Everything Stops for Tea upon 4 o'clock at Home Farm and a family discussion leads to a dangerous liaison...
"Not again," Christopher Tate warned darkly, rolling his eyes at the youngest of the family, a pretty, charming child by the name of Jean, who was winding the gramophone again.
"Happy Days are here again!" she sang in her childish, flighty tones, trying to match the tempo with the sound.
"You keep on believing that," Christopher muttered bitterly, turning back to his newspaper.
"What are you doing, Crispy?" Jean asked, wandering sweetly to the desk where he was seated in his strange wooden contraption. She liked to play with it sometimes when he was occupied.
"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," Christopher sighed, ignoring her.
"Why not?" she drawled, smiling at him.
"Haven't you anything else to do?" Christopher returned impatiently, flapping the newspaper as he folded it over.
She shook her head.
"Why don't you find dear Pappy? I'm sure he'll buy you something to keep you occupied. He normally does," Christopher remarked sarcastically.
Jean remained immune to his sarcasm.
"Where's my little champion then?" A friendly deep voice came from behind Jean and she turned, her face lighting up at the sight of 'Papa'.
"Oh, she's here. Being an annoyance," Chris replied, over his shoulder.
Frank immediately swept Jean up into his arms and swung her around, singing along to the record on the gramophone, which had caught up.
"Dad, do you have to do that in here?" Christopher groaned, "you'll only make her sick. Again."
He referred to the previous afternoon when after taking a rather high tea in the company of 'Kim' and some other important ladies of the village, who had remarked on what a 'darling little cherub' she was, the aforementioned cherub in question, upon seeing her dearest 'Papa' had been spun around only to empty the contents of her luncheon onto the Persian carpet and Miss Bates's new hat.
"Oh, come now, I think we've learnt our lesson, haven't we, Jeanie?" Frank asked her. Jean squealed in delight.
"I am trying to work in here, you know. Running your business," Chris reminded him agitatedly. "Or, I could be, if you didn't trust that witch of a wife more than me."
"Christopher," Frank warned, setting Jean down on the carpet, "little Champion, why don't you go to the kitchen and see what Liza has in the pantry for you... Papa might have left something there."
Jean, sensing that she was no longer welcome to observe the conversation, graciously took her leave, skipping out of the drawing room and along the hallway in pursuit of the surprise that awaited in the kitchen.
She had just reached the staircase when a woman emerged from the music room, exquisitely dressed, golden hair immaculately styled in the latest fashion. She looked at Jean with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
Jean simply stared in awe. She was beautiful, so elegant.
"And where are you off to?" she asked in a well modulated yet harsh voice.
"Papa left a surprise for me," Jean explained, twisting her fingers.
"Did he now?" The woman looked over her, "what have you been doing this morning?"
"Listening to the gramophone," Jean replied.
"I think we've forgotten a little word, haven't we?"
"Mama," Jean corrected herself, despite feeling no real affection for the woman.
"That's better." The woman patted her head with her black silk glove. "And where is Papa now?"
"With Crispy."
The woman smirked.
"But he told me not to call him that," Jean admitted.
"Oh, why?" the woman asked, raising Jean's chin delicately.
"He doesn't like it." Jean shrugged.
"No, we don't shrug our shoulders, do we now?" her 'Mama' reprimanded her sharply.
"No, Mama," Jean answered complacently.
"I think it's a lovely thing; to give your brother a silly name. Perhaps you can think of one for your sister as well?" She put emphasis on the 'sister', however her attempt at irony fell flat in the face of Jean's childish naivety.
"I shall." Jean nodded.
"Good girl. What surprise has Papa got for you, I wonder?" her 'Mama' added pertinently, standing to her full height, towering over Jean. "I think I saw the parcel arrive. A patisserie, no less."
Jean prepared to run, but her 'Mama' took her shoulder. "No, we walk."
Jean nodded.
"Good. Run along, now." She tapped her shoulder sweetly before heading into the study where Frank and Chris were deep in conversation.
"Whatever you may think, Christopher," Frank was saying as his wife entered.
"Oh, sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting." Kim removed her hat and gloves.
"How could you not?" Chris responded acidly.
Kim smirked, linking her arm with Frank's.
"We can talk about this later, son."
"So you can spend the remaining hours of the day with your strumpet," Christopher commented, "and I thought you were only a Lady of the night," he added to Kim.
"Very witty," she replied, looking up at Frank.
"Christopher, apologise to your stepmother," Frank instructed coldly.
"I think not. I'm not seven years old." Chris turned back to his work as another of the family entered; Christopher's own son, who was the very image of his father.
