by Regina Scott
Gen swung on him, striding to his stirrup. “Mother mustn’t know anything about this. Do you hear me, William? I went hunting because I wanted a certain dish for Christmas dinner. No more than that. Now stay on that horse, and let me get on with my business.”
He snapped his mouth shut and settled back in his seat, looking decidedly worried. She sighed.
“I’m sorry to be so cross, William. It’s been a difficult few months. I must swear you to secrecy on this, just as I’ve sworn Carstairs and Chimes. We are nearly penniless. Our one hope is that we might be able to live quietly here at the Abbey. I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell Mother and Allison yet.”
“I…I see,” William managed, swallowing. “Would you like me to get the bird?”
She laughed at his instant contrition. “Certainly not. I wouldn’t want to corrupt a man of the cloth. I’ve climbed a few trees in my life. It will take but a moment.” She swung herself over the wall and hurried to help Chimes.
He was three-quarters of the way to the top, but already the tree was shaking beneath his weight. She could hear him snapping as the branches dug into him.
“You’re too big for this job, Chimes,” she called from below. “Let me try.”
Chimes climbed partway back down, puffing in his exertions. “Your mother would have fits if she knew what you were about,” he fussed. “I don’t hardly see how I can let you do it, Miss Gen. Perhaps we can find another bird after all.”
“We’ve had terrible luck all morning,” she disagreed, helping him to the ground. “I don’t expect that will change. I’ll be up and out in a moment, you’ll see.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Alan Pentercast declared.
Gen whirled to find him leaning against the tree behind them, a flintlock not unlike her own propped in one arm. She thought she made out a horse grazing several rows down.
“Pardon my interruption,” Alan said. “I was returning from the village when I heard the shots. Silly of me, but I thought I might have poachers.”
Chimes coughed, and Gen could feel herself reddening.
“They shot the bird from this side of the property, Squire,” William called obligingly over the wall. “Unfortunately, it fell on your side.”
“Pity,” Alan agreed, moving toward them. “If you’ll allow me.”
Gen eyed his tall frame, dressed today in rough wool trousers and a long coat. The outdated outfit combined with his shaggy hair made him look slightly disreputable, like what she had always imagined a highwayman or footpad to look. She somehow thought it suited him.
“You’ll never reach it,” she informed him. “You’re too big.”
“Au contraire, my lady. Mr. Chimes, if you will be so kind as to stand below the tree there, that’s right.” He braced the rifle in the crotch of the tree and clambered up beside it. Hanging onto one limb, he stretched out his arm, extending the rifle up and out. The limb bobbed, and he swayed with it. Gen caught her breath, mind conjuring images of him falling and injuring himself.
“Stop this, you idiot!” she cried. “The bird isn’t that important.”
“Well,” Alan ventured with a grunt as he reached out once more, “it was certainly important enough for you to try climbing up here in that fetching riding habit of yours.” Gritting his teeth, he thrust the barrel of the rifle against the higher limb. Gen nearly sagged in relief as the bird tumbled to the ground. Leaving the rifle temporarily in the tree, Alan jumped down beside the bird. Chimes bent guiltily to retrieve it.
Suddenly, Alan’s arm shot out to stop him. Chimes backed away, and Alan knelt down, frowning. Then he swept the bird up into his hands and moved to Gen’s side. Grinning, he handed it to her with a bow.
“Your partridge, my lady,” he said with a laugh, “in a pear tree.”
Alarmed, she looked up. She could hear Reverend Wellfordhouse’s chuckle from the other side of the wall. “I’m afraid he’s right. That is, if my botany doesn’t fail me, a pear tree.”
“You planned this!” she accused Alan.
He held up his hands. “Actually, I had another plan entirely. However, as I told you, we were meant for each other. Fate is conspiring against you to prove me right.”
“One gift,” she informed him icily, “does not a wager win.”
He laughed, dusting off his hands on his trousers. “Quite right, Miss Munroe. Well, I wish you well with your bird. But somehow, I have a feeling that partridge might taste a bit like crow.”
