tray to your nursery.”
“Of course Junior will eat with us,” Mrs. Wexler said. “Junior always eats with us. What a horrible idea, making him eat alone like a convict in his cell. No wonder the British grow up so cold and unfriendly.”
“I assure you we are not cold or unfriendly,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “I suppose the young man may join us if he wishes.”
“And stay up late, huh, Pa?” Junior asked.
“Sure, son, why not? How often do you get to sit up with quaint British people?”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley pressed her lips together and walked away. During dinner, however, it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink, thus raising Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s spirits considerably because it would keep down the costs and mean more wine for her. She waxed poetic about all the quaint and lovely English customs that awaited them. “We’ve been out searching the grounds for the perfect Yule log,” she said, “and when everybody is here, we’ll all decorate the Christmas tree. And there will be caroling door to door of course, and a hot mince pie and toddy at each house, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Sounds boring to me,” Junior said. His sister nodded agreement.
Lady Hawse-Gorzley went on, “Ah, but Lady Georgiana has some splendid things planned for the young folk. Party games and indoor fireworks and of course the costume ball. Then, after Christmas, all the traditional village events: the hunt, the Lovey Chase and of course the Worsting of the Hag on New Year’s Eve.”
“What’s that?” Junior demanded, interested now in spite of himself.
“It’s all to do with the Lovey Curse,” Bunty said dramatically. “We had a witch in the village who was burned alive at the stake. And she swore she’d come back every Christmastime to get revenge. So every year on New Year’s Eve the villagers go from house to house with drums and pots and pans, making a lot of noise to scare out the hag and ensure a safe year ahead with no bad luck.”
“There’s no such thing as curses and witches, is there, Pa?” Junior said uncertainly.
“Maybe not in America,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There certainly are in England. We are a very old country, you know. This house was built one hundred years before Columbus even discovered your country.”
After dinner Mr. Wexler declined to stay with Sir Oswald for port and cigars and insisted on accompanying the ladies into the drawing room, where it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink coffee at night. “But if you have any malted milk instead . . . ?” Mrs. Wexler said.
“Malted milk?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked baffled. “I suppose Cook could have cocoa sent up to your rooms when you are ready for bed.”
“That would be any time now, wouldn’t it, Mother,” Mr. Wexler said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s our motto. What time is breakfast? We’re always ready for it about seven.”
“Since you didn’t bring a maid, Lady Georgiana has graciously agreed to lend you hers if you need help,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
I thought of the jersey dress, had temporary misgivings, then asked, “Would you like my maid to help you undress?”
They found that most amusing. “Help me undress?” Mrs. Wexler dug her husband in the ribs. “She thinks I’m too feeble to undress myself, Clyde.” She patted my arm. “Honey, at home women are raised to do everything for themselves. We don’t believe in having servants. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Heaven help us,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied when the Wexlers had gone, leaving us alone with our coffee. “I didn’t think guests could be so—”
“Difficult?” Bunty suggested.
“I was going to say ‘different,’” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I have to agree with your choice.”
“Tell them that’s how we do things in upper-class British households and that was why they came here—to see how the other half lives,” Bunty said firmly.
“I did try.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sighed.
“Of course Junior will eat with us,” Mrs. Wexler said. “Junior always eats with us. What a horrible idea, making him eat alone like a convict in his cell. No wonder the British grow up so cold and unfriendly.”
“I assure you we are not cold or unfriendly,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “I suppose the young man may join us if he wishes.”
“And stay up late, huh, Pa?” Junior asked.
“Sure, son, why not? How often do you get to sit up with quaint British people?”
Lady Hawse-Gorzley pressed her lips together and walked away. During dinner, however, it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink, thus raising Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s spirits considerably because it would keep down the costs and mean more wine for her. She waxed poetic about all the quaint and lovely English customs that awaited them. “We’ve been out searching the grounds for the perfect Yule log,” she said, “and when everybody is here, we’ll all decorate the Christmas tree. And there will be caroling door to door of course, and a hot mince pie and toddy at each house, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Sounds boring to me,” Junior said. His sister nodded agreement.
Lady Hawse-Gorzley went on, “Ah, but Lady Georgiana has some splendid things planned for the young folk. Party games and indoor fireworks and of course the costume ball. Then, after Christmas, all the traditional village events: the hunt, the Lovey Chase and of course the Worsting of the Hag on New Year’s Eve.”
“What’s that?” Junior demanded, interested now in spite of himself.
“It’s all to do with the Lovey Curse,” Bunty said dramatically. “We had a witch in the village who was burned alive at the stake. And she swore she’d come back every Christmastime to get revenge. So every year on New Year’s Eve the villagers go from house to house with drums and pots and pans, making a lot of noise to scare out the hag and ensure a safe year ahead with no bad luck.”
“There’s no such thing as curses and witches, is there, Pa?” Junior said uncertainly.
“Maybe not in America,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “There certainly are in England. We are a very old country, you know. This house was built one hundred years before Columbus even discovered your country.”
After dinner Mr. Wexler declined to stay with Sir Oswald for port and cigars and insisted on accompanying the ladies into the drawing room, where it transpired that the Wexlers did not drink coffee at night. “But if you have any malted milk instead . . . ?” Mrs. Wexler said.
“Malted milk?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked baffled. “I suppose Cook could have cocoa sent up to your rooms when you are ready for bed.”
“That would be any time now, wouldn’t it, Mother,” Mr. Wexler said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s our motto. What time is breakfast? We’re always ready for it about seven.”
“Since you didn’t bring a maid, Lady Georgiana has graciously agreed to lend you hers if you need help,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
I thought of the jersey dress, had temporary misgivings, then asked, “Would you like my maid to help you undress?”
They found that most amusing. “Help me undress?” Mrs. Wexler dug her husband in the ribs. “She thinks I’m too feeble to undress myself, Clyde.” She patted my arm. “Honey, at home women are raised to do everything for themselves. We don’t believe in having servants. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Heaven help us,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley replied when the Wexlers had gone, leaving us alone with our coffee. “I didn’t think guests could be so—”
“Difficult?” Bunty suggested.
“I was going to say ‘different,’” her mother said, “but I’m afraid I have to agree with your choice.”
“Tell them that’s how we do things in upper-class British households and that was why they came here—to see how the other half lives,” Bunty said firmly.
“I did try.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley sighed.
Similar Books
