The boy was insightful. Therese smiled and looked down the room at the painting that hung above the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of an older lady with a gentle face and eyes that seemed to smile, even now. Therese tipped her head toward the picture. “I inherited the manor from my aunt, Gloriana Hartington. She was a renowned eccentric in her day. It seems appropriate that any Roman treasure found on the property should bear her name.”
Callum grinned. “That’s an excellent idea—and it’s the sort of connection that will appeal to the collectors and also the museum.”
Jamie, George, and Lottie burst into the front hall, and Therese swung to face them.
“We’re back!” the trio chorused.
“And we’re ready for our next load,” George declared.
“We spotted Dagenham’s curricle coming along the lane, so they’re on their way back, too,” Jamie reported.
Lottie grinned up at Therese. “Giving out the puddings is fun—we want to be first out again.” And with that, the three barreled on toward the kitchen.
Therese laughed and followed them.
She was assisting the trio to carry five more puddings out to the gig when Dagenham, Melissa, and George Wiley came in, their faces flushed and expressions eager.
“Everyone’s been thrilled to receive the puddings,” Melissa reported.
The three hurried on to the kitchen to collect their next consignment.
In all, a grand total of forty-seven plum puddings were delivered through the morning and into the early afternoon. The snow continued to threaten, but held off, although the skies were all shades of gray and hung ponderously heavy and low.
Meanwhile, the scholars in the dining room completed their inventory of the hoard. Subsequently, summoned to the dining room, Therese sat with Callum and Professor Webster as they re-examined the inventoried pieces, and with the guidance of the two scholars, Therese decreed which pieces she wished to donate to Brentmore College in her aunt’s name and that of the village. With that settled, she delegated Callum to contact those collectors most likely to be interested regarding purchasing the remaining pieces and gifting them to the Ashmolean Museum.
Callum said that all he needed was a fresh copy of the inventory to show the collectors. When the professor looked surprised, Callum almost bashfully admitted, “These days, my reputation is enough to guarantee the authenticity of the find, and your name added to mine on the inventory puts the question beyond doubt.” Callum had glanced at the piles of coins, pins, brooches, and other bits and pieces. “And frankly, carrying any of that with me wouldn’t be a wise idea.”
“No, indeed.” Therese duly summoned Crimmins, and with Callum’s and the professor’s help, they transferred the Hartington hoard in its entirety to Therese’s private parlor.
At Callum’s and the professor’s uncertain looks and glances at the window, Therese smiled and assured them, “Later, we’ll place the hoard in the manor’s lockbox for safekeeping, but I fancy we’ll have a few visitors this afternoon who would like to see it.”
Before sitting down with the scholars, Therese had sent Simms to deliver invitations to view the hoard to the Colebatches, the Mountjoys, and the Whitesheafs at the Arms, all of whose assistance had been pivotal in leading to the discovery of the treasure.
Therese regarded the pile of gleaming silver, with the occasional glint of gold. “Before we send any of it on to Brentmore or the Ashmolean, we’ll have to arrange a proper viewing for the entire village, but that can wait until later.”
The sound of arrivals in the front hall drew them in that direction. Before leaving the room, Therese lifted the parlor door key from the pot in which she hid it and handed it to Crimmins, and he followed her out and locked the parlor door.
In the hall, she found the plum-pudding deliverers had returned—a touch weary and definitely hungry, but happy. They were all there, eagerly exchanging stories of how the recipients of the puddings had reacted.
Therese looked past the youthful crowd and saw Mrs. Crimmins and Mrs. Haggerty ferrying pies, fresh from the oven, into the reclaimed dining room. Therese was about to clap her hands to attract the company’s attention, but the aromas wafting from the pies reached the group, and heads turned as noses twitched.
She laughed and called, “Luncheon is served,” then when the group looked at her, she waved them to go ahead of her into the room.
