“Not this time, you nuisance,” Mr. Lemaster declared, hopping aside and swinging his walking stick toward a piggy snout.
Pigmalion squealed and tried to dart around the swinging stick, but he applied it firmly to her snout again, steering her back toward the open gate.
“I’ll get her leash!” Lucille cried, dropping her groceries and rushing toward the barn.
“Ginger! We have to save Ginger!” Mary cried in dismay as attention seemed to be diverted from one crisis by another.
“Find me a stout stick and I’ll go after her,” Rebecca declared, marching off in the direction of the pond.
“You’ll hurt her!” Mary protested.
The cow was Mary’s particular pet, while Pigmalion belonged to Lucille. At the moment, Rebecca would gladly take both to the butcher’s. She ignored Mary’s protest and started toward the open field, knowing full well the hopelessness of her quest. She’d never persuaded the wretched cow to do anything it didn’t want to do before. She didn’t expect it to happen now. But she had to try. If nothing else, she had counted on selling some of the cream and butter to Mr. White in exchange for some of the staples they would need if the money didn’t come soon. It smacked of trade, but not charity, at least.
She heard pounding footsteps and turned to see Mr. Lemaster limping hastily after her. Behind him, Lucille had leashed her pet and was leading the pig back to his pen. Astonished at the swiftness with which the animal had been caught, she remained where she was. Maybe Mr. Lemaster was a miracle worker.
“I’ll get the cow,” he informed her, not even breathing hard. “You’ll get your skirts wet, and if Mad George is still as mad as he used to be, I don’t want you near him. He’s as likely to shoot you as the cow.”
“Then he’s as likely to shoot you,” she answered dryly. “I don’t think your family would appreciate that.” She started back down the path again.
“I assure you, I can handle George. You needn’t waste your time. Your nose is turning blue with cold, and I daresay your fingers are the same. Why aren’t you wearing a hat and warmer gloves?” He traipsed beside her, their long strides evenly matched.
Fool question, Rebecca thought sourly, but she didn’t say it aloud. She’d admired his leather fur-lined gloves earlier. She wondered if gloves like that could be made for women. She supposed not. But even mittens would do. She clenched her shivering fingers into balls and kept on walking.
“Stubborn woman,” Lemaster muttered beside her. “Why don’t you sell this dump and find a snug little cottage somewhere?”
“Do you always dispense unasked-for advice?” she asked curtly. She shouldn’t do that, she knew. He was offering help, and she should act helpless and grateful. Right now she was too cold and frightened to care.
He didn’t reply immediately. But as they came in sight of the cow standing in the pond, he said, “You’re right. I apologize.”
They didn’t have time to exchange any further pleasantries since Mad George chose that moment to race out of his house carrying an antiquated musket that might just shoot off of its own accord the way he waved it.
“Stay here,” Simon ordered.
She didn’t, of course. She hurried in the direction of the mule-headed cow as he intervened with the irate farmer.
Rebecca had to wade into the icy water to grab the cow’s halter. Her teeth instantly began to chatter as she tried to persuade the recalcitrant animal to turn around and walk out of the bone-chilling cold. Big liquid brown eyes looked up at her, and she could swear she saw the devil in them as the cow let out a long moo-o-o and refused to budge.
On the bank, Mad George ranted and raved and swung his musket, while Mr. Lemaster talked soothingly, easing closer to the dangerous firearm. Rebecca couldn’t think about consequences. Her mind had grown as numb as her toes and fingers. She tugged at Ginger’s halter, alternately cursing and pleading.
“...out of my pond now!” The words floated over the water, accompanied by the loud boom of gunpowder.
Ginger jerked free of Rebecca’s numb fingers to run in panic to the far bank. Losing her balance, Rebecca tumbled seat first into the water, her frantic gaze swinging to the far shore for certain signs of bloodshed. Instead, she saw Mr. Lemaster heaving the old gun into the pond and running towards her. Mad George, apparently intent on capturing the cow with his bare hands, now stormed around the far bank.
