His Mistletoe Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  She pondered quietly for a few minutes, and then headed to the washbasin set behind the magnificent but faded Chinese screen in the corner of the bedroom. “Maggie, put out my warmest gown and my walking boots. And tell Mrs. Christmas I wish to speak to her right away.”

  “Yes, my lady. Mrs. Christmas is waiting for you. She has the accounts set out in the breakfast room, and she says whenever you want to go over the house, she’s at your disposal.”

  Phoebe stepped behind the screen, swiftly pulled off her nightclothes, and began to wash. “Not this morning. I wish to speak to her for a few minutes, and then I will be walking into the village.”

  Maggie peered around the corner of the screen, frowning. “You will, my lady?”

  “Yes. I have something very important I must do.”

  As she scrubbed her face and hands, Phoebe calculated how best to approach the problem of Lucas and the smugglers. She was his wife and, whether he wished it or not, she would help him carry out his responsibilities. That did not mean, however, that she had any intention of allowing him to turn those men—no matter how misguided they were—over for deportation or worse. She would find another way, but first she needed more information and a sense of how serious the smuggling problem had become.

  And she needed someone willing to tell her what she needed to know.

  Chapter 21

  A gust of wind kicked up the hem of Phoebe’s skirts and set the ribbons of her bonnet flapping against her neck. She ducked her head, closing her eyes against the spray of dust that swirled up at her from the uneven surface of the lane. It was barely half a mile from Mistletoe Manor to the local village, but the December weather had her silently thanking Aunt Georgie for the gift of her new pelisse. The cherry red wool fabric not only lifted her spirits, it protected her from the biting chill of the dreary, overcast day.

  Mrs. Christmas had urged her to take a carriage into the village, claiming she should make her first visit in style, but Phoebe had refused. She had spent the last seven years of her life in the country and missed her daily walks. Her sedate strolls through the carefully trimmed parks of London had been a poor substitute. She longed to be out in the open air, with the wide, arching sky over her head and the rich soil of the land under her feet. In the country, she could open her heart and spirit to the quiet solitude that whispered of things greater than the tiresome worries of everyday life.

  She had also refused Maggie’s company. The girl’s unending stream of chatter proved a considerable barrier to quiet meditation. And meditate she must, for a number of vexing problems needed solving if she and Lucas stood any chance of starting their marriage on positive footing.

  Starting with how she could negotiate a peaceful solution to the smuggling problem.

  Phoebe had done her best to get Mrs. Christmas talking about last night’s invasion of Mistletoe Manor, but the doughty housekeeper, who seemed a very conversable sort, pursed her lips and confined her answers to reluctant, half-uttered sentences. After several frustrating minutes spent trying to elicit information, Phoebe had capitulated. Mrs. Christmas had no intention of revealing anything, nor could she blame her. After all, it was common knowledge that Lucas had ridden into Whitstable to see Mr. Harper, and everyone in the manor knew what that meant.

  Phoebe would have to get the information from other sources. In most villages, that meant the vicar or the local publican, or both. She would start with the vicar since she hardly thought her first visit to the village should commence with the tavern, especially without even a maid along as companion.

  Besides, she could also take the opportunity to inquire about the general well-being of the villagers, and of the children in particular. From the few details Lucas had imparted about Apple Hill, the vicar and his wife had taken over the duties of educating the children when the last schoolmaster departed two years ago in a fit over Phoebe’s grandfather’s refusal to repair the schoolhouse roof.

  She picked up her pace, passing by several orchards and the occasional barley field, mowed down to golden stubble after the recent harvest. Despite the barren season, she took pleasure in what she saw. The land rose and fell in gentle swells, and in the distance she saw a large stand of oaks, denuded for the winter but hinting of their reemergent majesty in the spring. The colors were muted under the cloud-driven sky, but she knew the landscape needed only a burst of sunlight to reveal its simple, satisfying glory.

  As the lane wheeled in a lazy curve around a copse of trees, she found herself coming into the village. On first impression, Apple Hill seemed more a hamlet than a proper village, but it did have a central green around which stood a number of timbered or brick houses with steep, shingled roofs, and a few stores and a smithy. Several of the timbered houses looked very old and rather sad, as if they had been allowed to sag into regretful neglect. The shops and the local pub hardly looked better, with their brick frontings worn and their shutters and signs in desperate need of fresh paint.

  She stopped at the head of the street to consider what she saw. What little cheer she had gained on her pleasant walk evaporated. Lucas had told her the village had fallen on hard times, the victim of both her grandfather’s neglect and the deprivations of wartime. Now it seemed practically deserted, giving the impression that if left to its own devices it would fade away under a thick coating of sadness and dust, slipping away until no one remembered it had even existed. No wonder the villagers had turned to a life of crime to support themselves.

  Inhaling a deep breath of bracing air, Phoebe refused to be cowed by the size of the task. There was a new lord at the manor, and she knew Lucas would do his best to heal the scars of past neglect, and in doing so he might even heal his own regrets. True, he missed the soldiering life, but his responsibilities as earl should provide him with enough purpose to satisfy the most restless soul.

  If Phoebe could prevent him from turning half the village over to be deported or hanged, that is.

  She made her way around the green to the church, nodding pleasantly and saying hello to the few locals who passed her on the street. Most were shabbily dressed and all were surprised to see her. She received a few nods in acknowledgment, one or two words of greeting in the soft dialect of Kent, and several gap-toothed stares of astonishment. No one seemed hostile, though, which she had feared might be the case after last night’s incident at the manor.

