by Regina Scott
“Genevieve!” her mother cried. “Squire, please disregard my daughter. I don’t know what’s come over her lately. She seems to have developed quite an interest in finances, an aberration I assure you will not last.”
“I think young ladies who take an interest in their family’s well-being should be much complimented, Mrs. Munroe,” he replied, smiling. Then, turning to Gen with a twinkle in his dark eyes, he added, “I assure you, Miss Munroe, I will pay for every trinket in this room. As a service to my mother, of course.”
Gen eyed him, trying to determine his game. He couldn’t be trying to procure his gift for the day—what was it, two turtle doves? Surely he knew that if he bought them so easily, he would be disqualifying himself from the wager. Besides, she doubted there was anything like a turtle dove in this collection of her mother’s.
“How very commendable of you, Mr. Pentercast,” she managed.
“Very commendable, and quite unnecessary,” her mother put in. “Now, if we’re to accomplish this plan of yours, we’ll need to start moving things immediately.”
With great misgivings, Gen helped them repack the various presents and watched as Chimes and Alan carried the boxes out to Alan’s waiting carriage. His entire story could only be a concoction of lies, but she couldn’t understand how he stood to benefit. Chimes had the groom bring round the Munroe carriage, miraculously fixed, and the Munroes climbed in for the drive to the Manor.
The Manor had, of course, once been known as Munroe Manor, and Gen knew the Munroes took great pride in the fact that it wasn’t uncommon even to this day for someone in the village to slip and use the old name. While the house was a little over a mile from the Abbey through the woods, it was considerably farther by road, as the Munroes had to follow a curving drive nearly to the main road and the Wenwood Thorn before branching onto the drive that led to the Manor. As they came up through the trees, bare now in the winter wind, Gen saw that Alan had been refurbishing the old house.
A square block of golden stone, three stories high, the house stood in direct contrast to the sprawling single-story wings of the Abbey. The white edging around each of the six rectangular, many-paned windows on each level shone in the grey winter light, as did the Doric columns on the two-story pedimented front porch. The lawns that stretched to either side and beyond it were brown with winter, but the grass was neatly trimmed. Her mother put a hand on her arm, nodding to where a herd of dairy cows grazed in the pasture almost next to the back of the house.
“That was where the lake used to be,” she murmured. “Philistines.”
Gen hid a smile. “No doubt they’d have kept the lake, Mother, if our great-grandfather hadn’t damned up the stream that fed it.” She had to admit, right now she’d have happily released the resultant pond behind the Abbey for a similar herd of producing dairy cows. Her mother only sniffed.
They drew up to the front of the Manor, and a stately white-haired butler came down the stone steps to usher them in. They ascended the steps to the entry, which was easily twice as big as the one at the Abbey, and much brighter with the many-paned windows on either side of the door, the gilt-edged fan light over the door, and the crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. Even her mother looked impressed as the liveried footmen spirited away their pelisses and bonnets and the butler escorted them into the front withdrawing room.
The room, which boasted several satin-striped sofas and matching chairs, all in shades of rose and dusky green, looked much as the music room had looked when she first entered that morning. Scarves, necklaces, small pieces of pottery, and even a mustache cup were perched on every flat surface, from the credenza under the windows to the mahogany table near the hearth. Suspenders even hung in the greenery over the polished wood mantel.
The Pentercast’s generosity had obviously increased. In fact, there was entirely enough articles to give good-sized boxes to an army of servants and farmers. She found it difficult to believe that anyone but her family took Boxing Day this seriously. Gen narrowed a glance at Alan, who was standing innocently near his mother’s chair, ostensibly engrossed in determining whether a burgundy muffler went better with a gold cup or a silver one.
Looking up, he favored her mother and Allison with a smile, patently ignoring the frown on her own face. “Mrs. Munroe, the Misses Munroe, thank you again for assisting us. As you can see, the job is just too big for so few sets of hands.”