Gen spun on her heels and marched back to the wall. But, even as she allowed Chimes to hand her up into the saddle, she had a sinking feeling that Alan was right.
Chapter Three
Two Turtle Doves
C
hristmas dinner was much merrier than Gen had expected, even with their poor hunting of the morning. Annie’s cooking made the two partridges seem plentiful, marinating the bite-size pieces in a honey glaze. Reverend Wellfordhouse was congenial company, and Gen didn’t think she was the only one relieved when Reverend York declined their invitation, eating with the Pentercasts instead. They spent a pleasant evening by the fire, sharing memories of other Christmases, happier days. By the time she went to bed that night, she had to admit that country living was not nearly the sacrifice Mr. Carstairs had feared it would be.
Perhaps it was the stories she had heard that night, but as she lay in bed, more memories arose, memories of Alan Pentercast. Of the two brothers, she would never have thought Alan would turn out to be the personification of the overweening arrogance of all Pentercasts. She had somehow expected more of him. Certainly everyone else had.
When she was a child, he had always been touted as the knight errant of the village—climbing a tree to rescue Mrs. Smitter’s cat, bringing food to the Harveys when Mr. Harvey had broken his leg during the harvest, chopping wood for the Widow Tate. And Gen didn’t need anyone else’s word for his bravery in rescuing the Mattison twins. She had been present that famous day when he had jumped into the Abbey pond to save the red-headed five-year-olds from drowning.
It had been a wonderful summer day in Somerset. The sky was as blue as the waters of the pond behind the Abbey. Every child in the area who wasn’t working in the fields had managed to find an excuse to appear on the shore to either brave the cool waters or lounge in the shade of the nearby trees. Allison had been only nine at the time, even more unrestrained in her behavior than now. Knowing their mother was nowhere in sight and the footman was busy elsewhere for the moment, she had peeled off her stockings and pinned up her skirts to wade along the edge of the water. Geoffrey Pentercast, only a couple of years older, had shrugged out of his jacket and throw off his shoes before stomping in after her. She remembered Allison’s high-pitched squeal as she tried to dodge his splashes.
The oldest there, she had sat on the grass beside the pond, knees hugged to chest, giving her nod of consent to the children who begged her to be allowed to play in the sapphire water. Allison had said Gen was playing mother again, but she had felt like a grand lady, granting boons upon the struggling poor. She herself had nodded agreement when the Mattison twins had managed to get up the courage to ask her to allow them to wade.
What happened next was engraved in her memory. The five-year-old girls had been hesitant at first, holding up the skirts of their pinafores to dip bare toes in the water. Before Gen knew what they were about, they had wiggled out of their dresses entirely and waded into water over their waists. Even as she stood to warn them to return to shore, one of them, she thought it was Daisy, slipped and went under. The other sister, Maisy, splashed deeper after her and disappeared as well. Allison cried out in terror, and Geoffrey, for once in his life, stood frozen in shock.
Gen remembered running to the edge of the pond, hands wringing, legs trembling in fear, the other children rising and crying out around her. She had never so much as waded in the pond, let alone gone swimming. She had no idea how deep the water might be, how far the girls might have sunk. She
remembered shouting their names, but no red head bobbed into sight to answer. She was bending to untie her own boots when someone darted past her and with a mighty splash, Alan Pentercast made a running dive into the pond.
She had no idea where he had come from, but she couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see anyone. With strokes that seemed powerful and sure to her, he plowed into the pond, caught his breath, and dove under. She counted the seconds with her own breath held tightly in a shaking chest. She hadn’t even reached four before he surged up, a twin under each arm. Several kicks got him to shallow water where he could stand. He strode ashore and dropped the coughing, spitting five-year-olds onto the damp grass.
She remembered breathing something reverent about his rescue, but he only stood looking down at the children, his sodden clothes clinging to his body. He wiped away a drip of water from his nose with the back of his hand. His dark eyes met hers, and for a second, she thought he was as frightened as she was. Then Geoffrey galloped up to his side and caught him in a bear hug.
