Ravensmoore's · Snippets

Mr Carlisle is seriously ill. Like everyone else in the household, I find it barely credible that so healthy a young man can fall ill like this. It is dreadful to think of how he must be suffering, especially now that he knows. One of my brother's sons died of leukaemia. He was older than Alex and less fit, and I hope that means that Alex has a better chance.

We all love him. It would be hard not to love him. He is a gentle, compassionate person. He loves animals and he always makes time for people too. His love for Mr O'Connal's cousin is wonderful to see.

I am glad that he was here when he found out. He needs a family around him, and his own are distant in every respect. We will all do what we can for him.

I went to visit Miss Masters in hospital today. She seemed surprised to see me. She said, "I messed it all up again, didn't I?"

"It's really not for me to say, Miss." I said.

"And I made a fool of myself going after Ronan. He hates me."

"I find it hard to imagine Mr O'Connal hating anyone. He is the most affable of men."

"I'm sick of being alone." she said.

"Why not try making friends, instead of conquests?" I suggested. I gave her a card wishing her a speedy recovery and she began to cry. I sat beside her bed and patted her hand.

"I thought I was dying." she said, "And I knew nobody would cry if I did. There is nobody in the world that cares whether I live or not."

"Miss, I prayed earnestly for your survival." I said.

"Why?" she asked, "I have hurt Emma."

"You have done some terrible things, it's true, but those things do not make you a terrible person."

"I feel like a terrible person." she said.

"It's called a conscience. It takes some getting used to. If you allow it to, it will help you to change."

Christmas went well. As always, the household ran smoothly, a fact for which I claim none of the credit. I am simply fortunate enough to be the head of a large and capable staff. I am, however, rather proud of the fact that I managed to provide festive fare of a vegetarian nature for Mr Ronan O'Connal and his charming companion. They both seemed to enjoy it.

Our youngest reveller had no interest in the food, but loved the music, whether it was the jigs and reels played by the O'Connals or the gentle ballads Kerey played on his new guitar. On Christmas Eve, under the tree, we all sang carols, and little Bryony seemed captivated by the sound.

Alexander Carlisle, a wild, feckless lad if ever there was one, has become engaged to Miss Rosemary O'Connal, who may be wilder than he is. I suspect that their life together will be unpredictable in all things but their perfect happiness. I have rarely seen two people b etter suited to one another.

I received many wonderful presents. My favourite, I think, is the one Mr and Mrs O'Connal gave me, a gold pocket watch engraved, "To a butler who is more like a friend and a friend who is more like a father, with love from Emma and Rory."

We had our big party on Christmas Day. It was quite wonderful. I imagine half Woodhollow turned up. Rory's sister wore a lovely dress and her consort could scarcely take his eyes off her. The most enthusiastic dancer was Lindsay O'Connal, who danced every dance. She seems so delicate, yet danced us all off our feet.

It was a wonderful Christmas and I hope we will celebrate many more together.

Mr Jones has left us, but two of our O'Connal gentlemen played fiddles and had everyone dancing. It is such a delight to see happy people dancing together and it was lovely that they all included the baby. She loves music, and she had a wonderful time, being danced around the ballroom by each person in turn.

After lunch, I saw Mr Kevan O'Connal walking in the garden with his charming wife. They gazed at each other with devotion to warm the coldest heart. I do not think there has ever been a couple so well-matched and so completely alike. They come from such different places, but both have a passion for music. Both love to have a book in their hands. Both are so gentle in nature that they include everyone around them in a warm nest of affection and kindness.

Rory has been very happy this evening. So has Mrs O'Connal, who has seemed somwhat sad for a while. Tonight, she is laughing with the others. She seems to have cast off whatever was troubling her. Rory, I suspect, is happy because she is. He has the endearing quality of taking the greatest pleasure in her happiness. Whatever the cause of their good mood, I am glad of it.

We are to have an unexpected guest for Christmas, a distant cousin of Mr O'Connal's. He seems an exceptionally amiable young man and I put him in one of the rooms overlooking the lake. It has one of the nicer bathrooms and is very comfortable. I would imagine he would appreciate some comfort, having spent some time in the wilds of Wales seeking his relatives.

I love to see the gradual filling-up of guest rooms. It is a special pleasure of mine to see the quiet rooms of Whiteturrets transformed into happy gathering places. From Christmas through to the Anti-Hunt Ball in January, the house is full.

Bryony O'Connal is a child of exquisite charm and sweet nature. I have fallen entirely under her spell from the first smile I saw. She has her mother's smile and her father's smiling eyes and the combined effect cannot help but capture a heart.

I am greatly relieved now that I have seen Mrs O'Connal. It is very clear that Rory has been looking after her and, although she is undoubtedly tired and a little unsure still of herself as a mother, her general health is excellent and she is in very good spirits.

As for Rory, he needs a rest, and to believe in himself. He is, if he can only bring himself to see it, a fine father and husband. I doubt there are many men so utterly devoted to their wives and children.He has not even been to check on the horses yet. Quite exceptional, for him.I will do all I can to encourage and support him. For one thing, I will try to warn Emma how sensitive he feels and how uncertain he is. She will do all she can to reassure him.

In a few days, the young lady will be bringing her baby back to Whiteturrets. I will make sure there are fresh flowers in her room and at the cottage. I have already made sure that we have all her favourite foods and I will make her a chocolate cake to welcome her home.

