“Well, there’s Sir Francis up at the manor who has one.” The publican leaned his elbows on the bar, considering. “Never struck me as a lending-out sort of man, though, particularly of something so fine what he even had a crest painted on it.”
“Not to mention he’s not here to lend it.” Bill contributed this intelligence with an air of triumph. “He’s gone away to a house party these twelve days. I had it from my cousin who works in the stables there.”
“Newell the grocer has that cart sort of thing all closed up.” The man’s hands angled and stroked, describing a box shape. “Only I doubt he’d want it going out in this weather.”
“Particularly given you’ve already put one vehicle into the ditch. Which I don’t fault you for, because I’ve done it myself.” Bill inclined his head. “I’m only saying what Newell might think.”
“I didn’t put anything into the ditch.” He spoke through nearly gritted teeth. “I had a—” He pushed back from the bar and rubbed a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t going to be drawn into this debate, and he certainly wasn’t going to expose John Coachman to these men’s criticism. It wasn’t even the driver’s fault they’d gone into the ditch, and even if it had been, that was hardly the most pressing of his concerns at the moment.
He couldn’t get home tonight, and neither could he get Miss Sharp to Hatfield Hall. They were stranded in Thornton Cross until tomorrow.
“For God’s sake, Bill, you’re speaking to a gentleman.” The publican snapped his rag for emphasis. “Show a little damned respect. While you’re at it show a little pity for a man who’s got somewhere pleasant to be for Christmas and can’t get there.”
Splendid. Because all the cumulative indignities of the day had apparently not been enough to appease whatever malign spirit toyed with him, he was now reduced to being an object of pity for the likes of Bill and this pub owner.
“Are there any inns?” There weren’t. He would have seen them, in a village so small. “Any place that offers a room for the night?” But wait—he couldn’t. He’d been thinking he’d best serve decency by leaving Miss Sharp with the Porters and finding himself a room. He was supposed to be her husband, though. He couldn’t leave her without making the Porters suspicious.
“Nothing like an inn, truly.” The man went back to wiping his bar. “I suppose the widow Mather might let you a room.”
“I suppose she might indeed.” Bill’s voice sank into that range that seemingly every man employed when framing a risque witticism. “Only I should be sure to bolt my door before I went to sleep. Or you might find yourself getting more than what you paid for.”
“Shut your impudent mouth, Bill. We don’t any of us know if those stories are true.”
God. If at this time yesterday, when he’d been squirming at the impropriety of the Sharps’ dinner table, someone could have told him those transgressions might look quaint to him within a day, he would never have believed it.
There was nothing more to be done but to march back through the snow and the cold to the Porters’ house and tell Miss Sharp the bad news.
Or rather, there was something—one more thing—to be done before he set out.
“I need something to drink.” He fished his purse out of his greatcoat pocket and tossed it down on the bar. “A good amount of something. May I hope you have rum?”
One look at Mr. Blackshear’s face, and she knew she wouldn’t be getting to Hatfield Hall tonight.
Not that she’d held out much hope, by the time of his return. Truly, she’d known the odds were against it even when he set out. And with each quarter-hour bringing them nearer to dusk, and settling yet more snow upon the roads, she’d seen the chance recede further.
So when at last Mrs. Porter called her from the drawing room into the kitchen and he came in the back door, his cheeks reddened by the cold, his mouth pressed tight as if he’d swallowed something bitter, he didn’t have to speak a word for her to know. Even the quick, somber look he sent her, and accompanying shake of the head, were superfluities.
“No luck with the wheelwright?” Mr. Porter, who’d opened the door, quietly closed it.
“No.” He didn’t have a goose. Instead he carried two bottles, which he set on the kitchen table before dipping into his coat pocket for a small lumpy parcel. “I’m afraid Mrs. Blackshear and I must presume further upon your hospitality. Tomorrow morning I’ll set out for Downham Market and the wheelwright there.”
Tomorrow was Christmas Day. A man was even less likely to want to leave his family and repair a wheel than he would have been today.