Had her teeth not chattered so fiercely, she would laugh at the scene. By the time Mr. Lemaster reached Rebecca, the cow had decided she’d had enough and calmly climbed from the pond, heading for home. George jumped and down in fury, unleashing curses to hurry her along. Mr. Lemaster waded into the water, heedless of his impeccably polished boots as he bent to help her out.
“You’ll catch your death of cold!” he scolded, sounding more annoyed with her than with the cow. “I told you to wait. Look at you, you’re soaked!”
Teeth chattering, she couldn’t make a suitable reply. With little success, she tried to pull away from him so he wouldn’t end up as wet as she. He wrapped her in his arms and kept her from falling as she stumbled back to dry land.
He cursed and fussed all the way back to the house. They heard Mary’s shouts of delight as Ginger plodded back to the barn in search of fodder after her little escapade. Rebecca again tried to escape Mr. Lemaster’s hold as they approached the house, but he threatened to pick her up and carry her if she tried again. Feeling as if her feet were blocks of ice, Rebecca had to acknowledge his judgment.
“Run, build up the fire,” Simon shouted at Lucille when she raced toward them.
The child took one look at his face and ran to do as told without question. Rebecca wearily thought that nothing short of a miracle in itself. Lucille never did anything without question these days. Shivering violently, she allowed herself to be led into the kitchen.
“Hot tea,” Simon demanded, and Mary leapt to pour two cups.
When he kneeled on the floor to remove Rebecca’s ruined shoes, she finally managed to squeak a protest. He gave her a look from his position on the floor, took notice of her chattering teeth and blue fingers, and ignored her protest. Peeling off his gloves, he removed both shoes and stockings and began to hastily massage her toes between his warm hands.
She wanted to die of utter embarrassment, but she was too cold. She wrapped her frozen fingers around the hot cup Mary handed her, but she still shivered too much to bring it to her lips. Simon looked up and noticed.
“Get the tea down,” he ordered. “You’ll stop shivering with something warm inside. Spill it, if you must, but get it in you or I’ll pour it down you myself.”
Rebecca thought him an extremely presumptuous man. She would have told him so, but she couldn’t persuade words from her trembling lips. He had no reason to come in here and order her around like that. He didn’t even know her. She could freeze to death if she wanted. It wasn’t any of his business.
But she managed to bring the cup to her mouth and sip cautiously. She would have to stop shivering if she meant to yell at him.
“Start a fire in the bedroom,” he was ordering now, talking to Lucille. “You’ll have to help her into bed. Mary, find a warming pan and heat the sheets.”
That was absolutely the outside of enough. Kicking her feet from his hands, Rebecca did her best to stand, though he kneeled too close for it to be easy. The tea had warmed her thickened tongue enough to scold. “I have work to do. I have no intention of lounging about in bed all day. Now let me up, Mr. Lemaster. You’ll need to go home and find something warm for yourself. You’re almost as soaked as I am.”
He stood only to tower over her, trapping her in the chair. “I see the tea has finally warmed your tongue, Mrs. Tarkington. You will have lung fever if you don’t warm yourself. Do you wish to spend the holidays in bed with a vinegar poultice on your chest?”
She blushed heatedly at the reference to her chest but refused to acknowledge her embarrassment that he should notice she had such a thing
as a chest. “The kitchen is the warmest place in the house. There is no sense in wasting good coal in heating the bedroom during the day. Now either take yourself home to change, Mr. Lemaster, or remove those wet boots. Lucille can find a pair of Matthew’s stockings for you to wear until yours dry.”
She had him there. He could not in all good conscience demand that they use coal that cost so dearly, nor could he offer to supply them with more. He understood that now. Frowning, he stepped away from the chair and the now blazing fire. “I’ll accept the offer of Matthew’s stockings and go into the parlor to change, if you’ll have sense enough to stay before the fire here while the girls fetch you some dry clothes.”
They practically stood toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye. Simon found this new angle of looking at a woman more fascinating than he cared to admit. She had lovely gray-green eyes with golden specks surrounding the dark centers. Her lips were just inches from his. One small move and he could capture her mouth, feel its warmth and sweetness against his.
