Mistletoe Masquerade: A Ridlington Christmas Novella

by Sahara Kelly

  “We’ll be all the kick, Mrs. Chester. The buffet meal is just beginning to catch on in London salons.” He leaned a little closer. “I heard that Lady Jersey herself introduced a buffet just last season and it was such a success that at least ten titled ladies held buffets in the following two months.”

  “Yer sure?” Cook cast him a somewhat incredulous look.

  “Absolutely,” he affirmed. “It’s new to us here in England, but I have done some travelling abroad, and I can assure you that on the Continent, a buffet is the current rage. Something different, and you know how Society loves the new and unusual…”

  He let his words trail off, and Harriet realized how cleverly he’d made them both feel as if they were part of that very Society, in spite of being in a small hunting box in the middle of nowhere in particular.

  “I’m sure it’s going to be spectacular” reassured Harriet. “Now Mr. Paul and I must prepare the hall, and have the lads make sure the Yule log is ready to light.”

  Cook nodded. “Yer sure we can leave after t’food’s out?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs. Chester,” said Paul. “A time for families to be together.”

  “It’s ever so nice of yer,” grinned Cook. “An’ we’ll be back early tomorrer.”

  “You have the kitchen key?”

  “I do. Right ‘ere.” She tapped her copious apron pocket. “The local lads are comin’ wi’ us. Too long a walk back to Pineneedle Drift, and Lord knows we’ve got room for ‘em. Good to ‘ave a crowd at the table.” She chuckled as she poured a cloud of soft sugar into a bowl. “I think’s m’ youngest might be sweet on that Brian.”

  “I know you’ll keep a good eye on them, then,” said Harriet. “And I’m glad they’ll have a bit of Christmas.”

  “How ‘bout you two then?” She cocked an eyebrow as she added other ingredients and smoothly cracked several eggs.

  “We’ll be relaxing,” laughed Harriet. “And we hope to be able to attend the Christmas service over at the Pineneedle Drift church.”

  “That’s a long walk,” repeated Mrs. Chester.

  “We’ll ride, or borrow a carriage,” said Paul. “One of the advantages of being a butler.” He held his hand up to his mouth, grinning as he whispered. “What the guests don’t know about, won’t worry them.”

  “Good fer you,” Cook whispered back.

  “Time to go,” said Harriet, touching Paul lightly on the arm. “We have work to do.”

  Together they left the kitchen, and Harriet sighed. “That’s settled, at least. It’ll be a quiet Christmas Eve once everyone’s retired.”

  They reached the hall and looked around, eyeing the open area with gazes that evaluated, measured and assessed.

  “The large sideboard here, d’you think?” Harriet walked to one side and gestured to the wall beneath a rather ugly tapestry.

  Paul nodded. “If we do that, then a table can go here…” He walked to the corner, “which will give everyone room to move. And we’ll put the drinks trays on the other side away from the fireplace.”

  “Excellent.” Harriet pointed to various spots. “Chairs, here…here…and here…” She marked it out in her mind. “Side tables, and still space to enjoy the fire.”

  Paul stared at the enormous chunk of wood that filled the hearth. “Are you sure we’re not going to burn the place down?”

  “I sincerely hope not,” she answered, hands on hips and head tilted to one side. “I think it might be able to move back a bit…”

  Together they moved toward the fireplace and taking a stand on either side, manhandled the wood a little further into the fireplace.

  Their movements were greeted with a howl of displeasure.

  “Belle?” Harriet squeezed around a root and stared down. “What do you have there?”

  Another meow answered her question.

  “Oh Paul.”

  He sighed. “What now?”

  She wriggled her way behind the log and bent down—to retrieve four tiny kittens. “We have new additions to our family.”

  Emerging into the hall, with Belle at her side, she grinned at Paul over an armful of squirming babies. “What a clever girl our Belle is.”

  He walked over and shook his head. “I can’t believe it, but I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Belle meowed and attempted to climb Harriet’s skirts. “Yes, darling. You shall have a nice warm box for your kittens…”

  As she was about to carry the little family away, the front door opened and the returning hunters burst in with massive armfuls of greenery.

