Read Online A Connoisseur of Beauty by Daphne Coleridge - Free Book Online Page B

because they both seemed to be making an effort to ensure that she felt welcome and comfortable as a visitor. She was glad that they had chosen not to stage the meal in the Great Hall, but had instead opted for the less formal medieval old hall which served as the kitchen, but still boasted a long, scrubbed oak table. It felt very homely with food still cooking on the range and both Marilyn and Hunter collaborating in the creation of the meal. Someone had cut flowers from the garden and put them in a vase on the table. Amy recognised the vase from days of old, but there were also a few subtle changes about the place: some linen serviettes were new, as was the china which the meal was served on. Someone had put curtains up at the mullioned windows, which seemed a bit incongruous to her, but did make the place feel cosier.
    Neither Hunter nor Marilyn were formally dressed for dinner. Marilyn was, of course, as chic as ever in a pleated skirt and white blouse with a high frill at the neck. Hunter wore fawn chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms. He was lifting the lid of a casserole dish and sniffing.
    “This smells good: I think it's done,” Hunter said to Marilyn.
    “Of course it's good,” she said, “I picked the herbs from the garden and used some of your best wine in it! But leave it alone for now – the potatoes won't be ready yet. Pour Amy a drink and let's start.” She set out some small marinated and stuffed peppers whilst her grandson cut slices of fresh, crusty bread. Amy pulled up her chair and tasted the white wine which Hunter had poured for her. Despite her misgivings the pair of them had succeeded in making her begin to relax.
    “I've been entertaining Amy with the antics you and Cole got up to as boys,” said Marilyn when they were all finally seated at the table.”
    “And yet she still agreed to come to dinner, so you can't have told her the snail story,” responded Hunter with a twinkle in his normally serious grey eyes.
    “What snail story?” asked Amy suspiciously. “Is there something I should be looking out for in the casserole?”
    “The casserole is safe, it is the table decoration you need to watch,” said Marilyn.
    “Yes – watch it for signs of movement,” laughed Hunter. “The incident we are alluding to happened when Cole and I were on holiday over here as boys. My parents were hosting a very fancy dinner with some government minister and at least one duke as the star guests. Of course Cole and I were packed off to bed early as being too young for such occasions, which Cole heartily resented. So when the table had been set with elaborate flower arrangements he went round the garden with a bucket and picked up a couple of dozen snails which he deployed in strategic places amongst the flowers. As luck would have it, these little critters lurked within until the second course had been eaten and then started to emerge one by one and make their way across the table to the bemused and occasionally revolted guests. My father was not amused.”
    “The sequel to that tale is that Cole was punished the next day by being locked in his room without meals. The gardener had witnessed the snail collecting part of the exercise ,” said Marilyn. “But Hunter managed to smuggle food up to him in a basket attached to a rope.”
    “How did you know about that?” asked Hunter, genuinely surprised.
    “Oh, I always had my spies,” said his grandmother, laughing at the look on Hunter's face. “You were always looking after Cole – and still do.”
    Hunter looked a little embarrassed by this final comment and changed the subject by asking Amy about the studio she was going to be sharing in London.
    “It was pretty impressive,” Amy admitted. “My cottage is too dark to be any good for painting in, which is one reason why I have done so much work en plein air. But the studio has brilliant light – it is a converted Victorian warehouse. I guess I can try