Christmas at Thornton Hall. Lynn Marie Hulsman

my reunion with Rose as he held up a copy of Tips for the Homefront: A Domestic Guide to Wartime Cookery and Making Your Rations Count, “did you know we could make our own furniture polish out of turpentine and shredded beeswax?” The kitchen’s south-wall collection of books was well visited by Terrence. “I’ll bet Chisholm remembers doing just that! Don’t let the half-inch of pancake make-up fool you. He’s 95 if he’s a day.”

      “I apologize for Terrence,” I said, turning to the girl. “He’s not happy unless there’s full-on drama in the room. I’m sorry we got interrupted.” I darted a glance at Edward, who was looking right at me, drinking from his cup of tea. “Um, like I said before, I’m Juliet, the chef. That is, the sous-chef, this time around.”

      “I’m Daphne,” she said. “You can call me Daffy.” She seemed to think for a minute, then burst out in almost a full voice, “You’re so clean!” She saw that we were all looking at her strangely, and blushed. “I just mean that you’re really fresh and, you know, pretty, for being, you know…your age.”

      I was taken aback and laughed out loud. It was a fact, but not something a stranger would normally comment on. I was dressed very simply in a red velour hoodie, jeans and my good leather riding boots, which had been a stretch for my budget, even on sale. But she was right, I was very clean. I’d scrubbed myself raw in my own shower after having awakened to Ben’s betrayal, trying to rid myself of the anger and hurt. And also the smell of that whorey Amanda’s shampoo. I didn’t have a stroke of make-up on my face, aside from the lipstick.

      “Don’t mock the poor dear, you old cow,” Terrence said to me. “Take the compliment. Sure, I’ve seen better, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.”

      “Ignore Terrence, Daphne,” said Rose, and to me, “Juliet, dear, I’ve missed you like mad.” She was still hugging me, a real squeeze, rocking me back and forth and it made me suck in my breath to keep from crying. Rose was a cuddler, and her warm touch brought all my sadness to the surface. I wanted to tell her all about Ben, but now wasn’t the time. I bit the inside of my cheek and concentrated my attention on the napkin holder.

      “Our Terrence is bent out of shape because he’ll be sharing his territory with the esteemed Mr. Chisholm from Mr. Roth’s Chelsea house. Also, he’s in his cups. Terrence,” she said loudly, as if to a deaf person, “perhaps it’s time to slow down on the drink for the night. As for Mr. Chisholm, leave him to his corner. There’ll be plenty of work for everyone and we’ll all be minding our manners, won’t we?”

      Terrence waited till Rose turned her head and made wanking motions. I shook my head at him. He crossed his arms and scowled.

      “Now then, Juliet, I’ll pour you a nice glass of sherry.” She set a glass in front of me. “Edward, will you have some too?” Rose asked. Edward nodded, and sat himself down in the chair next to mine. I couldn’t relax.

      “How’s your fella, Juliet? Shame you’re not with him at Christmas,” Rose said, opening a cabinet and taking down a fresh bottle.

      I glanced at Edward. “Well, to tell you the truth, uh, Ben…Ben’s great.” Way to live your least secretive life, I thought to myself.

      “Chizzy had his teeth whitened, you know,” Terrence burst in, cutting me off again, still preoccupied by his dislike for Jasper Roth’s London butler. “Makes him look like a Las Vegas hooker!” Whenever they had to work under the same roof, an electrified friction crackled between Terrence and Mr. Chisholm. They were both egotistical, high-status, gay, and middle-aged. It was unlikely that either of them would be playing the part of “underbutler” this Christmas weekend. More like a duel of the divas.

      “The American’s my puppet,” Terrence continued, referring to Roth, “billionaire investment banker or not. I think we’ve proved that time and again. Mr. Chisholm, Mr. Schmisholm…that big old Mary’s no threat in my house,” Terrence said moodily. “I’ll kill or die to defend my territory.”

      “My goodness, Terrence, you should be treading the boards with all that theatricality,” said Rose. “No one’s killing or dying on my watch.”

      Rose’s son Isaac was seated at the far end of the table with a cup of milky tea and a plate of tiny mince pies.

      “Hello, Isaac. How are you?” I asked. Just being near him calmed me.

      “Well. I’m glad to see you, Miss,” Isaac said, beaming.

      “Isaac, it’s Juliet. There’s no ‘Miss’ with me,” I told him, resisting the temptation to muss his goldy-blond hair. Even though Isaac is older than I am, his child-like simplicity invites those kinds of gestures. His hair was getting long – he had two modes of hairstyle: cropped extremely close to his head in a Caesar, or overgrown like it was now. Unintentionally, either one gave him the look of a surfer dude or rock star. His near-drowning as a child, when he fell through the ice on the estate’s pond, had left him…well, not exactly slow, but different. I’ve never had a psychological pigeon-hole to wedge him into, so I just accept him at face value as a pleasant and kind person who is very uncomplicated.

      “Wait till you see the gingerbread house I made,” he said to me.

      “It looks good enough to eat!” Daphne said. “But then a gingerbread house would, wouldn’t it? It’s food, I suppose.” She poured sugar into her cup of tea.

      “It really is quite something,” Edward said, looking at me over the rim of his sherry glass, green eyes twinkling. “I couldn’t have made it.” He put his feet up on the empty chair across from him. That was kind of him to say. Edward had a real artistic bent and it showed in his ice sculpture, spun sugar construction, and cake decorating. When there was a wedding on the grounds, he pulled out all the stops.

      “There’ll be time enough to see it later,” Rose said. “It’s quite a wonder, though…Isaac did all the design and embellishment. I just baked.”

      “Where’s Jane?” I asked Isaac about his wife.

      “Bed,” he said, gathering up several cookies and mince pies in a paper napkin and taking his teacup to the sink. “She’s sick so I’d better go home. G’night!” Isaac, said, his mouth full of pie. He rose and started out the pantry door.

      “Make sure some of those mince pies get to your missus, Isaac! She didn’t get one from this batch. I hope her stomach’s not still delicate, poor lamb. And make sure she has a cup of tea or some broth before she goes to sleep…Sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Rose called as a blast of cold air rushed into the cozy kitchen from the pantry leading to the garden and the servants’ housing, and the door swung closed behind Isaac. He’d be going to Stable Cottage, where he now lived. No one had ever expected Isaac to marry, and the whole staff had pitched in to fix it up when Isaac had married Jane and moved out of Rose Cottage.

      I was aware of Edward’s stillness and his glances in my direction. Nervously, I groped for something to say. I suddenly felt so ugly and conspicuous. “I didn’t expect to see anyone. I thought I’d be heading straight to bed. I didn’t bother trying to look nice.” Now Edward was looking straight at me, listening hard. My face felt like it burst into flames, it was so hot. Shut up, Juliet. You’re babbling.

      “You have a smile on your face, my dear, that’s all the adornment a young girl needs,” said Rose.

      “That’s damning with faint praise,” I said, laughing, trying to be a sport about myself. It only made me feel more under the spotlight.

      “I’d take the ‘young’ compliment and run with it, if I were you,” whispered Terrence loudly. He went back to chattering with Daphne.

      I was hotly conscious of looking dull in Edward’s eyes. Suddenly, I just wanted to get out of there and go to bed. I stood up, knowing I should say a big goodnight and hoof it out of there. My feet wouldn’t move and I didn’t know what to do with my arms. I wound up leaning over the table with both fists planted, like I was about to filibuster. All eyes turned