world turned off-kilter so quickly. It had been only a few days ago when Everett barged into her safe, contained world. Socrates laid a large, work-roughened palm on her shoulder, his face drawn in concern.

  “Is he giving you a hard time?”

  His kindness got to her. From the day Socrates moved here, he had been looking out for her. He’d been a hero in helping maintain the drainage lines in the east field, and when her dog died last spring she sensed he was the only person who really understood. A lot of people didn’t appreciate how a mangy old terrier could feel like a best friend. Colin kept saying she should simply get another dog, but she was still mourning and wasn’t ready yet. Socrates understood, and for that she was grateful.

  “No, Everett is all right,” she said. “I think if you can present a timetable for the mill improvements it might satisfy him. At least for now. In the meantime, can you and Sarah tidy up the yard? He’s quite particular about appearances.”

  Socrates nodded. “I suppose we can do that right now.”

  “I’ll help.” She didn’t want to admit it, but she didn’t quite trust the Parks’ standards in terms of tidiness. Besides, she didn’t want Sarah overdoing things.

  Mary learned about Sarah’s condition shortly after they moved in. Most days Sarah was vibrant and cheerful, but on occasion her heart simply started to fail, leaving her weak and blue around the lips.

  Mary panicked the first time she saw it. Sarah had been carrying a tray of newly fired pottery when she dropped the load and staggered to sit atop an overturned barrel. Socrates hunkered down beside her, rubbing her hands but remarkably calm.

  Mary wanted to run for a doctor, but Sarah dissuaded her. “There’s nothing a doctor can do,” Sarah said faintly. “I was born this way, and I’ve always known my life would be shorter than most. The doctor says I’ve lived with this condition longer than anyone he’s ever seen. Socrates knew but married me anyway.”

  “And never regretted it,” her husband had said, squeezing her hand. His eyes looked a little watery, but he still managed a smile as he turned to Mary. “It’s why we never waste a day. Not an hour. Life is short, and we celebrate the time we have every day.”

  That had been two years ago, and it was one of the reasons Mary never begrudged the blatant physical affection the two indulged.

  Three hours later the yard looked better. She and Socrates did the heavy lifting in clearing the yard while Sarah collected the broken pottery that could be reused to make new slurry. Unfired pottery was collected into crates and moved inside. It was hard to make the muddy, barren yard look presentable, but the refuse was gone and it might pass muster with Everett.

  The fragile sense of hope remained all the way until she entered through the front door of the castle and saw Nick on the front steps with Colin, recounting what had happened with Everett in the village.

  ***

  “You should have seen him!” Nick boomed. “Everett moved through the marketplace like a general inspecting the troops, firing off questions to the vendors and buying things left, right, and center.”

  “Things? What things?” Mary asked.

  “Chickens, little bottles of fancy vinegar, a million types of herbs, and something called risotto, whatever that is. He bought two wheels of imported cheese that cost more than most people earn in a week. Honestly, I’ve never seen a man attack a market with such zeal. He’s in the kitchen with Mrs. Galloway now. Poor woman looked like he was speaking a foreign language when he started giving her instructions.”

  A lead weight dropped into her stomach. He’d better not be expecting Mrs. Galloway to know what to do with all these fancy ingredients. If he wanted a gourmet meal, he could turn around and be at the Knightsbridge Inn before dinner. Nick was still gushing over Everett’s culinary excess, but she darted down the corridor to rescue Mrs. Galloway.