Therese settled at the table’s head and glanced around. The entire delivery crew were there, plus Callum, Honor, and the professor. Therese watched as, after she’d instructed them not to stand on ceremony—it was after two o’clock, and they’d worked without pause all morning—they attacked Mrs. Haggerty’s pies and poured themselves glasses of mulled cider from the pottery pitchers on the table.
She consumed a small slice of pie and waited until they’d all had their fill and relaxed in the chairs, replete and comfortable. Then she tapped her spoon to the side of her glass, and when everyone looked her way, said, “I would like you all to charge your glasses, then gather in the front hall. It’s time we set our yule log alight.”
“Yes!” cried Jamie, George, and Lottie.
Everyone else grinned and did as Therese had asked.
Holding glasses of the still-warm cider, the company streamed into the front hall, just as Crimmins opened the door to the Colebatches, the Whitesheafs, and the Mountjoys.
The next minutes went in showing the newcomers the hoard, and the plum-pudding deliverers also crowded into the parlor and gathered around; most hadn’t previously seen the collection displayed in any organized fashion. Crimmins wove between the guests, making sure everyone held a glass of mulled cider or wine.
Eventually, Therese, aided by Mandy and Melissa—who, to Therese’s impressed surprise, instinctively stepped to her side in support—herded everyone back into the front hall. The manor staff, all holding glasses of their own, appeared and joined the crowd.
At the huge old fireplace, Crimmins and Simms made a great show of setting the yule log alight, while everyone else stood around and, smiling and quietly chatting, watched.
Once the log was crackling nicely, Therese raised her glass of mulled wine. “I give you a toast.” She waited while everyone readied their glasses, then smiled upon them all and said, “Here’s to the season, to the year passed and the year to come, to our yule log, to the Hartington Hoard, to our plum puddings, and most importantly, to the plum trees that started it all!”
The company cheered, loud and long, then drank.
In the consequent momentary silence, Lottie’s piping voice rang out. “Look! It’s snowing!”
She pointed to the fanlight above the front door, through which fat snowflakes could be seen whirling and swirling.
Therese smiled and caught Lottie’s eye. “It appears we’ll have a thoroughly white Christmas after all.”
Several hours later, split once more into their various households, the members of that happy company trooped through the steadily falling snow, their boots crunching on a crisp white blanket as they toiled up the path to the doors of St. Ignatius on the Hill.
Candlelight welcomed them, spilling, golden and warm, from an interior wreathed in and scented by holly and fir. This year, the Dutton Grange household had volunteered to decorate the church for the carol service, and if the appreciative looks on the faces of the congregation were any indication, everyone thought it a magical idea.
Murmured greetings and smiles abounded as the congregation filed in and filled the pews, with latecomers lining the walls.
The Moodys were on their mettle and soon had their choristers marshaled and ready, arranged in rows on the altar steps. Then the organ gave voice, and Reverend Colebatch led the ceremonial procession into the church and down the aisle, and everyone rose, and the service began.
It was the third such service Therese had attended, and while she’d doubted it was possible to trump last year’s effort, the Moodys and their assembled choir proved her wrong.
Voices, strong and sweet, soaring and rumbling, delicate and powerful, filled the church in a glorious paean to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
No matter how familiar the carols were, it was the delivery that captured minds and hearts and set souls singing.
Therese watched her grandchildren, saw their innocent passion and joy, and wallowed in the moment.
During the short sermon, she surreptitiously glanced around, taking note of those in the pews on the other side of the aisle.
Callum was sitting next to Honor, with Professor Webster on Honor’s other side. Therese had noted all three singing as lustily as any in the crowd; she suspected all three felt sincerely grateful for the changes their sojourn in Little Moseley had wrought.
As she watched, Callum glanced sidelong at Honor, and she, as if feeling his gaze, looked at him, and the pair shared a smile—a gentle, private smile that spoke of connection, of closeness, of evolving emotions. Smugly satisfied, Therese faced forward.
