The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

Her mother had sounded troubled the last time they’d spoken on the phone, and India wished Lady Elspeth had told her more of what was preying on her mind. Now it was too late.

      “Oh, now, about that tea…” Serena reached forward, then gave a tight, disappointed smile. “Oh, it’s cold and there’s no cup, of course. Never mind, I’ll just do without,” she said with a long-suffering sigh.

      “I’ll get another pot,” India replied, glad of an excuse to escape. “And I’ll grab an extra cup, too.”

      “Would you, darling? That’s awfully kind,” Serena murmured with a condescending smile.

      India left the library and walked smartly along the corridor to the pantry. One never knew if Serena meant what she said or if she was being sarcastic. She grimaced, wishing she could like her half sister more.

      In the pantry she removed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and then passed by the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smells of fresh baking that had reached into the corridor.

      “Mmm,” India exclaimed. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Walker.” Laying the cup down on the counter, she went over to the kitchen table where the housekeeper was wielding a wooden spoon in a large enamel bowl with zealous determination. “What are you making?” she asked, switching on the kettle.

      “Preparing fer tomorrow,” Mrs. Walker answered with a sad shake of her gray head, her hazel eyes bright in a face creased with kindly wrinkles. “I wouldna’ want yer poor dear mother te’ feel ashamed, bless her soul.” She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’ll be quite a gathering. Lady Kathleen called earlier te’ see if we needed anything from the village before she comes back. Always thinks she has te’ be doing something, ye know. She’s awf’y upset about yer dear mother, but so are we all.” She laid the bowl down on the gnarled wooden table, and scraped the remains of the sponge cake batter off the sides of the spoon with a spatula. “Waste not, want not. That’s my motto and I’ve always lived by it.” She gave a satisfied last scour. “Well, as I was saying, Miss India, I said to Lady Kathleen, dinna’ you worry. Thirty years I’ve served the Dunbar family, first yer uncle, Sir Thomas, and the Lord knows he was no easy man, and then yer dear mother, may she rest in peace. It’d be a fine thing, I told her, if I wasna’ able te’ see te’ our ain guests.” There was an audible sniff.

      “I’m sure she meant well. Kathleen’s always so thoughtful,” India said tactfully before leaning over the table and surreptitiously passing a finger around the edge of the bowl.

      “Och, Miss India! Away with those fingers now!” Mrs. Walker swiped at India’s hand with a dishcloth.

      “Scrumptious, Mrs. Walker, you haven’t lost your touch,” she answered mischievously, licking the tips of her fingers.

      “Dearie me, when will ye ever grow up.” Mrs. Walker shook her head, smiling fondly. “I dinna’ like te’ think what yer poor mother would say.”

      India grinned, picked up the cup and the steaming teapot and headed for the door. “I have to get back with Serena’s tea. We have an American guest in the library. By the way, he ate four of your scones, plus jam and clotted cream.”

      “Would that be Sir Peter’s American? I’ve heard there’s one staying over at Dalkirk.”

      “One and the same.”

      “Aye, I thought so.” She nodded knowingly. “There’s nae too many of them about these parts. Mr. Hunter, the butcher, told me personally that Miss MacGregor had heard from Mrs. MacC.—the housekeeper from Dalkirk, ye know—that the American gentleman’s an awf’y nice-mannered young man. He brought her a special bottle of perfume all the way from America, and he never forgets te’ leave a wee something for the staff.” She gave another firm nod. “There was a lot of talk in the village when Sir Peter went into business with him, but it seems it’s all worked out fer the best.” Mrs. Walker began piling dirty dishes, and a plate slid dangerously from her arthritic grip. India stopped herself from rushing to the rescue and pretended not to notice, knowing Mrs. Walker’s pride would be sorely hurt.

      She left the kitchen with a bright smile and heavy heart, dreading what the morrow might bring. She hoped desperately that the estate could afford to keep Mrs. Walker and the others on. There was old Tompson, and Mackay, the gardener. And the tenants. What would happen to them if—She pulled herself up short. There was no use worrying, she reflected, reaching the library. She heard voices just beyond the door and realized she’d completely forgotten about Jack and Serena, her mind so taken up with other things. She hesitated before entering and felt a pang of inexplicable disappointment. Somehow Jack hadn’t struck her as Serena’s type. She paused to gather her composure and heard Serena’s smug voice.

      “I suppose India was terrified. She probably didn’t realize she was getting in the way. She’s not used to our way of life, poor thing.”

      “The whole incident was entirely my fault,” Jack replied in his pleasant American drawl. “It was my careless behavior, not hers, that caused the incident. I should have been paying more attention.” His was a voice used to giving orders and not being thwarted, she noted, amused despite her anger at Serena’s snide comment.

      She entered the library and lay the cup on the tray, surprised that he’d admitted the blame so frankly, and feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at his deft handling of Serena.

      “Thanks, darling.” Serena smiled benignly. At thirty-six she looked good, the slim figure from her modeling days in London still intact, and though her clothes were too flamboyant for India’s taste, she could carry them.

      India wondered suddenly just how “acquainted” they actually were. Serena’s arched eyebrow and Jack’s discomfort, though quickly disguised, had not escaped her.

      And what did it matter anyway? She sat down heavily, suddenly exhausted, the emotional stress of the last few days finally catching up with her.

      Serena was telling a long, drawn-out story about the Kinnairds, herself and some of her aristocratic connections. India listened with half an ear to the monotonous monologue, and tried to take a polite interest. But when she caught Jack looking surreptitiously at his watch, she realized it was time to intervene.

      When Serena paused for breath, India grabbed her chance. “It’s getting quite late. Please tell me when you feel we should get going.”

      “Get going? Where?” Serena demanded, her voice imperious. “Have another drink, Jack, there’s really no hurry.”

      “No thanks. I’ve had quite enough.”

      The most unobservant person would have picked up the dryness of his tone. But not Serena. India was embarrassed despite herself. “I’m taking Mr. Buchanan back to Dalkirk,” she said formally. “There’s no cab available.”

      “You have to be joking. You? You wouldn’t know your way to the end of the drive, let alone to Dalkirk.” Serena gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

      “Why not? I’m perfectly capable of getting in the car and following some directions. I’m sure you can tell me the easiest way to get there.”

      “No, no. I can’t possibly allow it.” Serena turned to Jack. “She’s so kindhearted, poor thing, always doing things for others, but I can’t possibly let her go out on a night like this when she barely knows the way.”

      “Stop being ridiculous, Serena,” India retorted, trying to mask her anger, writhing inwardly when Serena smiled patronizingly, as though she were explaining something to a very small child.

      “I’ll just call the cab again. Maybe old MacFee will be home by now.” Jack stepped toward the desk.

      “Good heavens, you won’t find him in at this time,” Serena interjected. “Old MacFee will be on his third round at the Hog and Hound by now. Don’t worry, Jack darling. I’ll take you. I know my way about like the back of my hand. I’m not likely to get lost.”

      Jack hesitated, obviously