“The night of mischief and misrule? I’m not sure that is a good omen, Your Grace. But you do reassure me that you are the man we all believe you to be. I do thank ye kindly for taking the time to humor an’ old man.”
It seemed that the villagers were now ready to make their way home, having fed at his table while talking over his affairs. Sebastian stood and walked the venerable old man to the door, and watched as Evans solemnly helped him into his ragged cloak. Sebastian shook the headman’s hand, and watched as he went carefully down the steps.
One by one the villagers left the castle. He made sure to have a word for each of them. When the last family made their way out into the weak, later afternoon sunlight, he turned to Evans with relief. “Perhaps my father was right in saying that it did no good to become too familiar with the locals.”
“I would not presume to criticize, Your Grace. Your father had his own way of doing things. But if you will pardon advice from another old man, I do not think your way is bad. You have your people’s loyalty. In a crisis, that could mean everything.”
“Perhaps you are right, Evans. And I might need it before this winter is over. Still, there are times . . .”
“All things have their difficulties, Your Grace. Perhaps you would like a quiet cup of tea by the fire? Mr. Gardener has taken the boys to see the new colt, so you could have a few minutes to yourself.”
“Evans, thank you. I would be most grateful.”
Chapter 22
After Sebastian closed the door, Lillian leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes wearily. She should take off her walking dress and put on a wrapper so she could lie down. But somehow, she lacked the ambition to even stand up from the chair.
The blisters on her forehead stung, and her head ached from lack of sleep. Her throat felt scratchy and a bit raw. To compound her misery, a lump rose in her throat and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to hold back, but the tears were followed by a hiccupping sob that threatened to rip her apart.
What a dear, dear wonderful man. So kind, so attentive and so thoughtful. How can anything good possibly come of this? As soon as the banns would be posted, someone in London would see and know who she was. Changing her last name was a thin disguise. She was sure to be found out.
More tears followed the first two. Lillian leaned the good side of her face against the wing of the chair and sobbed in great, wracking shudders that shook her whole frame. Her despair was monumental, insurmountable. Why, why should this be happening?
For a miracle, no one came to see why she was making such hideous noises or to see her red eyes, pink nose or the splotches on her cheeks. After a time she was completely cried out. Her head ached, her nose was swollen and stuffy. Blowing it seemed to make it worse.
She rose, went to the small stand beside the hearth and poured cold water from the ewer into the basin, then splashed some on her face. It stung the raw skin where she had burned herself, but she felt a little better for it. That gave her an idea.
She went to the balcony and scooped some snow off the railing, wrapping it into her handkerchief. Retreating to her room and closing the balcony door, she sat down by the fire, and held the snowball to the bridge of her nose. It promptly began to melt, and the cold water ran down her face, but it relieved the swelling in her ravaged tissues. She wrung out her handkerchief over one corner of the fireplace. The water hissed and steamed in the ashes. She mopped the front of her dress with the soggy handkerchief, to no avail. She gave it up as a bad job and finally stood, went to her bed and slipped out of the dress. She hung it over the rail at the foot of the bed, took her wrapper from its peg, and pulled it on over her petticoats.
Lillian then lifted the covers and climbed into the soft depths of feather mattress and eiderdown comforter. Her thoughts were blissfully blank. In fact, she felt more than a little numb. Curled into a ball in the luxurious bed, she held onto this little space of peace. Tomorrow. Tomorrow has to be better than this.
Her eyes drifted shut, and sleep claimed her.
Chapter 23
Lillian awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the window, and Martha Louisa bustling about the hearth.
“There you are, Miss Doyle. I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake. Slept right through supper, you did. You must be ravenous.”
“I am hungry,” Lillian said, swinging her feet out of bed and searching for her slippers.
“I’ve brought your breakfast in here. The boys have gone with Lord Sebastian to help cut the green boughs. They were too young last year, and had caught the croup besides, so they are that excited to take part. You’ll want to get your strength up and have your wits about you for they’ll be as wild as the wind on the hills when they come back.”
“Thank you, Martha Louisa. I fear I must be a great trial to you.”
“Nonsense. Since you’ve come, the mice are out of the closet so’s I’m not forever cleaning mouse droppings off clothes and I have whole hours to mend without interruption. I can tell you, I’d far rather mend their clothes than chase after those two young gentlemen.”
Lillian gave a weak little laugh. “They are lively, I must admit. They certainly don’t leave one any time to brood.”
“That they do not. Now, then, Miss Doyle, let me look at your face. There, it is already beginning to scab over. Just let me put some of this good burn ointment on it, and when you’ve had your tea, I’ll do up your hair.”
