Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Melissa cut a glance at Dagenham; as he was a tenor and she sang alto, they were standing side by side.

  His gaze briefly touched hers; they’d already agreed that, if requested, they would perform the duet again. “Miss North and I will be happy to oblige,” Dagenham stated.

  “Excellent!” Moody looked toward the organ. “Mrs. Moody has been polishing the accompaniment. Perhaps we can use this moment to allow the rest of the choir a brief break and run through the duet.” Moody beckoned, and Melissa and Dagenham stepped forward. “Do you remember the words?”

  They’re inscribed in my memory. Melissa nodded, as did Dagenham.

  “Right, then.” Moody tapped the top of the music stand, then raised his baton. “On the count of three.”

  Melissa heard the opening chords, and it was as if she’d stepped back in time to the carol service of the year before. She filled her lungs and opened her mouth, and her voice followed the notes, then Dagenham’s tenor joined her alto, and their voices twined.

  The buoyant power of his voice was, to her, almost tangible; she laid hers over it, like a woman relaxing into the arms of her lover.

  And it was like that. Much more like that than it had been the year before. Their voices hadn’t changed so much as matured—grown richer, fuller, more capable of carrying the emotive power of their hearts.

  Despite being set at ease, no other chorister so much as shifted a finger as they sang; only Moody’s baton kept time, and Mrs. Moody steadfastly played as they rolled through the verses, in the last, their voices blending seamlessly in the final chorus:

  The rising of the sun

  And the running of the deer,

  The playing of the merry organ,

  Sweet singing in the choir.

  They held the last note, then let it fade.

  Silence fell, and they both drew in deep breaths and half turned to each other. Their eyes met as the rest of the choir burst into spontaneous applause, and Moody and Mrs. Moody beamed and called their bravos.

  Abruptly, self-consciousness engulfed them, and both turned aside to their peers.

  Melissa heard Lottie say to Mandy, “That was even better than last year.”

  Mandy flashed Melissa a bolstering smile. “It was truly lovely.”

  Moody tapped firmly on the music stand. “Well, we now have a standard for all the rest of our singing to aspire to.” He beamed upon them all. “So if you would re-form again?” He waved them into their lines, then glanced down at his notes. “I believe the next piece we should run through is ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’” He looked up, his eyes bright. “Let’s try it in all the different parts this time, shall we?”

  Melissa was grateful that, this year, Jessie and Fiona were there to help strengthen the alto section; she felt as if her lungs had tightened in the wake of the duet.

  No—in the wake of the power it had made manifest.

  She was, she decided, starting to sound like her grandmother.

  She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  Regardless, she wasn’t about to glance Dagenham’s way. She could hear him singing beside her as if nothing the least discombobulating had occurred, so she raised her chin, ignored the vise about her chest, and sang along as well.

  Callum slipped into the church. The sound of the choir had lured him in. He closed the door quietly and made his way to the rearmost pew. He slid onto the wooden seat, relaxed, and let the music swirl about him.

  He’d come to waylay the crew after practice, to learn if, in visiting the outlying cottages, they’d unearthed any clue as to where the Roman coins might have hailed from.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he found the carols comforting; the familiar strains took him back to his childhood, to singing the same songs on snowy Christmas mornings in the church in Guisborough, then pelting his brothers and sisters with snowballs in the graveyard after the service.

  He realized he was smiling in a silly fashion and glanced around the shadowed nave, but there was no one near enough to see.

  Honor certainly wasn’t present; he’d assumed she wouldn’t be. If she was acting as Webster’s amanuensis, he would keep her busy—increasingly busy the deeper he got into his treatise and needed more references checked. And in truth, Callum was avoiding her, at least for the moment—until the shock of hearing Lady Osbaldestone assert that Honor was falling in love with him faded.

  He hadn’t expected that, and given the statement had been made by an arch-grande dame renowned for her matchmaking skills, it was difficult to discount—to wave aside and dismiss.

  Especially when he didn’t want to.

  Yet in light of Lady Osbaldestone’s declaration, he wasn’t sure how he should now approach Honor—how to interact with her, much less confess the truth to her.

  In the matter of someone falling in love with one, knowing was better than not knowing, but in this case, knowing pricked and prodded at his conscience and made him squirm.

  The choir started another carol, and he refocused on the music, letting it flow into his mind, drown out his thoughts, and soothe him.

  Finally, the church clock struck five times, and Moody called an end to the session and dismissed the choir. In short order, the choristers came rolling up the aisle, tugging on gloves and tossing scarves about their necks, rugging up to hurry home through the deepening darkness.

  Callum rose, and the crew, as he now thought of them, saw him and gathered around. “Any news?” he asked.

  He listened as they reported a complete lack of success in finding anyone with knowledge of the coins. Their spirits had transparently been uplifted by their singing, but the recitation of their unproductive doings saw them grow despondent and rather morose.

  “It’s as if the coins materialized from thin air.” Henry shook his head. “No one remembers seeing or handling them at all.”

  “And no one had any visitors,” Kilburn said.

  “Or picked up any coins over the last month,” Wiley glumly added.