Mr. Blackshear gestured at the bottles and the parcel. “I’ve brought you rum and sugar. If you can spare some butter or cream, we might heat up a toddy and have a bit of Christmas cheer.”
“That’s kind of you. I do have butter.” Mrs. Porter felt sorry for him, Lucy could tell. What a dreadfully pathetic Christmas Eve this was, nobody having what they wanted and everyone pitying everyone else.
“I’ll go see that the horses are comfortable, and the bird.” He took a step back toward the door.
“Ned and your man fed the horses a half-hour ago.” Mr. Porter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He could see Mr. Blackshear wanted to be out of company. “Don’t think they knew what to do for the bird, though.”
“Right. I’ll go see to it.” He bowed and went back out into the cold, shutting the door behind him.
She felt hollowed-out and leaden at the same time. Why should that be? The house party would last for twelve days. If she couldn’t get there tonight, she’d get there tomorrow, and if she couldn’t get there tomorrow she’d certainly be there the day after. She’d have days and days of amusements and holiday cheer to enjoy.
To think of Aunt and Uncle Symond worrying that something had happened to her was uncomfortable, to be sure. As was the prospect of sleeping in a strange bed. And the thought of how they must impose on these kind people who could ill afford the imposition.
None of those things, though, accounted for the desolate ache that centered itself in the pit of her stomach.
Through the window she could see the shape of Mr. Blackshear, shoulders hunched against the cold as he made his way amid swirling snowflakes to the barn. If she’d been his wife in truth, she would have known how to cheer him. She, herself, would have been a source of cheer to him, instead of being the burden and trial that had taken him down this ill wheel-breaking road in the first place.
But she wasn’t his wife. She was a burden. And she was the last person on earth who would ever be able to brighten his ruined Christmas Eve.
She turned from the window to the table where the bottles stood. “May I help make the toddy, Mrs. Porter?” She didn’t want to go back into the lonely drawing room. Any task would be better than that. “I’ve never done it before and I haven’t the slightest idea how, but I’d like to learn.” She was fortunate, really, compared to other people here. She needed to remember the fact and behave accordingly.
And making a toddy, while not terribly interesting, did at least occupy her. Mrs. Porter showed her where on the stove to set the pot, that the rum wouldn’t risk a boil, and how to stir in the sugar gradually, that it would dissolve instead of gathering in a drift at the bottom. The butter, it developed, didn’t go in until very near the end. That was to say, they couldn’t add the butter until Mr. Blackshear had come back. And fifteen minutes since when he’d gone out the door, he hadn’t yet returned.
“Forgive my impertinence.” Mrs. Porter stood at the kitchen table, wrapping up what remained of the loaf sugar for some future use. “You’re new to marriage, I believe, and there are so many things you might not yet know.” She ventured a glance at Lucy before returning her attention to the sugar in its paper. “A husband won’t always tell you when he wants you with him. When he’d like to have your ear for unburdening, or your shoulder for support. Sometimes you have to guess.”
Such keen, sweet, mixed-up pain unfurled in her as the woma
n spoke. Because Mrs. Porter ought to be giving such advice to her daughter, and now it was Christmastide and her daughter wasn’t here. Because Mama would never give such advice to her. Because Mr. Blackshear wasn’t really her husband, and the Porters didn’t know how they’d been deceived.
Because Mr. Blackshear would rather be out in the barn than in here, where she was.
The paper crackled, as Mrs. Porter finished her wrapping, and the hearth-fire popped and the stove-fire added its own muted commentary while Lucy stirred. “I’m afraid of guessing wrong.” She stared down into the swirling gold rum. Her cheeks felt very warm.
“You will, sometimes. I can promise you that. If you expect to do everything right in marriage, you’ll disappoint one another again and again.”
In the corner by the hearth, Mr. Porter made a small sound of agreement. He’d stayed there all this time, sitting on one of the straight-backed chairs and carving something with a pocket-knife. More than ever she was sure they spent most of their time in this room, where a fire was always going, and seldom used the others.
