A Bitter Feast(25)

“No,” Grace wailed, starting to cry. “I don’t want Bella to go away—”

“Hush, hush now, love. We can talk about that later.” Viv pulled her daughter into a hug while sending an imploring glance at Addie. “Mummy has to get to work now.”

“You always have to work.” Grace, still sniffing, pulled away from her mother.

“Charlotte,” said Gemma, giving her own daughter a squeeze, “why don’t you take Grace to watch for your brothers. They should be here any—speak of the devil,” she added as the terrace doors opened and Melody came out, followed by Doug and the boys.

Gemma found herself extraordinarily glad to see them all, but even in the midst of the greetings and introductions, she couldn’t help wondering why Viv had failed to tell Grace that there had been another victim in last night’s accident.



Melody hadn’t expected to come back to a crisis. After quick introductions, her mother took her aside and explained the situation.

“Fergus O’Reilly,” Melody whispered, glancing at Viv. “I can’t believe it. What the hell was he doing here, of all places?” He’d been big in the London restaurant scene for a few years, but she realized she hadn’t heard much about him recently.

“Well, whatever it was, we’ve got to get this lunch organized,” Addie said, and Melody could feel the fizz of her energy. Addie nodded towards Doug, standing on the edge of the terrace, looking out over the gardens. “But first you should see to your friend. He looks a bit lost.”

When Melody reached Doug, he glanced at her, then went back to his gazing. The lawns and the borders were beginning to shimmer as the sun inched towards midday, and the air was heavy with the scent from the roses on the pergola. “You’re full of bollocks, you know that?” Doug said.

“What? What are you talking about?” That was the last thing Melody expected.

“This. You said you didn’t know anything about gardening.”

“I don’t. Not really,” Melody protested.

“This”—Doug waved a hand at the vista—“this is a Gertrude Jekyll garden. I’ve been reading, you know.”

“Well”—Melody hesitated—“you can say it’s an approximation of a Jekyll garden. The house was built in 1905, so it’s appropriate. But it’s not an exact copy.”

Doug shook his head. “You are such a liar. You said you didn’t know anything, and you live with this.”

“Lived with this. Summers and holidays.” Melody was irritated now. “And it’s Mum’s thing, not mine. As it was my grandmother’s before that. I was riding ponies when I wasn’t at school.”

“Still—”

She put her hands on her hips. “Okay, so maybe I absorbed a little bit. I was friends with the old bloke who used to help out. How do you think I knew where to put your herbaceous borders, and what should go in them? Maybe I just didn’t want to sound like a conceited git.”

Doug’s lips relaxed at the corners and she knew she’d got him. “God forbid you should sound conceited.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, I knew you were posh, but this—”

“What? You thought my parents lived in a hut? Get over yourself, Dougie. Who’s the Eton Old Boy? You must have gone home with mates who lived in freaking Downton Abbey.”

When she saw his expression, she knew she’d touched a nerve. Doug had indeed gone to Eton, but he’d been a scholarship boy, his father a solicitor in St. Albans. Doug’s inferiority complex had followed him ever since.

Melody gave his arm a little shake. “Never mind. I did go home with friends like that, and I guarantee you didn’t miss much. Now, as posh as we may be, we have work to do. And there’s something else.” She told him about O’Reilly.

The light glinted off Doug’s glasses as he turned to look at her. “Bloody hell. That’s a turnup. Does Duncan know?”

“Mum rang Dad, so I’d assume so.” Melody glanced back at the terrace. The children were playing with the dogs. Her mother and Gemma were finishing the tables. Viv had disappeared, presumably to oversee the kitchen, and Roz must be rounding up the village helpers. “What I don’t understand,” Melody said thoughtfully, “is why Viv never said she’d worked with Fergus O’Reilly. Surely, as a chef, a name like that would have made her reputation.”



Kit stood at the scullery sink, washing salad leaves. He’d offered to help the gardener, Joe, carry the pails from the greenhouse. Then, once inside, he’d seen what looked like dismay on the chef’s face as she contemplated the job ahead. Shyly, he’d volunteered.

“Good lad,” she’d said, seeming to really see him for the first time, and he’d flushed uncomfortably. “You know how to do it, right? Make certain to get all the grit out, but be gentle. The leaves will tear easily.”

Kit nodded. “I do it all the time at home.”

“You know how to dry them, then, too?” Chef Viv dug in one of the plastic crates stacked by the sink. “Here’s a stack of clean tea towels. You can lay the leaves out on those and pat them dry, then fold them in the damp towels so that they’ll stay fresh until we can plate them. Oh, and pick out any damaged leaves, okay?”