“I must admit, it was very kind of you, Trudy,” Mrs. Pentercast murmured with a shy smile at her mother. “We used to do Boxing Day so well. I don’t know what happened. I think it’s so important that we don’t forget anyone, especially some of the pensioners in the village. This is the high point of their year.”
Her mother visibly thawed. “I couldn’t agree with you more. Perhaps if we made a list, we might divide the gifts more evenly and make sure we have the appropriate items in each box.”
Mrs. Pentercast clapped her hands. “What a wonderful idea.”
They went to work. Gen was surprised at how quickly the time passed. Between her mother and Mrs. Pentercast, the list was calculated, gifts divided, and the packing begun in short order. They argued a little over the names of the pensioners, farmers, and servants to be included, and her mother had to insist that the servants from each house be given identical boxes, but overall, the process went surprisingly smoothly.
At some point, the butler announced the Reverend William Wellfordhouse, who was promptly conscripted to duty. A short while later, Geoffrey Pentercast made the mistake of wandering in, only to have his mother drag him into the middle of the project as well. He flopped down on the foot of the chaise lounge where Allison sat and began stuffing anything he could reach into a box. Allison at first shrank back from his hostility, then frowned, then finally leaned forward to take the box from his hands.
“If you can’t do it right, Mr. Pentercast,” she told him sternly, “then perhaps you’d better not do it at all.”
Geoffrey looked contrite. “Oh, you’re quite right, Miss Munroe. I shall be delighted to sit here and watch you do it for me. It will be a lesson to me in humility.”
“A lesson, sir,” William put in, watching them like Gen, “that you sorely need, if I may say so.”
Geoffrey scowled at him but made no move to help, and Allison went back to filling the boxes herself. She tried to pretend to ignore him, but Gen caught her casting him dark looks. Geoffrey must have noticed them as well.
“You keep that up,” he grumbled, “and your face will freeze that way.”
“If it’s going to freeze,” Allison retorted, “I’d rather I was doing something more pointed.” She stuck out her tongue at him. To her obvious dismay, Geoffrey gave a whoop of laughter.
“Less amusement and more activity, if you please, sir,” his mother called to him. With a shrug, Geoffrey rose to help Alan carry some of the finished boxes out to the entry for delivery.
Mrs. Pentercast and her mother agreed to finish by noon, take a break for tea, and then tour the estates and village together, handing out the boxes as they went. Watching the party working away, Gen couldn’t believe how well the two families came together when given a common purpose. William noticed it as well.
“Quite a change from the other night,” he murmured to Gen as they finished one of the boxes. “I must say, I’m quite amazed to see your mother and Mrs. Pentercast getting on so well. I had heard they’ve been rivals since childhood.”
“Billing and cooing like two turtle doves,” Gen agreed with a shake of her head. “Who would have thought---”
The curate turned to her with wide eyes. “Oh my word! That’s it. Two turtle doves. You said it yourself.”
Gen stared at him aghast. “But that’s not right! They’re not real doves. It doesn’t count.”
William shook his head. “No one said the gifts couldn’t be symbolic. If you ask me, having the two most important women, to you and the Squire and to this village, getting along is the best gift anyone
could have. I’m afraid, Miss Genevieve, that he’s done it again.”
Gen watched him cross the withdrawing room to where Alan was stuffing knitted scarves into a box. As William spoke to him, he looked up and offered her one of his most daring grins. She could almost hear his words in her mind. “Only ten more days of Christmas.”
Chapter Four
Three French Hens
“T
he man is an odious makebait,” Gen insisted, pacing the music room in Wenwood Abbey while Allison attempted a gavotte on the spinet. “Did you see how those poor farmers doted on his every word yesterday when we delivered the gifts, as if he actually cared about them in any small way? He is easily the most overweening, loplofty, arrogant, odious---”
“You’ve used odious once already,” Allison pointed out, frowning at the sheets of hand-copied music before her. “And I believe that makes three times for ‘arrogant.’”
