“Oh, yes. I . . . I am sure we do,” Phoebe replied faintly. As if anyone at Mistletoe Manor needed any encouragement with that sort of thing, if their interest in the intimate relations between the master and the mistress was any indication.
Mrs. Knaggs edged closer, dropping her voice to a confidential murmur. “And I’ll wager his lordship won’t mind catching you under the mistletoe now and again, will he, my lady?” She sighed. “And such a fine, strapping man, too. Lady Merritt, if I wasn’t so happily married, I might envy you.”
“Ah, thank you,” Phoebe replied with a weak smile.
Mrs. Knaggs was as free in her opinions as the servants, which seemed unusual in a vicar’s wife. Then again, every adult Phoebe had met since arriving at Mistletoe Manor was remarkably forthright on any number of issues—often to the point of indiscretion. With the exception of the smuggling issue, unfortunately.
When they reached the orchards, Phoebe split the children into groups, one to help each groundskeeper as he gathered up the mistletoe. She watched, fascinated, as the men severed the boughs of the plant from the apple trees, which served as hosts.
“I did not realize the plant grew directly from the branches and trunks of the trees,” she said to Mrs. Knaggs.
“Oh, yes. The mistletoe plant loves apple trees. And since Kent is full of them, now you know how both the manor and the village got their names.”
“The plant depends on the tree for sustenance, just as the village and the manor are inextricably linked.” Phoebe smiled. “I like that image very much.”
The vicar’s wife gave her a thoughtful nod. “That’s always been the way, as far back as anyone can remember. And like the manor and the village, when the mistletoe is neglected it can overwhelm the tree and choke the life out of it. Then both will suffer and die.” She hesitated, looking as if she wished to say more, but closed her lips.
Phoebe reached out a quick hand and touched her arm. “I understand, and I assure you the earl does as well. Neither the plant nor the tree will be neglected any longer.”
“Mr. Knaggs and I are so relieved, my lady. We’ve seen many dark days here in the village.” The older woman blinked several times as she pulled a large white handkerchief out from her sleeve and loudly blew her nose. Then she gave Phoebe a watery smile. “You and his lordship have brought us hope, and at the best time of year, too. You can see it in the village. Our people finally have something to celebrate this Christmas.”
Phoebe glanced around. The children and the men had moved on to the next stand of trees and out of earshot. Since Mrs. Knaggs had conveniently raised the issue about the struggles of the villagers, perhaps she might finally be willing to talk about the smuggling. “Mrs. Knaggs, I wondered—”
“Here now, Becky,” Mrs. Knaggs called out loudly. “Don’t let the branches hit the ground. Put them right in the cart as soon as the men hand them to you.”
The woman gave Phoebe an apologetic grimace. “Sorry to yell, but it’s bad luck to let the boughs touch the ground once cut from the tree. I think we’d best go over and help the children.”
Phoebe tamped down her frustration and trudged with Mrs. Knaggs to the handcart, now partly stacked with mistletoe. “You do not really believe that kind of superstition, do you?”
“No, but they do,” the older woman said, gesturing to the others. “It won’t do to break with tradition, especially when it comes to the mistletoe.”
“And the mistletoe should be the last greenery out of the house after Candlemas, ain’t that right, Mrs. Knaggs?” asked one of the smaller boys as he struggled with a particularly large bough.
“Isn’t that right,” corrected Mrs. Knaggs. “And yes, Peter. The mistletoe is always the last of the greens to be burned when the celebrations are concluded.”
Phoebe eyed the rapidly filling cart. “I believe we have enough mistletoe to build a bonfire. Do we not also need to collect some holly and some other greenery?”
“Yes, my lady,” answered Griffin, the senior groundskeeper. “I be thinkin’ we’ve got ourselves enough mistletoe for this year.”
Phoebe nodded her agreement. If they mounted even half the pile resting in the cart, there would be so much kissing going on at the manor she doubted anyone would have time to work.
Although she enjoyed the prospect of Lucas catching her under the mistletoe. Of course, now that their estrangement had ended, she doubted he needed any excuses to kiss her.
