The Twelve Clues of Christmas (12 page)

Chapter 18

D
ECEMBER 24, EVENING ON
C
HRISTMAS
E
VE

Can’t help feeling excited, in spite of everything that has happened.

I tried to push this worry from my mind as we wrapped up warmly and set off to find the Yule log. Monty insisted that we sing carols as we trudged through the snow. The temperature was slightly warmer today so the snow was turning to slush, which would make it hard to drag the log home on a sled. Sir Oswald and Monty were pulling one just in case, but Bunty was leading one of the farm horses attached to a wagon.

This time we set out on the other side of the house, past a lovely formal garden, its statues decorated with crowns of snow and a snowy rim to the lily pond, then into a wilderness area that led up to Lovey Tor. This part of the grounds was full of old oak trees, bent against the cruel Dartmoor wind, as were cedars, yew trees and even a beech or two. When I paused to look back I saw that we had a lovely view of the house and the village beyond, nestled in the hollow between the hills. We could also glimpse another large house through the trees.

“What’s that?” I asked Bunty.

“Oh, that was poor old Freddie’s place,” she said. “I don’t know who it will go to now. He didn’t have any brothers. Perhaps it will be sold and we’ll have frightful nouveau riche bankers who will just come down for weekends.”

“At least you’d have a chance to meet people if they brought house parties with them,” I said and she grinned.

“Maybe they wouldn’t be so frightful. I do so want to marry someone rich enough to keep me. I could do without the title.”

“I agree,” I said. “Titles aren’t worth much in the real world, are they?”

“In your case you could presumably marry someone with a real title—you know—a prince or a duke.”

“That’s what my family would like. They have already tried to saddle me with a frightful Romanian prince. My friend Belinda and I called him Fishface.”

“But you’d prefer a penniless Darcy.” She glanced back over her shoulder to see Darcy far behind, walking with Monty as they dragged the sled.

“Yes, I would, actually. But it probably won’t ever happen. I don’t think I’d be allowed to marry a Catholic.”

“That’s stupid. I’d jolly well ignore them if I wanted to marry someone I loved.”

“I think it’s something to do with the law of England. One can hardly go against that.”

“You’ll find a way if you want to,” she said encouragingly.

We walked on.

“How much further? I’m tired,” Junior whined.

I glanced back again as a thought struck me. This part of the property was close to Freddie’s house, and what’s more, it was full of big, solid trees. If he had wanted to rig up some kind of booby trap then the position here would have been ideal. Why go all the way around to the orchard?

“Here we are,” Sir Oswald called. “This is the one I thought would do. What do you think?”

We gathered around to admire an enormous log—a great fallen oak limb, actually—then worked together to heft it onto the sled, which promptly sank into the mushy snow and wouldn’t move. So we had to use the wagon. Even with all of us lifting and grunting it was jolly heavy and we were glad that the horse had to transport it down the hill and not us. As we made our way home the light was rapidly fading, bathing the world in a dusky pink glow.

“We will take the log into the house and light it after dinner,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, “and if all goes well it should burn all through Christmas Day to bring us luck.”

As soon as we had taken off our coats and hats, Dickson the butler appeared with a punch bowl of steaming mulled wine and a tray of hot sausage rolls. This time I sipped slowly, warming up my fingers on the glass.

“Right, now we all have more work to do before dinner.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley took control again before anyone could slip away. “It’s time to decorate the Christmas tree. Lights in this box, glass ornaments here, tinsel garlands over there. You should be able to reach the upper portion of the tree by leaning through the banister, and I suggest you boys put the lights and ornaments on the upper part.”

We set to work hanging the delicate ornaments—trumpets and birds, gnomes and balls, then adding the finishing touches of pinecones, sugar mice, tinsel. When the lights were finally plugged in, the tree sparkled with a magical glow and the company broke into applause.

This time we dressed formally for dinner, except for Junior, who joined us in an awful blue-and-white-checked jacket. Mrs. Upthorpe and Ethel were sporting their Parisian gowns, which somehow failed to make them look elegant. I know that’s uncharitable of me, but I was trying to be an unbiased observer. I also wished that it could have been summer, not winter, as I too possessed a Chanel evening gown—designed for me by Coco herself. But alas it was a light chiffon and quite unsuitable for a winter gathering. And so I was stuck with my aged burgundy velvet. At least I had a strand of family rubies that took the attention away from where Queenie had brushed the fabric the wrong way.

