“It’s known as Cieran’s Chapel,” Damian told me. “It’s a well-known landmark in these parts. According to local legend, an eighth-century monk named Brother Cieran used to row out there from Erinskil’s monastery in order to meditate in solitude.”
I cocked my head to one side. “Yes, I can see how the hurly-burly of eighth-century monastic life could get a man down. All those loudmouthed monks rattling their rosaries and chanting at all hours . . .”
“I imagine it could be very distracting.” Damian looked at his watch. “We should be going, Lori. Lunch will be served soon, and we still have to visit the nursery.”
“Lead on,” I said, and as I followed Damian into the sitting room, I wondered if reclusive Brother Cieran had been as impervious to humor as my bodyguard seemed to be.
By the time Will and Rob finished showing me the nursery, I was convinced that they’d never want to leave Dundrillin Castle. The fourth-floor suite was, under normal circumstances, known as the Rose Suite, and pale rose-petal pink was the dominating color. Its floor plan was exactly the same as the Cornflower Suite’s, but safety bars had been affixed to the windows, the balcony door had been bolted shut, and a fender had been placed around the huge fireplace.The sleeping area held twin beds as well as Andrew’s folding cot, and the sitting room had been transformed into a child’s wonderland.
Brightly painted cupboards spilled over with games, puzzles, building blocks, sticks of modeling clay, stuffed animals, and a mad assortment of toys. Bookcases groaned under the weight of storybooks, easels held sketch pads of varying sizes, and an entire table was devoted to watercolor paints, finger paints, colored pencils, and crayons. My favorite feature in the room was a pair of rocking horses that bore a striking resemblance to the boys’ gray ponies, Thunder and Storm. I had no idea how Sir Percy had produced such plenty on such short notice, but my gratitude to him rose to new heights.
While Will and Rob introduced Damian to a collection of small knights in armor, Andrew Ross pulled me to one side.
“Your sons have offered to read bedtime stories to me,” he said. “Are they having me on?”
“No,” I said. “They can read.We’re not sure when they learned, but we first noticed it last June.” I lowered my voice. “There was an embarrassing incident at the general store in our village, involving the twins, a tabloid headline, and a visiting bishop. They’re keeping the newspapers under the counter now.”
Andrew roared with laughter. He was a much easier audience than Damian.
“I see you’re bunking in together,” I said, nodding toward the sleeping area.
“We’ll take most of our meals up here, too,” he said, “with your permission, of course.”
“I don’t mind if the boys don’t,” I said, and turned to the twins. “Rob? Will? Do you want to come downstairs with me?”
“Do we have to?” the twins chorused. “We’re having fish fingers for lunch!”
It was transparently obvious that a lifetime of maternal love was as nothing when compared to the joys of fish fingers for lunch. I left the twins in the nursery without the slightest twinge of conscience.
Sir Percy had hung a Waterford crystal chandelier from the dining room’s ceiling and covered the walls in crimson silk. The hearth had been walled off, he explained, when he’d moved the kitchens from their traditional location belowstairs to rooms adjacent to the dining room.
“Ridiculous to transport meals down miles of drafty corridors,” he opined, with impeccable logic, “unless you have a taste for tepid soup and congealed gravy.”
The polished mahogany table was large enough to seat twenty, but Sir Percy, Damian, and I clustered at one end of it, in the shadow of a silver candelabra, to eat a lunch fit for a highly successful business mogul: pea soup with truffle oil; seared salmon with grilled eggplant and hollandaise sauce; and sticky lemon cake drizzled with heavy cream. The meal was served by Mrs. Gammidge.
Sir Percy had changed for lunch. He looked every bit the country squire in a tweed blazer, a yellow waistcoat, a pair of tweed plus fours, and argyle knee socks. I’d done nothing more than replace my jacket with a cable-knit cardigan before leaving the suite. Although the rooms were warm enough, Sir Percy had been correct in describing Dundrillin’s corridors as drafty.
As Mrs. Gammidge made the rounds with the soup tureen, I couldn’t help wondering why a housekeeper taxed with the enormous job of running a castle would add waitressing to her list of responsibilities. My puzzlement must have shown on my face, because when Mrs. Gammidge returned the tureen to the kitchen, Sir Percy answered my unspoken question.
“I have a staff of twelve in residence at the moment,” he explained, “but Mrs. Gammidge insists on serving meals. She’s a perfectionist, of course—wants to see the job done right—but she’s also an unrepentant nosey parker.” He leaned toward me and added in a stage whisper, “She likes to listen in on conversations.”