butler like an archbishop, several footmen of imposing proportions, a bevy of scuttling kitchen and scullery maids, a terrifying foreign chef with a “temperament,” and a housekeeper of immense proportions who alternately creaked and rustled when she moved, Lady Coote was as one marooned on a desert island.
She sighed now, heavily, and drifted out through the open window, much to the relief of Jimmy Thesiger, who at once helped himself to more kidneys and bacon on the strength of it.
Lady Coote stood for a few moments tragically on the terrace and then nerved herself to speak to MacDonald, the head gardener, who was surveying the domain over which he ruled with an autocratic eye.
MacDonald was a very chief and prince among head gardeners. He knew his place—which was to rule. And he ruled—despotically. Lady Coote approached him nervously.
“Good morning, MacDonald.”
“Good morning, m’lady.”
He spoke as head gardeners should speak—mournfully, but with dignity—like an emperor at a funeral.
“I was wondering—could we have some of those late grapes for dessert tonight?”
“They’re no fit for picking yet,” said MacDonald.
He spoke kindly but firmly.
“Oh!” said Lady Coote.
She plucked up courage.