I came into the dining room to see that Lady Hawse-Gorzley had outdone herself tonight. There were two large candelabras on the dining table and their light sparkled from silver and crystal. I could tell the guests were impressed, even the Wexlers. There were place cards at the table and I was seated between Colonel Rathbone and Johnnie Protheroe—which would not have been my first choice of assignment. Sure enough, we were only halfway through the first course, a hearty game soup, when I felt a hand on my knee. I pushed it off and pretended not to have noticed.

The second course came: John Dory in a caper sauce. And to my amazement I felt a hand on my knee again, only this time it was the other knee. Either Johnnie had grown very long arms or the colonel was also a groper. I pushed it away. Across the table I saw Darcy giving me a strange look as if he could sense something was not right. I looked to left and right of me then rolled my eyes. I think he understood and smirked.

A sorbet was served before the main course to clear the palate and no hands appeared. Then the main course was carried to the table: a splendid baron of beef, with individual Yorkshire puddings, crispy roast potatoes and a puree of root vegetables baked with a crispy top. Conversation lagged as everyone ate. Then, as plates were cleared, not one but two hands landed on my knees again. I decided this had to stop once and for all. I slid both my hands under the table and caressed each hand lovingly, a serene smile on my face. Then I picked up each hand and brought them together, carefully removing my own hands. It took them a moment to realize that they were holding hands with each other. I sensed a rapid movement and then each of the men sitting bolt upright on either side of me. Both had red faces!

The pudding was apple tart with Devon clotted cream, followed by anchovy toast savories. We ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee and were soon joined by the men.

“I think some parlor games are in order, don’t you?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, and she soon had us playing all the silly old ones like the minister’s cat. It was the sort of thing that I, as an only child alone with servants in a big castle, had rarely done while I was growing up and I loved every moment of it.

Around ten, the Wexlers opted to go to bed, but the rest of us decided to stay up, most of us planning to go to midnight service. A couple of whist foursomes were begun. The rest of us sat near the fire talking. After a while I found I wasn’t taking part in the conversation, instead letting my thoughts wander from the robbery today to Darcy’s Catholicism. I kept telling myself that it was Christmas Eve and all was well, but so many disquieting things had happened in the last few days that I couldn’t fully relax and enjoy the moment. I fought back tiredness and was glad when we were dismissed to change for church.

At eleven forty-five we set off up the driveway, marching two by two like students on a school outing. The dowager countess had declined to come with us, declaring that midnight mass was a papist invention and the only proper celebration of Christmas was matins on the day itself. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest decided to join her. I suspected they had both eaten and drunk their fill at dinner and were feeling too comfortable to move. The slushy snow had frozen again and made the going treacherous but we held on to each other and reached the church without mishap. Apparently the Hawse-Gorzleys had their own pews at the front, because Lady Hawse-Gorzley marched us past the rest of the congregation to the places of honor right at the front where nobody else had dared to sit. I noticed that Darcy had come with us and sat with Monty and Badger in the row behind me.

It was one of those perfect village churches dating from Norman times with a vaulted ceiling and simple altar and it had that special smell I always associated with old churches—a mixture of mold and old books and polish that was in no way unpleasant. It was also, like most old churches, not heated and our breath rose visibly toward the rafters. Miss Prendergast had decorated it splendidly, with holly in every niche and ivy trailing over the back of the altar. I noticed, however, that the Christmas crèche, at the steps of the Lady Chapel, had no adornment of holly, thanks to Mr. Barclay.

The moment I located him, sitting at the organ still and formal in his red bow tie, he struck up with a resounding fanfare that filled the whole church. The choirboys shuffled in, the smaller ones rubbing their eyes and wishing they could be in bed. They looked so angelic in their white robes and red ruffs and when the organ struck up “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” they sounded angelic too. As we reached the verse that begins, “Yeah, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning,” the church bells began to ring midnight and it was Christmas Day.

After a rousing rendering of “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” we walked back up the drive, no longer sleepy but revived by the lively singing. I fell into step beside Darcy.

“I see you came to the church of the heretics with us,” I said, trying to make it sound as if I was joking. “So tell me, does your Catholic religion really mean that much to you?”

