by Cindy Anstey
Kate smiled. Kind and helpful. Very impressive.
“Mrs. Beeswanger has handed me a list of wines she wishes to have available over the holidays. As I understand that you are going into town with Johnny, might I imposition you to visit the wine merchant on Mrs. Beeswanger’s behalf?”
“Of course, easily done.” Matt nodded. “Not an imposition at all … if you give me the direction.”
Mrs. Lundy smiled. “Fortunately, Tishdale is not overly large; most shops and places of business are on the main road. Mr. Niven will deliver, so there is no need to wait.”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Lundy. Think on it no more.” He took the list and then turned to face Kate as Mrs. Lundy wheeled around and headed toward the kitchen. “Might you need a jaunt into town, too, to pick up … something? There is a possibility that we will lose our bearings yet again and be destined to appalling winter horrors. We will need the guidance of one who knows the area well.” His impish expression indicated that he knew very well that she would not be able to do so. “We could end up wandering the woods in the cold, hiding from bears intent on doing us terrible harm.”
“You need not fear … at least not of bears, Mr. Harlow. Though I do recommend staying out of Farmer Gibbs’s field. His bull is rather tetchy.”
Matt Harlow grinned in a thoroughly charming manner. “Yes. So I have heard.”
* * *
“THERE BE NO shortage of pretty girls at Shackleford Park,” Johnny said much too casually, as he slapped the reins against Bailey’s rump. The pony ignored him, plodding along the road to Tishdale at his own comfortable pace.
“Indeed.” Sitting on the cart’s bench beside his friend, Matt shrugged. The winsome personage of Kate Darby came entirely unbidden to his mind, and he turned his head slightly to hide any betraying glint in his eyes.
“Yup, yup. Pippa has been makin’ sheep’s eyes at ya since we got there.”
“Which one is Pippa?” Matt asked, playing the game.
“The redheaded housemaid, cute little thin’ with lots o’ curls an’ a pert nose. Saucy as all get out.” He glanced over at Matt and smiled. “You could chat her up an’ see how it goes.”
“I could, indeed,” Matt said, being excessively agreeable.
“Maud might be a little long in the tooth for ya, but what about Gwen?”
“Gwen is?” Matt’s mind was still focused on Kate—her trim figure, thick dark hair, lively smile. “Hmmm? Pardon me, I was thinking of something else.”
“Or someone else?”
“One never knows.” Matt turned back in time to see Johnny shake his head. He was clearly trying to goad Matt into revealing a leaning, a preference … anything that could be fodder for teasing.
“Thought that Miss Darby mighta caught yer eye. She be quite fetchin’.”
“No more than the others,” Matt said too quickly and then tipped his head side to side, nonchalantly stretching his neck. “Nothing to make the blood stir,” he lied.
Johnny laughed and turned his eyes back to the road. It took Matt a few minutes to realize that Johnny was still talking.
“I did so want to give ’em something. A token … you know.”
Matt frowned. “Them?”
“Camille’s little sisters. Thought a box o’ candy or a pretty ribbon might do it up proper.” He snapped his tongue and then heaved a deep sigh. “But I’m cleaned out.”
Matt shook his head, understanding all too well. “Good fortune abandon you again?”
Johnny was an uncomplicated soul but for two weaknesses: love and cards. Unrequited love and unlucky cards, to be exact.
Johnny was smitten with Camille LaPierre, Lady Margaret’s personal maid. A pretty French girl with fine manners and dainty ways, she was appreciated by the entire male staff of Musson House—young and old. Fighting to be noticed in the crowd of admirers, Johnny had played the clown, but Camille had not been impressed. He had treated her like a lady, helping her down from the carriage whenever she accompanied Lady Margaret and wiping the bench before she sat for dinner. Camille was indifferent. He lent her a book of poetry—the flowery, useless, romantic sort—and offered to explain it to her. Camille denied him the pleasure.
So now Johnny had decided to play the benefactor. Gifts. But it would be unseemly to bestow a gift on a young woman who was not a sweetheart. It created an obligation; however, a gift to a child brought with it no expectation and was, therefore, quite acceptable.