“I might go tell him the rum will be ready soon.” She was convincing herself. Voicing the plan aloud helped.
“It won’t be ready until we add the butter, and we won’t do that until we’ve all decided it’s time for a drink.” Mrs. Porter glanced up again, this time pressing her lips together in a sly hint of a smile. “But there’s no reason you can’t tell him it will be ready soon.”
“I think I will, then.” Really, why shouldn’t she? He might need help with the falcon. And she’d been perfectly bold in speaking to him this morning. When he’d been angry over her leaving Perkins behind, she hadn’t flinched. There was no good reason she should be shy of disturbing him now.
She got her cloak from its chair by the fire and paused at the door. “If he cares to unburden himself I’ll wish to listen. So you needn’t wait for us. You may go ahead and have the toddy when you like.”
Both Porters nodded, unspeaking, and then there was nothing to do but fasten up her cloak and step outside.
The snow fell thick and fast as ever. Her feet sank in up to her ankles now. The last time she’d been outside, there’d been just enough on the ground for her and Mrs. Porter to leave footprints.
I’m sorry for everything that’s gone wrong. I’m sorry to have been such an inconvenience. I never meant to make you miss Christmas. Every three steps gave her time enough to try out a different apology, but by the time she reached the barn, she hadn’t come up with any that sounded right.
The door creaked when she pulled it open. He looked over his shoulder at the sound. He was leaning an elbow on the stall door where she’d put the falcon. Outside it was late afternoon and some daylight lingered, but in here the shadows obscured his expression.
He turned to face the bird again. In one hand he held another paper parcel. With the other hand he picked something out of the parcel—a piece of meat, it must be—and held it out between thumb and forefinger. The bird seized it and swallowed it down in the graceless greedy way of birds.
Lucy hesitated, one hand still on the open door. To approach him would be easier if he’d made any kind of greeting, or if he just hadn’t turned away. But here she was, guessing he might like to talk, and ready to find she’d guessed wrong. She pulled the door shut and went to stand near him. Not too near. She would wait and see if he wanted to speak, before saying anything herself.
“I did try to find a goose.” He didn’t look at her. He kept his attention on the falcon, probably to make sure it didn’t take off one of his fingers. “I went to the butcher’s shop, but he’d sold his last one this morning. He hadn’t so much as a turkey by the time I was there.”
“The Porters seem very pleased with the rum and sugar. It’s an extravagance I expect they don’t often have. And I saw their maid plucking a chicken, so I suppose that will be their Christmas dinner. It might have gone to waste, if you’d brought the goose.” That wasn’t really true. The chicken had been hung in a sort of pantry shed, cold as the cold out-of-doors. It would easily have kept for another day or two. “The rum is a better idea, altogether. It will help us all forget our troubles.”
That sounded wrong. As if she imagined them all getting thoroughly, deliberately drunk. Also, she was talking too much. He was supposed to be talking, and she was supposed to be the understanding ear or supportive shoulder.
She cleared her throat. “Plain meat isn’t best for the bird, really. It needs bones and feathers and fur to help its digestion.”
He sighed and crumpled up the parcel of meat, shoving it back in his pocket. For a moment he stood still, one hand gripping the top of the stall door, the other disappeared in his coat. “My sister’s going to hate this bird,” he finally said.
It was as though he’d rolled all the disappointments and setbacks of the day into a single central futility. And as much as she knew she ought to keep silent, and let the unburdening continue, the urge to console him drove her to speak. “You don’t have to like a falcon to enjoy it. It’s a tool. Like a gun. A hunter needn’t like his gun.”
He shook his head. “No, you were right. She was a tender-hearted girl who liked little creatures she could rescue and care for. Now she’s a lady who prides herself on some elegance. I can scarcely imagine a worse gift to have got her than a murderous bird who wants to eat feathers and fur. I wish to Heaven I’d never had the idea.”