  Phoebe and Hestia Tisdale promptly dropped theirs when they saw the kittens.

  “Oh…oooh…look…”

  “Oh…kittens…how too darling for words…”

  Noting that they were, in spite of their dramatic enthusiasm, very gentle, Harriet made a snap decision. “They’re newborns, Miss Tisdale,” she said to Phoebe, the one in the dark pink. “I was about to find a warm place and a box for them…”

  “Oh, may we please?” Phoebe looked at her with pleading eyes. “Hestia and I had several litters of kittens when we were younger. We love them so.”

  A muffled snort from Paul indicated that he had heard that artless and confusing comment.

  “If you’re sure they’ll be no trouble…”

  “Not at all, here. Let me take them.” Hestia had unfolded her shawl from around her neck and held it out across her arms. “They’ll be warm and cozy here.” She glanced down. “And mama too.”

  “Her name is Belle,” said Harriet. “Perhaps if you take the little ones with you, she will follow. They’ll be nursing for a little while yet.”

  “We know. Several weeks at least,” nodded Phoebe. “We’ll take good care of them while we’re here, Mrs. Harry.”

  “Very well.” Harriet gently deposited the little creatures in the soft shawl, and watched as Belle meowed her way around the Tisdales, following them upstairs.

  “How many litters of kittens did they say they had?” A low voice whispered in her ear.

  “Hush.” She didn’t look at him for fear she’d burst out laughing. “You know what she meant.”

  “Yes, but even so…” He coughed back a laugh.

  “I say, I think we got enough greenery to decorate St. James’s Palace,” laughed Ambrose, cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Did I see the girls going upstairs?”

  “Congratulations, Sir Ambrose,” said Harriet, dropping him a small curtsey. “Yes, the Tisdale ladies have taken to a new family of kittens and promised to see them well-housed.”

  He sighed. “Ah well. You know…” he glanced around then moved closer to Harriet. “I wouldn’t be averse to them staying up there for a bit. A man can get exhausted by their company now and again.”

  Harriet simply dipped her head. “I am sure the ladies will enjoy an afternoon with the new additions. I shall see that they have what they need.”

  “You really are a sport, Mrs. Harry.” Ambrose eyed her again, with a greater degree of interest. “You sure you’re happy with old Paul over there?”

  She drew herself upright. “Completely, Sir Ambrose.”

  “Ah well.” He took himself off.

  “Time to decorate, I believe.” Paul had returned to her side.

  “Give me a holly branch.” Harriet glared at the retreating back of Sir Ambrose. “I know just where to put it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Most of the household gathered in the afternoon, ready to grasp handfuls of the fresh greenery and bring the winter indoors for a little while.

  Paul and Harriet had put the branches and vines on a side table, and supervised, trying to make sure that pictures or mirrors remained on the wall, and that nothing terribly dangerous occurred. Since several ladders were being used, and the candles about to be lit, discretion and supervision were definitely required.

  Paul admitted that the guests had done an excellent job—there was an abundance of soft pine branches, their resin scent
ing the air—and in addition, a holly tree had surrendered a dozen or so of its branches, ripe with glossy red berries.

  Ivy was abundant, since it trailed over one side of the house. Nobody had had any problems cutting lovely flowing vines, and those blended nicely with the fragrant pine boughs.

  Harriet had discovered a basket of unused ribbons in her travels, and the maids had passed a happy evening or two tying the prettiest into bows. There were golden ones, red ones, glistening white ones, and even an elegant purple silk one.

  Tying that to the tiny bunch of mistletoe Sir Farren had proudly discovered, she passed it to Paul. Who looked at it, then at her with a raised eyebrow. “Here?”

  She blushed delightfully. “Of course not. Hang this near the fireplace, please.”

  He sighed. “I can wait.”

  That was a lie, of course, since as the afternoon drew on, Paul’s impatience was rising. As were other, more physical parts of him.

