The Young Pretender

by Sheila Simonson

  Perhaps Cecilia would like a figurine. And Mary Wharton. And Amy Falk, the colonel's half-Spanish daughter. Amy had come to Fanny's sickroom whenever the Falks were in London. And servants. Cook and Agnew, and the abigail, Hopkins. The others hadn't known Fanny, but Mrs. Smollet had welcomed all the sisters when they arrived at the dower house for the first time. She surely ought to have a memento of Fanny's life. Jean set a figurine aside for the Brecon housekeeper. That left ten, a manageable number.

  Hugh Fremont drove over the next day but didn't offer to take Jean for a ride. He said the roads were full of potholes. That meant he had to conduct his courtship in full critical view of five interested females--in addition to Jean.

  He carried it off well, she thought. He teased Georgy to play the newly installed harpsichord for him, and listened to Caro's plans for the bridetrip to Paris, now postponed until summer, admired Miss Mackey's needlework, sympathized with Alice's aches and pains, and spoke seriously with Miss Bluestone of the need for church-run schools for the poor. All in the space of an hour. And he left before his presence became a burden.

  As Jean saw him to the door, he pressed a small neatly wrapped box into her hand. "Happy Christmas, my lady. A token merely."

  She thought she could trust his discretion but felt uncomfortable taking the gift box. At least it was large enough not to contain a ring. And she had nothing for him, having fled London with few thoughts of Christmas on her mind and certainly no thought of Hugh Fremont.

  He was telling her he could not return until after Boxing Day.

  "It's kind of you to come today with so many claims on your time, Hugh. Please give your family my regards."

  He bit his lip. "Have you--"

  "No. I haven't decided. I've yet to hear from Liz. Happy Christmas, Hugh."

  He took her firmness with good grace.

  7.

  The next day passed without incident. Most of the snow had disappeared. The lake bed looked dreary. The sky lowered. Jean hung about the kitchen, watching the pre-Christmas baking until Cook became restive. It was not the right time to ask her for bread-baking lessons. A large parcel came from Elizabeth but not an answer to Jean's plea for advice. It was too soon. Fanny's figurines sat in their box on Jean's dresser and reproached her silently.

  Being in the dower house made her homesick for Maggie, but not for Maggie, the mother of three. For Maggie her twin, her best friend, her confidante. And for her little sister, Fanny.

  Jean started to write something of her mood in her journal, but she had tried to keep the daybook from becoming an organ of complaint. So she turned outward and writ what she observed. The glint of returning water in what had been the lake. Stark branches against the sky. The birds. Voices. Agnew belowstairs rumbling. Jem outside, shouting something at a passing groom. Upstairs, Georgy's voice fluted, Caro purred, Alice tweedled like a bagpipe. And Miss Bluestone? Her voice was as a clarion sounded from a distance, Jean thought, suppressing laughter at the metaphor.

  A call to duty. She went downstairs at the governess's beck to help remove Elizabeth's gifts from the sturdy box they had come in. They enhanced the meagre display laid out on one of the occasional tables. No one else, it seemed, had had time to think of gift-giving either.

  Jean's most startling yuletide present came, unwrapped, the next day, Christmas Eve. The first warning was Agnew's rumble downstairs. It was afternoon by then, and Jean had been writing in her journal again. She thought she heard her name below. She set her quill in the standish and made for the stairs. An altercation in the foyer? Surely not.

  When she reached the landing all she could see was Agnew's thick form blocking the front door, which was open a crack. She heard a male voice she did not know.

  "Did you call for me, Agnew?"

  "Certainly not, my lady!" His indignation was heart-felt. Had he wanted her, he would have come upstairs, rapped on the door of her bedchamber, and awaited her pleasure--or sent one of the maids as a messenger.

  "I thought I heard my name."

  "This...person claims he has something for you."

  She trotted down the remaining steps, agog with curiosity. Had Hugh sent her some appalling gift she would have to refuse? A diamond bracelet? An orange tree from his father's conservatory? A spotted pony?

  Agnew opened the door with obvious reluctance. The "something" was a huge segment of log. The men on the porch--two grooms from the Brecon stables--had manhandled the chunk of oak to the door from the waggon waiting on the gravel of the drive. They stood there, red-faced with exertion, and grinned. The older man whipped off his cap.

