It looks like Chrissy’s allegiance is to the dukedom or maybe the castle, but not the duke. Excluding the current duke, because the sun shines out of his ass, apparently.
“When was its heyday?” I ask, glancing at the suits of armour flanking the arch we’re walking towards. This place may be centuries older than the cottage I slept in last night, but it’s in much better shape. Wood gleams, and the lights sparkle overhead, the scent of beeswax polish and ancient stone permeating the place. It’s hard to put into words, but the place smells alive, not dead, no matter when its prime was.
“Probably sometime back when those over there had actual bodies in them,” she says, following my gaze to the shiny suits.
Yikes! “Back when boiling oil was a visitor’s deterrent?”
Chrissy just laughs, then points out an iron railing to the right of the wall. “You can see the dungeons down there.”
I make my way over the small square of railings that stand a little lower than chest height. Leaning over, I release a long breath as I stare down at the square cut into the stone floor. Covered with glass, I see nothing but my own reflection, not that this is enough to stop the hairs on the nape of my neck from lifting.
“That just blows my mind.” I can’t even imagine living in a place, eating, drinking sleeping, knowing that downstairs, humans once faced horrors beyond my imagination. Imprisonment. Fear. Torture. Speaking of torture; “Chrissy, did you hear the screeching last night? It sounded like a woman was being murdered. I mean, I know that wasn’t really what was happening, unless someone was committing a massacre.” Because the noise went on and on.
“Peacocks,” she mutters, as though this were a curse word.
“Oh.” Enough said. Chrissy is not a fan of the peacocks.
“Come along, then,” she says, her expression changing from murderous to content in the blink of an eye.
I dutifully (and eagerly) follow Chrissy out of the space, thankful to get away from the topic of peacocks as well as the sad souls dancing on my grave. As the saying goes.
As we continue on out whistle-stop tour, she points out rooms included in the visitor ticket pass. Though we don’t pause long enough for my satisfaction, I’m sure there will be other opportunities. We tread the worn carpets of the long gallery, which looks exactly as it sounds to be. The lengthy room is filled with portraits of the castle’s previous inhabitants, depicting faces and fashions from eras long passed. There’s a huge room, the stateroom, which features a fireplace I could almost stand up in and carved with the family crest, the walls concealed by faded tapestries depicting battles and hunting scenes. Nothing says relax and put up your feet like the portrayal of death and destruction. Next comes a huge dining room set for a formal dinner for thirty, then a lady’s parlour, her embroidery still lying on the arm of a chair as though she had only just stepped out of the room. Quickly following comes an opulent salon, then a pretty sitting room. The rooms seem to go on and on.
“The place is huge.”
“That it is. And there have been some grand parties held here over the years.” She sounds wistful as she stares almost unseeingly at another grand fireplace, this one big enough to roast an ox. “Important families and foreign dignitaries. Even the Queen.”
“Wow! The Queen? Was her visit recent?”
“No, it was some years back. Back when Prince Charles wore short trousers. My mother worked here back then. Her granny was in service here before her. Oh, the tales she had to tell. In those days, over a hundred servants were holding this place together.”
“How many work here now?”
“Fifteen.”
I stop in my tracks. A house this size, not to mention the land, running on a staff of fifteen? I hurry after Chrissy as she turns a corner, then reaches out to push against what looks like a wall. It’s actually a door. A door that leads to a passageway with a serviceable green carpet and plain painted white walls. “We call this the backstairs.”
“For the servants?”
She nods in agreement.
“Not to be seen or heard, so they just arrive in the room like magicians?” She frowns, and as I don’t want to annoy or offend, I return to the previous topic. “How does a house this size survive with fifteen staff? I mean, how does all the work get done?”
“Not by magic,” she replies pointedly. “Most of the traditional service roles were done away with by technology. Indoor plumbing made chambermaids obsolete, and electricity and central heating did away with the housemaids. Modern kitchen appliances meant kitchen and scullery maids were no longer necessary. We have a maintenance team of four. You’ll probably see them around the place. Then Cameron heads up the grounds staff. I’m in charge of keeping the house shipshape, including the rooms and exhibits. Mari helps me out, as does wee Sophie, and Mari works in the education centre, too.” Just great. Mari who wants my cottage and job. “The pair also help keep the private residence in order. Then there are the lot who runs the souvenir shop and the café.”
“So, gone are the days of butlers, valets, and ladies’ maids.” Yeah, so, I might have read a regency romance book a time or two. Maybe more. I’ll never tell. And neither will Nana’s racy reading selections, even if I had begun appropriating her Mills & Boon bodice rippers from the age of twelve.
“Oh, we still have a butler. Mr McCain. A proper stickler he is, for all he’s only a young man. He travels with himself, that is, the duke, along with the chef, and of course, the duke’s personal assistant. He also usually arrives with a few friends,” she adds with a tired-looking smile.
“Just three of you take care of cleaning this whole place?” I ask, thinking of the massive staircase and the vacuuming, dusting, and polishing that must need. How can anyone afford to heat a place like this, let alone keep it clean? Which might answer a few questions about why my cottage was so cold last night, not to mention why the hot water was rationed.
“It’s no’ so bad. We all do our bit, and we also have a cleaning company contracted to keep on top of things.”
We make our way along the very plain hallway, then down a much less fancy set of stairs than the ones we walked up earlier.
“And here we have the kitchen,” she says, pushing on a modern fire door. “I thought we’d have a cuppa while we wait for Lady Isla to arrive.”
“Sounds good.” I hope they have coffee. Tea is okay for warming your hands, but nothing says bing! like coffee.
The kitchen is something else. One entire wall is taken up with an antique yet pristine oven range. Four double-doored ovens gleam black, and countless copper pots hang from the wall behind, polished to the kind of sheen you can see your face in. The rest of the kitchen is equally as striking but much more serviceable. Burr walnut cabinetry and marble countertops, a commercial range with all the gadgets. A scrubbed pine table, easily twelve feet long, sits under three high fan-shaped windows with an assortment of mismatched chairs gathered around it. Other than the range, the only modern appliance in view is a commercial-sized refrigerator at the far side of the room.
“Is this a working kitchen?” I watch as Chrissy pulls open a kitchen cabinet to reveal an electric kettle, teapot, and other tea trappings.