Carols and Chaos

by Cindy Anstey

  “The Gambling Goat—it has card games the week before Christmas,” Camille informed them with a sniff of disapproval. They were standing just inside the housekeeper’s sitting room, where Camille was darning one of Lady Margaret’s stockings as she and Mrs. Lundy chatted over a glass of sherry. “I heard the grand footman—you know, the one with the pip of hair on his lip that he calls a mustache. Oui, I heard him talking with the other one about it. Johnny must have heard, too. He is a terrible one for gaming.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Kate turned to Matt with a flicker of a smile. “The Gambling Goat. Now, that makes sense. Mr. Kelp would have sent him away … and the Goat is where he lost his ring.”

  “Vraiment?” Camille’s brows knit together. “How came he to lose…? The one with the stag head? C’est dommage.” She turned to Mrs. Lundy as if needing to explain. “Johnny, he was so happy with this ring.”

  She clicked her tongue, leaving Matt to wonder if she did so out of sympathy or disapproval.

  “Poor Johnny,” Camille said, clearing up Matt’s confusion.

  “He is a charmer, that one.” Mrs. Lundy laughed. “Quickly a favorite with us all.”

  “Mais never the same. One day a charmer, the next day a clown. One day kindness, the next day gambling. Never the same. So hard to know where you stand with him.” She sighed as she turned back to her darning.

  Matt blinked in surprise. Camille had never shown so much emotion. Granted, in most others that would be little enough, but for Camille … well, this boded very well for Johnny. Something worth sharing when he saw his friend next.

  Matt nudged Kate out of the room into the corridor. “It would seem that Johnny might be trying to win another chance to give Camille’s sisters a gift.”

  “Indeed. Foolishness,” Kate said, giving him a long, intent look. “But the heart is not always sensible.” And then she laughed.

  Matt shrugged, ruining the aspect of nonchalance by grinning at the same time. “He’d better be back by the time the family sits down to dinner. His absence behind Sir Andrew’s chair will certainly be noticed.”

  * * *

  KATE LEARNED NO more of Johnny’s whereabouts until she was helping the girls prepare for bed that evening. Their exuberance echoed throughout the hall as Kate waited in her room for them to return from dinner. Following the laughter, she made her way to Miss Imogene’s room to find the girls together, exclaiming over a length of fabric.

  Miss Imogene was the first to notice Kate standing in the doorway. “Look, Kate. Isn’t it beautiful? Belgian lace. For my wedding clothes. From Lady Margaret.”

  Smiling, Kate made the appropriate sounds. Though it wasn’t difficult to be enthused; the material was exquisite. Likely worth three of her year’s wages.

  “It was a lovely evening. Sir Andrew and Lady Margaret could not have been kinder.” Miss Imogene sat on the bed beside the lace, petting it like a cat. “I was afraid that it would be uncomfortable; I did so want to have a pleasant evening.”

  Miss Imogene looked up at Miss Emily. “Did you see Sir Andrew’s face when he looked behind his chair for Johnny? Thunderous.”

  Miss Emily sighed somewhat sadly and then turned to Kate, explaining unnecessarily. “Mr. Ben begged Sir Andrew’s pardon for sending Johnny on an errand that has delayed him in town. And then Bernie took care of the Steeples’ service throughout dinner. There was no disruption. It allowed for a very pleasant evening.” She turned back to Miss Imogene. “An excellent start, my dearest friend. Lady Margaret seems quite taken with you.”

  As the girls continued to discuss the evening and all its ramifications, Kate pulled Miss Imogene’s nightdress from the wardrobe. She breathed a great sigh of relief, then snorted a silent chuckle at her pointless concern over the footman’s welfare. So Johnny was not missing, nor at the Gambling Goat getting himself into trouble.

  Were it seemly, Kate would tiptoe to the far corridor and inform Matt that he need not fret … no, she was all but certain that Mr. Ben would have mentioned Johnny’s errand to Matt … and then Kate would have risked her reputation for nothing.