  "Ar, Lady Jean, Mr. Sholto's compliments. I was to say this yur is a yule log, see. 'Tis a challenge to ye. If ye light it Christmas morn your own self 'twill burn till New Year. So he says." Both men chuckled.

  Agnew huffed behind her.

  Jean was torn between indignation and amusement. Amusement won out. "Well then, pray convey it to the sitting room hearth."

  "Lady Jean!" Agnew in agony. Not only was the log monstrous, the men had brought it to the front entry.

  She closed her ears to his pleas.

  When the grooms had been rewarded for their efforts with tankards of ale and a shilling each, they left, still grinning. Apart from the log itself, the only traces of their passage were mud on the tiles and the odd twig. Agnew, ostentatiously silent, directed the parlour-maid, Dawson, to clean the foyer.

  Jean returned to the sitting room, looked at the log, and thought about the steward's challenge. It was a problem of engineering. She wished she could consult Clanross. He knew about cranes and levers.

  "You built the fire on this hearth!"

  Jean blinked. "Heavens, Agnew, you sound as if I committed a crime. I thought I ought to know how to build a fire."

  "And young Sholto caught you at it."

  "He saw my light and fancied you were here, so he came in and, yes, caught me red-handed. He was, er, amused." She gave the butler stare for stare. He had puffed up his wattles. She wondered whether he was appalled by her fire-starting or by the fact that she had been alone in the house with an unmarried man for ten or fifteen whole minutes.

  "Advise me, Agnew. I daresay it will take some ingenuity to get this great chunk of wood burning. Shall I place it on the grate or on bare stone?"

  "You can't--"

  "Oh, I must."

  He closed his eyes.

  "You'll have to let this fire die out tonight, of course. Don't fret. I'll rise betimes and have the log burning well before breakfast."

  There were moments when being the adult daughter of an earl was a great advantage. Agnew would comply. And he would consider it beneath his dignity to reproach her.

  Nevertheless, when Jean retired for the night she was still puzzled as to how she was going to ignite the yule log. That was despite a great deal of advice, and no little hilarity, at dinner. By then everyone knew of her crime. Even Alice was amused. Once Miss Bluestone stopped laughing, however, she turned thoughtful. Several times she looked as if she wanted to say something, but she did not.

  Jean surprised herself by waking very early on Christmas Day. She splashed cold water on her face and dressed in her traveling gown as being the garment least likely to show soot. She made her way downstairs by candlelight.

  The log bulked even larger than when it had come. The bole of the tree had been so wide the log's diameter was almost as great as its width. It would fit in the fireplace--just. Jean tugged at it. It scarcely moved. She would need help. Her heart sank. Not Agnew.

  "Me lady--"

  "Ah, Dawson." The parlour-maid. Jean regarded the sleepy-eyed woman who was new to the household since Jean had last lived at the dower house. Dawson did not look as if she could lift heavy objects.

  "Please, me lady, Mr. Agnew told me to sweep the hearth clean this morning. Afore breakfast."

  Jean had not considered the problem of last night's ashes. "Thank you, Dawson. I'll bring tea for both of us." Jean whisked down to the kitchen
and found Cook already in the throes of creation.

  After polite holiday wishes, that melancholy artiste directed the kitchen-maid, Polly, to take tea to the sitting room. Jean scooted back up the stairs before her luck changed.

  Dawson was efficient. She had already cleared out the remains of last night's fire and was removing specks of ash from the hearth with a duster.

  Jean complimented her and assured her that tea was coming. "D'ye think the two of us could heave that monster onto the grate?" Jean had already decided on her course of action. A fire needed air. That had to be why grates existed. The poker might serve as a lever.

  "I dunno, me lady. 'Tis mortal heavy."

  "Perhaps we could tip the grate and roll the log onto it."

  "We could try."

  So they tried. Jean wriggled the poker beneath the log and it moved a bit. They tipped the grate forward and it rolled back with a clank. "Prop it?"

  "Hmmm." Dawson vanished, ash bucket in hand, to search for props.

  Polly brought tea on a silver tray and stood gawking. "Please, me lady, may I help too?"

