and serve it with mash for us the next day. That might be all of the goose we see.’
‘What are croquettes?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ Clodagh admitted. ‘But we will find out. For both of us it will be a voyage of discovery.’
The following day, Evie enthused about the beautiful Christmas tree Clive had decorated in the hall.
‘Oh, I wish we could see it, too,’ Lucy said; and Clara, who had been to see the Mistress about meals planned for the day, said, ‘You can, Lucy. All of you can have a peep, but you must wait until the gong goes for the family’s breakfast.’
Never had the time passed more slowly, but eventually the clock ticked round to nine o’clock and Mr Carlisle sounded the gong.
The servants waited a moment or two until Mr Carlisle judged that Lady Heatherington, Master Clive and the General, carried down by Rory, had cleared the main stairs, because he said the tree was not far from the foot of it. When Lucy eventually saw it she gave a gasp of surprise because never in her life could she remember seeing anything so wonderful.
It was set in a smallish pot of earth and nearly reached the ceiling. Its branches were filled with glass animals and big balls that sparkled and spun in the flickering lights, sending a kaleidoscope of colours dancing on the wall behind it. These were interspersed here and there with gold and silver ribbons tied in bows, striped candy canes, small gingerbread men, white sugar mice and sugar plums. But at the top of the tree was the best thing of all: the star, which had a shimmering radiance all of its own.
‘You approve of my decorations then?’ said a young man who, descending the stairs, had been brought to a halt by the rapt expression on Lucy’s face.
Lucy turned and saw the handsomest man she had ever seen smiling down at her. Shafts of winter sun were spilling out of the window on the half-landing so that he looked as if there was a halo surrounding his blond hair, and when her eyes met his she saw that they were the most startling blue.
Clive descended another few stairs and saw that the girl was just a child. She was dressed as a scullery maid yet surely she wasn’t of an age to work. She looked about ten.
She still hadn’t spoken. Then Carlisle said, ‘We are all astounded, Master Clive. You have done a truly splendid job.’
‘Thank you, Mr Carlisle,’ Clive said. ‘High praise indeed.’
He smiled and it was as if someone had turned the light on behind his eyes, and Lucy felt it almost like a blow to the stomach. Clive’s smile, though, was for them all.
‘Now I must away for my breakfast,’ he said. ‘I will catch it from Mother as it is for being late,’ and with a wave of his hand he was off to the dining room, wondering why he had been so affected by an undersized scullery maid.
In fact, so affected was he that after he had greeted both his parents and apologised for his tardiness, he said to his mother, ‘I didn’t realise that we were employing children now.’
Amelia frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean, Clive?’
‘The servants were out admiring the Christmas tree as I came down the stairs and one of the girls there can be no more than ten.’
‘Oh, that’s Lucy Cassidy,’ Amelia said. ‘She is small, I grant you, but she is fourteen.’
‘Never.’
‘She is, I assure you,’ Amelia said. ‘She brought along her birth and baptismal certificates, and we also had the word of Mrs O’Leary, who grew up with her mother and has known Cassidy since she was born.’
‘Must be right then,’ Clive said. ‘But it is unbelievable.’
‘Why are you so interested?’ Charles asked.
‘I’m not really,’ Clive said. ‘It’s just that she looks like someone dressing up, as if for a fancy-dress party or something.’
‘I’d say she does more than look the part if she is under Mrs Murphy’s direction.’
Clive chuckled. ‘I’d say so, too.’
‘Well then, I suggest we stop worrying about maids, small or large, and attack the breakfast,’ the General said.
Clive gave a brief nod. He knew as far as his father was concerned the matter was closed.
In the early afternoon on Christmas Eve, the servants all heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel path as the visitors arrived. Clara, Mr Carlisle and Jerry were summoned to stand beside Lady Heatherington, Clive and Lord Heatherington, to greet them in the hall.
‘What are they like?’ Cook asked Mr Carlisle when he returned to the kitchen.
He shrugged. ‘Just ordinary.’
‘How like a man,’ she said disparagingly. ‘I just hope they’re not a picky lot, that’s all.’
‘Nobody could be picky over any of the food you cook,’ Mr Carlisle said loyally. ‘They are much more likely to be impressed, I should think.’
Mr Carlisle was right. He and Jerry heard the enthusiastic comments as those around the table were served first the pea and ham soup, then the roast beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings and vegetables. The butler told the kitchen staff as he returned the dirty plates. Cook was pleased and relieved, and loaded up their trays with a feather-light lemon sponge, which was to be served with cream, and would be followed by a variety of cheeses, biscuits and coffee.
Lucy and Clodagh exchanged glances as the delicacies were carried out of the kitchen. Neither of them had been able to eat or drink anything as they would be going to midnight Mass, where they would take Communion, and Lucy’s stomach was protesting audibly.
Her hunger was forgotten, however, when just an hour or so after the coffee had been served, and with everything done, Clive popped into the kitchen. Clodagh, Lucy and Evie sprang to their feet, and he lifted his hand. ‘Sit where you are,’ he said. Then, addressing Cook, he went on, ‘I’ve just come to tell you what a marvel the Mattersons and Farandykes thought your food was, Ada. And you should have heard me singing your phrases as well.’
‘Well, thank you, Master Clive.’
‘Oh, praise where praise is due,’ Clive said. ‘And I am also here to stir the pudding for tomorrow. Did you think I had forgotten?’ As he turned to the watching girls he saw the undersized scullery maid again – Lucy Cassidy, that’s what his mother said she was called – and he smiled at her as he said, ‘I always have a stir of the pudding at Christmas and I make a wish, don’t I, Ada?’
‘Yes, Master Clive,’ Cook said, as she fetched the bowl. ‘But I didn’t know whether you would bother this year, with you being seventeen years old and all.’
‘Oh, yes, Christmas is all about tradition, isn’t it?’ Clive said. ‘I bet the girls have had a go.’
His radiant smile flashed over them all and they all nodded and then he leant forward and said, ‘And what did you wish for, little Lucy Cassidy?’
Clara’s eyebrows rose and her eyes met those of Cook, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug as if to say that Clive was a law unto himself.
Lucy blushed to the roots of her hair being addressed in such a manner by the son of the house. Since her interview with Lady Heatherington the day she had begun work she had never seen her again, nor even caught sight of the Master, but Clara had instructed her how to address any of the Family she might meet, and also warned her that none of the Family would address her in any way but by her surname. And now here was Master Clive using both her Christian name and her surname, and in quite a teasing manner.
However, since she thought the rudest thing in the world was not to answer a person who asked a question, she said, ‘I am unable to tell you what I wished for, Master Clive, because it might not come true then.’
‘Just