Author's Note: This story takes place in the current day (say, circa 2001), which means it's been six or seven years since the end of "Keeping Up Appearances" and about twenty years since the end of "To the Manor Born". And just for the record, all character names are spelled correctly.
I always had the intention of finishing this story that got so rudely interrupted for reasons which are unlikely to be made clear. However after the airing of the 2007 To the Manor Born Christmas special, I'm no longer sure there's any reason to do so. Many key plot points in this story directly contradict the special, and there's no possible way of making it match up without significant rewrites.
"Not there, dear, you know I like to sit by the window."
Elizabeth Warden jumped as if she'd been shot and without a word inched around to the other side of the breakfast table. Only after she was seated did she reach out and slide her mug of coffee towards her with exaggerated care. If only there was some sort of consistency in Hyacinth's rules! Sometimes Elizabeth was ushered into the seat she'd just left, other times merely approaching the chair was enough to earn her the gentle rebuke, "Not there, dear, I like to sit by the window." She and Hyacinth had been next-door neighbours for many years now, and the same scene was repeated every time she was summoned for coffee – in other words, almost every morning. With a slightly shaky hand she reached for one of the freshly baked pastries Hyacinth had placed on the table, thankful that they weren't so likely to crumble as the more usual biscuits. Unfortunately for her that was precisely the moment her neighbour turned from her ministrations with the tray and Liz, panicked, dropped the pastry on the table.
Hyacinth gave a long-suffering sigh as she regarded her idea of a small disaster. Really, Elizabeth would be so clumsy! "Do try to be a little bit careful of the crumbs, Elizabeth, dear," she scolded. She quickly cleaned up the few crumbs with a cloth and then lowered her ample form into the chair in front of the window.
"So sorry, Hyacinth," breathed Elizabeth. "I don't know what comes over me sometimes, honestly. I never drop things anywhere else." Her hostess looked doubtful. In a quick attempt to change the subject Liz prompted, "You wanted to tell me about your holiday plans?"
Hyacinth's disapproving expression changed immediately. Her round face was suddenly wreathed in smiles, her eyes sparkled with the holy glow of self-improvement, and her voice went up an entire octave. From her pocket she produced a thick white envelope, bearing some sort of embossed crest Liz couldn't quite make out.
"Grantleigh Manor Lodge," she said reverently. "Doesn't that sound positively regal? It's the gatehouse of an historic estate in Somerset, and we shall be staying there for several weeks. I've just had the most charming letter in this morning's post from the people who own the estate. A couple named DeVere apparently – a very old-world, aristocratic sort of surname, just the sort of thing you'd expect from genuine landed aristocracy. Not a titled family, but of course you know how I disapprove of snobbery. Listen to this, Elizabeth: 'Our family has lived on the Grantleigh estate for more than four hundred years.' Not one of those places that's been sold off to Arabs or Americans or been subdivided into flats so tiny one can hardly turn around."
"Yes, I remember," said Elizabeth. "I mean ... well, it sounds wonderful, Hyacinth. Just the thing for several weeks' holiday." Several weeks, she thought gratefully. And Somerset was so wonderfully far away.
The other woman ignored her, caught up in her own reveries. "That very nice vicar we met at the inter-church charity bazaar told me about it. He had that parish for years, and said that he thought Mrs. DeVere and I have so much in common we could be practically twins. Isn't that wonderful? It's always such a relief to meet someone who is capable of appreciating my breeding and refinement. Obviously the DeVeres will, of course – like calls to like, you know. Why, I shouldn't be at all surprised to find ourselves spending next summer as guests at the manor itself. I feel instinctively that we shall be very good friends."
It was a lovely summer afternoon, late June at its finest. Marjory Frobisher, on her way home from a Women's Institute meeting at the church, decided to take a roundabout way and drop in on her oldest friend. She found Audrey, not at home at Grantleigh Manor as she'd expected, but in the garden of the old lodge, inexpertly wielding a pitchfork.
"Hullo, Aud," she greeted her. "What are you doing back at the old digs?"
Audrey DeVere straightened and gave Marjory one of her patented stern looks. She didn't care to think about the bleak time in her life, now two decades in the past, when she had actually lived in the lodge herself for a few years after the death of her husband had forced to sell her ancestral home. Those dark years were one of a number of subjects Audrey was permitted to bring up, but Marjory wasn't.
The two women had been friends for more than sixty years and came from similar backgrounds – old, aristocratic families with more heritage than money – but that's where the similarity ended.
There was simply more of Audrey in every respect. Where Marjory was of average height with a scrawny figure a supermodel might reasonably envy, Audrey was more sturdily built, in keeping with her very tall frame. Likewise her features were more sharply defined, with a jutting nose and a determined chin. Marjory, on the other hand, had dainty, if rather amorphous features, topped with a pair of oversized, perpetually staring blue eyes. Everything about her seemed designed to illustrate the term "spinster". Even their personalities were diametrically opposed, although that was the main factor behind their lifelong friendship. It was a perfect symbiotic relationship: Audrey was a born leader, Marjory a born sycophant. She seldom had any real objections when Audrey rode roughshod over her, as she always had.
"Don't be vulgar, Marjory. I am waiting for the new tenants to arrive, as you should know perfectly well."
"Oh, golly, is that today? Is that why you're so dressed up?" her friend teased, remarking on Audrey's costume of simple white sweater and blue sleeveless jacket, with a pair of dark green slacks tucked into the tops of Wellington boots.
"In a manner of speaking. I've spent half the morning in the woods trying to track down the groundskeeper. I told him last week that this garden needed to be in tip-top shape by the time the new people arrive, and now look at it."
Marjory looked. The patch of garden at the side of the Lodge was, as usual, overgrown but generally pleasant to look at. "It looks the same as it always has," she made the mistake of saying. Then, correcting herself quickly, she stammered, "Except, of course, for all the work you've done on it. Quite a marvellous job, really. What does the inside look like after all these years of standing empty?"
Audrey led the way inside, leaning the pitchfork against the wall as she opened the porch door. "I've had a cleaning crew in, of course, and the furniture should be more than serviceable. It's the stuff we pulled out of the manor last time we redecorated the drawing room."
