on him, then,” Edward said, face placid. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
“To tell you the truth…”
“And Lord and Lady Ambridge are in the Heather Room, of course,” Rose continued. “Mr. Roth had them come tonight so they could join us for breakfast, then go bird spotting.” Rose was putting lids on the last of the storage dishes and wrapping mince pies in foil.
Why didn’t I come out and say that we broke up? I hated lying. Lying just meant extra work. Now I was going to have to keep it going, operating in a state of paranoia and exhaustion.
I poured myself a second glass of sherry, and filled it so full I had to slurp some over the rim to keep from spilling it. I needed it badly. Edward raised an eyebrow and smiled.
“Actually, the truth is, Ben and I…” I started, but my voice was so soft, Rose didn’t hear me.
“The Ambridges arrived around the same time as the Deardens for cocktails and dessert, and I must say Edward outdid himself,” Rose nattered on. “Lady Helena made a noise about watching her waistline, but she ended up having two plates. The chocolate cake was an idea off of that Conley-Weatherall show…you know the one, Piers’s Family Table, I believe it’s called.”
“The ‘Who’s your daddy?’ bloke, she means,” said Terrence. “I like him. You can just tell he drinks while he cooks.”
“He’s my hero,” I said. “I couldn’t get his show in France, and I know it’s weird to say, but I missed him.”
“You feel like you know him, that Piers. He’s been married to his wife for over 25 years,” Rose said. “But Edward did some of his own recipes, as well. He offered an assortment of gorgeous treats, including that rich chocolate gateau and a fruit platter.”
“Did you cut the strawberries properly, according to Our Master, Jasper Roth?” I asked.
“Never tip to stern!” Edward laughed. “You’ll get a spanking for that round here,” he said, and winked at me. My insides turned to warm jelly. Is he flirting? C’mon Juliet, I said to myself. Stop looking for signs. You’re the one who put the brakes on. Since then, he’s been the model of propriety and professionalism.
The first time I worked at The Hall, Mr. Roth had stood over me, lecturing, as I scraped an Eton Mess for twelve into the trash because “the berries were vertical.” I bit my tongue till it bled, all the while thinking that he could pretend he came from an English boarding-school background to the others, but I had his number. It took one to know one, and I was American. I saw how hard he worked to fit in and hide his nouveau manners. He didn’t know any more about Eton messes than I did.
Roth was jealous of the real English, especially those who’d inherited peerages. The Earl of Gloucester, Lord of Thornton Hall, and his best mate the Baron of Hinckley, who owned the neighboring estate, had something Roth couldn’t compete with. Try as he might, Jasper Roth would never be listed among the titled in Debretts. He could buy land and houses in the old country, but he couldn’t buy status. It baffled me that he wanted to. He was practically Donald Trump. As a “celebanker”, he was always on camera or in print. It made no sense to me that he was chasing down acceptance in some caste-driven society whose rules didn’t come naturally to people like Roth and me.
The Earl was an artist in addition to being a British blue blood. Below stairs, we usually called him The Painter. Somehow, that vocation rang more true to us than his having been born titled. Hanging on the walls of this grand house, along with the countless gloomy, dark, heavy oil paintings of his ancestors, were vibrant, fresh, and sometimes shocking modern works by the Earl himself. The art world knew him as Hugh de Audley, Hughie to the insiders.
Born into the peerage, he could certainly have lived a gentleman’s life but he worked hard instead. In his youth, he studied in Paris, the States, and extensively in Spain. He’d apprenticed himself to some famous Modernists and developed a smart style of his own, influenced by a mix of the Spanish masters Picasso, Dali, Joaquin Sorolla, while still drawing heavily from painterly English artists like Millais and Turner. I was no expert, but I knew Hugh de Audley was the real thing.
The Painter is one of Britain’s most beloved and celebrated modern artists. And, in the social media age, it doesn’t hurt that he’s a one-hundred percent, grown-up English lad, with a fairly fit and youthful body, big wooly sweaters, and a full head of wavy and still golden hair – even in his late sixties – flopping appealingly over one ultra-blue eye.
Aside from some health issues and some noticeable thickening around the middle – inevitable with age – he lead a robust life. I liked him a lot. He treated me well and wasn’t above coming into the kitchen on his own to prepare a cup of tea (which we, of course, never allowed, though the pretense was kind).
“You know,” Terrence said to me, refilling his glass of wine dangerously close to the top, “you really missed it. I was asked to bring champagne to the drawing room the night Roth ‘surprised’ The Painter by announcing he’d host Christmas and handle all of the guest lists ‘as his Christmas gift’ to him and the Countess. His Christmas gift!
“He’s lucky he’s still allowed round here, given what the rags are all saying about the state of his marriage.” Terrence took a deep draught of his drink. “Anyhow, his Lordship leaned over as I was pouring and said, ‘He may not have noticed, but I’m not dead, yet’ just a hair too loudly. He then thanked his son-in-law for his ‘imaginative generosity in gift innovation’ and pointedly asked me if I had the time, as his Patek Philippe watch seemed to be broken and would need replacing. I nearly wet myself on the Chinese rug.”
“If anyone can put Jasper Roth in his place, it’s The Painter,” I said.
“I’d say you do a fair job of it, yourself,” Edward remarked, twirling his wine glass by the stem.
“No, no!” I blurted, blushing faintly. “Not like The Earl.”
The Painter got Roth’s goat. He’d make a big show of standing at the head of the table until his son-in-law was compelled to stand and hold the old man’s chair for him, underscoring his rightful place at the seat of honor. Despite Roth’s bales of money, his father-in-law’s status always trumped him in this Medieval-rules country. On one of my last engagements at The Hall, the Earl had delighted in winding Roth up by refusing a priceless bottle of Petrus in favor of a Californian Chardonnay, even though the main course was Porterhouse steak.
“I don’t know who’d be happier to see His Lordship gone to the grave – Roth or Chizz.”
“That’s rough, Terrence. Old Chisholm’s just trying to do his job and stay out of trouble, like the rest of us,” Edward said.
“Well, he’d be much happier doing it in a manor house than a London townhouse.”
“Juliet, take a look at the guest roster,” Rose said, opening a folder of papers on the table.
“Oooh, let me see,” said Terrence. “If that 20-year-old Earl of Glastonbury’s coming, his room assignment is ‘Meadow Cottage, my bed.’”
“You’d better watch your step with that,” I cautioned. “He’s not even gay.”
“He will be after one night with me,” Terrence retorted, thrusting his pelvis forward. “Let’s see, Dr. Dearden…aged
