Free The Mistletoe Mystery by Caroline Dunford Page B

sometimes seemed to me that when the winter nights were drawing in the local people did little in the dark evenings other than create increasingly darker and more terrifying stories in an attempt to scare each other out of their wits. London servants have it quite right that outside of work there is hardly anything to do in the country. Our countryside may be amongst the most beautiful in the world, but it affords little in the way of leisure activities when the harsh winters roll in.
    ‘No m’um, you only have to look at the stones of the house to see the scorched ones they used from the old house.’
    ‘Old house?’ I said blankly.
    ‘Hadwell House.’
    ‘Hadwell? Like the farm?’
    Sam nodded frantically. ‘It got all burnt up and everyone in it!’
    ‘Well, Sam, that’s very sad, but just because we have some stones from the Old House doesn’t mean that anything like that will ever happen here. Mr Bertram, Mrs Tweedy, and I are very careful with fire.’
    Sam fairly danced in frustration. ‘You don’t understand m’um. It happened at Christmas! And it’s almost Christmas now!’
    ‘Well, that’s even more sad, Sam, but I don’t see why that should worry you. Mr Bertram has already survived one Christmas …’ I trailed off. Of course, he hadn’t. He had returned home to Stapleford Hall last Christmas. ‘The house didn’t catch fire last Christmas,’ I said as stoutly as I could manage. Sam looked unimpressed.
    ‘I don’t want to be burnt up, m’um,’ he said and then to my horror burst into tears.
    I immediately crouched down and threw my arms around him. I have never been happy with the idea of children servants, but as an orphan I knew Sam fared far better here than he might elsewhere. I hugged him tight and said the kind of foolish things I said to my own little brother when he was frightened. The crux of which was I promised to protect him. Finally Sam hiccupped to a stop and disentangled himself from me. He turned a tear stained little face up to me, and I tried to ignore the runnings of his nose which were now doubtless all over my blouse, ‘Thank you m’um,’ he said. ‘But will you talk to Mr Bertram?’
    I should have known that nothing short of the reassurance of the master of the house would satisfy Sam. I managed to persuade him not to accompany me to Mr Bertram’s study – I am unclear where he stands on children, but I suspect like most bachelors he is at the least wary – but I had to promise Sam I would speak to the master myself.

II
    As I had feared, Mr Bertram was writing an exceedingly long guest list. He looked up from his labours as I entered and I noticed that as well as his cuffs, his nose was also smeared with ink. The ability of the male to begrime himself I have observed is not tempered by age.
    ‘Euphemia, do you think the village inn could put up a couple of old bachelor friends of mine? One’s in the army, so he shouldn’t mind roughing it a bit.’
    ‘The Farmer’s Head is a basic establishment,’ I said, ‘but it is clean and well-run. I’m sure a little extra income at Christmas for the Finches would be most welcome.’
    ‘Finches?’
    ‘The owners, sir.’
    ‘Really, Euphemia, in every conversation we have about my lands you always make me feel the inferior. If you were my wife you couldn’t be more involved in my tenants’ lives.’
    I blushed fiery red and within moments saw the same colour glow in Mr Bertram’s face. He had given me more than one proposal of marriage, which I had declined and I had finally persuaded him to make no more such offers. He coughed and turned his attention back to his list. His head might be away from me, but his ears and neck remained a very seasonal red. ‘What do you want?’
    I attempted to compose myself. ‘I had thought to come and speak to you about the numbers of your party, so I could begin to ready the house and order provisions, but I fear we have a slight – er – problem.’
    Mr Bertram scribbled