Immediately following the sermon, Melissa and Dagenham stepped out from the choir’s ranks and, to the beat of Mr. Moody’s baton, raised their voices and sang “The Holly and the Ivy” with such poignancy that Therese—along with every adult female in the church—was forced to find her handkerchief and dab at brimming eyes.
She couldn’t recall when a rendition of the carol had so moved her. Tonight’s performance was more intense, more potent than the pair’s effort yesterday in the wood; that had been almost playful in comparison. More clearly than anyone else in the audience, Therese comprehended the root cause of the emotional tension that infused Melissa’s sultry alto and Dagenham’s powerful yet rigidly controlled tenor.
The pair stood on the cusp of a decision, one that, even had they been older, more experienced, would have been difficult to make. They were faced with taking a step—one way or the other—and in neither direction was the outcome rosy. They knew it; Therese knew they did—the evocative emotion infusing their voices proved it.
And for once, she couldn’t interfere. Not this time—not with this.
She couldn’t even hint or steer. This was one decision that had to come entirely from them—from their hearts.
Sometimes, those one loved had to be allowed to work out matters of the heart for themselves, for who could truly speak for another in that sphere?
Therese watched the pair as the last note, laden with feeling and carried in perfect harmony, soared through the church, then the sound crested, ebbed, and faded away. Silence fell, and the pair looked down, drew breath, then without so much as a glance at the other, stepped back and rejoined the choir’s ranks.
She stifled a sigh. She would support them in whatever decision they made; she would be there with as much wisdom as they would hear, but she could not save them from the maze of thorns Fate had set in their path.
Whether they found their way through it to the other side and came together again, hand in hand, would be entirely up to them.
The service continued, and if Therese still felt the chill touch of a looming shadow, the rest of the congregation was unaffected, and as the songs of joy swelled and filled every corner of the church, raising spirits and buoying hearts, the expressions of those around her glowed with happiness.
Finally, the last carol was sung, and Reverend Colebatch intoned the benediction, then, beaming, led his congregation up the aisle.
The good reverend paused before the doors, then reached forward and opened them cautiously—not knowing what lay waiting on the other side.
Those closest peered past him and caught their breaths—in wonder, in delight.
The snow had ceased, and the wind had cleared the sky, but no longer blew. The night air was icy and still, and the stars twinkled like bright white diamonds scattered over the ink-black sky. And strewn across the ground, myriad ice crystals glinted and sparkled in the silver moonlight.
It was a magical scene, and the children of the village poured forth in utter, boundless joy. Even the adults, following more circumspectly to gather in groups on the snow-covered lawn, nodding and calling greetings, their breaths fogging in the icy air, couldn’t do less than beam.
The transformation seemed a benediction conferred by Nature herself on their little village—as if to acknowledge that yuletide was nigh, and all was well in their corner of the land.
After patting Reverend Colebatch’s hand and complimenting him on his sermon, Therese joined the Swindons, Mrs. Woolsey, and Henrietta Colebatch on the front lawn as they exchanged season’s greetings with the other village families.
From the corner of her eye, Therese saw Professor Webster leave the church. The professor looked around, then headed her way. Callum and Honor stepped through the doors in the professor’s wake, but after taking note of the professor’s direction, Callum tugged Honor’s sleeve and, when she glanced at him, took her arm and drew her to the side, into the shadow thrown by the church.
Therese smiled and greeted the professor. “Did you enjoy the service?”
With his hands in his greatcoat pockets, Callum halted in the lee of the church, where a splotch of shadow created at least the illusion of privacy, and swung to face Honor.
In her bright-blue pelisse, with her hands tucked in a fur muff, she obligingly halted; relaxed and at ease, a gentle smile on her lips, she looked questioningly up at him.
Clinging to the moment, he smiled back, basking in the glow of her attention. He could only marvel at how, during his days at Little Moseley, everything—every aspect of his life—seemed to have somehow fallen into place. He couldn’t help but feel this was a moment he needed to seize.