His parentage had caused something of a scandal, being the son of the Earl of Miffield's heir and a housemaid. She herself had died, tragically, in childbirth, leaving her son to be raised by his father, who felt something of a detachment to the boy.
He was, however, an improvement on Frank's own heir, the young James Tate. At least, Christopher had provided his opinion as such.
A surge of pride filled Christopher as he looked upon his son, now in his late teenage years. The very model of Tate breeding. He had attended a fine school of repute, bringing home with him a footman whom had caught the eye of Kim herself.
"Ah, Joseph," Frank began.
"Good morning, Grandfather, Grandmother." Joseph knew it irked Kim greatly that he refused to address her by her formal title, Lady Tate. Christopher smirked and chuckled to himself in approval.
"How are you doing, my boy?" Frank asked him.
"Very well, thank you, Grandfather."
"Enough of this formality. Ring for Foster and have him bring tea." Kim waved her hand. Joseph set to the wall where a cord awaited and tugged upon it, prompting the arrival of a distinguished looking man.
Frank noticed how his wife's eyes swivelled over Foster, but refrained from comment.
"Ah, Foster," Kim started before her husband could speak, "I would be most grateful for tea."
"Of course, my Lady." Foster bowed, before retreating to prepare the tea.
"I wish you wouldn't speak to him like that." Frank shook his head. "You indulge him to step out of place."
"As you indulge Jean?" his wife retorted snippily, irritated at his comment.
"We are not discussing Jean."
"Well, that makes a change." Christopher offered his two-penny's worth, not in support of his stepmother, but in an attempt to make his own point.
"I am certain we could find a suitable school to take her for the next few years?" Kim suggested.
"Jean remains here." Frank's word was final.
"How do you expect to run the estate with a child running about like a menace?" Christopher challenged his father.
"What do you say, Joseph? Do you consider your cousin to be a menace?" Frank asked.
They were interrupted by the return of Foster, carrying a fine silver tray adorned with a silver tea service, a doily draping prettily over the edges.
He set the tray upon the coffee table, ensuring that everything was as it should be and stepped back to await further instruction under Kim's watchful eye.
"No, Grandfather. I have no such opinion of my cousin," Joseph replied with dignity.
He was an attractive young man, it had to be said. His suits were always exquisitely cut, tailored to his body exactly. Next to his father, they were practically brothers. He wore ties in a nod to modernity and stiff white collars that emphasised his long neck and angular jaw. His hair, milky tea in colour interwoven with fairer tones, was set in a severe parting to the left, swept down. He was handsome with breeding and charm to match, however rogueishly.
James, by comparison, was as tall, yet fuller in feature. Smaller eyes, a wider jaw, but a determined nose and far softer nature. Where Joseph was ruthless and cunning, like his father, James was sedate and methodical.
"I am glad to hear that, at least," Frank agreed, "Jean will remain here at Home Farm under the guidance of her tutor."
"The tutor who takes your money and abandons her to her own devices," Christopher muttered.
"Perhaps that is to her advantage," Kim reasoned, "she will never be cursed with such a broadened education, the burden of overthinking."
"Oh, you are witty." Christopher met her eyes. "I daresay you could tutor her, if you so wished."
Kim smirked.
"Her Mama, doing the duty of a governess? I think not. Besides; your father has advised that the matter is closed."
Her eyes darted sideways at Foster, offering him a fond yet smirking look.
"Having said that," Joseph remarked, "she is a little... wild, but I could never say menace."
"You see?" Christopher interjected, "from my son."
"Oh and of course we must take his opinion into account," Kim sneered, "offence unintended, naturally."
"Why are we still talking about her?"
"Point well made, Joseph. What did you want to say, Dad?"
"What makes you think there is anything to say, Christopher?" Frank queried.
"Well, we're all gathered here..."
"James is missing," Frank pointed out.
"Oh is he? I hadn't noticed," Christopher mocked, looking around, "seeing as it makes no difference to the conversation when he is here."
"Christopher."
"Spare me the looks of disdain, Dad. I'm an adult."
"You're behaving like a five year old," Kim told him, "now, lets stop all this and have tea in peace."
"The witch speaks," Christopher murmured.
Kim returned this with a dark look, but kept her manner refined.
"I do not wish to discuss business without James here," Frank announced.
"Seeing as he is the only heir you care to include."
"I do believe you are jealous of your brother, Christopher," Kim poured tea diligently.
"Am I?" Christopher replied, "what on earth gave you that idea?"
Kim was about to reply when Zoya, known as Zoe, strolled into the room.
"Miss Tate," Foster extended a greeting to her. She smiled and handed him her coat, revealing her shirt and trousers combination with a riding jacket.