“I came with you because I thought it was polite to my hostess,” he said, “and also because the law says we don’t have to attend mass if the church is more than three miles away and if we are a traveler. The nearest Catholic church is at least ten miles away and I didn’t want to put anyone to the trouble of driving me in this weather.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

“And as to whether my religion means anything to me, I can’t say I’m always a devout Catholic, but I try. My mother converted to marry my father, you know. And she became very devout. So I’m conscious of that.”

We walked on in silence while I digested this. As we took off the various layers of coats and scarves, Lady Hawse-Gorzley announced that there was brandy and hot mince pies in the drawing room to warm us up. I was about to go through when Darcy grabbed my arm and held me back.

“It’s Christmas Day,” he said, “and I want to give you my Christmas present.” And he took a small box from his pocket. “If I’d known you were going to be here, it would have been something rather different and a little more special,” he said, “but I wanted you to have something, to think of me when I’m not with you.”

I took the box and opened it. Inside was a silver Devon pixie on a pretty silver chain. I started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. “Don’t you like it?”

“Wait and see tomorrow morning,” I said. “And I do like it. Thank you.”

“And in case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “I planned ahead. You’re standing directly under the mistletoe.”

Then he took me in his arms and kissed me—not a perfunctory meeting of the lips, but a real, warm and wonderful kiss.

Chapter 19

C
HRISTMAS
D
AY AT
G
ORZLEY
H
ALL

D
ECEMBER 25

I floated up to bed in a rosy haze. Darcy loved me. Nothing else in the whole world mattered. Queenie was lying on my bed, snoring away. Presumably she had been waiting for my return to undress me and had not been able to stay awake any longer. I roused her gently. “Queenie, you can go to bed now,” I whispered. “Happy Christmas.”

“Same to you, miss,” she muttered and promptly fell back to sleep again.

“Queenie. You have to go back to your own bed.” I prodded and tried to move her. She merely sighed and turned over. She was too heavy to lift. Since I was full of happiness and Christmas cheer I merely rolled her to one side of the bed, undressed and got in myself.

I woke to the sound of bells pealing jubilantly. Christmas Day. I sat up to see that Queenie was still sound asleep, mouth open and snoring unattractively. I nudged her.

“Queenie. Wake up. It’s morning and I’d like my tea.”

She yawned and stretched like a cat, then opened her eyes and looked around in surprise.

“Ruddy ’ell, miss. What the dickens am I doing here?”

“You fell asleep waiting for me and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

“You’re a proper toff, you are,” she said.

“Yes, well, proper toffs usually get their morning tea brought to them by this hour, so I suggest you leap up and fetch it.”

“Blimey, yes. Bob’s yer uncle then.”

And she waddled out, leaving me to sit up in bed, enjoying the sound of the bells and the white stillness of the landscape outside my window. Then I put my hand to my neck to feel for my pixie. My fingers closed around him, and I shut my eyes, remembering that kiss. It was indeed a good Christmas.

Queenie was back in no time at all.

“Happy Christmas, my lady,” she said. “Cook sent up a mince pie instead of biscuits this morning.”

It was warm from the oven and I savored it.

“What will your ladyship be wearing?” Queenie asked, clearly trying to be on her best behavior.

“I believe I’ll wear my Christmas present from my mother—the rose cardigan and the long silky skirt and the scarf, with my white silk blouse,” I said. “Oh, and Queenie—that cardigan is made of cashmere. On no account are you to attempt to wash it, scrub it, iron it or do anything else to it. Is that clear?”

She nodded. “Sorry about the jersey dress, miss,” she muttered. “I feel like a fool. You know what my old dad used to say, don’t you?”

“Various things, if I remember correctly—that you were dropped on your head at birth or that you must be twins because one couldn’t be so daft.”

She grinned. “You got it. That’s exactly what he said.”

I got up and went to the dresser, retrieving a package. “Happy Christmas, Queenie,” I said. “Servants should officially receive their Christmas boxes tomorrow, on Boxing Day, but I think I’d like you to have it now.”

“For me, miss?” Her eyes opened wide.

“It’s nothing very special,” I said. “You know I don’t have much money.”

She opened it. It was a black cloche hat to replace the shapeless felt flowerpot she usually wore. She was embarrassingly grateful and wiped away tears. “Oooh, miss, I ain’t never had anything so lovely before. Honest, I ain’t. You’re such a lovely person. I’m so lucky.”

Oh, dear, when she said things like that I realized that I could never sack her, however awful she was.

