Read Online Tea with Jam and Dread by Tamar Myers - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tamar Myers
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I’ve only recently been widowed.’
‘Jolly good,’ Sebastian said. ‘Not about you being a widow,’ he hastened to assure Agnes, ‘but the other thing.’
Cee-Cee gazed at the Babester adoringly. Trust me, I could read the large print in her late adolescent brain. Not only was this handsome American her father’s age, he was both fertile and virile. These qualities alone were enough to drive her parents crazy. But the fact that Gabe was a doting father – well, there is nothing sexier to any woman than the sight of a man caring for a baby. Even cool, calm and collected Aubrey salivated every time the Babester scooped up Little Jacob and smothered him with kisses.
‘Harrumph,’ Peregrine probably said, although strictly speaking it sounded more like ‘hump-a-lump’ to my ears.
‘Now, dears,’ I said, as much to change the subject as to inform, ‘Agnes shall forthwith serve dessert, known to you in your quaint version of our common language as the
pudding
, and since this is cake, it is certainly
not
pudding, although there
is
real American pudding in the cake mix, in order to keep the cake moist. But I must have been a pudding-head to even have brought this up, when I should, instead, be explaining to you the rules and regulations of tonight’s hunt.’
Oh my stars, you should have seen the way all four of the guests sat up in their chairs. It wasn’t the mention of sweets that did it, either, but when I dropped the ‘h’ word. Even Agnes, who had started to get up in order to serve the pudding-cake for the ‘pudding’ that wasn’t pudding, plopped back on her seat with a soft thud. I also thought that I heard the back of her chair groan a bit too loudly, as per everyday wear and tear, but I resolved not to mind. After all, the snipe hunt had been Agnes’s idea, and she had put it all together from start to finish. By rights, it was
she
who should do the explaining.
I cleared my throat of any residual disappointment. ‘I must apologize for what will be a slight delay in receiving your pudding course. You see, Agnes is also the mistress of the hunt.’
‘Who?’ Agnes said. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses she looked and sounded uncannily like a barn owl.
‘Don’t tease us, Agnes,’ I said. ‘Although I must admit that you do an excellent job of imitating Timothy, our resident owl. Now, be a dear and explain the rules.’
Agnes reached into her cavernous handbag, which sat on the floor, and whipped out a notepad and felt-tip pen. ‘Snipes,’ she read, ‘are plump, North American game fowl, about the size of small barnyard hens. That is to say, they are similar in size to chickens. Are your Royal Highnesses familiar with the word “chickens”?’
‘Lord love a duck,’ my Babester groaned, ‘they’re neither Royal Highnesses nor are they blithering idiots, Agnes. They’re simply Brits whose ancestors either bought a title or else bashed enough heads in, in order to get one.
’
‘Ha,’ Peregrine said, ‘you can be sure that my family had no need to buy its titles; we rose through the ranks of the aristocracy by bashing heads, as you so quaintly put it. Lots and lots of Norman heads.’
‘
Tempus fugit
,’ I said. ‘Carry on, Agnes, with the snipe-hunting spiel.’
‘I’ll thank you not to swear,’ Peregrine said, scowling at me. ‘But indeed, do carry on with this tiresome lecture.’
Agnes flushed. ‘Uh, because the birds – I mean, the snipes – live in heavily forested areas, they possess small wings, and therefore are poor fliers, preferring to run along the ground when frightened or pursued. Snipes live in small flocks of about a dozen related individuals. Their diet is similar to that of quail. Both sexes are brown with black herringbone checks fading to buff on their undersides, but the males have a startlingly green, iridescent circle around each eye.’
The above description was total hogwash. It was something that Agnes had written just for that night’s
‘Jolly good,’ Sebastian said. ‘Not about you being a widow,’ he hastened to assure Agnes, ‘but the other thing.’
Cee-Cee gazed at the Babester adoringly. Trust me, I could read the large print in her late adolescent brain. Not only was this handsome American her father’s age, he was both fertile and virile. These qualities alone were enough to drive her parents crazy. But the fact that Gabe was a doting father – well, there is nothing sexier to any woman than the sight of a man caring for a baby. Even cool, calm and collected Aubrey salivated every time the Babester scooped up Little Jacob and smothered him with kisses.
‘Harrumph,’ Peregrine probably said, although strictly speaking it sounded more like ‘hump-a-lump’ to my ears.
‘Now, dears,’ I said, as much to change the subject as to inform, ‘Agnes shall forthwith serve dessert, known to you in your quaint version of our common language as the
pudding
, and since this is cake, it is certainly
not
pudding, although there
is
real American pudding in the cake mix, in order to keep the cake moist. But I must have been a pudding-head to even have brought this up, when I should, instead, be explaining to you the rules and regulations of tonight’s hunt.’
Oh my stars, you should have seen the way all four of the guests sat up in their chairs. It wasn’t the mention of sweets that did it, either, but when I dropped the ‘h’ word. Even Agnes, who had started to get up in order to serve the pudding-cake for the ‘pudding’ that wasn’t pudding, plopped back on her seat with a soft thud. I also thought that I heard the back of her chair groan a bit too loudly, as per everyday wear and tear, but I resolved not to mind. After all, the snipe hunt had been Agnes’s idea, and she had put it all together from start to finish. By rights, it was
she
who should do the explaining.
I cleared my throat of any residual disappointment. ‘I must apologize for what will be a slight delay in receiving your pudding course. You see, Agnes is also the mistress of the hunt.’
‘Who?’ Agnes said. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses she looked and sounded uncannily like a barn owl.
‘Don’t tease us, Agnes,’ I said. ‘Although I must admit that you do an excellent job of imitating Timothy, our resident owl. Now, be a dear and explain the rules.’
Agnes reached into her cavernous handbag, which sat on the floor, and whipped out a notepad and felt-tip pen. ‘Snipes,’ she read, ‘are plump, North American game fowl, about the size of small barnyard hens. That is to say, they are similar in size to chickens. Are your Royal Highnesses familiar with the word “chickens”?’
‘Lord love a duck,’ my Babester groaned, ‘they’re neither Royal Highnesses nor are they blithering idiots, Agnes. They’re simply Brits whose ancestors either bought a title or else bashed enough heads in, in order to get one.
’
‘Ha,’ Peregrine said, ‘you can be sure that my family had no need to buy its titles; we rose through the ranks of the aristocracy by bashing heads, as you so quaintly put it. Lots and lots of Norman heads.’
‘
Tempus fugit
,’ I said. ‘Carry on, Agnes, with the snipe-hunting spiel.’
‘I’ll thank you not to swear,’ Peregrine said, scowling at me. ‘But indeed, do carry on with this tiresome lecture.’
Agnes flushed. ‘Uh, because the birds – I mean, the snipes – live in heavily forested areas, they possess small wings, and therefore are poor fliers, preferring to run along the ground when frightened or pursued. Snipes live in small flocks of about a dozen related individuals. Their diet is similar to that of quail. Both sexes are brown with black herringbone checks fading to buff on their undersides, but the males have a startlingly green, iridescent circle around each eye.’
The above description was total hogwash. It was something that Agnes had written just for that night’s
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