  After a moment, Dagenham stirred and looked at Callum. “Did you find anything useful in the historical record?”

  Callum met Dagenham’s eyes, then swept his gaze over the group; they needed bucking up. “Yes and no. What I have found are mentions of a Roman settlement—a villa or merchant’s outpost, something of that nature—somewhere close to where the village is now. What I haven’t yet found is any information that will allow me to pinpoint where, exactly, the settlement was, but it definitely existed.” He let his enthusiasm take flight, knowing it was the surest way to fire theirs. “I know it contained a structure that, to be built, required timber beams and tools. I found a copy of a waybill of sorts, listing all the things you’d expect—nails and mallets and such—as part of an order to a warehouse at Clausentum.”

  He looked around and saw interest sparking in many eyes. “The carter was instructed to collect the goods and ferry them north, then a few miles west. As far as I can make out, that lands the goods more or less in this village, but exactly where the building was, I can’t yet say.”

  “Do you think that, if we find the place the coins came from, there’ll be more?” Mandy asked.

  “Well,” Callum said, “in three other cases I’ve heard of, a few coins have led to the discovery of what’s commonly called a Roman hoard—a collection of coins, gold and silver ornaments, jewelry, and the like. There have been three such hoards found in England thus far—meaning three the museums and so on know of. Almost certainly, other hoards have been discovered and were broken up and dispersed, but the Barkway Hoard in the north and the Backworth Hoard from Hertfordshire and the Capheaton Treasure from Northumberland are all more or less intact. Of those, the Backworth Hoard is the largest—it contained rings of gold and silver, chains, wheel and crescent pendants, brooches, silver spoons and bowls, as well as denarii—like the coins you found—and brass coins as well.”

  He glanced at their faces, saw the fire of commitment once more burning steadily in their e
yes, and grinned. “The Backworth Hoard was found only last year.” He didn’t add that he’d had a pivotal role in arranging for the hoard to be donated to the British Museum.

  “Right, then.” Henry clapped his hands together. “So what do we do now? If there’s a hoard buried somewhere about the village, we want to be the ones who find it.”

  The others echoed the sentiment.

  Callum looked at Henry, then glanced at the others. “Perseverance, remember? The first question to ask is whether you’ve thoroughly exhausted all possibilities along the avenue you set out to explore.”

  He returned his gaze to Henry’s face and, from Henry’s furrowed brow, deduced that the local squire was thinking hard.

  Then Henry grimaced, glanced at the others, and said, “Three of the outlying cottages we visited yesterday were empty. The men living in those cottages are”—Henry waggled his hand—“itinerants after a fashion in that they travel about the surrounding areas for work. We’ve eliminated everyone else who might have placed the coins in the jars, but not those three men.”

  Callum nodded encouragingly. “That’s the way to think—we have to leave no stone unturned along each path of exploration.”

  “Well,” Henry said, “one of those three men might be the source of the coins, but there’s no telling when they’ll return to their cottages. All have family elsewhere and might not be back until sometime in the New Year.”

  There were grimaces all around. Callum drew in a breath and held it while he digested that news, then said, “Let’s label that a dead end at this point. Remember it, but it seems we can’t push further on that tack at present, so let’s turn to our next avenue.”

  “Which is?” Jamie asked.

  Callum smiled at the lad. “If we can’t identify who put the coins in the jar, we’re left to explore the more direct avenue—where did the coins come from that someone in the village picked them up and put them in the jar?”

  Now that he’d convinced himself there was a real chance of a hoard in the vicinity, he wasn’t going to give up; he let his determination seep into both his expression and his tone. “It’s most likely the coins were found fairly recently—who keeps silver coins in their pockets for long? That means they were unearthed via some recent disturbance of the ground. Some excavation. It might be something as simple as a fox or badger or even a dog digging. It might have been due to some natural event—like a landslip or sinkhole or a boulder coming loose and rolling away, exposing the earth underneath. We can also postulate that the site of this disturbance must be fairly accessible—for instance, close to and visible from one of the paths through the woods.”

  “Like that fallen tree we were looking at when you first met us?” Lottie asked.

  Callum grinned at her. “Exactly like that. The site is unlikely to be deep in the woods, because someone stumbled across the coins by accident, and in this weather, not many people go hiking deep in the woods, off the paths.”

  The entire crew were nodding, their gazes distant as they imagined what they would be searching for.

  “My suggestion,” Callum said, “is that you walk the local paths and the lanes as well. In a group, because many pairs of eyes are better than a few in this sort of search. Scan the ground on either side—remember, you’re looking for something that was visible to someone else. See if anything catches your eye and draws you to look more closely.” He paused, then with quiet certainty, stated, “Somewhere around this village, there’s a place where the ground has been relatively recently disturbed—see if you can find it.”

  The three younger children laughed.

  “It’s a treasure hunt—a real one!” George said.

  They were all smiling now, renewed enthusiasm flowing through them.

  “The weather’s not that bad,” Wiley pointed out. “It’s been gray and wintry, but it hasn’t snowed for days.”