Washed and dressed in my new finery, feeling delightfully stylish, I went down to breakfast. Apart from the Wexlers I was again the first one down and I helped myself from a splendid array of dishes. The breakfasts at Gorzley Hall had been more than generous every day but this Christmas spread outdid them. Bacon, sausages, kidneys, eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, smoked haddock—everything one could possibly want. I tried not to take too much, knowing the Christmas banquet that was to follow.

While I was eating the other guests filed in, one by one, and Christmas greetings filled the air. Lady Hawse-Gorzley appeared when we were all seated to wish us a happy Christmas and to inform us that there was something special in the small sitting room as soon as we had finished eating. Like eager children we filed through to see an impressive snow house sitting on a low table. For those of you who have never seen a snow house, it is made of cardboard to look like an old-fashioned house and is liberally decorated with cotton wool and sparkles to look like snow. Oh, and it’s full of presents.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley removed the chimney.

“Lucky dip,” she said. “Red ribbon means for a man, white ribbon for a woman.”

We dipped, one by one. The presents were all rather mundane—boxes of handkerchiefs and writing paper, appointment books and journals. I was lucky enough to pick one of the latter as I have always kept a diary and this one was particularly grand with a purple leather cover and a lock and key. We thanked her and she smiled, but I could tell she was distracted. As people drifted away I went up to her.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “You seem a little worried.”

She frowned. “It’s that dratted butcher. He hasn’t delivered the geese as he promised. Cook has the stuffing all ready and is waiting to put the birds in the oven. You did tell him that I needed those birds by nine o’clock at the latest, didn’t you? And now it’s almost ten.”

“It could have snowed again overnight, making the roads difficult,” I pointed out.

“The trouble is we’ve no way of knowing. The telephones are still not working. I suppose we have enough turkeys to go around, with the stuffing and everything, but I did want those geese.”

“I suppose I could go out and shoot you a couple of swans from the pond,” Sir Oswald said, with deadpan seriousness. “Would they do instead?”

“Don’t be silly, Oswald,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley snapped. “That’s not even amusing.”

“Why, are swans not good to eat?” Mr. Wexler asked.

“Nobody’s ever tasted them,” Bunty said, giving him a withering look that he could be so clueless. “Swans are reserved for royalty. In the old days killing a swan was punished by hanging. I don’t think they’d hang us anymore, but it’s still an offense.”

“Fancy that. How quaint,” Mrs. Wexler said. “You have the quaintest laws over here.”

“That’s because some of them date back to the Middle Ages and nobody has bothered to repeal them,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “Those of you who are going to matins should think of getting ready.”

“Have my car brought around, Humphreys. I do not intend to walk through the snow,” the dowager countess said to her companion, who scurried off like a frightened rabbit.

“Hopeless creature. Don’t know why I put up with her,” the countess commented before the companion was out of earshot.

“Maybe we could hitch a ride with you, Countess,” Mr. Wexler said.

The countess regarded him through her lorgnette. “I always think that one should walk whenever possible,” she said firmly. “Had there not been snow on the driveway I should have never considered wasting petrol and using the car.”

“But since you are using it,” Mrs. Wexler said, giving her what she hoped was a winning smile.

The countess did not return the smile. “Those two young people of yours will grow up fat and idle if you mollycoddle them,” she said. “What your son needs is a good boarding school. Cold showers in the morning and cross-country runs before breakfast.”

“That’s positively barbaric,” Mrs. Wexler said, putting an arm around Junior’s shoulder.

“Ah, but it made us what we are today,” the countess said, smiling at last. “Rulers of half the world.” She nodded to the Wexlers. “I will see you in church.”

As she went out I caught Darcy’s eye and moved closer to him.

“Isn’t she marvelous?” Darcy muttered to me.

“Come with me,” I said and, taking his hand, I led him from the room.

“Is this a repetition of the other night?” he asked, his eyes challenging mine. “Are you leading me to your bedroom again?”

“Don’t keep reminding me of that.” I blushed.

“Oh, I think I’ll enjoy reminding you of it for a long while yet.”

We reached an alcove beside the front hall. I turned to face Darcy. “I wanted to give you your Christmas present,” I said. “And bear in mind I bought this before I knew you were part of this house party.”

I handed him the little box. When he had taken off the wrapping I saw the grin spreading across his face.

