Lillian smiled to herself as she arranged several small packages in the children’s boots where they were set in the hall. She had little to give, so she had composed a short doggerel verse for each, written in both Latin and English. There were two oblong boxes that contained pocketknives engraved with the boys’ names. Sebastian had sent to Sheffield for them. Accompanying the knives were several small blocks of wood suitable for carving. Her smile threatened to become a grin as she remembered the jointed wooden snake that had more or less begun their acquaintance.
There was also a packet of sweets from Mrs. Buskin, several neatly hemmed handkerchiefs from Martha Louisa, and a treasure trove of pennies.
With the packages arranged, Lillian went into the classroom to ready the scarred old table for breakfast tea. The Duke would be joining them this morning. After breakfast, she and the boys would take a turn at the front doors to give out treats to groups of mumming children while their older brother would accompany the serving men who would take a bountiful dinner and gifts to the children in the poor house and the orphanage.
Lillian sighed. Even though Sebastian Hughes was generous in his support of both institutions, they were terrible places. Although warm, dry, and well-provisioned, there was an air of hopelessness that clung to them like a miasma. She had gone with Sebastian once, and had come away shuddering. Something should be done, she thought, but she was at a loss as to what.
If not for her happy accident of taking shelter in Old Bessie’s summer stable, she might be resident in such a place, and perhaps one not so well run as those at Parkforton.
There came a knock at the door just as the boys tumbled into the room, pushing each other and cheerfully bickering. Lillian opened the door to find the Duke waiting without, grinning widely.
“Good morning, Your Grace. Have you come to see the bundles of switches and lumps of coal in your brothers’ shoes?”
“I have,” he announced. “I see that they are well filled. Do you think we should bring them in before the length of the switches causes one of the serving maids to stumble in the hall? That would be a tragedy, indeed, for I have seen the carcasses roasting in the pits by the kitchen and they already have an aroma not unlike ambrosia of the gods.”
Lillian laughed and shook her finger at him, “Parson would be appalled at your pagan leanings, Your Grace. Are you not afraid of being a bad influence?”
“On good St. Nicholas’s day? Indeed not. He was well known for marching to his own drummer and assisting those who would otherwise have not known succor.”
Luke and Nicholas listened to this exchange patiently, but it was clear that they were nearly dancing with excitement.
“Do you think we should let these two heathens open their packages, Your Grace? They are clearly impatient.”
“Well, if they are so eager for coals and switches, so be it. Go fetch your shoes, brothers of mine.”
The two adults stood aside to let the boys rush out the door to pick up their laden footwear. They bore their loot back to the table and began making wrapping paper fly. Lillian collected the papers and string as they fell away from the packages. Some of the wrapping paper was quite old, and had been hand drawn by some ancestor or other. She set them aside for Martha Louisa to collect and put away for another year.
The boys were delighted with their knives, but said a polite thank you to Lillian for the poems. They looked longingly at the packages of sweets.
“One,” Lillian said. “Your breakfast will be up shortly, and I’ve heard that it is a special one.”
The breakfast was splendid. There were eggs and slices of bacon. Puffy scones, clotted cream, and quince jelly rounded out the offerings. The lads were even allowed to drink weak tea, something that they were not ordinarily allowed because Dr. Glenver believed that it would stunt their growth. That the tea was two-thirds milk from the castle’s own cows in no way diminished their pleasure at the treat.
Then they went downstairs to greet the mummers who came in groups and went away with little bundles of provisions that would help families last through the coming week.
The plays were clever, often featuring bad children who were chased around by St. Nicholas’s naughty helper before being rescued by the saint. But Lillian’s favorite was the last one. The village school master and Mistress Melody, the spinster who taught the dame school, had organized all the village children into one memorable event. As they passed by St. Nicholas, played by the school master, they were handed off to a lovely lady, played by the school mistress, and a crown of glittering tinfoil was placed on their heads before they were paraded past the Duke.
Clearly, Sebastian had been in on the plan, for as each decorated cherub trotted past, he handed out a packet of sweets. The youngsters were then claimed by waiting family members or caretakers and hastened off toward home, for as the last children collected their goodies, huge, fat flakes of snow sifted down out of the sky.
“Looks like we are in for a bit of falling weather,” the school master said as he shook hands with the Duke. He then shouldered a large pack of supplies for the school, and headed back toward the village.
“So lovely,” Lillian said, catching a large flake and looking at the pattern as it melted on one mitten.
“You’ll not be saying that tomorrow when everyone has to turn out to shovel the walks.”
“You don’t!” Lillian gasped.
“No, of course not,” he relented. “Only in extreme emergencies. It was done one winter in my grandfather’s time when the mill pond overflowed and we needed to get the villagers to higher ground. But the mill pond was re-dug after that and the millrace upgraded. Let’s go inside before you catch more than one beautiful snowflake.”