"That was in 1988," Marjory reminded her. As she stepped up to the door a small bundle of golden-brown fur uncoiled itself from its sleeping spot and made a beeline for her ankle. With the ease of years of practice, she avoided the dog's bite and followed Audrey into the drawing room.
"Was it really? Good heavens, how time flies. Anyway, this furniture hasn't been used in all these years; it's as pristine as the day it was moved in. I doubt Coventry people can spot the difference, frankly."
Miss Frobisher was wise enough not to point out that in fact the room looked far less shabby than it had the last time the lodge was occupied. "Oh, it's lovely, Audrey," she said, genuinely impressed. "Who are these people who are renting the place?"
Audrey pursed her lips. "Well, the name is spelled Bucket, but when I spoke to the woman on the telephone she insisted upon pronouncing it 'Bouquet'."
"'Bouquet'?" Marjory repeated, puzzled. "I've never heard of that. Are they French, do you suppose?"
"A retired couple from the Midlands, apparently. Probably social climbers. I can't understand trying to transform a fine old sensible English name like Bucket into a garland of flowers."
"It is a rather unfortunate sort of name," her friend reminded her.
"Maybe so, but it's nothing to be ashamed of. People who change their names have something to hide," pronounced Audrey dogmatically.
Marjory grinned. "Like Richard?" she asked with amusement. "If he hadn't changed his name you'd be known as Audrey Polouvicka today."
"That's quite a different matter entirely," the other woman responded archly. "Besides, you haven't spoken to the woman. I have. She sounds like one of those strident-voiced Englishwomen who give the rest of us a bad reputation. You know the type."
"Oh, yes. Quite well," Marjory answered, suppressing a smile. "But if you're so down on these people why are you letting them stay here? For that matter, I don't understand why you're bothering to rent out the lodge at all."
"For the money, of course, Marjory. This is a time of economic crisis for Britain's farming communities. Richard thinks we should be doing everything we can to encourage tourism."
Marjory was immediately concerned. "Oh, Audrey. I had no idea the estate was that far in the red."
"Well it isn't, so far, but a little ahead of time economizing won't hurt anything. I found that out the hard way after Marton died; I've been poor and I didn't like it. I've no intention of standing idly by and letting things get so bad that Richard and I have to sell up and spend our declining years in this flea hut."
"I hardly think that's likely to happen," her friend began soothingly.
Marjory was more or less right in her assumption that Audrey was simply indulging her love of melodrama, but the situation was rather more complicated than that. Although the Grantleigh estate had been far luckier than some others, it hadn't managed to escape Britain's current farm crisis unscathed. They'd fortunately never ventured into beef production beyond the needs of the estate itself, and the small herd of cattle they did keep had escaped the outbreak of foot and mouth disease. Still, with a dismal economic climate and a flat market for the goods they did produce, the estate had been showing alarming signs the last few years of backsliding into the sort of non-profitability which had plagued it throughout the sixties and seventies. The DeVeres were still a very wealthy couple, but neither one cared for the idea of having to live on their capital. Audrey's husband, ever the businessman, had at once started coming up with contingency plans to generate income. The idea of renting out the old lodge as a country hideaway and encouraging tourism in the area was one of the more immediately feasible.
The sound of a car pulling up outside distracted them. From the direction of the front door, a familiar low growl broke out. "Hellooo!" The voice that hailed them was every bit as strident and piercing as Audrey had said.
"There's Mrs. Whatever-Her-Name-Is now," Audrey sighed. She headed for the door, Marjory at her heels.
Hyacinth stepped regally into the vestibule and gasped with pleasure. "Oh, Richard! Aren't these gothic arched windows absolutely wonderful?"
Her husband, struggling with three rather heavy suitcases, nodded patiently. "Yes, dear," he agreed. "Just as wonderful as when we stopped to admire them from the outside."
"There's just something incomparable about lovely old classic architecture," she sighed. "These old houses have an air of gentility our little modern matchboxes simply can't measure up – Aawk!" The front door opened and furious yapping erupted, seemingly from all over. Hyacinth, certain she was being attacked by several large, vicious dogs, fell ungracefully against the gothic windows she so admired.
"Bad dog!" Audrey scolded, scooping up the furious ball of fluff before he could do any more damage. The barking stopped immediately.
"Oh, dear, I'm terribly sorry about that," apologised the utterly blameless Marjory. "I don't know why he behaves so badly. Are you quite all right, Mrs. Bucket?"
"It's ... Bouquet," Hyacinth corrected weakly. She hauled herself upright, adjusting her hat and trying to recover her composure. She offered her hand to Marjory. "Such a pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. DeVere."
Marjory gulped and stood staring at Hyacinth, too surprised to correct the mistake. Audrey bristled. She said, in a somewhat acidic tone, "Really, Marjory. I thought you'd long since recovered from that little fantasy." Extending the hand that wasn't holding the Corgi, she said simply, "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bouquet; I'm Audrey DeVere, and this is my friend Miss Frobisher."
A variety of emotions flickered across Hyacinth's face. How could such a terrible thing have just happened? What would this do to her chances of being accepted by the local aristocracy? And why was Mrs. DeVere dressed up like some sort of gamekeeper while the Frobisher woman was dressed in the sort of long skirt Hyacinth considered "proper country dress"? Then it hit her. It was country chic, of course. Obviously it's what the best people wore on their estates, in a vain attempt to look casual and fit in with "the little people."
Her attitude thus readjusted for maximum comfort, she smiled ingratiatingly and grasped Audrey's hand, earning another sharp bark from the dog. "Of course, of course! What a silly mistake. Do accept my most sincere apologies, dear Mrs. DeVere. I recognised the impeccable breeding at once, of course." Confidentially she added, "Our sort always does recognise one another."
Audrey's eyebrows arched higher. "You don't say. Why don't you follow me into the drawing room? You can just leave those cases out here for the moment, Mr., er – yes."
Richard Bucket, a balding, faded little man with a greying moustache and a permanent expression of patient embarrassment, did as he was ordered and followed the rest of the party into a comfortable little high-ceilinged room. The moment his foot crossed the threshold the dog bit him sharply on the ankle. "Ouch!" he yelped.
