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Authors: Pippa Wright
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drive; only the ancient hall was visible, presenting a façade that must have hardly changed for
hundreds of years. I imagined that the door might open to reveal a rush-strewn floor, the duke and his retinue eating off trenchers and throwing the bones to a pack of rangy wolfhounds by the light
of a roaring fire.
But when I stepped out of the car, the door was opened by someone who could only be Lance Garcia, running excitably towards the car in a distinctly twenty-first-century manner.
‘Aurora Carmichael?’ he asked, flinging his arms around me while I stood stock-still in surprise. ‘OMG, I am so glad to see you. Bibi wanted you to get the whole
aged-retainer-opening-the-door experience, but I said, “Bibi, this girl is British , she is not going to be impressed with a butler like we tragic Americans, she’s probably met a
million butlers working for Country House ,” am I right?’
‘Hello, you must be Lance,’ I said, stepping backwards to see him properly. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer the butler question as really it was only rich Americans and
investment bankers who had them these days. Most posh British people were too impoverished to afford one.
‘The very same,’ Lance said, leaning into the car and instructing the driver to drop my overnight bag at the Delaval Arms. With a crunch of gravel the silent chauffeur drove
away.
As I followed Lance up the wide stone steps to the open door of the Hall, I had the opportunity to admire his Californian ensemble, as exotic and unlikely in this environment as a bird of
paradise in a henhouse. His long, lean legs were clad in lemon-yellow denim, and his feet tripped up the steps in vivid-green Converse. A checked shirt peeped out from under his lime V-necked
jumper, and a silver skull ring flashed its diamante eyes on the smallest finger of his left hand. I suspected that Ticky might be right about the duchess’s San Francisco nephew.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Lance, hesitating for one moment to maximize the suspense. I nodded. He beamed as he pushed open the door to a vast hall, the uneven flags of the floor not
covered in rushes, but buffed to a dull shine by the wear of generations and lit by a low-hanging iron chandelier which blazed with real wax candles. Although it was still morning outside, the
narrow slits of the windows allowed in only a glimmer of light, so the candles lit up the room just as it must have been when it was first built. It was magical.
I stopped on the threshold to stare. Holly and ivy had been wound around the wooden staircase, which led up to a carved gallery that stretched across one wall. Enormous mirrors, spotted with
age, hung on the walls and reflected the lights endlessly, as if we were in a series of candlelit chambers instead of just one room. It was not grand in the embellished, fussy style of Versailles;
it was sparsely substantial, feudal, imposing. On the bottom step stood the duke and duchess, smiling in silent greeting, and in evident satisfaction at my reaction.
‘You love it, right?’ said Lance, linking my arm with his and giving me a squeeze. ‘I said to Bibi, “You have got to give her the full candle experience the second
she walks through the door,” and now I’ve seen your face I know I was totally right, right?’
‘Totally,’ I echoed, entirely forgetting in my awe that I was meant to be admiring the textiles and addressing my hosts in the correct manner.
The duchess stepped towards me, extending her hand graciously. ‘Miss Carmichael?’ she asked, in a cut-glass voice that did not betray the faintest suggestion of her American
background.
‘Your Grace,’ I said, bobbing my knees and lowering my head completely involuntarily. Somehow the combination of her grand manner and the imposing hall made me feel instantly
subservient; perhaps some dormant servile instinct had been awakened, or perhaps the unseen hand of Martha had stretched across the miles to push me downwards into
hundreds of years. I imagined that the door might open to reveal a rush-strewn floor, the duke and his retinue eating off trenchers and throwing the bones to a pack of rangy wolfhounds by the light
of a roaring fire.
But when I stepped out of the car, the door was opened by someone who could only be Lance Garcia, running excitably towards the car in a distinctly twenty-first-century manner.
‘Aurora Carmichael?’ he asked, flinging his arms around me while I stood stock-still in surprise. ‘OMG, I am so glad to see you. Bibi wanted you to get the whole
aged-retainer-opening-the-door experience, but I said, “Bibi, this girl is British , she is not going to be impressed with a butler like we tragic Americans, she’s probably met a
million butlers working for Country House ,” am I right?’
‘Hello, you must be Lance,’ I said, stepping backwards to see him properly. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer the butler question as really it was only rich Americans and
investment bankers who had them these days. Most posh British people were too impoverished to afford one.
‘The very same,’ Lance said, leaning into the car and instructing the driver to drop my overnight bag at the Delaval Arms. With a crunch of gravel the silent chauffeur drove
away.
As I followed Lance up the wide stone steps to the open door of the Hall, I had the opportunity to admire his Californian ensemble, as exotic and unlikely in this environment as a bird of
paradise in a henhouse. His long, lean legs were clad in lemon-yellow denim, and his feet tripped up the steps in vivid-green Converse. A checked shirt peeped out from under his lime V-necked
jumper, and a silver skull ring flashed its diamante eyes on the smallest finger of his left hand. I suspected that Ticky might be right about the duchess’s San Francisco nephew.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Lance, hesitating for one moment to maximize the suspense. I nodded. He beamed as he pushed open the door to a vast hall, the uneven flags of the floor not
covered in rushes, but buffed to a dull shine by the wear of generations and lit by a low-hanging iron chandelier which blazed with real wax candles. Although it was still morning outside, the
narrow slits of the windows allowed in only a glimmer of light, so the candles lit up the room just as it must have been when it was first built. It was magical.
I stopped on the threshold to stare. Holly and ivy had been wound around the wooden staircase, which led up to a carved gallery that stretched across one wall. Enormous mirrors, spotted with
age, hung on the walls and reflected the lights endlessly, as if we were in a series of candlelit chambers instead of just one room. It was not grand in the embellished, fussy style of Versailles;
it was sparsely substantial, feudal, imposing. On the bottom step stood the duke and duchess, smiling in silent greeting, and in evident satisfaction at my reaction.
‘You love it, right?’ said Lance, linking my arm with his and giving me a squeeze. ‘I said to Bibi, “You have got to give her the full candle experience the second
she walks through the door,” and now I’ve seen your face I know I was totally right, right?’
‘Totally,’ I echoed, entirely forgetting in my awe that I was meant to be admiring the textiles and addressing my hosts in the correct manner.
The duchess stepped towards me, extending her hand graciously. ‘Miss Carmichael?’ she asked, in a cut-glass voice that did not betray the faintest suggestion of her American
background.
‘Your Grace,’ I said, bobbing my knees and lowering my head completely involuntarily. Somehow the combination of her grand manner and the imposing hall made me feel instantly
subservient; perhaps some dormant servile instinct had been awakened, or perhaps the unseen hand of Martha had stretched across the miles to push me downwards into
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