Read Online Secrets of the Lighthouse by Santa Montefiore - Free Book Online
Authors: Santa Montefiore
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the builders who were constantly working on the house in Eaton
Court, satisfying her mother’s insatiable demands – or her need to avoid boredom at any cost.
‘Come and take a seat, pet. I’ve got porridge for you, and tea.’ Jack perched on the back of Ryan’s chair at the head of the table. Her uncle didn’t seem to notice
him there, or he was so used to his sister’s irregular residents that he ignored him as one would a chair or a teapot. Ellen took the empty seat at the foot of the table. Peg placed a bowl of
porridge in front of her. She’d added a golden trail of honey in a spiral. It steamed seductively.
‘So what are you all having?’ Ellen asked, breaking the awkward silence. They were all staring at her as if she were an exotic animal Peg had rescued from a foreign country.
‘Aunt Peg has cooked you up a feast!’
‘Eggs and bacon for the boys,’ said Peg, pouring tea into her mug. ‘Tuck in, pet. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’
‘Do you get breakfast here every morning?’ She directed her question at Joe because he was her age and the least scary.
He grinned and his dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Not likely. A cup of tea is usually all that’s on the menu. Isn’t that right, Peggine?’
She smacked him playfully on the head. He had thick, glossy black hair and a long, cheeky face. Ellen noticed the affection in his eyes when he looked at his aunt.
‘Peg won’t come to the boozer so we have to come here,’ Johnny added with a grin.
‘Why won’t you go to the pub, Aunt Peg?’ Ellen asked.
‘Too many people,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘Peg’s kitchen is a fine place to chinwag after a long day’s work,’ Johnny interjected kindly. ‘She makes a strong cup of tea!’
‘I’m the landlord of the pub,’ interjected Craic. ‘But I don’t take it personally,’ he added, winking at his sister.
‘You own the Pot of Gold?’ Ellen repeated, impressed. She had never met a publican before.
‘I do, for my sins.’
Desmond raised his mug of tea and grinned lopsidedly. ‘Practice makes perfect, there’s many do think, but a man’s not too perfect when he’s practised at drink.’
‘Who wrote that?’ Ellen asked.
‘I don’t know, but he was Irish for sure!’ They all laughed heartily. The awkwardness lifted and they all began to speak at once, their voices low and growly like bears. Peg
fussed over them, making more toast and pouring more tea, and Ellen remembered the solitary figure she had been in the field, so far removed from the jovial hostess she was now, buzzing about her
kitchen busily, her face aglow with pleasure.
Ellen had never known a big family. Her father, Anthony, came from an aristocratic Norfolk family who had owned the large and beautiful estate of Hardingham Hall for over four
hundred years. When Anthony’s father died, his elder brother, Robert, inherited the family seat and the title of Marquis of Zelden. Robert’s son George duly took up the earldom and
Anthony, Ellen’s father, was left as simply Lord Anthony Trawton. His sister, Anne, had married a Scotsman and had gone to live in Edinburgh, and Anthony, of course, had settled in London.
Being a rather chilly family, they spent little time together beyond the traditional Christmas gathering up at Hardingham Hall, where they’d all put on a great show of family unity, parade at
the local church and promise to make more effort to see each other the following year. They never did. Ellen sat in the midst of her newfound relations, trying to understand their cheerful banter,
marvelling at the world her mother had chosen to hide away, and wishing she had always been part of it.
‘I’d like to have a drink with you tonight in the Pot of Gold,’ Ellen suggested, finishing the last spoonful of porridge with regret. ‘I’ve never been in a proper
Irish pub.’
‘Well, you’ve missed out then, haven’t you?’ said Johnny.
‘I’ll come and get you,’ Joe
Court, satisfying her mother’s insatiable demands – or her need to avoid boredom at any cost.
‘Come and take a seat, pet. I’ve got porridge for you, and tea.’ Jack perched on the back of Ryan’s chair at the head of the table. Her uncle didn’t seem to notice
him there, or he was so used to his sister’s irregular residents that he ignored him as one would a chair or a teapot. Ellen took the empty seat at the foot of the table. Peg placed a bowl of
porridge in front of her. She’d added a golden trail of honey in a spiral. It steamed seductively.
‘So what are you all having?’ Ellen asked, breaking the awkward silence. They were all staring at her as if she were an exotic animal Peg had rescued from a foreign country.
‘Aunt Peg has cooked you up a feast!’
‘Eggs and bacon for the boys,’ said Peg, pouring tea into her mug. ‘Tuck in, pet. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’
‘Do you get breakfast here every morning?’ She directed her question at Joe because he was her age and the least scary.
He grinned and his dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Not likely. A cup of tea is usually all that’s on the menu. Isn’t that right, Peggine?’
She smacked him playfully on the head. He had thick, glossy black hair and a long, cheeky face. Ellen noticed the affection in his eyes when he looked at his aunt.
‘Peg won’t come to the boozer so we have to come here,’ Johnny added with a grin.
‘Why won’t you go to the pub, Aunt Peg?’ Ellen asked.
‘Too many people,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘Peg’s kitchen is a fine place to chinwag after a long day’s work,’ Johnny interjected kindly. ‘She makes a strong cup of tea!’
‘I’m the landlord of the pub,’ interjected Craic. ‘But I don’t take it personally,’ he added, winking at his sister.
‘You own the Pot of Gold?’ Ellen repeated, impressed. She had never met a publican before.
‘I do, for my sins.’
Desmond raised his mug of tea and grinned lopsidedly. ‘Practice makes perfect, there’s many do think, but a man’s not too perfect when he’s practised at drink.’
‘Who wrote that?’ Ellen asked.
‘I don’t know, but he was Irish for sure!’ They all laughed heartily. The awkwardness lifted and they all began to speak at once, their voices low and growly like bears. Peg
fussed over them, making more toast and pouring more tea, and Ellen remembered the solitary figure she had been in the field, so far removed from the jovial hostess she was now, buzzing about her
kitchen busily, her face aglow with pleasure.
Ellen had never known a big family. Her father, Anthony, came from an aristocratic Norfolk family who had owned the large and beautiful estate of Hardingham Hall for over four
hundred years. When Anthony’s father died, his elder brother, Robert, inherited the family seat and the title of Marquis of Zelden. Robert’s son George duly took up the earldom and
Anthony, Ellen’s father, was left as simply Lord Anthony Trawton. His sister, Anne, had married a Scotsman and had gone to live in Edinburgh, and Anthony, of course, had settled in London.
Being a rather chilly family, they spent little time together beyond the traditional Christmas gathering up at Hardingham Hall, where they’d all put on a great show of family unity, parade at
the local church and promise to make more effort to see each other the following year. They never did. Ellen sat in the midst of her newfound relations, trying to understand their cheerful banter,
marvelling at the world her mother had chosen to hide away, and wishing she had always been part of it.
‘I’d like to have a drink with you tonight in the Pot of Gold,’ Ellen suggested, finishing the last spoonful of porridge with regret. ‘I’ve never been in a proper
Irish pub.’
‘Well, you’ve missed out then, haven’t you?’ said Johnny.
‘I’ll come and get you,’ Joe
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