His new landlady scooped up the miscreant with a curt apology. "Naughty Brabinger!" she scolded the dog.
"Brabinger?" questioned Richard, holding his injured foot.
"We called him after my late butler," Audrey explained. "He had much the same eyebrows."
"Richard, do stop playing with the dog," Hyacinth said disdainfully. Her practiced eye measured up the room, unimpressed by everything except the French windows, also arched in the gothic fashion, and the Portland stone hearth. "Oh, what a lovely room," she lied. "I was just telling Richard before —" she gave the dog a wary glance "—before we came in that old traditional houses have a certain mystique about them that modern ones can't match. Even if they don't have the most up-to-date furnishings, they still have enough charm to quite overcome any little flaws."
"I quite agree, in general," Audrey responded, managing to keep her temper. "I've always felt that the lodge could be quite a lovely little domicile for anyone who had the money to give it the sort of care it deserves. Of course no one's lived here for twenty years, and the furniture is just some old rubbish we pulled out of the manor in the late eighties, but it could be an absolutely splendid place."
"Oh, yes!" breathed Hyacinth, effortlessly seduced by the idea of this country retreat done up to fit the immaculate standards of quality people like herself and the DeVeres. "I recognised the obvious quality of the furnishings at once, of course – I pride myself on knowing a bit about quality furnishings, you know. I myself own a suite that's an exact replica of one at Sandringham House. Why, my son Sheridan could work wonders with this room. He's a very successful interior designer, you know. Such a fashionable occupation just now, what with all the ones you see on the television. Of course, my Sheridan has much better taste, just like his Mummy."
"I can imagine."
Marjory stared at the two of them wordlessly. She was by nature inherently, sometimes gracelessly, truthful, and she'd always been amazed by the ability certain people – chiefly Audrey – had of instantaneously melding reality to suit themselves. She glanced over at the newcomer's husband, now utterly forgotten as he sat nursing his bitten ankle, and wondered briefly if he'd ever noticed this phenomenon.
Richard felt someone's eyes upon him and turned to meet Marjory Frobisher's glance with a friendly but somewhat tight-lipped smile of resignation. His expression changed to one of apprehension as he heard what his wife was saying, and he sighed as Hyacinth launched herself onto her favourite subject. He did, however, think it was only fair to point out, "Mrs. DeVere might not want you redecorating her property, Hyacinth. It is only a rental." And knowing Sheridan, he thought, redecorating one room will end up costing more money than the rent.
Mrs. DeVere's mind was busily turning this to her advantage. Having the lodge redone by a professional interior decorator – at someone else's expense – might not be a bad idea at all. It would increase the property value, and the appeal to these potential tourists her husband spoke of. Ooh, I like that, she thought.
Outwardly she appeared to give the matter cautious consideration. "Well ..." she answered at length, "I can't think why you shouldn't have a little work done while you're here, considering your son is in the business. Providing he has a proper understanding of what would be appropriate in a house with this sort of history, naturally. The lodge isn't as quite as old as the manor, but it does have a ... considerable history in my family."
Hyacinth sniffed indignantly. "Well, of course my Sheridan has impeccable taste. He has just as much sense of history as I do myself."
"Exactly."
The cryptic remark might have been properly construed as an insult, but Hyacinth took it as a delicate compliment. "How nice of you to say so, Mrs. DeVere," she cooed. "I knew someone of your calibre would recognise my overwhelming natural gift of understanding just what is socially and historically appropriate. I think we can safely say we're of the same mind here."
"That went even better than I could have hoped, dear!" Hyacinth declared enthusiastically to her husband the instant Audrey and Marjory left them alone. "I could tell Mrs. DeVere was impressed by my impeccable taste and breeding. Obviously I'm her class of people. I know that we're going to be bosom friends."
Her husband shook his head wearily. "Hyacinth," he began patiently. "We can't afford to be bosom friends with people of that sort. We're in a completely different socio-economic level."
As usual, the calm voice of reason had absolutely no effect on her. "Nonsense, Richard. Genuine aristocracy like the DeVeres don't care about anything as vulgar as money. Why, I bet that Frobisher person is poor as a church mouse."
"So will we be soon," Richard said under his breath.
"It's breeding that counts with people of that class," Hyacinth went on without hearing him. "You take my word for it."
He sighed. "All right. I'll take your word for it. But what was all that business about having Sheridan come and redecorate the lodge? It's all we can do to afford to rent the place at all, much less let Sheridan and his, er, 'partner' at it, with the prices they charge."
"Don't be silly, dear. You know he'll give us a discount."
"Bloody generous of him, considering I subsidize the business as often as not."
She put on her patient expression, the one she used whenever she thought of herself as the long-suffering martyr, bravely resolving to face whatever miseries life – and her brutal husband – might heap upon her. "Now, Richard, dear. Please don't be so unkind to Sheridan. You know it takes time to establish a successful business. Especially one so fraught with professional jealousy, and all the unfair competition from those television designers. It's the least we can do for our only child, to see that he's launched on the path of his chosen career."
"After eight or ten years of languishing at university while he figured out what that career was going to be." That, also, was said quietly.
His wife was off on another of her flights of fancy. "Oh, yes, this could be precisely the sort of opening Sheridan and Tarquin have been looking for to really get their business underway. Just imagine, Richard. The DeVeres will be so impressed by the renovation of this room they'll probably hire Sheridan to redecorate the whole Manor. Just think of it! 'Yes, we've just had the whole place redone from top to bottom. Brilliant young designer by the name of Sheridan Bouquet. He's the son of two of our dearest friends, in fact.'"
She sighed ecstatically, paying no attention to Richard's lack of enthusiasm.
Audrey managed to make it out of the lodge and halfway down the drive before she gave in to her urge to laugh. One of the locals had once described her, somewhat uncharitably but not inaccurately, as "a big, horsey woman with a big, horsey laugh." Her lips twitched, her shoulders shook, and she finally burst out with a barely restrained roar.
