‘If they live to enjoy it,’ Marta said. ‘Have you ever seen it done?’

‘Twice, and in both cases the winner was the wife.’

‘It sounds tempting,’ Rachel Lancaster said suddenly. ‘We should try it, Gerry.’

She drained her glass and the footman stepped forward to refill it, but her husband reached across the table and covered it with his hand. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough, darling? You don’t want to embarrass yourself.’

There was an uncomfortable silence as the couple glared at each other, but eventually Rachel Lancaster backed down and pushed the glass away from her. The pudding was served quickly, and Josephine began to wonder how many more times the conversation could be rescued and set back on an even keel; this time, Alex Fielding took his turn. ‘What is St Michael the patron saint of?’ he asked, turning to the vicar as the person in the room most likely to know.

‘Grocers and policemen, amongst other things,’ Richard Hartley said, then added more seriously: ‘St Michael is the guardian of the Church and the champion of justice. He calls all men to their heavenly judgement and gives each of us the chance to redeem ourselves before passing.’

‘Crikey,’ Fielding said. ‘Then we’d better be on our best behaviour.’

The strengthening wind blew a billow of snow against the window, making them all jump. ‘And on that note, I think we 127should retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their port next door,’ Hilaria said, standing up from the table.

‘I didn’t think they still did that in the twentieth century,’ Marta whispered, as they followed their hostess out of the dining room.

‘Neither did I, but the whole evening’s been an education in one way or another. I shall be pleased to get to bed.’ Josephine stopped by one of the windows and looked out into the night. The snowflakes were thick and restless, as if there were too many for the sky, and they jostled each other in endless fallings to settle on the already blanketed terrace. ‘Looks like we’re going to be well and truly cut off,’ she said, squeezing Marta’s hand. ‘Happy Christmas.’

128

8

There was an old-fashioned charm about the Godolphin Hotel, which Violet found all the more welcoming after the last leg of their journey from Plymouth. The weather had worsened steadily as the train moved through Cornwall, delaying their arrival by more than an hour, and by the time they got out at Marazion Station, the wind was howling dismally in from the sea and the whirling flurries of snow had nothing romantic or magical about them. ‘Just as well we weren’t hoping to get across tonight,’ Johnny shouted above the gale, doing his best to shelter her as they hurried down the platform to the station house. ‘It’ll be a miracle if it’s any better in the morning. Once this sets in, it could hang around for days.’

Just her luck that it was the time of year for miracles, Violet thought as she shook the snow off her coat; she could dream up worse things than spending Christmas in the hotel, just the two of them, without the pressure of being nice to Johnny’s mother, but she kept her feelings to herself. There was a taxi parked outside the station, but one of the other passengers beat them to it and they could only watch as its tail-lights disappeared down the road towards the village. ‘Never mind, we’ll wait for the next one,’ Violet said, not wanting to make a fuss when he was trying so hard to make things special for her. ‘At least we’re dry in here.’