“Very practical,” Lillian said. “Like so many beautiful things, one snowflake is lovely, but a collective of them can be deadly. I will own that I will be glad to be back in front of the schoolroom fire.”
The Duke lingered after the boys were abed, sitting at the schoolroom fire with Lillian and Martha Louisa.
“I’ve never celebrated St. Nicholas Day,” Lillian said. “My father was very strict, and did not believe in spoiling children. What comes next?”
“A much sadder holiday,” the Duke replied. “St. Thomas Day is for the widows. If the weather turns as cold as I think it will, the footmen and I will deliver their gifts, and we will go around on the Feast of Stephen, as well. Some of them are elderly, having outlived their husbands. Most of those live with their families. But a few live alone. For some, this will be their first St. Thomas Day as widows. The war on the continent left many young women without a husband.”
“I see,” Lillian said. I could qualify as one of them. My husband is dead, but I dare not even admit that I was married. What will happen to me if Sebastian Hughes ever learns why I was really running away?
Chapter 15
St. Thomas Day dawned clear and cold. The mercury in the foyer thermometer hovered near the bottom. The thermometer outside froze and burst. Sebastian sent out word that he and a party of gift givers would travel to the widows’ homes, including those who lived with families, rather than have them come to the castle.
“It is not fit for man nor beast out today,” he declared to Miss Doyle and his brothers as he presided over their breakfast in the schoolroom. This room, at least, was toasty warm. The formal dining hall, and nearly every other room in the castle, was feeling the many drafts that swept down its generous chimneys and through the old stone walls. “But all the same, would you and the boys like to come with me to make the house visits? If I were married, my wife would accompany me, but since I am not, we must make do.”
The boys immediately set up a clamoring to go. They had been cooped up inside for so many days, they would have been eager to go to their own funerals. Miss Doyle shushed them, and they obediently lowered their voices. “Of course we will go,” she said. “Will we have a great deal to carry?”
“No, no,” Sebastian assured her. “We will tak
e the big sleigh. The kitchen and wood yard have already made up the bundles and my secretary has labeled them so we will have no trouble getting the right goods to the correct house.”
“Will you dress up like St. Nicholas?” Nick asked, bouncing in his seat like a much younger child in his excitement.
“Not today,” Sebastian said. “It is far too cold. I will want my warm hunting clothes. You will also want your warmest things, as will you, Miss Doyle.”
In short order, they were all bundled into a large sleigh. It was pulled by a pair of oxen because they were much hardier than horses. Their handler would walk with them, making sure that the team was on its best behavior.
Miss Doyle’s eyes sparkled with excitement, her cheeks pink with the cold. Sebastian was glad he had raided the attic to find an antique cloak of leather lined with woolen fleece for her. The woolen cloak she usually wore would not have been nearly warm enough. The boys wore stout jackets and matching trousers, which were stuffed into the tops of new boots. They had grown so fast this year, it was hard for the cobbler to keep up with their size changes.
We could almost be a family. This is far easier with Miss Doyle along. She has a wonderful way with the villagers. What am I thinking? She’s a governess!
Still, the thought had surfaced, and once it had arrived, it was difficult to put aside.
The first few houses were not difficult. The widows lived with family, and it was a charming sight to see Lillian Doyle and the twins giving out gifts, not only to the widow but to her family as well. One woman rarely added a huge burden to a family, but this winter created many pinched purses.
The next house was not an easy place to visit. The windows were stuffed with layers of newspaper in lieu of glass or even parchment. Pieces of thatch were missing from the roof and only a thin wisp of smoke issued from the chimney. The Widow Holcomb’s home.
Sebastian knocked at the door and was greeted by a tiny woman. Rail thin, she didn’t even stand as tall as his chest, but he knew her as a force to be reckoned with. Nearly blind with cataracts, her eyes had the strange effect of seeming to look right through one. More than once, he had been forced to have Dr. Glenver certify that she was merely blind, not casting the evil eye on someone. Although he wouldn’t put it past the old bat to do it, if she could.
“Good morning, Mrs. Holcomb,” he said politely.
“What’s good about it?” she demanded. “It’s freezing cold, the wind took the thatching off me roof last night, an’ the chimney is smokin’ so’s you’d think it had a demon sittin’ in it.”
“We’ve come to see about that,” Sebastian said gently. “I’ve thatching and firewood, and even a couple of sweeps to see to your chimney.”
“What’s it to ye?” the widow demanded. “You lot tuck my Jemmy from me. Ye pressed him inta duty, him as should of never gone bein’ my only mainstay, and ye sent him home in a coffin. Some gall ye have comin’ around here.”
“I know, Mrs. Holcomb. But that was my father’s doing, and none of mine. I can’t go back and fix it. But I can see to your roof, if you’ll let me.”
“Go on, go on. Ye’ll do it whether I say ye nay or yay. An’ Lord knows, I’m tired o’ tryin’ ta catch tha drips. Ye’ll be clompin’ around, trackin’ mud and what all before ye’re done and leavin’ a puir old woman ta clean up tha mess.”