"Good Lord, Marjory, have you ever seen such an asinine woman?" she chuckled. "I don't know what was worse – her insistence that 'people of our quality and distinction' are always drawn together, or the constant prattling about her son."
"She does have a rather overwhelming presence," her friend agreed.
"Congratulations, Marjory, that may be the understatement of the century. Really, I think she may prove very amusing provided she isn't constantly underfoot."
"You didn't find it all that amusing when she thought I was Mrs. DeVere."
Clearly Audrey still didn't find it all that funny. "Just another example of her social pretensions. She allowed herself to be fooled by the way we were dressed. If she could actually recognise class and breeding the way she says, she'd never be taken in by such things. And she dyes her hair."
Marjory snorted. "What's wrong with that, Audrey? You dye your hair. So do I for that matter. Lots of people cover up the grey when they get to be our age."
Instinctively Audrey's hand went up to her short, dark blonde locks. "No, Marjory. We only tint our hair its natural colour, not cover it with something from a bottle off the supermarket shelves labeled 'Russet 19'."
With a disdainful sniff to show what she thought of the sort of people who indulged in that sort of thing, she marched up the driveway while Marjory struggled to keep up with her.
Richard clumped downstairs, his feet sweltering in the stiff new Wellington boots. He felt as if he had lead weights attached to the ends of his legs. Feeling self-conscious, he stomped into the drawing room to submit himself to the royal inspection.
When Hyacinth got a look at him she sprung to her feet and clasped her hands under her chin enthusiastically. "Oh, Richard, how lovely! Don't you look smart, dear ... every inch the country gentleman. Spread your arms, dear." He obeyed, lifting the arms that hung stiffly at his sides about eighteen inches in either direction. Hyacinth circled him, mouth pursed, scrutinizing the fit and look of the clothing. Finally she pronounced it absolutely perfect. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. You look exactly like a member of the aristocracy. Absolutely indistinguishable."
"I feel like an idiot, Hyacinth," he complained.
"Nonsense, Richard," his wife said brusquely. "These clothes are an exact copy of the sort of outfit worn by members of the local gentry."
"I seriously doubt the local gentry get themselves up in cheap tweed from the village shop. Not that it was cheap, mind you. Do you know how much this rig cost? Besides that, I don't know how you expect me to walk about in these stiff boots."
She ignored his concerns about the expense as thoroughly as she always did, seeming not to even hear it. And she waved aside his other complaints as well, telling him merely, "The boots – we call them Wellies, dear – just need a little breaking in. Go and walk in the garden. Go on. I have plans to make now, shoo!" Still grumbling quietly, Richard took himself off through the open french windows which led onto the small terrace.
He'd been walking back and forth in front of the house for quite some time, with the result that the so-called Wellies weren't getting any less stiff, and neither were the new crop of blisters. Richard was just about to call it a day, go inside to soak his feet and look for a few elastic bandages, when a white Range Rover, several years old, pulled up and stopped beside him.
The driver lowered the window and stuck his head out. He was a man in his middle sixties, with a head of slightly thinning pepper-and-salt hair, fully grey only at the temples. The well-groomed moustache on his upper lip was still youthfully dark. "Hullo, my name's DeVere," he said, offering Richard his hand. "You must be Mr. Bucket. Or is it really Bouquet?"
Richard Bucket hesitated. "Well, that would actually depend on whether or not you talk to my wife," he answered. DeVere seemed to find that funny for some reason. "Perhaps you should just call me Richard."
The other man looked interested. "Oh, I say. My name's Richard as well." He got out of the car and leaned against it. "How are you and your wife finding life at the lodge so far?" he asked conversationally.
"Oh, it's very nice," the other man responded affably. "It's quite a relief, honestly. The last time Hyacinth had a fancy to try country living we ended up paying a small fortune for a converted country house flat so tiny we couldn't even turn around."
DeVere studied the newcomer's immaculate tweeds with their painfully sharp creases, which seemed quite at odds with his own limp and obviously superior quality apparel. "Really? And I would have taken you for a country man," he remarked, deadpan.
"I feel like a perfect ass in these clothes," Richard confessed. "But it's supposed to be 'country chic' or so I'm told."
"I shouldn't worry about it if I were you," the other man assured him. "My first day out I appeared in heavy brogues and loud plus-fours! I think I might have even had a walking stick." He shook his head over the memory.
His namesake chuckled slightly, just enough to be friendly. He felt slightly confused, given all the information their landlady had imparted. Emboldened by the other man's cheerful amiability, he decided to ask for clarification. "Oh ... but I thought your family had lived in these parts for centuries. That's what your wife told us when she showed us the place this morning."
"Her family has. My wife's a fforbes-Hamilton – that's a name that apparently counts for something in this part of the country. I came here in '79 from London, very much the outsider. But I like it here. You come from ... Coventry, is it?"
"That's right."
DeVere nodded. "Oh, yes. Nice place. Used to do business there. Well, I'm afraid I really have to be going. Nice meeting you. Listen, why don't you and Mrs. Bucket come for dinner tonight? Around eight-ish?"
"Oh. Thank you very much, Hyacinth will be delighted. Umm – " Bucket lowered his voice and leaned in to speak to the other man confidentially. "There is one thing I should warn you about. My wife ... well, she really does prefer the pronunciation 'Bouquet' for some reason. She can get a bit..." He trailed off helplessly, but DeVere seemed to understand.
"Ah, I see. I'll try to keep that in mind. See you tonight, then." With a friendly wave he got back into the Rover and moved off down the drive.
Richard DeVere found his wife in the drawing room, looking over some papers for one or another of her charities. Audrey looked up and greeted him briefly. "Hello, darling. Have a good meeting with the farm manager?"
"So-so," Richard answered. He didn't offer any further details, knowing she would insist on a full report later on, when she was less distracted. "I met the new neighbours on the way in. One of them, anyway."
"Oh? Which one? The social parasite or the downtrodden husband?"
"I haven't met the wife yet."
"If you're smart you'll try to postpone that pleasure for as long as possible," Audrey advised, her eyes on her work.