They set off for the home wood, following Griffin’s lead. “We’ll be sure to find a proper Yule log not too far in, my lady,” he said. “There were some fierce storms this summer, and a few ash trees came down, along with some branches from the bigger oaks.”
She nodded. “The children must stay together in their groups. I do not want anyone wandering off and getting lost, especially in this cold.”
Griffin, a burly man in his middle years, with a steady, comfortable manner, smiled at her. “Lord love you, m’lady. There ain’t one of these nippers that don’t know his way blindfolded through these woods. Most of ’em have been comin’ and goin’ on manor lands since the day they started walkin’. Not much fear of them gettin’ lost.”
He paused to study her, rubbing his bristled chin as if deep in thought. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, m’lady, you be the one who stands a fair chance of gettin’ lost. Best stick close to me or young Will.”
“Very well,” Phoebe said. Though Griffin’s manner was a bit forward, he was no doubt correct.
They approached the woods across open lawn—sheened a brilliant white with the dusting of snow—and made for the first copse of trees. Trailing behind the others, Phoebe turned to gaze up the wide expanse of gently sloping lawn to Mistletoe Manor, set on the highest point of land for several miles. She had not ever seen the manor from this vantage point, and she paused to take it in.
From this vantage point it seemed magnificent, a noble building with irregular wings and chimneys, and turrets that spoke of its ancient heritage. Diamond-paned windows glistened in the sunshine, and the stone balustrade that surrounded the back terrace of the house gleamed with its coating of snow. The bulky shapes of urns and the occasional statue of an angel or fawn, all coated in white, broke the stately, formal lines of the house. The garden shrubbery and yew hedges—squat and bulky under their thin veil of snow—gave the manor an almost whimsical appearance.
As Phoebe gazed at the old pile, a surge of affection and pride flowed through her veins. Yes, it was cold, drafty, and starting to crumble around them, but it was beautiful, nonetheless. She could be happy here, with the man she had come to love, and who would, God willing, give her the children she longed for. They had a roof over their heads, fertile soil beneath their feet, and loyal, hardworking people to help them. Everything she and Lucas needed to live a peaceful and happy life could be found at Mistletoe Manor.
Of course, whether Lucas saw it that way remained a question. Where she saw blessings, he perceived only burdens and responsibilities. She could only hope that her husband would eventually come to see the riches God had placed before them.
She turned and headed to the woods, striding to catch up with the others. They had all disappeared into the thick stand of oaks, but she easily followed their voices and their trail through the snow. The rough ground, littered with dead leaves and twigs, forced her to pick her way around the windblown shrubs covering the forest floor. Eventually, she came upon a narrow trail, and a few minutes of brisk walking brought her into a small clearing. Mrs. Knaggs and some of the children clustered about Griffin, collecting the evergreen branches he was sawing off the trees.
“There you are, my lady,” said Mrs. Knaggs. “We were just about to send out a search party.”
A few of the girls ran up to her, tugging on her hands. With a laugh, Phoebe allowed them to pull her into the group. “Where are the others?”
“They’ve gone off to look for a Yule log. Delia, please do not pull on Lady Merritt’s pelisse. You’l
l stain it.” Mrs. Knaggs delivered the scold in the mildest of voices, but the little girl, all big eyes and pink cheeks, started to cry. With a sigh, the vicar’s wife began to comfort her. “I do apologize, my lady. The poor dear tends to get overwhelmed with the excitement.”
Phoebe smiled and bent down to gently snug the girl’s woolen scarf around her neck. “There is no need to apologize. I shall go look for the others, which will give Delia time to recover.”
The girl, clearly mortified, pressed her face against Mrs. Knaggs’s generous stomach. The vicar’s wife rolled her eyes. “Perhaps that would be best,” she said in a loud stage whisper.
Biting back a grin, Phoebe took the trail into the woods, following the footprints. After perhaps two hundred feet, the trail divided. Several tracks of prints ran in both directions, showing the children had split into two groups. For no other reason than the left path cut through a magnificent stand of noble oaks, Phoebe chose it. She set out, following both the footprints and the faint sound of laughing children that drifted through the trees.