  Kate retrieved Miss Imogene’s long white cotton nightdress and tried, valiantly, to keep her mind on the task at hand. The girls only asked once or twice why she was smiling in such an enigmatic manner. To which, of course, Kate merely shrugged and tried so very, very hard not to think of Matt Harlow.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1817

  THE NEXT MORNING, the sun chased away the clouds, though it offered no respite from the bracing wind. The chatter at Mrs. Lundy’s breakfast table was lively. As soon as the midday meal was prepared, most of the staff were free to do as they wished. It was one of the few afternoons that families, lovers, and friends were without duties at the same time. The Beeswangers and Steeples would keep to themselves and serve their own fare from the remains of the cold meal set up in the dining room.

  Yes, it was to be a day of frivolity, and all were prepared to enjoy it to the fullest. Which was why Kate was concerned to see that Matt did not have the lighthearted countenance she had expected. There was no mischief in his eyes. In fact, he barely looked up from his plate—a plate that was still laden with bacon and toast when he stood to leave.

  Had Mr. Ben not shared the news of Johnny last evening? Had Matt suffered through the night worrying needlessly about his friend? When he signaled a wish to speak with her, Kate immediately met Matt in the corridor, away from prying ears.

  “I’m afraid I will no longer be able to enjoy a walk with you today, Kate.” He glanced out the hall window. “And on such a lovely day, too. It will have to be some other time.”

  Kate knew not when that other time might be … next Yuletide, perhaps. “Has something occurred?”

  “It’s Johnny again. I must go find him.”

  “Oh dear, so Mr. Ben did not speak to you. He sent Johnny on an errand yesterday. He…” She glanced down the corridor toward the servants’ hall. “He will still be breaking his fast with the others.” She turned back to see that the apprehension had not faded from Matt’s eyes.

  “No, he will not.” Then he huffed a sigh. “Nor did Mr. Ben send him on an errand.”

  “But he told Sir Andrew—”

  “Yes, and it put him in a great lather to do so. Mr. Ben blames Johnny for forcing him to prevaricate and is quite put out about it. He feels that had he not stepped in, Sir Andrew would have been in a pique all evening, ruining Miss Imogene’s first evening with his family since their betrothal. And now that Johnny has not yet returned, I am to go into town, find him, and deliver a message. If he returns now, his pay will be docked; if he doesn’t, his position is forfeit and he can find his own way back to the coast.” Matt swallowed visibly. “Johnny has truly cooked his goose, and I don’t believe Mr. Ben can be charmed out of his displeasure.”

  “So there was no errand.”

  “No.”

  “And Johnny is still missing.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Has he done this before?”

  Matt huffed. “That is the most troublesome aspect of this entire situation. Johnny had a reputation for just this sort of behavior before he came to Musson House. I have known him for years—from when my father owned a tailor shop in Chotsdown. I recommended Johnny, thought he had settled down and that being a footman would be the making of him. He seemed to have given up the wild life—gambling far less than he had been, and even being besotted with Camille kept him from chasing skirts. But … no, it would seem that Johnny has not changed after all.”

  “It isn’t your fault.” Kate lifted her hand toward him, but saw Mrs. Lundy peek out her door and glance in their direction. Quickly leaning back, Kate was unsure how they had come to stand so close to each other.

  After their having only just reestablished a respectful distance, Mrs. Lundy departed her sitting room and nodded as she passed. She was sporting a most bewildering expression, as if she were trying to retain a tight grip on her lips … which wanted to curl upward.


  “I’ll go with you.” Kate returned her gaze to Matt once the good woman had disappeared down the kitchen corridor.

  “I can hardly ask it of you.”

  “I don’t believe you asked; I believe I offered. You do not know the town.”

  “I know the Gambling Goat, and I have it on good authority that most stores are along the main road … where I will visit your butcher, should I need to.”

  “Perhaps a guide might be a good idea … and someone that the locals know. Someone they would be comfortable speaking with. Now … who could help you with this? Oh wait, I know someone who is no longer expected at her brother’s house. Knows most … though, she will admit, not all residents of Tishdale, and had been anticipating a walk on a sunny day. As the destination had not yet been determined, perhaps she will hike into Tishdale regardless of whether she is accompanied or not.”