Richard looked slightly uncomfortable. He scratched absently at his moustache and answered, "Ah. Well, that might be a bit difficult, I'm afraid. I've invited them both for dinner tonight."
Audrey looked up at him with a dismayed expression. "Oh, Richard, how could you?" she asked, pained. "Quite aside from the dubious pleasure of dining with the Bucket woman, you should never make a habit of inviting guests for dinner at the last moment."
"I've always done that."
That was true enough, and he remained completely unrepentant. According the various women in his life, inviting last minute dinner guests was one of the worst, most inconsiderate acts a man could commit. His mother had railed at him for hours, often in the presence of their embarrassed guests. Janice, his first wife, had remonstrated with him gently, behaved like the perfect hostess, and then sulked for the rest of the evening. Audrey, his second wife, gave him a long lecture, usually about the impropriety of the whole thing, then promptly forgot about it. And through all these years he continued to get away with it, because a rich man, moreover a handsome and charming rich man, tended to get his own way.
"And I've always told you not to. It's terribly unfair to poor Mrs. Beacham. She's an old woman, she doesn't like having her routine upset."
"Mrs. Beacham's our age," Richard pointed out.
"Your age, maybe," corrected Audrey. "She's at least five years older than I am."
Richard, in fact, was less than two years older than his wife, but he didn't share the sensitivity that Audrey seemed to be developing about the subject the last few years. He was in robust good health – doctor's orders about limiting himself to two cigars per day and cutting his alcohol intake notwithstanding – and he still thought of himself as a young man.
"Oh, yes, you're right, of course. That makes a world of difference."
She wasn't about to let him get her off the subject. "Besides, what if we were having chops for dinner? It would be terribly embarrassing to run short of the main course."
"Are we having chops?" her husband asked sensibly.
"No. We're having a very nice roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It'll go round easily. But you'll have to be the one to charm Mrs. Beacham into providing extra dessert."
The lecture finished, Audrey went back to her work, looking over the contents of two folders and jotting down an occasional note on the pad in her lap. Richard puttered around the room idly for a few minutes before he poured himself a drink and took a seat across from his wife. He watched her silently for awhile until she began to show signs of irritation, then picked up the paper and perused the headlines.
At length he spoke, without raising his eyes from the newspaper. "How many times did Brabinger bite them?"
"Hmm?"
"Brabinger. How many times did he bite the new people while you were showing them around the lodge?"
Audrey looked up in annoyance. "Richard, I don't see why you must continually jump to conclusions. Why on Earth do you suppose he tried to bite them at all?"
"For a start because that dog has always bitten everyone except us."
"I keep telling you, Corgis aren't biters. And it was only once, as it happens. Besides, he'd hardly bite us. We're his parents."
Richard was visibly amused. "I can see it now: 'Do you have any children, Mr. DeVere?' 'Oh, yes. I have a sometimes incontinent fifteen-year-old son who bites everyone he sees with the exception of his mother and me.'" he said, and they both laughed.
Hyacinth insisted on their driving the few hundred yards to the manor, saying, "Quality people don't walk, dear. They have chauffeurs to drive them everywhere. What would it look like if we simply arrived on foot?"
Her husband had tried to talk her out of it, pointing out that DeVere had been driving himself around that afternoon, and he was fairly certain their landlady had been on foot when she left the lodge, but she would have none of it. But when their host opened the door for them himself and said with some surprise, "You drove? Two hundred yards?" Hyacinth had instantly changed her tune and blamed her husband.
"Well, I told Richard it was a frightful waste of petrol, but he would insist. Always trying to take care of me, you know, save wear and tear on m'dainty feet." With that she laughed, a loud sound that echoed through the great hall with such intensity it made DeVere blink with surprise.
She gazed around the great hall in a kind of rapture. "Oh, this is magnificent! What a lovely mix of Regency and Jacobean and, er –" here she faltered, unable to remember the rest of the tiny guidebook paragraph about Grantleigh.
"Georgian," suggested Richard DeVere gently.
"Oh, yes, Georgian, of course. In short, everything an old English estate should be, all still intact. I'm simply speechless." Hyacinth's idea of speechlessness, however, generally consisted of rambling on and on about the house and about what a shame it was so many of "our finest houses" were now being turned into museums or blocks of flats.
"Why, even my dear friend Lady Kitteredge has had to open up her house to the public three times a week."
Needless to say she didn't bother to explain that Lady Kitteredge had been elevated to the status of "dear friend" by virtue of having spoken three sentences to Hyacinth when their paths crossed during one of the Kitteredge House tours. Her Ladyship had actually recognised her as someone she'd spotted on previous tours, which to Hyacinth meant automatically that her inherent upper-classness had been immediately recognisable. It had never occurred to Hyacinth that she was fairly memorable to anyone who had ever encountered her.
DeVere, for instance, was finding her more and more memorable by the second. He seemed more amused than offended, however, much to her husband's relief. Richard Bucket turned to his host with an apologetic smile. "What's a man to do?" his expression seemed to say. DeVere merely raised his eyebrows in sympathetic acknowledgement.
Hyacinth stopped at the foot of the grand staircase, gazing up at the long gallery above with undisguised curiosity, and then climbed a few steps to get a better view. "What a perfectly elegant staircase. It gives one the feeling that this isn't one of those stately homes where all the sparkle is confined to the ground floor, and upstairs is simply..." She let the sentence dangle hopefully.
"Quite." DeVere, corralling his errant guest, felt the devil take hold of him. "I'm sure my wife would be more than happy to escort you on a tour of the manor."
He opened the door into the drawing room as he said it, making sure Audrey heard his generous offer. She looked daggers at her smirking husband, but she'd already readjusted her face into a smile, albeit a somewhat frozen one, by the time her unwanted guests entered the room.
"Mr. and Mrs. Bouquet," she said, rising and crossing to greet them, the essence of well-bred politeness. "So lovely to see you again. Welcome to Grantleigh Manor."
Audrey was wearing heels, as she always did when dressing for dinner, and so towered over the newcomers. In fact, in heels she normally towered over almost everyone she met with the exception of her husband. She'd always used her height to great advantage, but she hadn't been expecting Hyacinth's complete lack of modesty in the social realm. Instead of being intimidated, the shorter woman simply extended her hand graciously, in an exaggerated etiquette book-approved imitation of the way she'd seen society women behave.
