The fireplace at the far end of the kitchen was high to the ceiling and wide, made of local brick and stone and braced with old wood beams to match the ceiling. It had a great, raised hearth, an overhanging mantel shelf, and old-fashioned baking ovens set in the wall next to the actual fireplace. The ovens had not been used for years and years; long ago Diana had installed a wonderful Aga, that marvelous English cooking stove I would give my eyeteeth for. I agreed with her that this was the best stove in the world, and it also helped to keep the rather large kitchen warm the year round. It was welcome, since the kitchen with its thick old walls and stone floor was always cool even in the summer months.
A butler's pantry, which opened off the kitchen, had been updated and remodeled by Diana, so that it better served her and Parky. She had put in a double-sized refrigerator, two dishwashers, and countertops for food preparation; above the counters were lots of cabinets for storing china as well as all of those practical items that made the wheels of a kitchen turn.
A series of mullioned casement windows opened onto a view of the back lawns, the pond, and the ever-present moors reaching up to touch the edge of the sky. Opposite the window wall an antique Welsh dresser took pride of place, and this lovely old piece was filled to overflowing with willow-patterned china of blue and white. Nearby, in the center of the room, there was an old-fashioned country table with a deal top and stumpy legs, where Andrew and I now sat. A green Majolica jug filled to the brim with branches of bittersweet stood on the table, and I couldn't help thinking how perfect it looked.
Marching along the mantel shelf was a diverse collection of wood and brass candlesticks in the barley-twist style bearing white beeswax candles, and underneath the mantel were all kinds of horse brass that glittered and winked in the bright firelight. And everywhere there was the sparkle of copper in such things as jelly and fish molds and pots and pans all hanging from a rack on the ceiling, and in ladles, spoons, and measuring scoops on a side table.
I had always loved this kitchen, thought it one of the most welcoming I had ever seen; it was not only cheerful in its ambience but comfortable as well. As Diana said, it was the hub of the house, a room you could easily live in.
Diana was over by the Aga stove making a pot of tea; she carried this over to the table but suggested we let it stand for a few moments.
"Aye, that's right, Mrs. Andrew, don't pour it yet, it has to mash," Parky instructed.
"Yes, Parky," I said dutifully and smiled at Andrew. She had been telling me this for ten years.
Pervading the air in the kitchen was the tantalizing smell of bacon sizzling on top of the Aga and the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread just out of the oven. Parky had left the loaves and tea cakes to cool for a few minutes on one of the countertops, and the mere smell made me salivate.
Swinging around to face us, Parky said, "In case you haven't guessed, I'm going to make bacon butties. Your favorites, Mr. Andrew." She smiled at him fondly before turning back to her task of lifting the bacon out of the frying pan and onto a large platter. Parky had mothered him as a little boy, and he had been like a second child to her in some respects.
"What a treat, Parky," Andrew exclaimed, and added to me, "You've got to make them for me, Mal, when we're home at Indian Meadows."
Diana joined us at the table and poured the steaming hot tea into high blue-and-white cups, and a moment later Parky was beside her, serving the bacon butties. These were thick slices of the warm new bread, spread with butter and with rashers of the fried bacon between the slices-hot bacon sandwiches, really.
"Here goes my cholesterol!" Andrew groaned cheerfully, "But oh, God, how wonderful!" he added after taking the first bite.
"I know, they're sinful," Diana said, laughing, then cautioned, "But don't eat too many, Parky's making fish cakes and parsley sauce for lunch."
"With chips," Parky cut in. "To be followed by another of your favorites. Treacle pudding."
"Oh, God, Parky, I think I've just died and gone to heaven," he exclaimed, laughing, enjoying Parky and the fuss she was making over him. He had always had a soft spot for her.
"But, darling, it is heaven here," Diana said, smiling at him lovingly. "Or had you forgotten?"
Andrew shook his head, kissed her warmly on the cheek. "No, Ma, I hadn't forgotten. Not only that, I'm here with three of my four favorite women."
"And who's the fourth?" I asked swiftly, staring.
"Why, my daughter, of course," he answered, winking at me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I found the books on Saturday afternoon. And quite a find they were.
After lunch Diana drove off to West Tanfield to do some errands; she asked me to go with her, but I declined, preferring instead to stay at Kilgram Chase with Andrew, only to discover that he wanted to work.
"I must go over the rest of this stuff," he explained apologetically, holding up his briefcase. "I'm sorry, Mal."
"It's okay," I said, although I was disappointed he was going to be poring over the papers in Diana's office for the rest of the afternoon, rather than going out for a walk with me.
"I won't be long, about an hour and a half, two hours at the most." He shook his head as he paused on the threshold of the office. "Some of it's rather complicated, that lousy financial stuff I mentioned to you in London. I could use Jack's nimble brain. He's much better than I am when it comes to figures."
"Maybe I could help you," I suggested.
He smiled at me ruefully. "I'm afraid you can't, darling. Look, you don't mind if I work, do you? At least for a while. We'll go for a walk later, just before tea."
"That's great, don't worry," I said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. I walked off in the direction of the library, which had always fascinated me. I loved to poke around in there, looking for literary treasures or family memorabilia. Unfortunately, I'd never come across anything remotely interesting or out of the ordinary.
Like the kitchen, the library had not changed much in four hundred years, except, perhaps, for the acquisition of more and more books by the Keswicks over the centuries. And it seemed to me that they never threw anything away. It was larger than most of the other rooms at Kilgram Chase, since it was situated in one of the square towers, the one on the northeast corner of the house, overlooking the moors.
The coffered ceiling was over thirty feet high, balanced by the huge window set in the middle of the center wall, a beautiful window of unusual dimensions and shape which filled the room with the most extraordinary light at all times of the day. Paneled in light oak, the library had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves throughout, and these held many thousands of volumes, most of them very old. A handsomely built fireplace of local limestone was set in the wall facing the window, and around this had been arranged several comfortable chairs, an oak coffee table, and a Knole sofa. Directly behind the sofa stood a library table, also of carved oak, and on this were stacked the latest magazines, many of them to do with antiques, as well as today's Times, an assortment of other national and local newspapers, and a few current novels.
I did a cursory check of everything on the table, but there was nothing of particular interest to me, and so I began to wander around the room, my eyes scanning the lower shelves where everything was in easy reach. But, of course, because these shelves were readily accessible to me, I had looked at almost every book countless times before. There was nothing new.
Suddenly realizing it was cool in the library, and shivering slightly, I went over to the fireplace, pulled out the damper, and put a light to the paper and chips of wood under the logs in the grate. Within minutes I had a good blaze going, and soon the logs had caught and the fire was roaring up the chimney.