  He forced his thoughts into more prudent areas; he did not want to encourage any more friendly or intimate touches from Sir Geoffrey. An extended bulge in his breeches would probably not go unnoticed.

  The night could not come fast enough.

  To his surprise, Sir Geoffrey had joined the decorating, but after pricking himself on a holly sprig, retired to the stair case where he seated himself casually half-way up, and directed the operation.

  Then, having discovered that his voice brought him many compliments, Sir Geoffrey began to sing once again, choosing God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, which they all knew. His voice was most pleasing and echoed up the stairs and back down into the large hall with its high ceilings.

  Moments later, he was joined by two housemaids, happy singing soprano, and shortly thereafter, the entire household rang with the beloved carol.

  After a round of applause and laughter, someone else began Hark the Herald Angels Sing, another favorite.

  Paul saw Harriet smiling and singing along, and realized that everyone was happily participating in this informal concert. Lady Aphrodite was standing on the landing, next to the Earl; both having apparently been summoned from their rooms by the music. The Tisdale girls perched on the top step, adding their voices to the chorus.

  In this way, with laughter and song, Christmas Eve became brighter somehow. Paul knew he would always remember this moment—passing a holly bough to Harriet and seeing the warmth in her eyes as she looked at him and took it. Did it matter that some verses of the carols were skipped? Of course not. Neither did it matter that some of the Latin choruses were a bit mangled. The hearts of this eclectic gathering had joined as one to celebrate a special day. And Harriet was at his side to share it.

  It was all he could have ever asked for.

  The candles were lit as the skies darkened with the onset of twilight, and at last the party declared the decorations to be complete.

  After a final rousing version of Adeste Fidelis, complete with four-part harmony, the applause was deafening, only fading away as Cook and a maid wheeled in the tea tray.

  “It would seem a very merry way to pass an afternoon,” said the Earl, walking slowly down stairs. “I thank you all, for a better concert could not possibly be had anywhere.”

  “We’re glad you’re here, my Lord,” bowed Paul. “And since you are, may we ask that you further honor us by lighting our Yule log? ’Tis time…”

  A ripple of excitement ran through the hall.

  “I’d be delighted.” The Earl grinned. “What must I do?”

  “Well, if you’ll give us just a moment…” Paul beckoned to a couple of the footmen, and together they emptied the baskets of kindling onto and around the massive log. With a final check of the damper and a prayer that nothing had taken up residence in the chimney or chimney pots, he declared them ready.

  The Earl stepped forward as Paul lit a taper from a nearby candle. “There, my Lord. Simply hold this to one of the pieces of kindling and after it catches, step back.”

  Taking the taper, the Earl nodded. “I believe I can manage that.” He stepped forward as Paul stepped back. “Now this piece should do it.”

  Everyone watched, holding their breaths, as the Earl touched fire to wood.

  And waited.

  And did it again. Twice.

  “Er, Paul? Damn thing isn’t catching…” He glanced over his shoulder with a frown.

  “I don’t understand…” Paul moved forward to stand by the Earl. “May I?” He took the taper and repeated the process. But the kindling refused to fulfill its purpose, remaining stubbornly dead. Not a flicker anywhere.

  “Well this is certainly not what I expected,” said Paul, annoyance rippling through him. “The kindling has been drying here for a couple of days. I cannot imagine why it’s not lighting immediately.”

  He heard a movement behind him. “If I may be allowed…” Harriet walked past the two men with a decanter in her hand. One quick move was all it took and suddenly the hall was redolent with the pungent scent of brandy.

  “Oh God,” mourned Sir Ambrose.

  “Tell me that wasn’t the good stuff,” moaned Sir Geoffrey.

  “Well, that’s an interesting technique, Mrs. Harry,” chuckled the Earl. “Let’s see how successful it is.” Once again he stepped forward with his lighted taper.

  This time, with a fiercely brilliant whoosh, the kindling exploded into fire and the log itself began to smoke and smoulder and at last break into leaping flames.