"Oh, you might have dressed," Frank shook his head, "what on earth would the Sinclairs say?"
"Why? Are we expecting them?" Zoe queried smartly.
"You know exactly what I mean, Zoya."
"Zoe," Zoe corrected, "sounds far more modern than Zoya. Besides which, this is the height of fashion."
She gestured to her ensemble.
"Foster approves, don't you?" she turned to him.
"Well... I... I don't think it my place to comment."
"Nonsense!" Zoe exclaimed, "you have an opinion, Foster and I shall hear it."
"Well, I think it a smart ensemble," Foster answered.
"You see, Dad, Foster approves." Zoe found herself a seat and joined the throng.
"Hmm. Well, Foster, that will be all," Frank directed.
"Yes, my Lord."
Zoe immediately helped herself to tea.
"You all look most pensive. Something wrong?"
"We were in discussion over the matter of your sister and her place in the household."
"My sister? Oh Dad, how long are you going to keep up this facade?" Zoe sighed.
"Not in front of the servants," Frank warned.
"Oh Dad!" Zoe groaned, dragging her hand across her face, "it's 1927, not 1807! No one cares about a child being born out of wedlock!"
"Ssh! Keep your voice down!"
Kim watched on with amusement. Zoya was so predictable. To see her standing in her androgynous ensemble, debating her right to tell the truth in front of company; she admired her for her dedication.
"Why?"
"Because she could be listening," Frank hissed, "imagine the confusion it will cause her, an innocent child."
"Dad's right, Zig, we don't want to scar her even more than she has to be," Christopher added in support as his son chuckled.
"Sometimes I find it difficult to differentiate between you and him," Zoe accused Christopher and Joseph.
"Zoe, Dad does have a point. We don't need to tell the whole village. Especially not with this party coming up, all those eligible bachelors..." He sucked in his breath, "just imagine!"
Zoe gave him a rueful look.
"Will you ever grow up?"
"Hmm..." Christopher contemplated, "no, I have Joseph here to live vicariously through me."
He patted his son's back heartily.
"Perhaps you could clear this away, Foster and check on luncheon?" Frank suggested, looking agitated.
"As you ask, Sir." Foster swept the tray from the coffee table and withdrew from the room.
"Zoya, I hope I don't have to remind you of the family position."
"Legs in the air," Christopher offered.
"Ha ha," Zoe scoffed, "exactly when do you plan to tell my daughter who her mother is?"
"You gave her to our care," Kim retorted, holding Frank's hand, "we agreed it was best... given your... circumstances."
"Oh, I see. The family coup," Zoe frowned, "and what if I decide to tell her myself?"
"I thought you were more sensible than that." Her father sighed sympathetically.
"Dad adores her, Zoe," Christopher announced, "she's his own darling little cherub, or so Miss Ladderbanks and Miss Eagleton told us."
"She's mine," Zoe stated defiantly.
"Your father has done everything to prevent a scandal," Kim spoke up, "and this is how you repay his generosity, his kindness? Zoya, you forget yourself."
"No, this family forgets itself." Zoya marched toward the door, "Jean is my daughter and always will be. As if you could ever claim to be a mother," she directed her insult at Kim.
"Zoya!" Frank called after her, but Kim tugged his sleeve.
"Leave her, Frank," Kim told him, kissing his cheek. "Perhaps you could occupy yourselves elsewhere. You know how the doctor feels about your father in tense situations."
"Perhaps you could take care of him," Christopher suggested, a wicked glint in his eyes, "come on, Joseph. A game of billiards is in order."
Joseph followed his father from the room, leaving Kim alone with Frank.
"Another chapter," he advised Kim, who fetched his notepad and pen. "Thank you."
"Don't you worry, Zoya will soon see sense. She has such a fiery spirit."
"I know," Frank acknowledged.
"I shall speak to her," Kim insisted, kissing his head, dragging herself away to the door.
However, her intentions were centred elsewhere. She followed the hallway along to a cupboard, noticing Foster collecting things from it and approached him.
"Bravo on your appraisal," she grinned, as he turned to face her.
"I don't think this is wise, do you, milady?"
"Oh, drop the formality, Foster. My husband has lost all interest."
"Then he is a fool."
"I am glad we are agreed." She pushed him against the shelves, wrapping him in a passionate embrace, their kisses urgent and fiery.
"Milady..."
"Know your place, Foster." She ruffled his smoothed down hair. "You do as your Lady tells you to."
Unbeknownst to them both, a pair of intrigued eyes were watching from the gap in the stairway. She knew that Mama and Papa loved each other, but Mama seemed to love Foster too. But he was a servant?
She backed away as their passion intensified, closing her eyes and fleeing to her room.