"Oh, yes, how wonderful to see you again, Mrs. DeVere. And so soon, as well. Of course it's a great honour to be asked to dine with you our first evening here. I was so pleasantly surprised to receive your kind invitation to the manor." Needless to say, when Richard had relayed the news to her that afternoon she'd told him smugly that such a thing was only to be expected and would doubtless be the first of many social evenings together.
"My husband's invitation," Audrey corrected swiftly. "You remember Miss Frobisher."
Hyacinth looked past Audrey, noticing for the first time that Marjory, belatedly lumbering to her feet, was indeed a member of the party. She frowned slightly and gave her a somewhat frosty nod. "Yes, of course. How are you, dear?" She still blamed Marjory for that embarrassing business this morning.
"Just fine, Mrs. Bucket," Marjory chirped. "How are you?"
Hyacinth froze, her whole body momentarily rigid as a fascinating variety of pained expressions flitted across her face. In a rough whisper she managed to croak a correction. "Bouquet."
"Oh. Sorry."
Richard was playing the jovial host to perfection. "Please, have a seat. Wouldn't you both like a drink before dinner?" He played bartender, then sat down on the arm of the sofa next to his wife. "By the way, darling," he said, "I told Mrs. Bouquet you'd be happy to give her a tour of the manor."
"I heard ... darling," Audrey told him through gritted teeth. "How thoughtful of you."
"Oh, it was nothing ... darling."
Marjory Frobisher watched them nervously. She'd always hated being witness to this particular game. "Darling" was generally the only pet name used between husband and wife, but when they kept repeating it like that in front of company it always meant they were trying to irritate one another.
"Oh, what fun!" she exclaimed, trying to curtail a possible squabble between her friends. "I don't think I've been through the whole place in years, myself."
"Then you might as well come along," Audrey said without enthusiasm. "In fact, why don't we all make a party of it? After dinner." She made it sound more like a command than a suggestion.
Her husband demurred, saying the manor was shown to much better effect during daylight hours, but she wasn't having any of it. If she were going to suffer, so would he.
"Perhaps we'll see some of the family ghosts," Audrey said playfully. Warming to her subject, she began regaling her guests with ghoulish tales – made up on the spot – about some of her more unsavoury ancestors, whose spirits were said to haunt the estate to this day.
Hyacinth, sadly, didn't seem to be frightened in the least, but she was listening with rapt attention. Apparently, according to her, only the best families got to have ghosts.
Marjory was a bit puzzled by the whole thing, as this was the first she'd ever heard about the manor being haunted. DeVere, on the other hand, knew more or less what was going on. He listened indulgently, waiting to see where she was going with this line of nonsense.
"I've never seen any ghosts since I've been here," he pointed out. "More to the point, neither did Mother and she actually looked."
"Well, then, there you go. People who actually look for ghosts never find them," Audrey replied swiftly.
Her eye was caught by movement opposite. A small, tawny body was edging its way under the chesterfield, heading remorselessly toward Hyacinth's feet, stuffed into their too-small shoes. Inspired, she began spinning a new yarn. "Then there was my great-great-uncle Randolph, of course. Quite mad. He used to spend his later years hiding under the furniture. When visitors came, he used to grab at their ankles. Sometimes he bit them. Apparently, his ghost still has a fetish for biting people."
"Sounds rather as if Great Uncle Randolph was reincarnated as Brabinger," her husband said drily. Sliding forward onto the floor in one smooth move he grabbed hold of the elderly dog just as he was about to sink his teeth into Hyacinth's foot.
Brabinger wasn't about to come willingly. He gave a sharp yap and snapped at his would-be prey on the way by. Richard kept a firm grip on the wriggling little body and carried him out of the room to lock him away in the office for the evening.
Hyacinth shrank away in exaggeration. She hadn't figured out that her leg was being pulled rather than bitten, and seemed to regard the animal as the true reincarnation of mad Uncle Randolph.
Her husband, trying to be helpful, explained, "My wife has rather a problem with dogs."
Audrey looked distinctly disapproving; she'd always made a point of not trusting people who didn't like dogs. It simply wasn't British.
Hyacinth caught sight of her rigid expression and turned a look of pained rebuke on her husband. "Now, Richard, you don't want to give these people the wrong idea." To Audrey she said, "As a matter of fact I adore dogs. The only one I've ever had a problem with is a mangy cur which belongs to my brother-in-law."
"I don't think it's the same dog, Hyacinth."
"Well, of course it's not the same dog, dear," she replied, misunderstanding. "That dog of Onslow's is a common, furry street thug, while the DeVeres' dog is obviously a fine, pedigreed ... something."
"Pembroke Welsh Corgi," supplied the hostess.
Hyacinth thought that one over, deciding it explained many things. "I've never trusted the Welsh," she told Audrey darkly.
Richard was still trying to clarify his point. "No, I mean the dog Onslow has now isn't the same dog he used to have." No one was listening to him.
A sudden realisation hit Hyacinth. Corgis were the breed of dog much favoured by the Queen. She pointed out this fact, trying to make it sound as if she was a great fancier of the breed herself.
Audrey nodded and replied, "Yes, that's right. As a matter of fact, Brabinger comes from the same breeder which supplied one or two of her dogs over the years."
DeVere returned to the room minus the dog. "I've just talked to Mrs. Beacham. Dinner's ready whenever we are."
As the party began to make their way toward the dining room, Hyacinth hung back and grabbed her husband's arm. "Richard," she whispered excitedly. "Did you hear that? The DeVeres' dog is related to royalty!"
He nodded. "Yes, it makes me feel so much better to think that I've been bitten by a member of the royal family."
He tried to keep his voice down, but Audrey's hearing was very sharp. Pausing in the doorway of the dining room, she turned and remarked, "That actually wouldn't surprise me these days."