  Matt laughed. His expression told Kate that he was as surprised as was she by the outburst. “Kate, Kate, you are so corky. Would you, my girl, enjoy a jaunt of an exploratory nature into the town of Tishdale, where I will ring a fine peal over my friend Johnny Grinstead and hopefully return the contrite fellow into the welcoming arms of Camille LaPierre?”

  “Oh yes, that sounds most appealing. Thank you for asking. And who knows, we might meet Johnny on his way back, holding his head and wishing he had not spent the night carousing.”

  Matt nodded and smiled—although the spark that had been there moments earlier had already faded. “Yes. Well, that would be very handy. I could thump him before we get back to Shackleford Park.”

  “And then he could regale the household with stories of thuggery and fake coins while sporting a shiner. He would have great sympathy from all the women.” Kate nodded.

  “Yes, but would it work on Mr. Ben?”

  “Time will tell.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Matt said with a deep sigh.

  chapter 9

  In which there are accusations of an amorous pique

  The road into Tishdale had hardened in the cold, making it much easier to leap from one rut to another without sinking into the boot-sucking mud. There were a few occasions that Matt’s hand was required to provide Kate with some sort of balance. As such, she tried to be off-kilter as much as possible, though with mitted hands the thrill was in being close rather than the warmth of his touch.

  The conversation was sparse, to say the least; Matt was deeply engrossed in his own thoughts—dark thoughts if one could go by his tight jaw and set expression. Still, it was not an uncomfortable silence nor overlong. It offered Kate the opportunity to watch their surrounding without having to participate in a light discourse. As much as she enjoyed their banter, which she did most prodigiously, looking for any telltale sign of the errant footman seemed to be an endeavor of much more import. Unfortunately—or was it fortunately?—there were no signs to note. No green livery in the ditch, in the woods, behind the Gibbs fence, or at the crest of the fields. Certainly not walking toward them. No sign of Johnny whatsoever.

  In due time, the spire of St. Bartholomew became visible above the leafless trees, though it was veiled by smoke pouring from the many chimney pots of Tishdale. However, before entering the town proper, the Gambling Goat sat at the crossroad offering a respite to travelers, nuncheons, ale, or the opportunity of company. The gambling was a given—considering the name of the inn—though it was rarely raucous.

  Such was clearly not the case on this day as they approached the inn, for the clamor increased considerably in great guffaws of laughter and shouts, and the skipping tune of a fiddle snaking under the door toward them. A typical posting inn, the Tudor stucco-and-beam building housed a public room on the ground floor with bedrooms above. The kitchens were accommodated on one side of the inn with the stables on the other, in a horseshoe shape.

  Originally, Tishdale had occupied a quiet corner of Kent. Then, the gates of the Gambling Goat had enclosed the yard, protecting the patrons overnight from would-be thieves and highwaymen. Now, the gates hung unmoving and immovable, their hinges all but rusted in place as coaches arrived at all hours of the day and night. It was no grand surprise to see carts and wagons with ponies and donkeys hitched to posts, waiting in the yard. The Gambling Goat was in great favor, especially near the holidays.

  Matt and Kate squeezed inside, making their way around the celebrating patrons. Kate nodded and smiled and was eventually waylaid by the greetings of those she knew. Marching ahead, oblivious to the curious expressions and affronted stares of those around him, Matt pushed his way to the gaming tables in the back of the room.

  Watching Matt from where she stood jawing with the surgeon’s wife, Kate could see that he was disappointed. Johnny was not at one of the tables, chancing his luck.

  Kate was not terribly surprised; she had found no substance to the theory. Johnny had nothing to gamble with, no stake. He was cleaned out. Nothing but the clothes on his back … except perhaps the buttons of his livery, though they were tin and of little value.

  Turning around, Matt inadvertently jarred a man who had followed on his heels—a man Matt had carelessly pushed aside in his haste to find Johnny. It was unfortunate, for this man wore an overly large apron atop his significant belly and was now glaring at Matt with great animosity.

  Mr. Cryer, the publican of the Gambling Goat, had folded his arms across his chest despite leaning forward to hear what Matt had to say, and he kept glancing to the back of the room, where most of the noise emanated from the gaming tables. By the time Kate arrived, Matt’s teeth were clenched and the two men were staring at each other with considerable hostility.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Cryer,” she said. “The best of the Yuletide season to you and your family, though I can see that my wishes are not needed. Quite the crowd you have here.”