  “Perfect for rambling through the woods.” Henry clapped his friend on the shoulder, and everyone turned toward the church door. Henry glanced at the others. “We’ll start walking the paths tomorrow afternoon, after church. Let’s meet on the green immediately after luncheon and go from there.”

  Murmurs of agreement came from all sides.

  Callum was bringing up the rear. “While you lot are scouring the countryside, I’ll continue searching the history books. I’ve several yet to go. With any luck, I’ll find some reference that will pinpoint the site of whatever structure some Roman built here.”

  The next day dawned fine, with a gray sky and a weak winter sun intermittently striking through pearly clouds. The service at the church was well attended, and after a satisfying luncheon, Melissa, Mandy, Jamie, George, and Lottie repaired to the village green; they were waiting impatiently when Henry and his four friends came striding down the lane.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Henry called. “Cousin Ermintrude wanted to know every last little detail that Harris told us about Roman hoards.”

  “I think she fancies finding it herself.” Thomas blew on his hands. “I saw her talking to the Hall gardener as we came out.”

  “Well, if she and he turn up anything about the Hall, I’ll fall on her neck,” Henry said. “As it is”—he waved the assembled group up the rise—“let’s pick up the path at the corner of the lake and go around the lake and on past the rear of the Grange and Allard’s End for a start.”

  In a loose group, they climbed the rise and started down the long slope to the lakeshore. The ground there was icy in patches where the sun hadn’t reached; they picked their way, with the occasional half-smothered shriek or yell as their boots slid and slipped.

  Melissa nearly fell, but Dagenham gripped her elbow and steadied her. Blushing, she thanked him; he waited until she was walking again and no further patches of ice loomed ahead before, patently reluctantly, releasing her.

  As usual, she and he ambled at the rear of the group. Eventually, he thrust his hands into his greatcoat pockets and murmured, “How do you rate our chances of finding anything? Any disturbance or excavation—any possible place from which the coins might have been unearthed?”

  She slanted a glance at him, then looked forward. For several yards, she made no reply, then she offered, “I think finding the source of the coins is a long shot, no matter what we do or how we approach our search.” She returned her gaze to his face. “But surely, this is one of those instances in life where one has to weigh things up and act accordingly, and despite the low chances of success, the potential gains are great, and all for little expenditure on our part.” She arched her brows, then smiled wryly. “Besides, the search gives us something to do—a reason to walk through the woods and enjoy the afternoon outdoors.”

  His lips curved as well, and he tipped his head. “There is that.”

  They rounded the northern point of the lake and picked up the path that skirted the western shore. After crossing the narrow plank bridge over the stream that filled the lake, in twos and threes, they wandered slowly southward along the path, scanning the trees and bushes on either side—the long upward slope to the crest on their right and the short downward slope to the water on their left—searching for any sign of disturbance.

  They investigated several downed trees and the hollows beneath them, but found nothing to indicate recent digging.

  On reaching the southern end of the lake, they toiled up the path that led to the spine of the ridge and continued more or less directly south, toward the rear boundary of the Dutton Grange estate. Carefully surveying the increasingly dense woodland to either side, they forged steadily on, ultimately reaching the dilapidated holding known as Allard’s End—deserted except, in this season, for Johnny Took and the village’s flock of geese.

  The group left the path to check with Johnny, who they found in the old orchard behind the ruins of Allard’s cottage. The geese were settled on a thick blanket of dead leaves, indolently munching the fallen fruit.

  In response to their inquiries, Johnny reported, “Me and all
the other village boys’ve been keeping our eyes peeled, but we spoke after church, and none of us have spotted any sort of digging at all. Not on any of the farms—and we asked our das and the farmhands, too. No one’s noticed anything.”

  Jamie and Henry thanked Johnny.

  Henry glanced up at the sun, what there was of it. “We’ve plenty of afternoon left.” He glanced at the others. “Shall we go on?”

  Despite the lack of any positive findings, everyone was in favor, and the group returned to the path and continued southward.

  Ultimately, they walked all the way through the woods to the Southampton-Salisbury road, then backtracked and picked up the easterly path that ran a few hundred yards south of Milsom Farm.

  “The Milsom boys will have checked the farm’s fields,” Henry said, “but this path is some way from their boundary.”

  “And”—George Wiley pointed to hoofmarks—“it looks like riders come this way.”

  Henry nodded. “People on foot and on horseback occasionally use this path instead of going via the main lanes.”

  The group paid due attention to the dense woodland on either side of the path, occasionally stepping off it to peer into the undergrowth, but found nothing to excite their interest.

  When the path descended sharply to join the Romsey lane, Dagenham gave Melissa his hand; she took it, and he gripped her fingers and supported her as she picked her way down the rocky slope. Dagenham’s gesture was patently instinctive, an action taken without thought; he’d offered his hand or grasped her elbow several times during the afternoon, whenever the path grew difficult to navigate. However, this time, he didn’t release Melissa’s hand but continued to clasp it, gently yet firmly, while they followed the others along the path. Only when, at the rear of the group, they emerged from the woods into the open lane did he—with transparent reluctance—relinquish his hold and draw his fingers from hers.