With Martha Louisa’s help, Lillian was fed, dressed, her hair done up, and her burn dressed again just in time for the party that had gone to the wood to bring back the green boughs came into the stable yard.
There was a great log that would fit from one side of the hearth in the big dining hall to the other, and several small logs and branches that were unloaded into the big wood box in one corner of the hall. Luke carefully cradled a branch of mistletoe, taking great care not to knock the berries off it. Bright branches of holly were brought in. Several of the maids were running back and forth from the attics and storage closets, bringing out red holiday streamers. Some were new, but others clearly had been woven many years before because their colors had faded.
Mrs. Blanchard was directing everyone here, there and everywhere. Clearly, this was not a day for lessons, even though it was a Monday.
“Oh, there you are!” Mrs. Blanchard exclaimed. “You are just the person I need! You have a fine hand with tying bows. I have several yards of red ribbon. We need a bow tied to a small bouquet of holly, rosemary, and hellebore for each family in the village. Ordinarily, we’d make one for each person, but we are too short on supplies to make enough for everyone.”
From somewhere, gold and silver paper was produced, then the school children from the village came marching in with the school master, Mistress Melody, the parson and his wife.
Some of the footmen immediately began helping the parson’s wife select greenery for the chapel. The girls and younger children were seated at the long dining table and set to work carefully snipping and shaping the bright paper into stars and snowflakes.
Lillian found herself seated near one end of the table with two of the older girls from the village. One was a buxom blond with dimples and a ready smile, the other was a slender girl with dark hair that she wore in two long braids. She seemed to look right past Lillian. With a start, Lillian realized the child was blind.
“Hello,” Lillian said, “I’m Miss Doyle.”
“We know,” said the blond, “I’m Amelia, and this is Hester. Hester had measles real bad two years back. I’ve been her eyes ever since.”
“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Lillian said.
“Mrs. Blanchard has set us to making bundles of greens,” Hester explained. “I am making the holders.” She held up a wooden hook and a ball of string, both of which seemed to be attached to a cone that was rapidly growing large under her fingers.”
“That is amazing!” Lillian exclaimed. “How do you do that so fast?”
H
ester shrugged. “At first I was angry, and then very sad. But you can only stay mad at the world so long, and it gets really boring with nothing to do. My mother taught me how to do it. She learned it from a French maid when she was in service. These little cones are easy because they just go around and around, and I only have to count a little. Lace is harder because I have to memorize the stitches and not make mistakes.”
“Oh, my. How very clever of your mother and of you.”
“Mother says that I will need a trade because I’ll not be able to go into service.”
“And I’ll go with her,” Amelia bounced a little on her chair, “Because she will need someone to watch her shop and make sure that people do not cheat her.”
“I see,” Lillian hid a smile. “It is good that she has a friend such as you.”
“Oh, we are sisters,” Amelia said. “I look like our father and Hester looks more like our mother.”
“That’s interesting,” Lillian said. “But what happens if one of you marry?”
“Why, he’ll just have to take both of us and work in the shop, too. Maybe by and by, there will be one husband for us each.”
Understanding dawned then. Amelia had not meant to imply bigamy, but that the sisters were not to be separated. Lillian wondered if this loyalty would last when the girls were older. It made her feel a little lonely for her own sister, even though they had never been as close as these two seemed to be. Would she ever see her again?
In short order, Amelia showed Lillian how to place the holly at the back of the bouquet, add a sprig of rosemary and a sprig of bay, then to place hellebore – the Christmas rose -- in front of everything. The ends were tucked into one of the bags that Hester was making, and Lillian was then to tie a neat bow around it as a final decoration and to keep everything together.
Before long, they were joined by other girls. They chattered, giggled, told stories and jokes while they worked. Lillian found it impossible to brood over her conundrum in the merry company, and soon found herself laughing at the jokes and the foolish stories – mostly mishaps caused by their brothers. It was a strong contrast to her own lonely childhood and the quiet years she had spent as Charles’s wife.
A pair of serving maids came by and delivered trays of little tarts, accompanied by cups and a large carafe of what turned out to be mint tea.
In what seemed like a short while in such lively company they had a mound of beautiful floral arrangements that smelled heavenly. All over the hall, the greens were going up on mantles and pegs that Lillian had not noticed before.
As the light from the windows began to fade, village parents began to come into the hall, having completed their work at home. They gathered up children, and each family took one of the arrangements.
The hall rang with cheery good wishes as it slowly emptied until only those who lived in the castle remained. One of the pretty arrangements graced the center of the long table. Pots of rosemary, wound with tiny glass beads, stood like little soldiers marching away from the centerpiece. The Yule Log lay ready beside the fireplace, where the fire was now dying down in preparation for cleaning it out so that the Christmas fire could be laid.