“That was famous, Alan! You saved their lives.”
Daisy began to whimper, and Gen crouched to take each of the girls into her arms. They trembled against her, both trying to climb into her lap at the same time. She sat down heavily and they cuddled against her chest.
“I’ll fetch Mother,” Allison cried, dashing back toward the Abbey.
Alan shrugged off his brother’s grip and knelt beside Gen.
“Are they all right?” he murmured, not meeting her eyes.
“They’re just scared,” she assured him as if she were the older one and knew all about children. “But Geoffrey’s right; they’d have been dead but for you.”
She thought she saw him swallow, but he rose quickly. “It was nothing. I’d better go find dry clothes or Father will have a fit. Come on, Geoff.” Before she could thank him, he was beyond the trees.
Remembering now, she shook her head. Every villager had sang his praises that day. All these years, she had thought he deserved them. But what she thought had been humility had surely just been arrogance. Look at the way he had handed her the bird this morning, with that insufferable smile on his face.
She shuddered. What a pity. One more of her heroes proven untrue. She knew if she stopped to remember the other hero who had fallen, she wouldn’t sleep at all that night. She told her mind firmly to be silent, plumped her pillows, and put her head back down to sleep.
Her mother woke her early the next morning, passing quietly into her bedroom to open the shades on a grey winter day. “Good morning, Genevieve. I’m sorry to wake you so early, but I’ll be needing your assistance today with the boxes.”
Gen nearly groaned aloud. How could she have forgotten the old tradition of giving the servants presents on the Feast of St. Stephen? She had yet to tell any of them except Chimes about their predicament—that would mean there would be, good heavens, two grooms, a coachman, a stable boy, three maids, the two men who assisted Chimes as footmen during dinner parties, a gardener, her mother’s abigail Bryce, and Mrs. Chimes each expecting a box of gifts today.
Her father had been known to encourage the most elaborate of gifts. Once he had given Chimes an entire case of French champagne. Another time he hired an acrobatic troupe to perform. And last Boxing Day, each of their servants in town had been given boxes with twelve different gifts, one for each day of Christmas. She remembered how long it had taken the family to wrap and pack them. The potential cost stunned her, and she sank back upon the bed, wondering how she could possibly explain the problem to her mother.
“You needn’t look so daunted,” her mother murmured with a small smile. “Allison will help too, and I believe we can even prevail upon Mrs. Chimes to assist with the lesser servants. Of course, there are the pensioners on the old estate as well. I thought since we were home again, we shouldn’t forget them.”
Gen stared at her. “But…but Mother, surely they are the Pentercasts’ concern.”
Her mother’s mouth tightened. “I’ve never known the Pentercasts to be overly generous. Your father frequently had to make up for their lack of hospitality. Honestly, Genevieve, I do not know what has gotten into you lately. You were never afraid to put forth little effort for those under our care.”
Gen closed her eyes, thinking of all the work she and Mr. Carstairs had done to keep their family together the last six months. “It isn’t the work, Mother. I’m just concerned that it might be a little expensive.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “It seems a bit selfish, my dear, to count the cost of thanking those who have given good service. I will leave you to think on that. When you are dressed, please join us in the music room. I believe there’s space there to spread out all the boxes.”
“But surely, Mother,” Gen persisted, desperate, “we don’t have the items here to put in the boxes. You’ve complained any number of times that Wenwood doesn’t even have a market.”
“I do not complain,” her mother said with a sniff as she turned toward the door. “However, as to the notable lack of shopping facilities in the village, I took care of that before we left London. We have everything we need downstairs.”
Gen felt her heart constrict: another set of bills that Carstairs didn’t know about. She was afraid to even ask what her mother had bought. She scurried to the wardrobe, threw off her nightgown, and slid into her lavender kerseymere gown, not even waiting for Bryce’s help. Whipping her thick hair up into a bun at the top of her head, she dashed down the corridor to the music room.