  "Let's ask Dawson."

  When the parlour-maid reappeared with a pail filled with branches of wood and sticks of kindling, she condescended to allow Polly to assist.

  Eventually, Jean and her handmaidens succeeded in tipping the grate and propping it. All three pushing together, they rolled the yule log onto the iron cross-bars. Whilst Jean held it in place with the poker, the two maids tugged the props away, and the log settled onto the grate with a satisfying thunk. All three of them crowed their delight and drank a cup of tea. As they sipped, Jean asked the maids' advice.

  Polly said, "Ye'll need the bellows surely."

  Jean looked about vaguely.

  "There's only the ones in the kitchen and upstairs. Flood took t'others." She stacked the saucers and cups on the tray. "Cook will eat me, but I'll bring the bellows."

  Jean thanked her.

  Dawson paced in front of the hearth and brooded. At last she said, "'Twould burn sooner if ye built a coal fire beneath it."

  "Ah, but that would be cheating."

  Dawson stared.

  "I shall make a wood fire." Jean gave her a rueful smile. "That's the only kind I can build."

  So she did. When Dawson had adjusted the damper, Jean made two fires of kindling and small branches of wood at either end of the yule log, and she used the bellows prodigally to keep them going. The wood must have been well-seasoned. The log began to smoulder.

  By the time the girls and Miss Bluestone came down for breakfast, Jean had built a small fire at the log's centre as well and was confident that she had won the challenge, though she would have to spend the whole holiday ensuring that the flames did not go out.

  * * * *

  Mr. Tidmarsh conducted his Christmas service at eleven o'clock in the morning. His predecessor, Jean recalled, had preferred a short carol service at midnight, as he didn't really approve of Christmas. The vicar clearly enjoyed the holiday, and the church was almost full for once. He walked back with the ladies through the crisp air. Christmas dinner, like Easter dinner, was served at midday in the dower house.

  Cook had outdone herself and was reputed to be resting in her darkened room.

  Polly assisted Agnew, who carved the goose--Mr. Tidmarsh declined the honour. Conversation was pleasant and general. Mr. Tidmarsh had been as surprised as Jean by the number of parishioners in the church. Earl's Brecon was not, he said without rancour, a pious community. Or perhaps the Methodist chapel near the inn had captured the pious.

  Jean offered her opinion that his efforts to help the flood refugees had probably drawn people to the Christmas service out of gratitude. "I believe Mr. Sholto was of some help to you in your efforts."

  "Help! He sent food, wood, and sea-coal, and he organized everything, in spite of his injury. I was grateful to him."

  Jean digested that as she chewed. "We invited him to join us today, so you wouldn't be the only man in a household of women."

  He smiled. "I don't object to that, Lady Jean. It's a pleasure. But Sandy couldn't have come. It's the day of his housekeeper's solo turn. She would never forgive him if he absented himself."

  "Solo turn?"

  He laughed. "When he took the cottage, he hired Nancy Witty to keep house for him, and everyone was delighted that she'd found well-paying work. She is a widow with two boys to feed and was having a hard time of it."

  Jean buttered bread. "D'ye mean to say she had no experience?"

  "She was a kitchen maid at Brecon before her marriage. Wed one of the Brecon grooms. However, he died young."

  "I see."

  "They got on very well, Nancy and Sholto, but she told him she aspired to be a cook, and he wasn't giving her scope to ply her art. He takes his meals at Brecon or one of the manors half the time, because he moves about the estate. It isn't always convenient for him to return to the village for dinner. He hit upon these occasional feasts as compensation. Christmas and Easter and so on." He chuckled. "Hogmanay too, I believe, or perhaps it's Robert Burns's birthday. He tells her to order up a joint or a goose or a leg of mutton and invites the neighbours in."

  "Neighbours? Mr. Robert and the Moores?"

  "No, no. The cottagers. Some of them are Brecon pensioners, but most are just labourers' families. Sholto's cottage is small, so they take turns dining in high style. I understand the feasts are jolly occasions, though I've never been invited myself. I dine with Sholto sometimes, but it's usually just the two of us with parish business to discuss."

  "Is he a deacon?"