Gen paused to scowl at her. “Don’t interrupt, if you please.”
Allison shrugged. “But I must, for you’re being quite unreasonable. Of all the Pentercasts, I find Alan the least objectionable. Why even his mother was being rather likable yesterday, I thought. She and Mother certainly became thick as thieves. You know she is taking tea over there this afternoon.”
Gen stamped her foot. “That’s what I mean. You all are being taken in by this, this---”
“Odious, arrogant, makebait,” Allison supplied helpfully. “And if you want my opinion, I think that description far better suits the younger Mr. Pentercast.” She gave the keys an extra thump. “Now, there is a bully and a lout if there ever was one.”
Gen waved her hand. “He is all of that and annoying as well. However, he is young, Allison. No doubt he’ll settle down once he finds a proper girl to wed. I find the elder much more objectionable. Why have you stopped?”
Allison quickly returned to her music. “Sorry. Woolgathering. But, honestly, Gen, I don’t know what’s come over you. I thought you were the one who wanted us to be friends with the Pentercasts.”
“I did want us to be friends,” she tried to explain to her sister, casting herself down on the sofa opposite the spinet. “But it’s all happening too fast.”
Allison frowned, keeping her eyes on her music. “What do you mean, fast? Father made friends constantly. He was always bringing home some poor soul he’d found somewhere, and usually they turned out to be quite interesting people.”
Gen sighed. “Yes, but that was Father. He always saw the good in everyone.”
Allison raised her eyes at last. “And you used to be just like him.”
Gen hung her head, picking at the fringe on her paisley shawl. It was so difficult to explain to her sister. Somehow, she felt Allison should be shielded from the truth she had been forced to confront. “I suppose I did. That was before…well, that was just before. I can’t help feeling that something isn’t right here. Why does Alan Pentercast want to help us so much? I keep asking myself that.”
“And what do you answer?”
Gen shrugged. “I don’t have an answer, except that it cannot be a good reason. Perhaps I’m being prejudiced, but I cannot help remembering how we lost the Manor in the first place.”
Allison laughed, finishing the song with a trill up the keys. “Now you are being Miss Friday Face. We lost the Manor in a silly wager. No one would be so foolish as to make a wager with a Pentercast again.”
Gen looked away from her. “No, of course not.”
Allison frowned. “Now who’s being evasive? Genevieve Munroe, have you done something I should know about?”
Gen fiddled with the shawl’s fringe. “I cannot think what you mean.”
Allison leapt from the bench and threw herself down beside her sister. “You have! Oh, tell, tell! Did you make a wager with Alan Pentercast?”
Gen looked up into her sister’s sparkling blue eyes. The temptation to share the story was great, but she’d have to tell the full story, and that she was still unwilling to do. “I told you, it is of no consequence. Pray continue with your practice.”
The light in Allison’s eyes faded, and she scowled. “Very well, don’t tell me.” She jumped to her feet and stalked back to the spinet. “But don’t expect me to agree with your glum opinions unless I understand the reasons for them.”
Gen listened to her vehement pounding of the keys, wishing she could share her thoughts as easily as her sister shared her feelings. She rose to leave. If she had to be isolated, she might as well be alone.
She scolded herself as she wandered through the corridors of the Abbey. She ought to be more trusting. Once she would have seen nothing untoward in Alan’s behavior. But that had been before she had learned the truth about her father—that all his loving gifts had come with a price. And the price had been the future security of his family.
He had refused to accept the fact that they must economize, turning instead to gambling to fill his nearly empty coffers. That had only made matters worse. She shuddered when she thought of the men who had loaned him money only to encourage him to drink and gamble some more. Now she was left to explain it all to her mother and sister.
Small wonder she had such trouble believing Alan’s gestures were so innocent. In truth, Alan’s thoughtfulness might be nothing more than his attempt to be a good neighbor. She could have believed that, except for his behavior the first night. He hardly had to offer for her! And in such an insulting way.