The air had a clean bite to it, and for the first time in days the sun had broken through the clouds. It filtered down through the bare branches of the noble canopy of oaks and beeches, sketching rows of shadows on the snow-covered ground. She slowed her pace, enchanted by the signs of life all around her in the forest depths—the cloven prints of a deer, the dainty trails of marks left by birds, and the tidy tracks of a fox, cutting across her path and snaking deep into the woods. Birds flitted and sang in the upper branches. She recognized the blackbirds and the sparrows, and heard the song of the thrush.
Phoebe stopped and drew in a deep breath, reveling in the austere beauty of her surroundings. Raising her face to the pale winter sun, she drank in the solitude, so grateful to be once more in the country after her tumultuous interlude in smoke-filled London. Peace settled over her, and she breathed out a prayer of gratitude to the Maker of all things.
A sharp crack and then a desperate rustling sounded off to the left, jolting her. A fierce growl was followed by a frantic whimpering that signaled some creature was in distress. Phoebe peered through the trees in the direction of the noise, but could see nothing. The whimpering was soon followed by several high-pitched yips that sounded like a dog.
Whatever it was, it needed help. The voices of the children had now faded, so it was clearly up to Phoebe to find the poor animal and render assistance.
She left the trails, pushing through the underbrush, which in this part of the woods seemed to be mostly a kind of trailing thornbush. The branches snagged her skirts, forcing her to stop and untangle them, but she forged steadily on. The yipping had been replaced by more whimpering, which now sounded near at hand.
After a minute, she broke into a small clearing and found the source of the noise—a bedraggled little dog, perhaps some kind of terrier, whose bristly, dust-colored coat was tangled up in a holly bush. As she rushed over to help, he broke into pitiful yelps.
“Oh, dear,” she said as she crouched down beside him, “you have gotten yourself into quite a mess.”
His ears flattened and his breath came in anxious pants, but she was heartened to see that his tail—full of knots and as tangled up as the rest of him—feathered in a desultory wag. Clearly a stray by the look of him, he seemed distressed rather than vicious.
“Now, Mr. Doggy,” she said in a soothing voice, “I would beg that you keep your teeth and claws to yourself. If you stay very still, I think I can get you free.”
He whined, but his tail whipped a little harder. She let him sniff her hand, and when he showed no signs of biting her, she set to work. The poor thing cried piteously as she struggled to free him, but he never once bared his teeth or tried to claw her, which spoke of an excellent temperament.
It took several minutes, and by the time she finished, it seemed almost as much fur was left behind on the branches as remained on the dog’s scrawny body. Despite the cold, perspiration trickled down Phoebe’s spine, and she huffed with relief when she finally had him free.
“There, sir. You are once more at liberty,” she murmured as the poor beast frantically licked her gloved hand.
He did not struggle as she took him in her arms and stood, wincing at her protesting muscles. Her skirts were covered in mud and leaves, with wet patches at the knees and hem. The damp had leached into her bones, too, since the winter sun had already begun its decline toward the horizon. The shadows of the trees now stretched across the clearing, and a late-afternoon chill had descended. In the stillness, even the birds had stopped singing, and Phoebe suddenly became aware of the silence.
Actually, the silence felt menacing. With the dog shivering in her arms, she turned in a slow circle, unable to shake the sense that something lurked in the trees.
Nothing.
Shaking her head in self-disgust, she hefted the dog more comfortably in her arms and started to retrace her steps. But before she could reach the path she heard a loud snap and then a gasp, quickly choked off. Whipping around, she saw young Sam Weston at the edge of the clearing, clutching the bridle of a small donkey. Behind him, half hidden in the woods, several men and several more donkeys, all laden with packs, had come to a halt.
One of those men stepped in front of Sam, raised his arm, and pointed a pistol straight at Phoebe.