Conversation at dinner was desultory, roaming over numerous topics, but Hyacinth dominated almost every one of them, determined to impress. She went on at great lengths about the qualities and accomplishments of her only child, the glorious Sheridan, and for an encore she regaled her companions with glowing descriptions of the luxurious lifestyle of her sister Violet. Apparently her favourite sister lived in a luxury bungalow – a concept which strained Audrey's imagination to its limits – complete with swimming pool and sauna and room for a pony. When she wasn't monopolizing the conversation by talking about her family members, she was asking prying questions about upper class life in the Grantleigh area and simultaneously insinuating that she knew all about such things.
The others found it quite maddening, and yet fascinating in a macabre sort of way. There was a strong temptation to retaliate by introducing strictly local topics, thereby excluding her from the conversation, but it was resisted. That sort of thing was simply not done; it would have been bringing oneself down to the Bucket woman's level.
During the first two courses she kept studying the tableware surreptitiously, pushing the food aside for a closer look at the black and gold pattern skirting the edges of the plates. Once or twice when she thought no one was looking at her she pretended to drop her napkin, using that as an excuse to bend over and tip up the side of her plate in a vain attempt to get a look at the mark on the underside.
DeVere watched the act curiously. "Is there something wrong with the china, Mrs. Bouquet?" he asked.
Hyacinth looked up with a slightly insane smile on her face, embarrassed to be caught snooping. "No, it's lovely. Royal Doulton, isn't it?"
"No, I'm afraid not. It's only Limoges." The set had been his wedding gift to Audrey.
"Ah, well, never mind. The French seem to be taking over everything these days. And I hear some of that can be quite as good as Royal Doulton," she said outrageously. "I have the loveliest set at home, with handpainted periwinkles. Of course, most of the cups have been broken by my next door neighbour," she sighed.
"How tragic," said Audrey with genuine sympathy.
Hyacinth gave another sigh, thinking of all the things she'd had to endure in the years she'd lived next to Elizabeth. "Yes, she's got a terrible habit of dropping things. Most nervous person I've ever met. She reminds me of Miss Frobisher, rather."
Marjory was completely oblivious to any slight. "Oh, I'm never nervous at all," she said easily. Trying to work out what the similarity might be she asked, "Does she like wildlife, your neighbour?"
"Oh, I shouldn't think so, dear," Hyacinth said with a slight frown. "Her brother directs musical operettas."
The others were amazed at this non sequitur. Before anyone could recover from their puzzlement she continued in a hushed voice, "Well, at least he used to. He's been rather ... indisposed ... the last year or two," she told them vaguely.
"We think he had some sort of nervous breakdown," volunteered her husband. He hadn't had a great deal to say thus far.
Hyacinth was quite embarrassed that their hosts should think her the sort of woman who would live next door to someone who'd had a nervous collapse. With an exaggerated smile she hurried to clarify the situation to people who couldn't possibly care less.
"Now, Richard, dear, let's not be uncharitable. You make poor dear Emmet sound like a mental patient." Her laugh, intended to sound casually dismissive, came out as a sort of nervous whinny. "It's not at all that sort of thing, really. You know how the creative temperament suffers so from nerves. A family complaint, obviously. But one can't pick one's neighbours, can one?"
"Sadly, no."
Richard DeVere came close to choking on his wine, and shot his wife a suspicious look. But Audrey was, for the most part, playing the polite hostess and declined to follow up the rather snarky comment.
Marjory, following that train of thought along a somewhat circuitous path, said curiously to the visiting couple, "You know, I don't believe I've ever heard how you came to hear about the lodge in the first place."
Hyacinth repeated the story of how she'd met the onetime rector of this parish in his current appointment at a small city church, and heard of the listing from him. "He told me," she said, with a modest laugh, "that I rather reminded him of you, Mrs. DeVere. He thought we had enough in common to be practically twins. Isn't that astonishing?"
Astonishing fell just short of the mark. Audrey's face froze. After a moment she recovered and shot the giggling Marjory a stern look.
Richard, equally amused but possessed of better self control, said under his breath, "Well, that was hardly Christian of him."
"No one ever did understand his little jokes," Audrey said frostily. "I rather prefer our new rector. He's younger and more flexible, and he doesn't drink one out of house and home. I always find that important in a clergyman."
By flexible she meant, of course, that the "new" rector – he'd only been at Marlbury St. Botolphe for thirteen years, after all – seemed not to be resentful when she ordered him around and told him how things should be run in the parish, something which clearly couldn't be said about his predecessor.
"And at least he's married," commented Marjory. She still felt an urge to laugh, but she was trying not to think about it. "My mother always said an unmarried clergyman was simply asking for trouble. Although come to think of it, we never did have any trouble of that sort with the old rector."
"Well, you wouldn't expect to, would you, dear?" remarked Hyacinth, a comment which left her dining companions positively mystified. "Of course, we have a simply wonderful vicar at home. He is married, but certain women still try and throw themselves at him. I think that sort of thing is absolutely shameful. A man of the cloth and all. Mind you, I'm not absolutely certain his wife is exactly cut out to be a vicar's wife."
She then proceeded to spend the next several minutes telling everyone, in mind-numbing detail, just what an integral part she herself played in the church social functions.
"I always have, of course – I'd consider it a breach of my civic duty otherwise – but it's nice that we can both be more active in the church since Richard took early retirement. Richard's very pleased we can spend more time together, too, aren't you, dear?"
Her husband smiled faintly in her direction. "Yes. We get to spend a lot of time together now," he answered diplomatically. He immediately felt the waves of pity coming from his dinner.
He wanted to be friendly, and to do something nice in exchange, like get his wife off the subject of church for awhile. Somewhat shyly he asked his host, "What line of work are you in, Mr. DeVere?"
Hyacinth was mortified. "Richard, what a question, dear!" she admonished, with a rather embarrassed, deprecating sort of laugh. Trying to correct his mistake, she herself made a rather larger faux pas. "You should know the aristocracy don't do anything."
DeVere grinned. "Oh, on the contrary, Mrs. Bouquet. I think you'd be surprised at how much work is involved in running an estate this size. I certainly was," he said, catching Audrey's eye.
"Oh, yes. Running the Grantleigh estate is a full time job," she agreed.