Unfortunately, Johnny’s appreciation of luck, especially as it pertained to cards, was nearly as strong as his attraction to Camille. He invariably lost in that arena as well.
“You know, Johnny, you are going to have to choose,” Matt said. “Miss LaPierre will never look at a penniless footman.”
“Won’t look at a footman, penniless or otherwise. The only way I got her talkin’ to me was to say I was gonna be an under-butler soon.”
“Well, that was a little foolhardy. You’ve only been at Musson House three months.”
“Soon is a relative kinda word. Could be next year.”
“Or the one after that?”
“Exactly. See. One day it’ll ’appen. And that’ll be soon enough.” He smiled brightly, clearly pleased with his own cleverness.
“I’m not sure Miss LaPierre will see it the same way.”
“Sure she will. Soon as she sees what a fine fellow I can be—givin’ little gifties to her sisters an’ all.”
“Well, I suppose a flawed plan is better than no plan at all.”
“Flawed?” Johnny looked genuinely puzzled.
“Didn’t you say that you were tapped out?”
“Oh. Yes. That’s right.” He frowned fiercely at Bailey’s swishing tail.
Passing Farmer Gibbs’s field, Matt craned his neck to stare beyond the wall, but the bull was nowhere to be seen. He smiled, recalling the sight of Kate Darby taking on a bull four, if not five, times her size. He almost chuckled but glanced toward Johnny and swallowed his mirth.
They approached Tishdale at the leisurely pace required by a deplorable road pocked by frozen puddles and the occasional hollow of snow. The Gambling Goat sat on the edge of town, just off the main thoroughfare. As they pulled into the yard of the post inn, Matt could see a number of people milling about in clutches of two or three. When he inquired within, he was not surprised to learn that the coach was late.
“I’ll walk to the booksellers,” Matt told Johnny, joining his friend outside again. Matt patted his coat to ensure that he had the wine list. “Mr. Gupta can direct me to the wine merchant. If I don’t see you on the street, then I’ll meet you back here.”
Johnny nodded halfheartedly. He was staring at a dark-haired young lady across the yard waiting with an older version—likely her mother.
“Thought you were taken, Johnny boy. Devoted to Camille.”
“Hmm, what?” His friend turned back, grinning sheepishly. “Right. Books, wine, meet here.”
Mr. Gupta’s bookstore was in the second block of the rowed redbrick shops with black doors and large mullioned windows with white shutters. Flower boxes, devoid of flowers, sported sprigs of holly leaves with cheerful red berries. It was a picturesque market town, with plenty of hustle and bustle despite the cold weather.
The bell jangled with a discordant clang when Matt entered, and a large mustached gentleman from India stepped through the back curtain to greet him. The store was lined with bookshelves, and the wares looked dusty and disorganized. However, looks can be deceiving, for no sooner had Matt explained his purpose than Mr. Gupta led him to a particular shelf where Matt could browse. There was a larger selection of architectural books than Matt expected, and it took some time to whittle the choices down to three. In fact, he decided on four that might suit Miss Imogene’s purpose—but it was all a guess.
The wine merchant was a mere two shops farther down the main road, where the overly affable Mr. Niven looked at Mrs. Beeswanger’s order and declared her an aficionado of wines. Matt fo
und this amusing since the listed selections in the man’s store were not diverse. There was little doubt that the Beeswangers were aware of what was available and ordered accordingly.
By the time Matt returned to the Gambling Goat, Johnny was tying up the tailboard of the cart, and a large crate marked with the Beeswanger name sat in the back. The coach had finally arrived.
“Can’t believe my luck,” Johnny said as Matt approached. He waggled his shoulders, his eyes alive with excitement.
Matt glanced around for the dark-haired young lady but only met the glare of an old codger standing by the inn’s door. “Oh?” he said in a noncommittal way.
“Get in, get in. I’ll tell ya on the way. Walker is gonna be right put out that we’ve been gone this long. I’ve got ta polish the dining room candlesticks when I get back.”
It would seem that the struggle about authority over Johnny had been resolved, and Walker had taken the upper hand.
“I can buy something for the little ones after all,” Johnny said as soon as Matt had pulled himself up on the bench beside his friend.
