“I’m not Robespierre, Hector, I don’t want a French Revolution.”
“Would you accept dinner instead of my head? My mother is so excited about having company she has pulled out the fine linen, china, and silver. Edmund is sacrificing the chicken the fox won’t get.”
“I still have only the green dress to wear.”
“You’ll look wonderful in it, and my mother will be so happy. And, apart from you, we have two surprise guests.”
They were two surprised and somewhat bewildered guests, who were on familiar ground yet in foreign territory. Edmund and Maude, with Elinor’s help and guidance, had prepared the dining room for dinner. The room was lit solely with candles and a wood fire, which coppered every surface, and the table was covered with an antique Irish linen cloth. On that tablecloth was displayed Elinor’s finest china, crystal, and silverware. Once they had finished, Elinor told them they were her guests for the evening. It stunned both Broadcastles because in their forty years of service they had never eaten at the same table as the family. Elinor brushed aside their concerns and insisted they join her in this homecoming dinner for her son. They hurried off to their rooms and returned at the appropriate time, shining, polished, and unsure of what to do next. Edmund wore his funeral suit and best boots, while Maude wore a bright floral dress with a lace collar and a huge yellow rose on the front that smelled of mothballs.
Elinor, wearing a midnight blue dress with pearls, sat at the head of the table with Edmund on her right and Maude to her left. Both protested as Hector and Caitrin served dinner, but she demanded they sit quietly and for once in their lives let themselves be looked after. Once everyone was seated, she raised her wineglass. “I would like to propose a toast to my son and his hush-hush companion Caitrin, and also my faithful friends—they are so much more than servants, they are part of the family—Edmund and Maude Broadcastle.”
Glasses were raised, Edmund gulped back an emotion, and Maude wiped away a tear.
Hector raised his glass and turned to face his father’s portrait. “To friends and family past and present. And to my wonderful mother.”
Elinor blinked back her own tears and said to the Broadcastles,” We are friends and family but also strangers. In these troubled times I think being unknown to each other should come to an end. I would like to know how you met and how you became a family. And, if you like, to break the ice I’ll start.”
Caitrin watched Elinor. Hector looked like his father, but his character, his strength and resolve, came from her. She glanced across the table at him. His eyes were fixed on his mother as she began her story.
“I was a young thing at the Braes of Derwent Hunt. I had fractured my arm so couldn’t ride, but I went to watch and inspect the field, and look at the horses too. Earlier I had noticed a handsome young man—blond, clear hazel eyes, impressive shoulders—who was riding. I learned his name was Argus, but you can’t have everything. I leaned on a gate as the hunt raced by, and Argus was in the rear but going full tilt to catch up. He bellowed a tremendous tally ho!, put his mount to a drystone wall, and the horse stopped dead.”
Maude was transfixed by the story, while Edmund helped himself to another glass of wine.
“But Argus didn’t let that stop him. He rocketed out of the saddle, flew over the wall in a grand arc, and, like a circus acrobat, turned a perfect somersault in mid-air before landing with an awful thud on his back. I was sure he was dead—and we hadn’t even been introduced.”
Maude was not alone in her rapt attention. Caitrin and Hector were transfixed by her story too, while Edmund gazed at her through the bottom of his wineglass.
“I rushed over to him, knelt at his side, and said, ‘Are you all right? ’ ”
“He looked up at me, put his index finger to his lips, and said, ‘It hurts badly right here, but might you kiss it better?’ ”
“And?” Caitrin asked, because Elinor had stopped and picked up her wineglass.
“I kissed him.”
“And?”
“He put his hand on a—a different part of his anatomy, said it hurt, and asked me to kiss that too.”
“Did you?”
“I slapped his face, and then I married him,” Elinor answered. “And he got a taller horse. Maude, you’re next.”
Maude’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. She rescued them, cleared her throat, and began. “I was living in Mungrisdale at the time. It’s a very small village, and there isn’t much to do, so I went to a lecture about George Armstrong Custer at the Church of St. Kentigern.”
“Goodness, I wasn’t expecting that,” Elinor said.
“Yes, I wasn’t either,” Maude said. “Usually it was the vicar talking about his brass rubbings from famous cathedrals or George the postman and his stamp collection. And in walks this tall, handsome man who knew everything, and I do mean everything, about Custer. It was certainly an information-packed evening.”
“I was fifteen when Custer was killed,” Edmund said. “I couldn’t believe a white man with such a glorious military record could be outwitted by half-naked savages. Custer was a Union Army general when he was only twenty-three. He—”
“He was,” Maude said loudly, to regain command of the story and deflect Edmund from recounting Custer’s whole life in minute detail. “We had refreshments after the lecture, and I boldly introduced myself. I said: ‘Your lecture was lovely. My name’s Maude and—’ ”
“Amazed at her loveliness, I stepped back, like this,” Edmund said, standing up and stepping back to show everyone exactly how he did it. “And then I sang to her.”
“Sang what?” Hector asked.
“I sang this.” Edmund straightened, inhaled, spread his arms wide and sang,
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone.
They all heard his resonant bass voice, but he was looking at and singing to only one person: his Maude.
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light she loves,
