The house was maintained with the help of Joe and Edith Parkinson, who had lived and worked at Kilgram Chase for over thirty years. With their daughter, Hilary Broadbent, they took care of all the interiors, in both the open and closed wings, and did the laundry and cooking. Joe was also the handyman; he did a certain amount of outdoor work as well, looking after Diana's two horses and the sheep and mucking out the stables.
Hilary's husband, Ben, and his brother Wilf were the two gardeners responsible for the grounds; they mowed the many lawns, tended the flower beds, pruned the trees in the orchard, cleaned the pond once a year, and made sure the walled rose garden remained the great beauty spot it had been for hundreds of years.
Roses were my favorite flowers, and I had always gravitated to this particular garden at Kilgram Chase. But I did not plan to visit it this trip; I knew it could only be bereft, without color or life, just as everything at Indian Meadows was brown and faded. It was a bleak period for a gardener like me, these cold, cheerless months when the earth was hard as iron, the air sharp with frost, and all growing things lay dormant and still.
Glancing out the car window, I noticed that many of the giant oaks, which stood sentinel at intervals along the driveway, were already shedding their leaves, now that it was November and the first chill of winter had settled in. Everything was dying. Winter was a time of death in gardens and in the countryside; quite unexpectedly I felt melancholy, and I filled up with sadness. Shivering, I hunched further into my coat, pulling it tightly around me. But the death of the land in winter only meant its rebirth in the spring, I reminded myself, attempting to shake off this curious sense of sadness which had enveloped me. I shivered again. Some poor ghost just walked over my grave, I thought.
And in less than a moment it was gone, the sadness, for suddenly there was the house, rising up in front of us in all its glory. Kilgram Chase. It stood there under the shadow of the moors, proud and everlasting as it had been for four centuries, seemingly untouched by time. My heart lifted at the sight of the lovely old manor. Its pale stones gleamed golden in the clear morning air, and the many mullioned windows shone brightly in the sunlight. I lifted my eyes, saw smoke puffing out of the chimneys, curling up like strands of gray-blue ribbon thrown carelessly into that silky, shining sky.
How welcoming it looked in all its mellowness and charm-my husband's ancestral home, the place where he had grown up.
The car had hardly come to a standstill in front of the house when the great oak door flew open and Diana appeared. She ran down the steps; her smile was wide, her face glowing with happiness at the sight of us alighting.
"Hi, Ma," Andrew cried, waving to her.
I rushed toward her and hugged her close. "Diana!"
"Aren't you the best girl in the whole wide world," she greeted me, "getting this obstinate son of mine to come up here after all."
Laughing, I pulled away from her and shook my head. "Not me, I didn't persuade him, Diana. He had a change of heart on his own accord. Late last night, far too late to call you. And we left so early this morning, at six, we didn't want to disturb you. That's why we asked the hall porter to phone. He did, didn't he?"
"Yes, darling." Turning to her son, she embraced him and went on, "As long as you're both here, that's all that matters. We'll have a nice cozy weekend together, and I know Parky plans to spoil you both."
Andrew grinned at her. "We expected nothing less." Leaning closer, he said, "Before I let the car go, should I ask the driver to come back for us tomorrow night? Or can we cadge a lift to town with you on Monday morning?"
"Of course you can. Anyway, it's hardly worth coming up here, if you don't stay through Sunday night. And I'll be glad to have your company and Mal's on the way back to London. In fact, you can drive part of the way, Andrew dear."
"You bet," he said, "and thanks, Ma. There's just one thing: We'll have to leave here fairly early on Monday morning. About six-thirty. Is that all right?"
"I usually set out about that time," Diana answered.
Andrew nodded and hurried off to speak to the driver.
Diana took hold of my arm and drew me toward the stone steps leading up to the front door. Joe Parkinson was hovering at the top of them. He came striding down.
"Morning, Mrs. Andrew," he said, giving me a big smile. "It's lovely to have you back, by gum it is."
"Thank you, Joe, I'm really glad we could come up for the weekend."
"I'll just get along, help Mr. Andrew with the luggage." And so saying Joe moved down the steps, calling out, "Nay, Mr. Andrew, I'll do that. Let me handle them there suitcases." glanced back over my shoulder and saw Andrew and Joe shaking hands, greeting each other affectionately. Andrew had been eight years old when the Parkinsons had come to work at Kilgram Chase. Joe had taught him so much about the countryside and nature, and they had always been firm friends. As Andrew said, Joe was the salt of the earth, a real Yorkshireman through and through, hardworking, canny, wise, and loyal.
"It's a raw morning," Diana said, shivering and pulling her cardigan around her. "Come on, let's go in and have a cup of tea."
Waiting for us in the small entrance hall were Edith Parkinson, Joe's wife, whom Andrew had called Parky since childhood, and her daughter, Hilary. Both women welcomed me warmly, and I returned their greetings.
Parky said, "If only the little ones were with you, Mrs. Andrew, they'd be a sight for sore eyes."
Smiling at her, I said, "Don't forget, they'll be here next month for Christmas, Parky. In fact, we're planning on staying through the New Year. Mr. Andrew promised."
"That's just wonderful," Parky exclaimed, beaming at me. "I can't wait to see the wee bairns." Glancing at Diana, she added, "We'll have to have a big Christmas tree this year, Mrs. Keswick, and maybe Joe'll play Santa Claus, get dressed up in his red Santa suit and whiskers, like he does for the Sunday school class at the church."
"Yes, that's a marvelous idea," Diana agreed. Taking my coat, she hung it up in the hall closet. "Now, let's go into the kitchen, Mal. Parky"s been busy for the last hour whipping up all sorts of things. Andrew's favorites, of course."
The kitchen at Kilgram Chase was as old as the house itself, and it had altered little over the years. Painted cool white, it was long in shape. The ceiling was low and intersected with dark wood beams. The floor was still covered with the original flagstones, so ancient they were worn in places by the steps of centuries, steps which had gone from the fireplace to the window and across to the door, and back and forth, time and time again, so that deep grooves now scored the stones.
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.