“How did that come about?” Matt asked. He held on to the side of the cart as it started to move.
“Sold me ring. You know, the one from the harvest fair. Not worth a penny. But this here fella paid me a full shilling for it.”
“What? The tin one with the stag’s head stamped on it?”
“Yup, that’s the one. I were leanin’ on the rain barrel, gettin’ more than a little tired o’ waitin’, when this here redheaded fella comes over an’ stands right next ta me. Seemed right put out. He bleats about waitin’ for the coach an’ how cold it is. Went on an’ on somethin’ awful. I were just about to move off when he looks over at me and says, ‘It’s Yuletide, ya know,’ as if I were arguin’ with him. A bit dicked in the nob.” Johnny tapped at his temple with his index finger.
“What has this to do with your ring?”
“I’m gettin’ there; don’t rush me.” He flicked the reins, only to be ignored by Bailey yet again. “‘I should get somethin’ for my hard work,’ this here fool says, as if all folks got gifts for Christmas.”
“Something for himself?”
“Yup. Like I said: dicked in the nob. Anyways, I asked if he fancied me ring, ’cause I were lookin’ for some funds. Well, wouldn’t ya know, the feller offers ta buy it … This road?” Johnny pointed.
“Yes, that’s the one. Don’t want to miss it again.”
Johnny grinned, directing the pony toward Shackleford Park. “So I starts to dicker, askin’ high—a shilling, says I. This here fella frowns at me an’ then pulls one outta his coat pocket—no bargainin’, nothin’.” With a sharp jerk of his head, Johnny straightened his shoulders. “Yup, I’ll be able ta get the little ones somethin’ worthwhile now.”
Matt smiled, caught up in Johnny’s euphoria. For once, Lady Luck had offered his friend a boon. Though it did seem a waste, for Matt was fairly certain that a box of candy for Camille’s sisters would do nothing to sweeten her resolve toward Johnny’s awkward attempts to woo.
chapter 4
In which cold ears bring out the woodland fairies
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1817—ST. THOMAS DAY
“It was an eloquent sermon this morning,” Kate told Reverend Comstock as she pulled on her mitts, standing in the vestibule of St. Bartholomew Church. In truth, she had hardly heard a word; she had been too aware of the presence of one Matt Harlow seated not two pews ahead on the other side of the center aisle, partially hidden behind a post. And, of course, there was the weighty matter of not letting anyone else know that she was aware of Matt—she had decided to call the handsome valet by his given name … in her mind. “Yes, very thought-provoking,” she added.
“I’m glad to have provided some inspiration on such an auspicious day. Which aspect of my sermon spoke to you the most?” The gray-haired minister beamed and reached out to tap her hand.
Frowning slightly, Kate tried to recall the gist of the homily. Unlike most towns, Tishdale celebrated St. Thomas Day a week earlier than the rest of the county—though no one knew why, it remained thus for near on three decades. It was a day devoted to the elderly and poor widows of the parish; it was likely that the sermon had to do with charity. “Charity—” she started to say.
“Indeed,” Marie, standing by her elbow, interrupted. She gave Kate a significant look. “Charity would have been the obvious choice, but to center your lesson on doubt, that it could provide a pathway and then a foundation to faith … well, truly inspired.” And with those words of praise, Marie pulled Kate out the door and into the cold. She laughed and shook her head as they wended their way through the chatting congregation. “You weren’t paying the least bit of attention.”
“I was, too,” Kate argued and then smiled.
“I stand corrected,” Marie said, widening her eyes and fixing Kate with a mock glare. “You were not paying attention to the sermon.”
“There is that.” Kate stopped herself from giggling just in time. Marie continued to tug her forward until Kate planted her feet. “Why are we in a hurry?” she asked, turning slightly so that she could watch those leaving the church. She made a show of tying her scarf around the hood of her cloak but left the cowl draped down her back so that she could still see, still watch for Matt.
