Kisses To Go. Irene Peterson
“This is the portrait gallery. It is called a gallery because it overhangs the main hall. In the old days, the earls had musicians play for their guests from here. This is also where the portraits of all the earls of Bowness hang, along with those of their wives, some of their children, and some other people I don’t really care to remember.”
With a gesture, she ushered Abby into the long, dark hall. On one wall hung grim-faced portraits of the earls of Bowness.
All my family portraits are in a big box in the cellar at home. Abby smiled at the thought, then scolded herself. Peasant!
The other wall rose only four feet from the floor, capped by thick, polished wood, dark with age. Abby walked toward this half wall and peered over.
Below ranged the main hall of the manor. Hung with banners and pennons and heavy old tapestries, it boasted a long, rough table flanked by wide wooden chairs. Abby let out a whistle of admiration.
“Twenty…no, twenty-two on each side!” she marveled.
Before each chair rested a place setting that gleamed in the afternoon sun courtesy of a bank of unseen windows. The chef in Abby mentally figured out a menu that would fit the grand arena. Joints of pork and beef, platters laden with fowl in full feather—maybe swans, perhaps a peacock or two.
Then she snapped back to reality.
Tish gave a girlish giggle. “Were you picturing knights gathered around the table?”
Abby felt the flush creep up her cheeks. She bowed her head briefly, then met Tish’s gaze. “Yes, I have to admit I was. Only I was dreaming up the menu for the meal, along with what wine to serve with it,” she confessed.
Tish smiled, warming Abby with her girlish glow. “That’s right. You’re a chef in America, aren’t you?”
Abby glanced at the line of portraits on the far wall. She didn’t want the specters to judge her harshly. She was, after all, a commoner who worked serving others. “I’m a chef, yes. That’s what I do for a living.”
The younger woman nodded. “In the old days, you’d have had to cook in terrible conditions here. We have two kitchens in Bowness Hall. One is a huge cavern set off from the main house originally, then joined to it as the house was modernized late in the nineteenth century by the twelfth earl, I think it was. Of course, at that time, a completely new kitchen was added on to the house. And that’s been made modern, or at least as modern as it could be in the late sixties.”
“It must be gigantic,” Abby mused.
Tish flashed her a grin. Abby liked the girl’s unabashed spunk and genuineness.
“Would you like to see the kitchens? I mean, being a chef and all, they might interest you.”
She hesitated, remembering the warning about being nosy. “Would that be all right?”
Tish paused, then shrugged her shoulders. “The whole pile is rather dull, actually. I only use a few of the rooms myself…and then there are the servant’s quarters, but there aren’t all that many what you might call servants nowadays. The earl likes…oh, dear…never mind…now, what was I saying?”
Abby caught the girl’s dithering but didn’t understand the cause. “You were talking about the kitchens. About the rooms you use.”
The girl smiled gently. “Oh, yes. This way.” Then, brightening, she led Abby down the long corridor, pointing out various earls, naming them and recounting an anecdote about each one. One served in Elizabeth I’s navy; one saved a crown prince’s life; another dueled with a German prince before one of those nameless European wars. Abby had difficulty keeping track and soon gave up.
They all had rather similar dour features—dark hair, eyes that seemed to follow as you walked by, some clean shaven, others with beards and mustaches, suitable to the style of the day, Abby assumed. Seeing ruffs around some of their necks, the change in clothing, going from colorful to somber to sedate to flamboyant, turned the tour into a walking history lesson.
All those portraits…did any of those former owners haunt these ancient halls?
“Do you have any ghosts?” Abby asked.
“Oh, no.” Letitia laughed it off. “Nothing of the sort. I don’t believe in spirits. I leave all that to my brother.”
Seeing the girl’s dismissive shrug, Abby dropped the subject, even though she’d read enough about England to know they loved their ghosts. Don’t let her think you’re just a crazy American.
When they reached the end of the gallery, Abby stopped by one rather large painting of more recent origin. The young man staring back at her from the canvas looked to be about sixteen. He had long dark hair, a long-sleeved shirt open at the neck and wore what looked like blue jeans, although since the figure was posed coming through the bottom half of a stable door, Abby couldn’t be sure. One hand rested on the long nose of a dun-colored horse. Although his lips seemed set in a rather implacable line, the artist had captured a light in the young man’s eyes that gave Abby the impression he was incredibly amused by the whole thing.
She found herself drawn to the young man by that light.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Tish stopped her chattering. She tossed her honey-colored hair, looked at Abby, then turned her head away as she answered. “That’s Ian. The current earl.”
Abby noticed the change in the young woman’s demeanor.
“He’s rather young, isn’t he? And good-looking,” she added, waiting for a response from Tish. Something didn’t add up here, only Abby couldn’t guess what. Something was a little wrong. Was the current earl away at school? Why was Tish suddenly reluctant to impart her vast knowledge of the Bowness history?
Tish appeared to consider her words, then said, “He’s a little older. That portrait was done several years ago.”
Abby looked at the young man in the portrait. Yes, he was handsome. He’d probably grown into killer good looks that would make a young girl blush through to her knickers. Maybe that was what had silenced her guide.
“Oh,” said Abby. “Do you have a crush on him, Tish?”
Tish looked at her directly, her eyebrows dipping with the momentary confusion showing in her eyes. Then she laughed, the tinkling music of it making Abby like the girl even more.
Finally, Tish regained her composure. “Oh, I guess I like him a little, Abby. I guess I should. But I couldn’t go so far as to say I fancied him. After all, he is my brother.”
Surprise washed over Abby followed by awkward paranoia.
She was talking to the sister of the earl of Bowness or, more appropriately, Lady Letitia.
And she’d been treating her just like anyone else, like a buddy. But how else was she supposed to handle this? Americans didn’t do titles.
A demure sparkle came to her guide’s eyes.
“Oh, dear. I’ve seen that look before. Abby, I’m just a regular person. We don’t much go in for titles around here. It’s no great thing, you realize.”
That was an eyebrow raiser if ever Abby heard one.
“No big deal, you mean?”
Tish shrugged. “I’ve been the daughter or sister of an earl all my life. Believe me, it doesn’t mean all that much. Maybe to Ian it does, but nobody around here treats me like anything special, I can tell you, and neither should you. I’m just regular old Tish to everyone. I haven’t heard anyone use my title since I was very, very young. I don’t like it.”
“What do you mean, you don’t like it? I should think you’d be proud of it, all the history, all the…” She stopped, because she really couldn’t understand what Tish had meant.
“It’s rubbish as