  Cheers echoed to the rafters as Harriet quietly walked back to the tea-table. The Earl followed her, a huge grin on his face. “You are a delight, my dear. You just saved Christmas Eve. Although I’m not sure Ambrose and Geoffrey will ever forgive you.”

  She laughed back. “Well, my Lord, I remembered something my father always used to say.” She put the decanter back on the table. “Everything works better after a good dose of brandy.”

  “And so you flambéed our Yule log?” Paul came up to them with a smile. “Congratulations. It was daring and successful.” He glanced at the Earl. “And we have more brandy. The gentlemen need not concern themselves.”

  “Well now, I think I would like tea, and you can explain to us about this evening. A little bird whispered that there will be some surprises in store?”

  *~~*~~*

  Harriet was both surprised and delighted at the enthusiasm with which her plan for the evening was welcomed. She and Paul presented the notion of a buffet as a sophisticated and exciting new way of sharing a meal, emphasizing that it was only now starting to become the fashion within the Ton.

  They, pointed out Paul, would be among the earliest to have tried this unique dining experience, and when he mentioned that it was all the rage in Paris and across the Continent—well that sealed the matter neatly.

  She followed with the mention of the many games that would be forthcoming, easily accessible to the guests who might engage in a quick round of Spillikins between courses if they chose, or wait until everyone was replete to indulge in a rousing game of charades.

  Since her presentation was accompanied by the footmen moving tables around and bringing in chairs and footstools, the audience could begin to see how delightful it would be to spend this Christmas Eve in the hall, an informal party with food rather than the more formal dinner. They could settle in front of a roaring Yule log and play games., all the while selecting delicacies at their whim.

  “How wonderfully alfresco,” laughed Lady Aphrodite. “And speaking personally, I shall enjoy the chance to sample little portions as my appetite dictates.”

  Sir Farren nodded his approval as well. “Very good, very good indeed.” He cleared his throat. “I should mention that I am an acknowledged expert at Charades, you know. Even the Beau himself complimented me not long ago.”

  “Oh hoi, now. We can’t have that,” laughed Sir Ambrose. “I’ll wager a monkey I win more than yourself, Farren.”

  “We love Spillikins,” chorused Hestia and Phoebe.

  There wasn’t muc
h to be said to that comment, so Harriet wisely retreated, knowing that tea and chatter would rule for at least an hour or so. Then the hall would empty as the guests went upstairs to change for dinner.

  She couldn’t believe it was dark already, and that Christmas Eve was upon them in full. Only a few more hours…

  From being a day when each minute crawled past at the speed of a slug on the cabbages, the early evening turned into a whirlwind of activity and the dinner gong was sounding before Harriet expected it. She’d overseen the setting of the tables, helped with the final decorations on the petit-fours Cook’s daughter had decided to create, and made sure that there were some pretty bows and greenery on the buffet tables, to echo the theme of the day.

  The candles were lit, and she stood back to survey the overall scene, pleased that it had surpassed her expectations.

  It clearly appealed to the house party, since as they arrived at the top of the stairs in response to the gong, there was applause and delighted exclamations.

  Harriet smiled and stood off to one side as they descended, praying they’d find no fault. The Yule log was behaving perfectly, a steady blaze that warmed the large hall and guaranteed a cozy evening for everyone. It took very little time for everyone to grasp the notion of filling their own plates and then eating wherever they chose.

  “I didn’t think I’d say this, but bless the twins.” Paul leaned toward Harriet and spoke quietly. “They’ve no notion of propriety and seeing them so enthused has lured the others into the entire thing.”

  She nodded. “You’re right.” She watched Sir Farren fill a plate for his wife, and noted her affectionate thank you as he brought it to her chair. “They’ve a chance to be themselves here, in this setting. Nobody judging or about to whisper rumors of their behavior on the morrow.”

  By half-past nine, the tables were almost bare, and the entire party seemed happily relaxed. The gentlemen, happy to see that the Yule log hadn’t drunk the last of their brandy, were settled with their after-dinner liquor, and the ladies had a tea tray available to them. Lady Aphrodite was grateful for that, even though the Tisdales begged for a wee drop of brandy for themselves.