Fat, fluffy flakes wafted gently on the breeze, melting as soon as they touched skin or the ground. It would make a picturesque background as they walked back to the manor … as long as the wind didn’t pick up. She had arrived at St. Bartholomew Church with Marie, sitting on the driver’s bench of the family coach, but she had declined a return ride. Kate was hoping a certain someone would be interested in walking back with her. Unfortunately, Marie had followed her lead.
“Come on, Kate.” Marie tugged again. “I promised Mrs. Beeswanger that I would help distribute the alms. She is going to give me a pouch of coins for the widows while Mrs. Lundy will dole out the cooked wheat.”
“Then there is absolutely no need to rush; the family has not yet come out of the church, let alone hopped into the coach. And as to the mumpers, the numbers are not so vast that they will be lined up along the drive waiting on you. I don’t imagine any of the poor women will arrive looking for their charity until this afternoon.”
Marie didn’t answer, but looked beyond Kate and then pursed her pretty mouth.
“Mornin’, ladies,” Johnny said, joining them. He squinted toward Marie and then quickly back to Kate.
She glanced over his shoulder and smiled; Matt was in his wake—looking ever so dapper in his tweed frock coat and matching cap. His unruly hair, curling up over the edge of the cap, softened the attire’s crispness.
“Good morning,” Kate replied, still watching Matt.
He winked.
Kate grinned and they stared at each other for a moment until Marie bumped Kate to get her attention. “Let’s go. The family has just come out and will be riding past us in no time.”
Forcing her gaze back to the church, Kate saw that the Beeswangers were, indeed, making their way toward the waiting coach. Her eyes met those of Miss Imogene and she half smiled. Miss Emily glanced at Kate, as well, before the two girls spoke to each other and then hurried after the family.
Kate swallowed and chewed at her lip for a moment. Were the girls uncomfortable about her friendship with the boys from Musson House? They had kept her so busy yesterday that Kate and Matt had barely had enough time to nod or smile at each other—Kate nodded, Matt smiled. Had that been intentional? Had there been disapproval in their myriad of requests? Kate huffed through her nose.
No. That was foolish. Miss Imogene and Miss Emily had been greatly concerned about the particulars of their gowns because the guests of the evening had been titled strangers. There was no hidden cause behind a last-minute request to press a piece of lace—the lace had been wrinkled. Miss Emily’s favorite fichu was dirty and in need of an extra wash, and their hair did require more time as they had chosen la
borious upsweeps meant to impress. Indeed, she need not be concerned—overly.
Turning, Kate took Marie’s arm and tugged her toward the road. She was fairly certain that Matt and Johnny would follow but ensured that they would by specifically offering to lead. “This way,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. She felt Marie trip, but Kate tightened her grip to prevent her friend from falling. “Don’t want you to take the wrong road and head back to the coast unintentionally. Wolves and bears abound in the woods, you know,” she exaggerated.
“We’d best stay close, then.” Matt stepped to Kate’s side. They ignored Marie’s sniff of disapproval.
They walked for a few minutes in companionable silence—well, three persons were companionable—nodding and hallooing to many of the townsfolk. It wasn’t until they were out of Tishdale proper and sauntering down the main road that the Beeswanger coach rumbled past and they all relaxed. Critical eyes were now few and far between.
“I been hoping ta get some girl advice,” Johnny said, nodding at both Marie and Kate. He was walking on the far side while Matt walked next to Kate. Frowning, Kate glanced at Marie and saw a reflected expression of confusion. “Girl advice?”
“Yup. What do ya think a pair o’ girls—bein’ nine or ten or thereabouts—what do ya think might make ’em happy? A gift that might impress ’em.”
“Impress their older sister, is more to the point,” Matt added in his deep, melodious baritone.
Johnny grinned.
“Well.” Marie snapped her tongue. “Unless you know these girls well, you will be wasting your money. Girls are as different as boys in their likes and dislikes. There is no one gift that will fit any girl … Really! Some girls like dolls, some like horse figurines, some like bright scarves, some like muffs … I could go on.”
“A special food might be appreciated,” Kate said, trying to be more helpful. “One of those rare sweet oranges or a box of fudge. Or something for warmth, like a woolen hat or mitts. Perhaps something everyone needs, like a handkerchief. In fact, there are an infinite number of gifts that would be suitable.”
