Home for Christmas by Lizzie Lane Page A

and hats. Lydia was dealing with underwear, opening drawers and wondering at the amount of storage she had – certainly too much for the amount of clothes she’d brought with her.
    ‘Lunch is from twelve-thirty to …’ Agnes stopped. ‘Ah! But you won’t be wanting lunch. You’re invited to a birthday party.’
    ‘That’s very nice,’ said Lydia as she unbuttoned her boots, then stopped when she saw Agnes’s pixie-like grin. The penny dropped.
    ‘You haven’t!’
    Agnes’s grin grew wider. ‘I have. I’ve organised a birthday party – for you, of course.’
    ‘All this food!’ Lydia exclaimed, both hands now resting on her stomach as though she’d already eaten the promised feast.
    ‘You can walk it off. We can go down to the lake. I promise you, you’ll love it. And it will do you good. In fact, it will do us all good. Just think of how lovely it will be to return to a warm house with the air smelling of mince pies,’ Agnes said brightly.
    Lydia thought there was little chance of bumping into anyone at breakfast the next day, spread out as it was over two hours.
    A little old lady, wearing a lace cap over silver hair, was huddled at one end of the table scrutinising what looked like a copy of
The Times
. She nodded silently in response to Lydia’s good morning.
    Her father came down for breakfast after first visiting Sir Avis to check how he was bearing up. He did not wish her a happy birthday; he never had in the past so it came as no surprise that he did not do so now.
    ‘So what are your plans?’ he asked after helping himself from the array of dishes set out on the sideboard.
    He seemed in an extremely good mood, his cheeks quite pink and his manner cheerful as he attacked a plate of kidneys, bacon, sausage and mushrooms.
    ‘I understand I’m having a birthday party,’ she told him, her eyes bright with glee.
    He looked slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly. ‘Please note that I will not be attending.’
    ‘I’m not sure you’re invited. The young people are arranging it,’ she added with a smile.
    Her father raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Are you insinuating that I am no longer one of these young people?’
    ‘Yes, I am.’ She kept smiling, eyeing him sidelong to see how long he could hold out before his face broke into a smile.
    At last, it happened; his face cracked with amusement.
    She excused herself before rising from her chair.
    ‘Take my advice and don’t eat too much cake,’ he said to her.
    ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go for a walk afterwards.’
    After she’d gone, he sat looking over the rim of his coffee cup to the French doors on the other side of the room without actually looking through them. Old memories had surfaced when Lydia smiled at him, her head held to one side, eyes shining. Dimples appeared when she smiled. She looked so like her mother, the same laugh, the same lively manner. He missed her mother and hated Christmas Eve.
    Lydia retired to the conservatory with a good book. Conversations were all very well, she thought to herself, but there are times when I like being alone.
    She was roused from her book at around midday.
    Agnes came dashing in, her white apron flapping and her cap perched at a jaunty angle.
    ‘Happy birthday, Lydia. Are you ready?’
    Pleased to see her friend, Lydia responded that she was hardly dressed for going to a party.
    ‘There’s no time for you to change. Everything is ready. Robert and Sylvester are already here, and if we don’t get there right away, your cake will be gone. Come on.’
    Lydia followed her out of the conservatory, through a long passage up a flight of stairs, another passage and then another flight of stairs. Portraits and landscapes hung from every wall, gaslights flickered and thick carpet muffled their hurrying footsteps.
    Lydia reckoned she was on the third floor of the building.
    ‘Are there no guests in these rooms?’ Lydia asked.
    ‘Not bloody likely,’ said Agnes. ‘This is where