Gad! Had it been that long since he’d felt a woman’s mouth beneath his? He remembered distinctly every line and curve of this woman’s body beneath his fingers as he’d helped her back to the house. She was too slender. He could nearly feel her ribs. But she was round in all the right places. The desire for her burned hot and quickly through the length of him. He had to leave the room to conceal the extent of his need.
Shivering in the unheated front room, Simon stripped off his boots and stockings and accepted the warm woolen ones Lucille threw in to him. He waited while the girls hurried up and down stairs, bringing Rebecca dry clothing. She had been wet to the skin. He’d seen every curve, every bit of lace and ribbon beneath her soaking clothes. He had no difficulty at all imagining how she would look before the fire, her skin glowing as she toweled herself off. All the cold in the world couldn’t suppress the heated blood flowing through his veins at the moment.
It startled Simon to realize he hadn’t felt like this in a long time. He hadn’t sought out any of London’s numerous courtesans when he was there. It hadn’t even occurred to him. His thoughts had stayed entirely with the cause he foughtand lost. But now, when he felt as if he’d fallen to the very depths of the Slough of Despond, his body awakened, and his best friend’s widow had caused it.
He didn’t know how to act. He’d never been in such a predicament before. He couldn’t take advantage of Rebecca. She’d suffered enough. But he couldn’t bear to leave the heat and company in her kitchen to return to his cold room.
Once the warmth of the kitchen seeped through them, Rebecca and the girls turned their tasks into laughter and song. While he peeled apples as promised, they giggled and gossiped and poked fun at each other and everything around them. Shriveled apples became talking doll’s heads with the addition of currant eyes and carved mouths and Rebecca’s mincing voice speaking for them.
Simon watched jealously as she kissed Mary’s brow and hugged her when the younger girl spilled her bowl of cream and almost cried. He listened raptly to their crystal clear voices blending in an old Christmas carol as they rolled out pastry dough. He didn’t attempt to join in, knowing his own voice poor and rusty from disuse.
He soaked up the merriment, remembering happier times when he and Matthew had sneaked into the kitchen to filch whatever crumbs they could find, only to find themselves caught and put to work. There had been laughter and warmth and the rich scents of baking cakes and roasting geese then.
Still, nothing could replace the six years hollowed from his soul by war and death and destruction. The ghosts of dead men haunted this room, Matthew’s among them. Simon could see them now, shivering over meager fires on distant shores, teeth chattering as they sipped boiled water to keep warm, uniforms torn and ragged from months of fighting. Hunger, thirst, filth, and disease had killed as many of them as bullets and cannonballs. And while they died, people back home had sat in their warm houses, drinking hot punch and wishing each other good cheer.
He couldn’t mix the two scenes together. They wouldn’t settle into one whole. He felt as if he still lived back there by those distant fires, and he merely looked through some window to this happy interior now. He wanted to join in. When Rebecca teased him into a fa-la-la-la, he did his best to enter the spirit of the song, but his spirit had long since departed. He simply wanted to warm his body next to hers.
By the time they reached the stirring of the plum pudding, the girls were feeling reckless enough to tease him as much as they did Rebecca. They insisted on blind-folding him as he stirred the pudding and made his wish, while Rebecca added whatever charms she’d bought for surprises.
“What did you wish for?” Mary asked excitedly as Simon handed over the wooden spoon to her.
He hadn’t wished for anything. He already had everything, and it seemed pointless to ask for more than he needed. But he merely smiled and chucked her under the chin. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe I wished for a big hairy dog to chase Ginger when she gets out.”
“We already have Leopold,” she pointed out reasonably. “He just doesn’t understand he’s supposed to chase her back to the barn and not play with her.”
“If Ginger had claws like Miss Kitty, he’d learn soon enough,” Rebecca responded dryly, tying the blindfold around Mary’s eyes. “No wishing for the moon,” she reminded the girl as she took the spoon. “There’s no sense in wasting a wish.”