  "Alas, no. He makes an appearance at Easter and Christmas--and the odd funeral or wedding--but he's not a churchman. However, most of the people in the parish either work at Brecon or hire cottages belonging to the earl or do both, so a problem for the parish is often also a problem for the estate."

  "As the flood was."

  "Indeed." He sawed at a piece of goose. "Now Robert Moore is a deacon. Reads the lesson splendidly." And he was off on a happy account of the Moores' involvement in church affairs.

  Jean thought about Mr. Sholto's ambitious housekeeper and his odd choice of Christmas guests. Mr. Tidmarsh talked on. She thought of the yule log, which would probably go out whilst they ate, and of Fanny's figurines upstairs reproaching her for her inaction.

  Mr. Tidmarsh and Alice were discussing the problem of "outdoor relief" of the poor, which was a burden on every rural parish, especially in winter. Some politicians were proposing workhouses. That sounded appalling to Jean. An idea came to her out of nowhere. The figurines.

  She had been listening to Caro complain about Mr. Barnet's absence from the feast--like Hugh, he had family obligations over the next days--but as they waited for Cook's pudding Jean was able to turn back to Mr. Tidmarsh.

  He smiled at her and brushed his lips with his napkin.

  "May I speak with you after dinner?"

  The smile faded. "To be sure, Lady Jean. If I may be of consolation to you--"

  "It's not that. Just a question."

  He looked relieved. "Certainly. Ah, here it comes."

  And the flaming pudding appeared followed by Cook looking martyred but satisfied. She received everyone's congratulations on a splendid meal and left Polly and Agnew to clear away.

  Mr. Tidmarsh did not indulge in a long glass of port after the heavy dinner. Jean put the bellows to the yule log--in the nick of time--and dashed upstairs as soon as the fire was once again brisk. When she returned with the box of ten porcelain figurines, he had already rejoined the ladies.

  Everyone looked at her. "Fanny's gewgaws," Georgy muttered.

  Jean set the box on an end table. "Yes." She explained the collection's significance to the vicar. "So there are ten left, and they're rather valuable. I cannot sell or pawn them myself."

  Mr. Tidmarsh made a shocked sound, as well he might. Ladies did not enter commercial banks or, God forbid, pawnshops.

  "But I thought perhaps you could,
sir, and you would then have a small reserve of money to help people in need. Fanny would like that."

  He expressed polite approbation and agreed to accept the figurines, though Jean could see he was less than eager. However, he could hardly argue there was no need, not with some flood victims still wanting adequate food and shelter. When she offered to have Jem take the box to the vicarage, he looked relieved. Perhaps he had baulked at carrying it so far.

  Her fire was dying, so Jean added kindling and applied the bellows. Georgy agreed to play for them on the harpsichord. Presently Mr. Tidmarsh left to prepare for evensong. The ladies bade him farewell from the porch.

  "An excellent solution, Jean." Miss Bluestone gestured to the box of figurines on the foyer table. "And now, ladies, it is time for the Christmas vails." They retired to the sitting room and called the servants in.

  That morning Jean had added small gifts of money for Dawson and Polly--for their help with the yule log--to the usual sum Miss Bluestone budgeted. She thought they were pleased, but she was also aware that her gift had placed a distance between her and the maids that had not been there when they worked together to start the fire. As the servants went back to their quarters, she called Jem aside and gave him a shilling to carry the figurines to Mr. Tidmarsh on Boxing Day. Jem's pleasure in the coin was uncomplicated by questions of distance.

  That evening, she writ a long entry in her journal about the nature of charity. It was, according to Paul, the greatest of the three injunctions: faith, hope, and charity, and the greatest was charity. She knew that the original wording had meant something more like love, but not of the sexual or parental kind. Bonhomie? Good will? Generosity?

  She had always tried to be generous. It behooved anyone with wealth to give. She gave alms freely. She lent money to friends who could not pay it back. She subscribed to every charitable cause she considered reasonable and thought nothing of it. Perhaps that was the problem. Not thinking.

  Her pen faltered as her mind drifted. The fire. She would have to go down again and check the fire to be sure it was still burning, that it would be burning in the morning. Was that what he wanted to teach her? She didn't doubt there was a lesson somewhere in his challenge.