"But to answer your question, I was in the grocery business."
Hyacinth sat blinking rapidly, her mouth pursed in disapproval, trying to assimilate the information. She had nothing at all against being in trade, provided one was successful at it, but it went against all her ideas about what the gentry was all about. "The grocery business. I see. Isn't that wonderful," she said, trying to smile.
Marjory smiled at her friends. "Oh, Richard's just being modest," she told Hyacinth. "He started Cavendish Foods, you know. Built a whole supermarket empire up from nothing."
"Isn't that wonderful!" repeated Hyacinth, in quite a different tone of voice this time. "Cavendish Foods! Why, I do all our shopping at your supermarkets, Mr. DeVere."
"Not mine any longer, I'm afraid," he corrected. "I sold out to an American concern in the early eighties, about the time Audrey and I got married. I guess you could say I took early retirement of a sort, as well – decided in my forties what I really wanted to do was be a gentleman farmer."
Hyacinth leaned across the table, intent on impressing the DeVeres with just how much they had in common. "You know, before Richard … my Richard, of course I mean," she tittered, "took early retirement, he was a major player in the financial world."
Richard, who had worked for the local borough council, seemed a bit surprised. "Well, I suppose you could say I was in finance," he agreed doubtfully.
"So much of the financial world is based in Coventry after all," Audrey remarked. To her, anything much north of London was practically foreign territory, and the Midlands seemed a barbarous wasteland.
"Oh, yes, of course," agreed Hyacinth, completely oblivious to any sort of sarcastic intent. "His whole department positively depended on him."
A heavyset elderly woman entered the room, carrying a tray loaded with dishes of chocolate mousse. "Ah, time for dessert," DeVere said, with some relief. "After coffee we'll start off on that tour of the manor I promised you."
"I can't wait to get a look at the family ghosts," joked Hyacinth, annoying her hostess considerably by winking at her. Then she added, with apparent seriousness, "I suppose a place like this would have only the highest quality ghosts, wouldn't you?"
"Naturally," said Audrey, who was wishing fervently that those stories of hers hadn't been strictly imaginary. Maybe if the woman thought the place was haunted it would keep her out. She doubted it, though.
What seemed like hours had passed, and the excruciating dinner party was finally over. The Buckets had returned to the lodge, and the DeVeres were alone together in the drawing room.
Richard handed his wife a drink, then leaned in to press his lips briefly against hers.
"Why, Richard," Audrey said, pleased. "Whatever was that for?"
"For not being Hyacinth," he replied simply.
She gave a slight shudder. "An overbearing, social-climbing poseur? I should think not."
"No," her husband confirmed, "a poseur you are not. I suddenly feel astonishingly lucky to be married to the real thing."
"How sweet of you to say so, Richard," she smiled, giving his hand a slight squeeze. "I'm glad that in all these years I have at least taught you to appreciate the value of the genuine article."
Any reply he might have made to that provocative statement was curtailed by Marjory Frobisher's entrance. Richard continued smoothly, as if his original train of thought had never been interrupted, "Mind you, it's the woman's husband I feel sorry for. He seems a nice enough chap overall."
Marjory settled herself comfortably into the leather sofa and accepted a brandy from her host. "Oh, I don't know," she commented, ready to believe the very best of everyone, even Hyacinth. With the kind of insight she was sometimes prone to displaying she pointed out, "You must admit, he does seem genuinely attached to her."
"Yes, attached with a lead chain," answered Audrey, with her usual beautiful irony. "I've never been able to understand what makes a nice, perfectly harmless little man harness himself to an ill-bred, difficult woman."
Richard sat back and smoothed his moustache, hiding an involuntary smile behind his fingers. He coughed once, then glanced at his wife with diffident affection. "I don't know about ill-bred, but personally I've always found difficult women to be the most interesting."
"Really, Richard!" Audrey said sternly.
Later that evening, upstairs in the old lodge, Hyacinth and her Richard were getting ready for bed. Richard pulled the covers back, marvelling at the lumpy mattress. Oh, well, after the day he'd had he felt he could sleep on anything.
If only Hyacinth would let him. She gave a happy sigh, looking at her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table as she cold-creamed her face. "What a wonderful evening," she smiled. "Wasn't that simply the most splendid dinner party you've ever attended, Richard?"
"Very nice, dear," he answered sleepily, punching his pillow into shape and turning over on his side.
"Well, it was more than very nice, I must say. I do wish you could be just a little more enthusiastic, dear. And I was positively embarrassed by how little you had to say tonight, Richard. I practically had to carry the entire conversation by myself." She could have mentioned that every time he had opened his mouth he seemed to commit yet another faux pas, but she chose not to say anything. Hyacinth liked to think of herself as magnanimous.
"That's why I didn't have much to say."
She gave no indication of having heard him. "Still, even with that little problem, I would have to call it a resounding social success. I could tell, the DeVeres really liked us. We are in, Richard. I shall have to have one of my little candlelight suppers and return the favour. Should I wait until after we have the lodge redecorated, I wonder? I'd better call Sheridan in the morning and get started straight away. I can't wait to tell him what important new friends we have now, he'll be so pleased."
At the mention of his son, Richard grunted and pulled the covers over his ear.
"Such a pity that Frobisher woman had to be there tonight, though. Quite a fly in the ointment she is. Imagine embarrassing me this morning by pretending to be Mrs. DeVere. I suppose I'll be forced to befriend her as well. It's obvious she's nothing a poor hanger-on, cashing in on her old school friendship. Poor Mrs. DeVere is obviously just too polite to give her the heave-ho."
Her husband pulled the covers off his head. It wasn't doing any good anyway. "She really didn't strike me as particularly polite," he remarked.
"Nonsense, Richard. The aristocracy are always unfailingly courteous to their underlings, that's why she tolerates that little spinster hanging on. If there's one thing I do detest, it's a hanger-on."
She wiped her hands carefully, then took off her dressing gown and climbed into bed next to him. She turned off the light and lay on her back in the darkness, a wide grin spreading across her face. "Oh, yes," she sighed. "I can tell it's going to be a magnificent summer!"