Chapter 27
Phoebe gaped at the man, her brain addled with shock. She had seen hunting rifles before, but Quakers had little traffic with guns. To stare down the barrel of a pistol pointed directly at her chest seemed impossible. The man brandishing the weapon looked ready to use it, too. Broad-shouldered and sturdy, his face was partly covered with a scarf, but his dark eyes glared daggers. The menace visible in his gaze and stance sent a wave of fear crashing over her.
“Pa, don’t,” yelped Sam. “It’s Lady Merritt.”
Phoebe practically swallowed her tongue. This man was the village publican? Mr. Weston was one of the few locals she had yet to meet, but she could hardly believe he would actually shoot her. Cautiously, she took a step backward, clutching the stray dog to her chest. As if sensing her fear, he nudged her chin, giving her a small lick.
“That’s far enough,” snarled Mr. Weston, yanking down his mask. “If you take another step, I might be forced to use this.” He waved his pistol in an alarming manner.
Phoebe jerked to a halt. A fierce scowl distorted Mr. Weston’s features, but it was the desperation she saw in his gaze that convinced her to remain motionless.
Sam dropped his donkey’s bridle and rushed up to his father. “Pa,” he said in a loud whisper, “you can’t do that to her. She’s a lady!”
Without shifting his gaze, Mr. Weston gave Sam a shove. “Shut your gob, boy. I’ll take care of this.”
Phoebe’s temper flared, warring with her fear. How dare the man bully his son!
“It is not necessary to threaten me,” she snapped. “I will not run, nor will I cry out for help. The last thing I want is for my husband to discover you on his lands. There would be the devil to pay if he did, I assure you.”
Mr. Weston gave a harsh laugh. “And I can assure you that we’ve been paying the devil for years, thanks to men of his lordship’s ilk. There’s nothing you can say or do that’ll frighten me, my lady, and that’s a fact.”
“And what about your son?” she asked. “Are you so willing to risk his life? Mr. Knaggs told me some of you were involving the children in this business, but I could hardly believe it.”
He glowered at her, but anger had a good hold on her now. For once she welcomed it, allowing it to sweep away fear and carry her along on a boiling tide. “Thee had no business involving the children, no matter how difficult life has been. It was very poorly done of thee to act in so sinful and reckless a manner, Mr. Weston. Shame on thee.”
The publican’s jaw sagged for a moment, but then his face flushed red with anger. Shoving the pistol into his belt, he stomped toward her. Phoebe tried not to cringe when he grabbed her arm
. She also clamped down on the urge to protest his rough treatment. It would do no good, and would only upset poor Sam more than he already was. The little dog in her arms, however, issued his own form of protest, snarling and baring his teeth at her captor.
“That’s quite the pet you’ve got there, my lady,” he sneered. “Not exactly a lap dog, is he?”
“I found him tangled up in that bush. That is the only reason I was here in the first place. I heard him whimpering.”
Startled, he glanced down at her. “Oh. That was kind of you. Especially since he’s such a runty-looking beast.”
The dog snapped at him and tried to leap from her arms, but Phoebe held him tightly against her chest as Mr. Weston frog-marched her across the clearing.
“Sir, I would ask that you not frighten him,” she said in a sharp voice as they reached the others.
“He don’t look frightened to me.”
Mr. Weston came to a halt by his donkey, holding her fast by the arm. For several long moments they stared at each other. From the disgruntled, rather baffled expression on his face, Phoebe got the impression he did not know what to do with her. The other men in the group were just as uneasy, shifting from one foot to the other and murmuring amongst themselves. She thought she recognized a few of them, although scarves obscured their features.
Suddenly, Mr. Weston appeared to come to a decision. “Sam, take the dog from her ladyship,” he ordered.
Phoebe tried to jerk away. “I will not let you hurt him.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m not going to hurt him. What kind of monster do you take me for?”
“The kind that involves his son in dangerous, illegal activities.”
Again, she saw that flash of desperation in his eyes. “Do you think I want to do this? There’s barely enough blunt in the whole damn village to keep body and soul together, you daft woman. Why the hell do you think we’re doing this?”
His Mistletoe Bride Page 27
