A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [76]
"What, or who, is Westbury's?" I asked.
"Who, definitely. Though I suppose 'what' would not be too far off the mark. Westbury is a friend of mine, with the most magnificent house set into grounds by Capability Brown himself. Westbury has a large number of friends, and he and his wife love to entertain and do it very well, too. Unfortunately, Westbury is embarrassingly short of the old folding stuff— the dratted new tax laws, don't you know? So rather than confine themselves to the occasional small party, they hold one every weekend, Friday night to Monday morning."
He nodded to himself as if to admire a clever solution. I had obviously missed a key word somewhere.
"I'm sorry, Colonel, I fail to see how this avoids the expense."
"Oh, well, you see, the servants present each guest with a bill for services, be it afternoon tea or the full weekend with Saturday-night dance."
"Ah, I see. Westbury's is a weekend resort hotel."
"Oh, no!" The colonel was shocked. "The Westburys have guests, all friends. The servants handle the financial side of it, and it's all quite fair, a reasonable bill— they have a superb kitchen, a cook who is totally loyal since Westbury saved his life in the trenches— plus ten percent, of course. I occasionally do wonder if Westbury isn't given some part of it, by some means or another, but they aren't in business, oh my, no. It's just that their friends want to help out, and it's really such a pleasant place, it would be such a pity to open it up to the Americans and have charabancs full of day-trippers pocketing the silver and treading down the flowers, and one doesn't mind doing one's bit to cover costs, don't you know? They're such very nice people. Unfortunate about the money, though. Hmm."
I opened my mouth, shut it, and sat back in the leather and laughed until the tears came into my eyes, in a manner of total abandonment most unsuited to Mary Small. I laughed at the startled eyes of Alex in the mirror and at the Westburys' friends and the tax laws and the total madness of it, and the colonel eyed me uncertainly and then began to chuckle politely, as well. I very nearly told him then who I was, to put an end to the farce, but something stopped the words on my tongue, and I changed what I was going to say.
"Colonel, I— the whole thing sounds most delightful. Considerably better than Kew. I only might wish I had worn more practical shoes, so that I might take advantage of the grounds."
That distracted him, and we both peered down at my fashionable and therefore impractical heels, topped by the sleek sheen of my silk stockings. He cleared his throat and glanced out the window.
"Perhaps Mrs Westbury could help you. I say, do you ride?"
"I do, but not in these clothes."
"Oh, that would not be a problem. Westbury's is always prepared for that kind of thing. Course, the riding's nothing like before the war, but the few nags they manage to scrape together are usually sound. Wrong time of year for a hunt, sorry to say."
"That's just as well. My sympathy would be entirely with the fox."
He chuckled patronisingly, as if he had expected my reaction, then changed the subject. Actually, I am not against the killing of foxes, being a farmer myself and having lost numerous poultry to them over the years. What I dislike is the unnecessary glorification of bloodthirstiness. We no longer execute our criminals with the prolonged agony of stoning or torture, and I cannot see why we should grant a wild creature any less dignity. When we have a fox, Patrick and I take turns sitting up with a gun until it shows up, and we kill it cleanly. We do not run it to ground in terror and turn the dogs loose to tear it to pieces. Such a process demeans both hunted and hunter. But I digress.
It was indeed a magnificent house, and circling past the playing fountain to the portico, I could well imagine that it would be an appallingly expensive establishment to maintain. Two acres of roof? Three? I said a short prayer