I have missed Mrs O'Connal and I have been concerned about her. It will be good to see for myself that she is well. I am also looking forward to meeting the new centre of the universe and possibly having a chat with her father in the kitchen. I will call Rory "sir" and "Mr O'Connal" enought to annoy him, but then we'll sit down as friends and he'll tell me again how much he loves the young lady and I suspect he may say a few words about fatherhood.

Woodhollow is certainly waiting to greet the new baby. Even a short walk to the Post Office has become a long succession of people asking for news. They mean well, but I do hope they will not bother Mrs O'Connal unduly.

Today is Stir Up Sunday, the last Sunday before Advent and the traditional day for making Christmas puddings. I shall be making mine later, gathering all those on the estate to give the mixture a stir for luck. I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in tradition, and I know that such gestures of co-operation keep the atmosphere on the estate warm and friendly. Peter, the chauffeur, will bring his children and his lovely lady wife and the Romany families will come from their wagons and join us.

Nearer to Christmas, Len will help Sean and me to place the holly and ivy to decorate the house. The ivy must always enter the house first, by order of Mrs O'Connal, because if ivy wins the race, the woman rules in the coming year. Holly represents male power and authority. Not that there is any chance of anything like that happening here. A gentleman always submits to the will of a lady. A man who seeks authority over his wife has failed to understand what marriage is.

Incidentally, the name "Stir Up Sunday" comes, not from the puddings but from the Book of Common Prayer, whose collect for the day says, "Stir-up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." Since puddings needed to be stirred, this day was chosen for the task.

Sadly, Mrs O'Connal does not eat Christmas pudding, Christmas Cake or Mince Pies, but she would not wish anyone else to go without for her sake. Hospitality is important to her, to all of us. At Christmas, especially, there is a constant stream of visitors to the estate, many of them dragged in by Rory or Emma to have a cup of tea and a mince pie. Of course, having lured them with such innocent offerings, we try to press a cream cake upon them or a slice of chocolate log.

I borrowed this from my friend Beleave:

Mickey Mouse


Which DISNEY character are you most like?
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The quintessential skill of the Englishman, indeed, the basis for the Empire, for the "Great" in Great Britain and our indomitable courage is the ability to find our way to the nearest kettle and procure for ourselves and those around us, that nectar of the gods which we call, in our understated way, tea.

We have, as a nation, been fond of coffee too, but not in the same way. A cup of coffee is, when all is said and done, a mere drink. A cup of tea is a form of meditation, a state of mind.

The first rule is that the teapot should be china. English china is best, some Staffordshire gem, but any china is good. The pot should be warmed, to shield the infant beverage from too great a shock.

The tea should be added to the empty pot as the kettle approaches boiling point. One teaspoon of tea for every person to be served and one for the pot.

Do not add the water as it is boiling and roiling and spoiling for a fight, for it will assuredly spoil the tea. One should be careful of excessive heat. Wait but a moment, until the water has forgotten the first flash of anger and has calmed itself. Breathe deeply in and out, and allow the water the essential thinking time.

When you pour the hot water into the pot, allow it to swirl amongst the tea leaves and gently tease out the personality of each speck of tea. As the leaves circulate, the tea takes on something of the atmosphere of a ball, where many different humours and opinions meet and blend.

When the pot is full, replace the lid and cover with a tea cosy. Do not rush to pour it into cups. It needs more time, to brew, mash or stew as various dialects would have it. Never time it with a watch, reducing a mystery to a matter of minutes. Such tea will taste of military precision and disturb anyone but a drill sergenat. It is better to prepare the cups, adding to each the correct amount of milk and sugar. Be careful never to forget which of those present will not take sugar and remember that some people prefer tea without milk, abhorrent though that is to the hearts of true-born Englishmen. When the cups are prepared, recite a poem of reasonable length, recite the kings and queens of England or listen to the song of a robin outside. Then uncover the pot.

Pour the tea from just above the cup. Great height allows for little accuracy, and the milk will be bruised. Always consider the preferences of those for whom you pour, but for me, the ideal cup of tea is the colour of toffee.

Well, well, well! Here I am "online" and using a keyboard for something other than playing a piano. How shall I introduce myself? I am more accustomed to introducing other people. A butler is, by definition, supposed to be almost invisible.

I am John Ravensmoore, but everyone just calls me Ravensmoore, except for Mr O'Connal, who hates the idea. There is in him, a tiny sliver of the iconoclast and we love him for it. I sometimes thinks he is likely to lead a revolution against the class system, but thankfully his wife would never allow that.

What she allows or does not allow matters. All of us respect and love her. Yes, the dull old butler does love some people. She is like the daughter I would have liked to have, had not my dearest been murdered during the war. She told me once, dear lady that she is, that I am like a father to her.

This is her estate, her home. Though Mr O'Connal owns half of it, legally speaking, it will always be her decision in the end. The dear lad never wanted a share of her wealth. He has no interest in money. All Rory wants is to be around the people he loves, a laudable attitude in these acquisitive times.

They have a baby now. I have seen the pictures! Such a charming child, as their daughter would have to be. I look forward to meeting Miss Bryony Rose Lindsay Eloise O'Connal. I feel sure I shall love her too. After all, she is the child of two of the people I love best.

I think I will dig out some recipes and post them here soon. The French say the English have no cuisine. What do they know of the succulent pleasures of roast lamb or the enchanting sweetness of fresh salmon? French food is good, but can hardly compare.