Sebastian came to her and sat down beside her. “Did you have a pleasant day?”
“Wonderful. I cannot recall when I have ever had such a good time.”
“Will you be content with a quiet supper in the schoolroom tonight? The staff will be very busy down here, putting the finishing touches on everything.”
“With you and the boys?”
“Yes, with me and the boys.”
“Then it will be perfect. Speaking of the boys, where are they?”
“Setting up a surprise table for us with Martha Louisa’s help. You aren’t supposed to know anything about it, so be sure to act surprised.”
“If you tell me nothing further, then I shall be,” Lillian said tartly.
Sebastian grinned at her, unrepentant. “I want to be sure that you do not spoil it by deciding to go to bed with a sick headache or some other feminine excuse.”
“Oh.” Lillian stared at him for a moment, then she laughed. “Very well. Point taken. I shall contrive to be very surprised at whatever they have planned.”
“That is all I ask,” Sebastian said. “Well, almost all, for tonight anyway.” He reached across the table, laying his hand, palm up, in invitation.”
Lillian placed her hand in his, and smiled. His hand was warm, a little calloused from sword practice and riding horses. When he closed it about hers, his grip was firm but gentle, as if he were cradling a kitten. Lillian gently squeezed back.
This is so delightful. How much can be conveyed while just holding hands. We can have Christmas. Surely, we can at least have Christmas.
Chapter 24
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. Lillian could see mounds of snow on her windowsill. It sparkled in the sunlight, brighter even than the silver and gold paper ornaments the village children had made.
She stretched and smiled. The boys’ surprise for them the night before had been a carved chess set. After their simple repast of sliced ham, crusty quick bread, and stewed apples, the boys had quietly gone to their room – supposedly to go to bed. This left the two of them completely alone, in a most improper manner.
They had played chess, with neither of them paying very much attention to the game. They told stories of their childhood, and sometimes just sat quietly, gazing at each other and holding hands. It was incredible.
Lillian slid out of bed and padded to the window in her stockinged feet. The snow was just as beautiful as her view of her windowsill had promised. However, the room was chilly, and she quickly began laying out her good clothes. Martha Louisa came in to help her. Down the hall, she could hear Luke and Nick’s piping voices, and occasionally Mr. Stableman’s deeper tones. The boys were up, and that meant that she needed to be up and about as well.
“Will you go to church today, Miss Doyle?” Martha Louisa asked. “Lord Sebastian was not sure, since you had a very busy day yesterday, on the heels of not feeling well.”
“Of course I will go,” Lillian affirmed, “I would not miss it.”
“One of Parson’s prosy old sermons? Even his Christmas morning choices will lull you to sleep.”
“An excellent choice then. No, it is more than that, Martha Louisa. I feel as if I have been asleep more than half my life, and am just now waking up. So everything is new.” Besides that, if I must run away, I want as many memories to keep as I possibly can manage. Sebastian will be going, and so will the boys. If I go to church with them, I will have one more time to remember.
“Well, if we are to be your wake-up today, we must make haste. Breakfast is being brought up even as we speak, and His Grace will join you to save time for everyone.”
Lillian held out her arms so that Martha Louisa could fasten the laces on her corset. “Will the staff all go, too?”
“Most of them. There’s a kitchen ‘boy’ who is nigh on four score years of age who declares he is an atheist, and the dairy maid is as fine a heathen as ever walked although you should not say so in the parson’s hearing, as well as one or two others who would rather remain by the fires here. They will keep all safe and luncheon from burning while the rest of us go to the chapel.”
“A sensible arrangement.” Lillian’s voice was muffled as her dress slid over her head. “And very enlightened,” she added as her head emerged. “There was a time that such people would have burned at the stake for being heretics.”
Martha Louisa quickly brushed out Lillian’s hair and began doing it up. “My great-grandad spoke of such times. He said it was a right misery. There are some still as would turn off staff for not ‘believing’ the right way. That’s a misery, too, when you have to watch every word. There, now. You are ready for whatever might come today.
Lillian found her charges in the schoolroom, heads bent over a slate and a piece of parchment.
“You are very early for working on yo
ur lessons. Are you being industrious in the hope of more gifts on Twelfth Night?”
“No, that’s not it,” Luke said.
“We are trying to make a gift for Seb,” Nick added. “We are writing a verse for him.
“In Latin,” Luke looked at her round-eyed with innocence. “But we are having some trouble with the verbs.”
Lillian surveyed the pile of copybooks and Latin texts. “Write the poem, then we will fix the grammar. It is easier to fix something that you have than to search for words for something that isn’t started. If you can’t think of the right word for what you want to say, write it in English and we will look for the correct word.”
“Thank you!” Nick shouted.
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