He wished he’d never come into Norfolk, that meant. Wished he’d never met her. No one could fault him for that, and still, it stung to hear him say so.
He turned about, folding his arms and putting his back against the stall door. She had a view of his profile from where she stood, one stall farther along, but in the shadows his face was still difficult to read. “I’ve thought and thought and I can’t find a way round it, Lucy.” He dipped his chin and seemed to address the floor. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to marry.”
“I beg your pardon?” She fumbled for a grasp on the stall door. It felt as though he’d knocked her down and driven the breath all out of her lungs.
“Your reputation cannot survive a night spent away from home in the company of a man who’s not a relation. You’ll be ruined.”
“Only if anyone knows, and no one will!” Her voice climbed promptly to a panicked octave. “The Porters aren’t in a position to spread the news about, and I certainly don’t plan to tell anyone. Do you?”
“I won’t have to.” He angled his head to look at her. “When you arrive at Hatfield Hall a day late, in my carriage, the truth will be evident to everyone at that party.”
“The truth is that we had an accident on the road and had to take shelter with the Porters. The truth is that you tried everything in your power to get me to my aunt and uncle today, and it simply couldn’t be done.” The whole barn felt like a trap of a sudden; a cage closing in to imprison the two of them in a marriage whose beginnings would cast shadows of bitterness and resentment over all the years of their future. “I won’t be forced into marriage as punishment for poor virtue when we’ve done nothing un-virtuous!”
“What choice do we have?” He pivoted to face her altogether, holding out his hands palms-up in frustration. “Don’t ask me to abandon you to disgrace. That’s not something I can do.”
“My aunt and uncle needn’t know I spent the night here.” She’d half worked out the story already. “I’ll tell them that I couldn’t leave today because of our coachman’s injury. I’ll say I made the whole journey on Christmas Day in a hired carriage. If you’re seated up on the box they’ll think you and your coachman are but a footman and a driver, and they won’t give you a second look.”
He was silent for a moment, and she could nearly feel the hope pulsing in him, from him, as he weighed his chances of escaping a forced marriage after all. “But your father knows you left today, and he’s sure to learn eventually that you didn’t arrive at the party the same day. What story could you possibly tell him?”
&
nbsp; “I’ll tell him the truth.” She moved a half-step nearer, propelled by the force of her argument. “Remember, Andrew, we’re innocent of any wrongdoing. Papa won’t take the appearance of impropriety for impropriety itself. He’s not so unreasonable.”
“And he’ll believe you when you tell him that nothing improper occurred?”
“Of course. He trusts me. Why would he not?”
He turned, leaning his back once more against the stall door. The falcon shifted away from him in aggrieved little footsteps, talons clicking against the wood as it went. “Lucy.” He let her name settle in the barn’s shadowed recesses. “If you’d asked me yesterday—if you’d asked me this morning—whether I saw anything to envy in your relationship with your father, I confess I might have laughed.”
“We’re a bit odd, I know. Papa is irregular in his opinions.” The air between them felt delicate and breakable. “Do you mean to say your father wouldn’t likewise believe you?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” He stared straight ahead, chin lifted, gaze fixed somewhere on the barn’s far side. “What I envy is your certainty. The knowledge you have of your father. The ease with which you speak to one another; the interest he shows in your opinions. Your… congeniality, I suppose.” Abruptly he pushed away from the stall and went to where his carriage stood in the middle of the barn. He crouched to examine the broken wheel, and didn’t say anything else.
Lucy’s heart beat like a barnyard pump with a maniac at the handle. What if she said the wrong thing, and made him sorry he’d told her so much? What if he was already sorry he’d told her so much? Surely that must be why he’d walked away and busied himself with the wheel.
She stepped forward nevertheless, wending a path to the rear corner of the carriage where she could make an inspection of some scratches inflicted by the impact with the hedge, and not appear as though she were demanding he speak. “You said your father hadn’t a very merry temperament, when we were talking earlier.”
A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5) Page 9
