Honeycote
“She switched off the alarm so as not to wake Mickey, pulled on some thick woollen socks and a jumper as the heating wasn’t on yet, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.In the kitchen, she surveyed the turkey thoughtfully and ran through a mental checklist of who was coming for lunch. Five Liddiards, James, Lawrence, the Sherwyns and the Walshes – it should be big enough. She scooped up liberal amounts of butter in her hands and massaged the skin with care, tucking herbs and lemon into the cavity, bef...ore covering it in a tent of foil and popping it into the Aga. She counted backwards carefully on her fingers, to make sure she’d calculated accurately for a two o’clock lunch.Now the bit she liked best. She crept into the hallway and lifted the lid on a huge carved oak chest. Inside lay three fat, knobbly felt stockings, each one embroidered in chain stitch with its owner’s initial. She pulled them out, enjoying their heavy weight, the mysterious lumps and bumps, and lugged them upstairs.Patrick lay, beautiful, impassively arrogant as ever, one arm thrown carelessly above his head.MoreLess
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