“Oh, I’ll not waste it. I know just exactly what I want.” Eagerly, the small girl took the spoon and pushed it through the thick batter.
Simon wondered what an eleven-year old could want so passionately as he watched her purse her mouth in intense concentration. He would have liked to provide it for her. He could have bought anything their hearts desired, but he knew their guardian wouldn’t allow it. He had to find some way of providing what they needed, without making them accept charity. A flicker of a thought played at the back of his mind as they made the final stirs to the pudding.
“Now, we put it in the pot and bring it to a boil,” Rebecca was saying. He admired the way she taught the girls without seeming to preach. Matthew had chosen well. Simon wished he’d been half so wise.
All too soon, the day ended. As Rebecca proudly handed him the apple tart to take home, Simon wished more than ever to give her something in return. He wasn’t much good at gift giving, but he had to try. Perhaps he couldn’t help the men in his company or their families, but he ought to be able to help Matthew’s widow. If he could just do this one small thing, perhaps some of this despair and frustration would dwindle a little.
He had the tart for dinner that night, and the next morning, for the first time since he returned to England, Simon woke early, refreshed and ready to meet the tasks ahead.
“Mother, do you still send Christmas baskets to the neighbors?” Simon asked over breakfast, causing his mother to glance at him with surprise. He’d not come down for breakfast since he’d returned home, preferring sleep to meeting the day, but he’d never been inclined to conversation in the morning even before he’d left home.
“Yes, of course, dear. It’s tradition. They expect it of us.”
“Could we send a goose this year instead of the basket?”
“A goose?” She glanced at him speculatively, as if wondering if he’d taken leave of his senses. “I don’t see the purpose, dear. Everyone is expecting the baskets.”
“That’s just it, Mother. Everyone must be bored silly with baskets by now. Christmas should be full of surprises. Can’t you imagine how thrilled they will be to receive a goose instead?”
She inclined her head in thought. “It would certainly be easier. I could just send for the poultry and have them delivered to each family, all in one swoop. I wouldn’t have to buy the baskets and apples and oranges and spend days putting them all together and hoping they don’t get bruised. Are you certain they wouldn’t mind?”
“Quite certain. And just in case, I’ll tell the vicar that the oranges were bad this year, and we
looked for something a little more satisfying. He’ll pass the word around the village fast enough. They’ll be expecting something different. Are the Tarkingtons still on your gift list?”
Amusement flickered in his mother’s eyes, but Simon chose to ignore it. “I debated it after Matthew’s death, of course, but I couldn’t see any reason I shouldn’t send a basket to the girls if I sent one for Matthew. The widow usually sends up an apple tart in return. Very well bred girl, apparently.”
Simon nodded in satisfaction. “Shall I make the arrangements for you, then? I know a poultry dealer who might handle the order.”
Letting the look she gave him speak for her, his mother merely replied, “I’ll fetch my gift list, shall I?”
* * * *
Sneezing violently, Rebecca watched with dismay as the farmer deposited the goose from his cart onto the front lawn. Giving a cheery wave, the man called, “Greetings from the Lemasters!” and merrily drove his cart down the drive, the caged contents squawking and squealing as the wheels jostled through the ruts.
The gray gander on the lawn chased wildly after its departing companions.
Rebecca cynically contemplated letting the wretched bird go, but the goose was too valuable to let run free. Besides, the girls would be hideously disappointed if they knew their Christmas dinner had escaped. The basket of fruit that usually arrived at this time of year had become expected, as if it were no more than the first snow. But a goose! They would be beside themselves.
Rebecca groaned at the thought of all the ramifications of cooking a Christmas goose, but she didn’t have time to contemplate them. She had to catch the escaping bird.
Hearing her shouts, Lucille and Mary ran from the house, lending their efforts to trap the terrified bird. The goose squawked in outrage. The girls squealed and darted from vicious pecks. The yard erupted in a chaos of shouts and flying feathers. Unable to allow everyone else to have the fun, Leopold found his favorite bolt hole and joined the fray.
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