  Tilting sideways so that he might see her while still keeping an eye on Matt, Mr. Cryer smiled, lifting his muttonchop whiskers into the air. “Ah, Miss Kate Darby. What brings you here this fine day? If it’s your brother you be looking for, worry not. Ross has not been in here for a month of Sundays.”

  “Excellent news, Mr. Cryer. Perhaps he is going to settle down after all.”

  “Don’t want them all to settle down, Miss Darby. I’d have no customers if they did.”

  Laughing, Kate shook her head. “Don’t think you have anything to fear, Mr. Cryer.”

  He grinned, glanced over his shoulder and then back to Kate—completely ignoring Matt, who had not moved out of the way.

  “I’m looking for a fella, Mr. Cryer,” Kate said, ignoring the rousing chorus of chuckles from the eavesdropping patrons surrounding them.

  “Could probably have your pick, my dear.” Mr. Cryer tried, without success, to keep a straight face.

  “A particular fella, actually, by the name of Johnny Grinstead.” Kate continued when the publican shrugged, “He might have come in here yesterday, wearing green livery. On the thin side, narrow face…” Before she had completed her description, Mr. Cryer was nodding.

  “Yup, he were here. Thought someone might come lookin’ for him sooner or later. Most don’t wander around in their livery when they’re not doin’ someone’s biddin’. He said he were looking for someone for his master, but he stayed overlong asking all sorts of questions about red hair and fake coins. Mr. Belcher took him off for a drink and then I saw him talkin’ to Mr. Gupta and the apothecary. Fact is, I saw him going around the room talkin’ to everyone, even them that came in later like Mr. Niven and Mr. McDonald. Had a doleful story, and was sharin’ with everyone.”

  “What was his doleful story?” Matt asked, but received a glare for the attempt.

  “What was his doleful story?” Kate repeated.

  “Been taken, he said, made a fool of. All he wanted was to buy his sweetheart a gifty, but this here red-haired man stole his priceless ring—left ’im holdin’ a fake coin. Bollocks. Right here, in my yard? I think not! Puts us all in a bad light, don’t you think? Still, Mr.
Gupta bought him a drink, and so did some others. He were wobbly-kneed when he left.”

  Kate smiled despite the sinking sensation in her gut. “When did he leave? Did anyone go with him?”

  “Them’s always comin’ and goin’, Miss Darby. I don’t rightly know. If I were ta guess, late afternoon—gettin’ on to dark.” His eyes slid over to Matt and then back again. “I’m takin’ it that he didn’t find his way back to the big house.”

  “No, no sign of him.”

  “Some fool likely offered ’im a bed for the night and now the boy’s head is hurtin’ too much to rise.”

  “You might be right, Mr. Cryer.” She didn’t point out that it was already midafternoon and sore head or not, Johnny should have returned to Shackleford Park.

  “A stranger in livery shouldna be hard to find, miss.”

  “Hope you are right, Mr. Cryer.” Backing away, Kate nodded for Matt to follow. Walking in silence as they made their way through the patrons, Kate paused at the door to wave farewell to the overly curious.

  * * *

  ONCE KATE AND Matt were in the cold again, the hubbub from inside the Gambling Goat faded as they trudged through the enclosed yard, past the inn’s gates, and out onto the main road. Kate gestured toward the town proper as Matt fell into step beside her … and quickened the pace. There was something of an unexpressed urging in his posture, like a twitchy, anxious racehorse raring to gallop.

  “Where are you, you bacon-brained numbskull?” he muttered half under his breath and then looked up to see Kate staring at him. “Thank you,” Matt said with an attempted smile. “If you had not been there, I would have had no answers whatsoever.”

  Lost in his gaze, Kate felt her foot slip. “Careful,” she warned just as Matt slipped on a patch of ice, too. She leaned over to offer him support as his arms windmilled through the air. He would have fallen, had she not grabbed his hand … and then it seemed most natural to continue along the road as such: hand in hand. For ice abounded on this particular stretch of road, and it was much safer to support each other. Besides, there were none to see, and they could walk faster this way … and find Johnny sooner. Yes, excuses were not necessary.