She paused in the door, her worse nightmares confirmed. Spread out on the slate floor, the oriental carpet in the center, the bench in front of the spinet, and the window seats of the two multi-paned windows overlooking the drive were various knickknacks, gewgaws, and tidbits designed to bring a smile to the most overworked, brow-beaten of servants. Her mother was obviously trying to surpass last year’s generosity.
Allison was untangling a batch of beaded necklaces. Her mother was perched on the sofa opposite the spinet, sorting through various brightly colored mufflers and gloves. Before Gen could protest, Chimes tapped her on the shoulder, taking her arm as she turned, and leading her back into the corridor.
“Don’t you fret, miss,” he said with a wink. “I have it all figured. We let them pack the boxes and convince them to let me deliver them. Then I just return them to the kitchen, and back they go to London to be sold for a profit.”
Gen took a deep breath, relaxing. “A wise plan, Chimes. Thank you.” Squaring her shoulders, she went back into the room. Chimes, whistling through his wide-spaced front teeth, came in behind her, ostensibly to bring in the pile of ornamental packages in which the gifts were to be boxed.
“Ah, there you are, Chimes,” her mother said, rising. “I’d like to you assemble the staff at ten this morning to receive their gifts.”
Chimes and Gen exchanged glances. “As you wish, madam,” he said, “though I was hoping to be able to hand out the boxes at dinner this evening.”
She frowned. “That is far too late in the day. They will think we have forgotten them. No, it must be ten. Then they can take the rest of the day off. All except John Coachman, of course. Have him bring around the carriage so that I can go visiting the pensioners.”
“Sorry, madam, but the carriage wheel looked wobbly when you came in and I took the liberty of having Joe Blacksmith in the village look it over. Wouldn’t want an accident, now would we?”
Her frown deepened, and she shot Genevieve a dark look. Gen tried not to squirm.
“Chimes,” her mother said, “I believe you’re being difficult. I will deliver these boxes today, this morning, with or without your assistance. And if it is without your assistance, I think it safe to say that you may be getting a box from a different employer next Boxing Day.”
Chimes coughed, not bothering to hide his own squirming. “Yes, madam.”
Gen wracked her brain for some other way to stop her mother. Why, even if Alan lost his wage
r, she wouldn’t be able to pay for these trinkets for months. The Munroe diamonds came to mind again, but she bit her lip in determination. Surely she and Allison deserved something of their family inheritance! There had to be some other answer.
Someone rapped sharply on the front door, the sound echoing through the halls. Chimes excused himself to go answer it. A moment later, he ushered Alan Pentercast into the room.
Gen bridled immediately, looking to see what he carried. His hands, covered in black leather gloves, were empty. He tipped his high-crowned beaver to her mother and Allison before allowing Chimes to take it and his many-caped greatcoat. Then he offered her a bow. She nodded in return, earning a warning frown from her mother for her lack of enthusiasm.
“Good morning, Squire,” her mother murmured. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“I’m sorry to intrude so early, ladies,” he replied, crossing to her side and pointedly ignoring the dark looks Gen cast him. “But I came to ask your assistance, Mrs. Munroe. I can see you were prepared for Boxing Day, but I’m afraid to admit that my mother is all at sixes and sevens. She has a few gifts put aside, but somehow the things she ordered from London never arrived. To make matters worse, Geoffrey has gone off on some fool’s errand, leaving Mother to deal with the packing all by herself. I know you’ve dealt with Boxing Day for many years, with far more servants to reward than we have. I was hoping to prevail upon you to share your skills in our time of need.”
Her mother positively glowed, inclining her head regally at his request. “But of course, Mr. Pentercast. I’m sure we can contrive something.”
“Madam, you are too gracious. What I’d like to do, with your concurrence, of course, is to move the entire affair to the Manor, where we have all the room we need, as I’m sure you’re well aware. Combining what you have here with what my mother has been able to squirrel away should give us more than enough to reward all our staffs adequately.”
Gen narrowed her eyes at his audacity and her mother’s duplicity. Couldn’t she see what the man was trying to do? “There is, of course, a matter of funds, Mr. Pentercast,” she put in firmly. “These trinkets cost my family a pretty penny.”