“Great minds think alike,” he said as he opened the box to reveal the pixie.

“I wanted to give you something, and I thought you needed luck more than most people.”

“How true that is,” he said. “I could really do with a streak of luck right now. My father has become so difficult. One can’t even have a civilized conversation with him. He’s all set to sell off the last of the family treasures and won’t listen to me. I just feel so frustrated, watching everything my family stood for gradually disintegrate and not able to do a damned thing about it.” He stopped and managed an embarrassed smile. “I shouldn’t go piling my troubles on you, especially not on Christmas Day.”

“I feel the same way,” I said. “I’m no longer welcome at what was my home and frankly I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Two orphans in the storm,” he said. “Maybe we should do what you suggested in your moment of drunken wisdom—run off to a desert island together and to hell with the whole thing.”

“I don’t like coconuts very much,” I said. He wrapped me in his arms and laughed.

* * *

L
ADY
H
AWSE-
G
ORZLEY SUMMONED
us together again before the churchgoers set out and announced that we should make plans for the Boxing Day hunt in the next village of Widecombe. She hoped she’d be able to supply enough horses for all those who wanted to take part.

“Not us, thank you,” Mrs. Wexler said firmly. “Hunting is a barbaric sport, from what I’ve heard. Tearing poor little foxes to pieces.”

“They’ve probably never ridden a horse in their lives,” the countess said in a stage whisper.

“I think I’m a little old for that kind of thing,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but I’m sure my husband won’t turn down a chance to hunt, will you, Reggie?”

“I should say not,” Colonel Rathbone said heartily. “Tallyho and view halloo and all that. It’s what England is made of, don’t you know.”

“I don’t think we’re up to hunting, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Upthorpe said, “but we’d certainly like to come along and watch you set off. I’ve never actually seen a hunt. I bet the young men look really handsome in their red coats.”

“Pink,” the countess said sharply.

“I thought the coats were red.” Mrs. Upthorpe looked puzzled.

“They are, but we call it pink.”

“Why call them pink when they’re not pink?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

“I’m sure the explanation is lost in the mists of antiquity,” Lady H-G intervened before this could go any further. “Oswald will run you over in the estate car. His leg is playing up again. Still recovering from an injury and the doctor has forbidden hunting.”

Sir Oswald nodded gloomily. “Blasted quack. What does he know?” he muttered.

“I shall enjoy watching you set off,” the countess said. “Remind me of the good old days when I had the finest seat in Hertfordshire.”

For some reason the Wexler children found this amusing and were given a ferocious look by the countess. “I shall, of course, be delighted to offer Mrs. Rathbone a place in my motorcar,” she said, making it quite clear that she was snubbing the rest of the spectators.

“And I take it you’ll be riding your own horses, won’t you, Captain Sechrest?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said quickly, still trying to keep unpleasantness from developing.

“Oh, absolutely,” Captain Sechrest said. “We’ll pop over to our place first thing tomorrow.”

“I’ll drop you off at your place in the morning in the Armstrong Siddeley,” Johnnie said. “I have to pick up my own nag.”

Mrs. Sechrest said, “Thank you, Johnnie, how kind,” at the same time as her husband muttered, “Not at all necessary. Have my own vehicle.”

Lady Hawse-Gorzley looked around. “So let’s see, that leaves the colonel, myself, Monty, Darcy, Bunty—how about you, Badger?”

“I’m not the world’s most brilliant rider.” Badger’s freckled face turned pink. “But I’ll give it a go.”

“Jolly good. That’s the spirit.” Lady Hawse-Gorzley nodded with approval. “And Georgiana—you hunt, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely. Adore it, if you can find me a mount,” I said.

“I think we can. We’ve Sultan if Oswald’s not coming, and Star is still game if a little plodding, isn’t he? And then there are Freddie’s horses. I did approach him about borrowing his extra mounts for our guests before the tragedy, and they’ll need exercising by now. Monty, dear, you might take Darcy and go over there this morning to see what’s what. Tell the groom we’ll want them brought round by eight thirty tomorrow morning.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring my hunting pinks,” Colonel Rathbone said. “Didn’t know about the hunt, y’know. Can’t ride without them. Dashed bad form.”

“I’m sure Oswald will lend you his jacket, won’t you, dear?” Lady H-G said firmly. Sir Oswald didn’t look too sure but smiled wanly.