Home for Christmas by Lizzie Lane Page B

the nursemaid, the governess and the children used to live. Children should be seen and not heard, that’s what they used to say.’
    Agnes stopped dead before one of the doors leading off the passageway.
    ‘This is the old nursery,’ Agnes whispered, her eyes bright with conspiracy. ‘I shall go in first. Count to ten, then follow me in.’
    The door slammed in Lydia’s face before she could say another word. She sucked in her lips, wondering whether to run away in case it was all a joke.
    She decided that it probably was a joke. If she was so bold as to try the handle, the door would prove locked and everyone inside the room would laugh at her. Perhaps they would keep her waiting here and, in an hour or so, somebody would pop their head out, shout boo and hoot with laughter.
    ‘I really could be doing more interesting things,’ she said to herself.
    She turned to go, and then paused. Count to ten, then open the door.
    Believing she had counted to ten, she clasped the ivory doorknob. It turned. The door opened.
    ‘Happy birthday to you … Happy birthday to you …’
    Balloons and paper chains fluttered from the ceiling and a hand-painted banner wished her a happy birthday. Better than that, the table in the middle of the room groaned with food, pride of place going to an iced cake.
    ‘Can we eat now? I don’t mind telling you that I’m damned famished. That I am!’
    The speaker was a young man with the most extraordinary mop of snowy blonde curls. He looked her up and down, muttered something that sounded like ‘very nice’, and then turned his attention to the food and wine.
    It was down to the third person in the room to chastise him.
    ‘Siggy. Be a gentleman and introduce yourself first.’
    ‘Sorry,’ said the snowy-haired young man and offered his hand. ‘Lydia Miller, isn’t it? It’s an honour to meet you. I understand your father is administering to dear old Uncle Avis’s needs. Quite a doctor so I’m led to believe. Now please, allow me to feed my face and I in turn will pour you a glass of wine. Agreed?’
    He didn’t wait for her agreement, but went ahead, filling his plate before pouring wine into two glasses – his and hers – leaving out the other people in the room.
    ‘My cousin, who is in a perpetual state of starvation and therefore omitted to mention his name, is Sylvester Travis Dartmouth, otherwise known as Siggy.’
    The voice was notable, as in unforgettable and easily brought to mind even when that person was no longer present. She found herself looking up into the most striking pair of blue eyes she had ever seen. The young man was a little taller and a little older than she was. His hair was warm blond and his features firmer and more regular than those of his cousin.
    The young man introduced himself as Robert Ravening. ‘Cousin to Sylvester there,’ he added. The smile he exchanged with her was conspiratorial as if their opinion of his cousin agreed.
    Siggy, otherwise known as Sylvester, handed her a glass of wine.
    ‘Happy birthday, old girl. Would you like to cut the cake now? I’m very fond of birthday cake.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Lydia feeling both amazed at the feast and ashamed she’d doubted Agnes.
    The young man with the honeyed voice, Robert Ravening, shook his head. ‘Sylvester, you’re a pig.’
    Agnes handed Lydia the cake knife. Sylvester grabbed the first piece she cut. Robert intercepted it and passed it to Lydia. ‘Ladies first, Siggy. Ladies first.’
    ‘Sorry. Forgetting my manners,’ said Sylvester who was now eyeing Lydia with far more attention than before.
    Robert passed the second slice to Agnes, his fingers accidentally brushing hers. To Lydia’s surprise, Agnes blushed. It is apparent, she thought to herself, that the intriguing Agnes likes Robert very much.
    Between mouthfuls of food, Robert explained that Agnes had done them proud. ‘And we did our best to help things along – at very short notice might I add. I for one