Honor tipped her head, her smile remaining as her eyes searched his.
He hadn’t planned this—hadn’t rehearsed any speech or thought of the correct form of words—but a sense of magic hung in the air, and emboldened, he licked suddenly dry lips and said, “I realize you don’t yet know me well enough to make any life-defining decisions, that asking you to do so would be presumptuous—and precipitous—but I was wondering if you would be agreeable to allowing me to spend more time with you.” Unexpected nerves pricked his spine, and he shifted and hurriedly added, “Just in the normal way, not as part of any search—not as part of anything academic.” A sudden thought occurred, and he rushed to reassure her, “And I definitely don’t want to displace you as your uncle’s assistant.”
Her smile deepened. Despite the shadows, he thought her eyes brightened.
He took heart and sighed. “I’m making a muck of this, but while I know and acknowledge that it’s too soon for me to make any formal—or even informal—declaration, I know my own mind, and in time, I’m determined to secure your hand…if you think you might come to consider marrying me.”
Honor arched her brows, but before she could reply to the implied question, Callum locked his gaze with hers and, more soberly, went on, “I never thought to find a lady like you—one who understands what I do and who could be a helpmate in all aspects of my life—a partner in life and not just in making a home. You have all the talents I could wish for”—his voice lowered and deepened—“and I hope you’ll allow me the chance to show you what you already mean to me and how much I want you by my side.”
Her heart had skipped, tripped; now, it soared. In his eyes, she could read his sincerity—that he was speaking from the heart.
She could do no less. “If you asked for my hand today, I would gladly give it, but”—she tipped her head—“I appreciate your point that, for us, in terms of our acquaintance, these are early days, and I agree with your suggestion and would welcome the chance to get to know you better—and for you to get to know me.”
Gazing into his eyes, she felt as if she was sinking into the welcoming blue. “Neither of us is young and silly—we’ve the years and, I hope, the maturity to feel certain of what we want and need.”
We’re old enough to know we’re falling in love.
She didn’t say the words, yet she would have sworn
they hovered in the crisp air between them. There was a clarity in the moment, making it impossible not to see and acknowledge that they—he and she—stood on the cusp of a future worth seizing.
She drew a hand from her muff and laid it on his arm. He drew his hand from his pocket and gently clasped her gloved fingers. Emotion welled within her, and she allowed all she felt to show in her eyes as she turned her hand, gripped his fingers, and smiling, said, “Let’s take the next month—or even two—to learn all we should know of each other. And then you can offer, and I can accept, and we can go forward from there.”
He blinked—she could almost see him replaying her words in his head—then a glorious smile broke across his face, widening to one of unabashed joy. His eyes on hers, he raised her gloved fingers to his lips and kissed them. “That, my dear Honor, is an excellent plan.”
Their gazes remained locked. The air between them all but quivered as they stood toe-to-toe in the shadow of the church. Honor read in the blue of Callum’s eyes that he wanted to kiss her—and she felt the shove of her own instincts urging her to rise on her toes and press her lips to his—but then his gaze flicked past her. She followed his glance to the ever-widening spread of villagers crowding the lawn, the nearest of whom were now only a yard away.
Honor took in the crowd, then glanced at Callum.
He met her look with one of disgruntled disappointment, and a laugh bubbled in her throat, and she grinned at him. “Come on.” She shifted to stand beside him; he retained his hold on her hand and wound her arm in his. She patted his arm. “Let’s go and join Uncle Hildebrand—he’s over there with Lady Osbaldestone and the Colebatches.”
With an irrepressibly smug smile, Callum steered her in Professor Webster’s direction.
As they joined the circle anchored by Lady Osbaldestone, her black eyes dwelled assessingly on him and Honor, then her ladyship smiled, caught his eye, and inclined her head approvingly…
Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Page 22