“I am sorry about that, Mrs. Holcomb. But I’ve brought my young brothers and their governess to help with the clearing up. Cook sent a basket, as well.”
“Brought yer hussy, did ye now? When’er ye gonna grow up and get a wife? How can Parkforton go on without a master, I’d like to know.”
“Parkforton will not go masterless,” Sebastian said gently. “Luke is my heir, as I have told you before. Luke, come show your best manners to Mrs. Holcombe.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Holcombe,” Luke said. “This is my brother Nicholas. If something happens to me, he is my heir. We will take care of you.”
“Air ye shur on that, boy?” the widow’s voice quavered. “Yer granddad was supposed ta take care o’ me. Where’s he now?”
“Granddad is in the grave, Mrs. Holcomb,” Luke said soothingly. “But we are here. Miss Doyle has a lovely basket of food for you. Mrs. Buskin sent some of her special soup.”
“Did she, now?” the widow sounded somewhat welcoming for the first time. “Is it hot?”
“I think it is,” Miss Doyle said. She set the large basket she carried down just inside the door, then pulled out an earthenware jar. She took the top off it, and allowed the scent of freshly made chicken soup to waft through the stale, sour air in the cottage.
“Oh, my yes! That’s the stuff!” The widow nearly caroled with joy. “Nothing is better’n Erma Buskins soup. Her bread ain’t no better’n average, but no one makes soup like Erma.”
“Let’s make you comfortable,” Miss Doyle said, brushing cobwebs from what seemed to be the one serviceable chair. While you sit here and eat, I’ll freshen up your bed, if that is all right.”
“I reckon, missy. But don’ you lose my charms out o’ my pillow. I cain’t sleep at night ‘thout ‘em.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the governess said.
Sebastian could only admire the gentle way she coaxed the elderly woman to sit on the chair. “The boys and I will step out, and begin seeing about the roof,” he said.
“Please do,” Lillian said. “I have this well in hand.”
Mrs. Holcomb would not allow the governess to do more than wash her feet and hands, but Lillian was able to coax her into a clean nightgown, easing the filthy shift she wore from beneath it. The old woman had a rank, sour smell, and could have benefited from a good bath, but it was quite cold in the cottage. No need to cause the poor soul to catch her death from an unexpected cleaning.
Next, Lillian stripped the bed down to its rope springs, making sure to set the pillow aside. From the lumpy feel of it, the widow kept her savings in it as well as charms to help her sleep, but Lillian made no comment. Instead, with the boys help, she put down a fresh straw tick, followed up with a down feather mattress. Then they made up the bed with fresh sheets, and warm woolen blankets.
By the time Sebastian and the serving men had mended the roof and extracted the bird’s nests out of the chimney, the governess and her two charges had tucked the elderly woman into a fresh bed and had swept the filthy, used rushes into a heap. Two of the serving men hauled them out and they all helped spread fresh ones.
As they drove away, Miss Doyle asked, “Your Grace, what happened to her son?”
“A sad case,” Sebastian replied. “Ordinarily, as his mother’s only support, he would not have been pressed into service. But he was caught stealing the communion service from the chapel. It was a compromise. He could go into the army or have his hand stricken off. He chose the army – as much to get away from his mother, I fear, as anything else. I remember Jemmy. He was a nasty piece of work, but he was the apple of his mother’s eye.”
“Very sad,” Lillian agreed. “She is very frail to leave here alone.”
“I know. But she will not consent to go into the poor house. This hut is all she has left of her husband and son. The parson’s wife looks in on her when she can. I’ve tried to engage one of the village girls to look after her, but none of them last very long.”
“That is sad,” Lillian said. “Poor, lonely old soul.”
They rode in silence for a time, pausing to visit several other widows. Their welcome at the other houses was much better, especially the last.
The Widow Avery’s home had a stout door, a wood shingled roof in good repair, and a tidy stone fireplace. The rafters were hung with herbs, and a pot of something savory steeped in a hanging pot.
“Seb!” the widow greeted him. “You’ve brought the boys. And who is this lovely young woman?”
“This is Miss Lillian Doyle, the boys’ governess.”
“You’ve finally found someone who can keep track of your young hellions?”
“Miss Doyle is nice,” Nicholas announced. “We don’t mind doing what she asks us. It’s always sensible.”
“And fun,” Luke added unexpectedly, since he was usually the more responsible of the two. “She makes learning interesting, and she isn’t afraid of mice or wooden snakes.”
Widow Avery laughed. “I’m glad for you. You’ve deserved a good teacher, and it wouldn’t do for you to sit with the village school master. He does well enough for those who will only need their sums to count sheep and weigh out grain, but the two of you need more.”
“Miss Doyle,” Sebastian explained, “Widow Avery was my governess until she wed a local farmer. After that, I had one execrable tutor after another.”
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