There was more here than met the eye, she was sure of it. She just had to be careful these next few days to ensure that Alan did not win his wager.
But how to ensure that he lost? That she had failed to consider. She had meant from the first to keep him from winning, but she had begun to realize that she had little control over the wager. What was today, three French hens? She pondered how he might bring that about. Did he have some variety of hen on his farm that would qualify? Surely he’d have to give them to her personally? What if she just refused to come down to callers?
She smiled. Could it be that simple? She hurried to the kitchens, where she knew she would likely find Chimes.
Mrs. Chimes smiled at her as Gen entered the wide, warm room. She returned the smile, noting that, as usual, their housekeeper and cook’s round cheeks were as red and wrinkled as the frost-nipped apple she was peeling. As Gen crossed to the center of the room to the huge oak table that did double-duty as Mrs. Chimes’ work table and the staff dining table, she also noticed that the woman’s hands trembled ever so slightly. The Chimes had been caretakers of the Abbey for as long as she could remember. She had never stopped to consider that they might be nearing the time of being pensioners themselves. She’d have to look into that soon. She had counted on their support as she and her family made their transition, but it would be unfair of her to expect them to work in their old age. One more problem she would have to contend with.
Smothering a sigh, she approached Mr. Chimes, who was seated at one end of the table, cup of tea at his elbow, copy of The London Times they had brought with them open before him. He, at least, looked as cantankerous as always, going to great pains to pretend she wasn’t there when she knew he had to have heard her enter.
“Chimes, I need your help,” she announced.
Chimes grunted, then set the paper across his lap and squinted up at her with his sharp black eyes. “With what, miss?”
“I expect Mr. Pentercast will be coming to visit frequently the next few days,” she explained, trying to look stern. “I refuse to be home to him. I will not receive him. I will not meet him. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
He nodded, snapping the paper back open, almost in her face. She stepped back, surprised. “Yes, miss. I quite understand. But he’ll find another way to win that wager.”
Gen gasped.
“Now, Ben, you shouldn’t tease her so,” Mrs. Chimes murmured, moving to Gen’s side. “Your secret’s safe with us, dear. We wouldn’t dream of telling a soul.”
“But how did you k
now?” Gen asked, feeling far from mollified.
Chimes grunted again from behind his shield of paper. “I have my ways.”
“He overheard you talking with the Squire the other night, of course,” Mrs. Chimes explained with a scowl at her husband. It only made her round face look slightly less welcoming, and Gen was sure Chimes would have ignored it even if he could have seen it. “I promise you, he hasn’t told anyone but me.”
“Fat lot you know,” Chimes muttered. Gen felt the panic rising. Mrs. Chimes swatted the paper to the table.
“Benjamin Chimes, if you’ve broken your promise to me…”
He quailed before the fire in her dark blue eyes. “Now, Annie, I was only funnin’. I just want her to know that she’s casting aside a perfectly good match.”
Now Gen knew her own eyes were sparkling with fire. “I’ll be the judge of that, if you please. There hasn’t been a Pentercast born worthy of marrying a Munroe, and well you know it.”
Mrs. Chimes paled, and Chimes scowled. “Your father would be ashamed to hear you talk so.”
Gen drew herself up to her full height. “I am the head of this family now, Mr. Chimes. See that you remember that. And see that you remember that I am not home to Mr. Alan Pentercast. Now, get back to work.”
She stalked from the kitchen, blood roaring in her ears. How dare they question her decision! She’d done everything she could these last six months. Even Mr. Carstairs agreed with that. She’d been the first to offer up her jewelry, her clothes, even her beloved horse, Spirit. She’d watched as the presents her father had given her left the house, one by one, to be auctioned or sold.
When that wasn’t enough, she’d forced herself to sell off the unused furniture in the attic of the London house, then some of the paintings. She’d even swallowed her pride and ignored her guilt to raid her mother’s jewelry box, having each of the treasures except for the Munroe diamonds replaced with paste.