  Finally she reached the church, an old building constructed of some kind of gray stone, with an unusual, rather squat tower on the west side. She went past it to the small but tidy vicarage, the tidiest home in the village, so far, and knocked on the front door. But when no one answered after repeated raps, Phoebe retraced her steps to the church. Picking her way up the broken slate walkway—one of the first things she would see repaired—she reached the church porch, pushed open the big oak door, and stepped into the vestibule.

  And into cheerful pandemonium.

  At the front of the church, a group of children of various ages milled about, obviously in the throes of some kind of rehearsal. Some were barely more than toddlers and were the noisiest of the bunch, shrieking with excited delight at the antics of the older children. It squeezed Phoebe’s heart to see them, so thin and pale in their homespun, shabby costumes.

  Despite their appearance, they seemed not the least bit unhappy as they raced around the edges of the pews, rehearsed their lines in high, piping voices, or took turns climbing up into the pulpit to pretend to deliver a sermon. Ineffectually presiding over all this mayhem was the vicar, a gangly man gaunt to the point of emaciation, but apparently a cheerful soul who enjoyed the commotion as much as the children.

  Phoebe hovered at the back of the church, reluctant to call attention to herself. The appearance of the new countess would surely put an end to their boisterous fun. For a few minutes, she just watched, remembering what it used to be like to feel such uncomplicated joy. Whatever she had to say to the vicar could wait until the children had finished their rehearsal.

  She st
arted to creep toward the back pew when the door opened again. A stout woman wearing spectacles bustled in, barely missing a collision with her.

  “Oh, goodness,” she cried. “You gave me a fright, young lady, and that’s the truth.”

  She leaned closer, peering at Phoebe. The lenses of her spectacles made her pale blue eyes appear huge, like some kind of exotic insect. But those eyes inspected her with a good deal of intelligence and friendly interest. “Gracious me,” she exclaimed. “You must be the new countess.”

  Phoebe murmured her assent and the woman began to drop down into a ponderous curtsy.

  “Please, ma’am,” Phoebe said, catching her by the elbow. “Do not put yourself out on my account.”

  The woman creaked back up to her full height, which was not very tall to begin with. In fact, Phoebe would have to say she was almost as tall as she was wide.

  “Lady Merritt, if I’d only known you were coming we could have had the children ready for you.” She cast a worried look at the altar. “It’s always a bit of an uproar when I leave my husband alone with them. I tell him he must be firm, especially with the boys, but he won’t listen. Goodness knows what you must be thinking about all this commotion.”

  She finished with an apologetic smile, although her glance darted anxiously to the front of the church. Why was she so nervous?

  Phoebe gave her a reassuring smile. “There is no need to apologize. His lordship and I arrived late in the day yesterday, and I wished to look about the village this morning without making a fuss. I did call at the vicarage first, but no one answered.”

  “Oh, yes . . . Well, our housemaid, Sarah, must have been out and about, although I can’t imagine where.” She cast another apprehensive glance around the church, as if looking for something she did not want to see. Then she seemed to recollect herself.

  “Well, you’re here now and that’s a blessing,” she said in a hearty voice. “It’s been one mishap after the other today in the village, or I’d have been here to meet you. Oh, and I’m Mrs. Knaggs, my lady. The vicar’s wife, as you’ve already guessed.”

  Phoebe had to work to keep the surprise from her face. Mrs. Knaggs? Did every person who lived in the vicinity of Mistletoe Manor have a name out of a fairy tale?

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Knaggs,” she managed, “and I do wish to speak with you about conditions in the village, and how Lord Merritt and I might be able to improve things. Especially for the children.”

  The shadow in the woman’s eyes seemed to dissipate, and a warm smile crossed her features. “I shall be happy to help you in any way I can. Our people have suffered mightily these last few years, and much needs to be done to restore the village. We have been praying for a generous lord and lady to help us.”

  Phoebe was touched by the fugitive hope in the woman’s gaze, and by the sincerity in her voice. “You shall have that help, but first I do need to talk to the vicar about something quite pressing. I was hoping to steal a moment of his time this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Knaggs hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, my lady. I believe we’re done rehearsing. If you can call it that,” she added with a laugh. “Come up to the altar and I’ll introduce you to my husband.”

  “What are the children rehearsing?” Phoebe asked as they walked up the aisle.

  “The Second Shepherd’s Play.” Mrs. Knaggs paused halfway up the aisle, speaking in a low, confidential voice. Not that it was necessary, given the din reverberating off the raftered ceiling. “There hasn’t been much celebrating the last few years. The old earl’s son died, and then the poor man fell sick himself for those last few years. Such a tragedy.”

  The older woman sighed, and once again trouble looked to weigh her down. Then she shook it off, giving Phoebe a broad smile. “But we’re so happy to have you with us, especially for the Christmas Season. Mr. Knaggs thought it would be appropriate to have the children put on a pageant for the new lord and lady. I do hope that wasn’t too forward of him.”

  Phoebe smiled, pleased she and Lucas could do something to make the children happy. “It is a splendid notion. When and where will you hold the performance?”

  “In the old days, the pageant was held on Christmas Day. The entire village would spend the afternoon at Mistletoe Manor with the earl and his family. There would be quite the most generous feast you could imagine, and afterward the children would put on the play. Then there would be music and games, and the children would be given presents by the old lord. But it’s been several years since any of that happened.”

  Mrs. Knaggs’s face furrowed with sadness as she reflected on the glories of Christmas past, as if those days were gone forever.

  “Then that is exactly what we will do this year,” Phoebe said, putting out a quick hand to touch the woman’s sleeve. “It sounds perfect for our first Christmas at Mistletoe Manor.”

  Mrs. Knaggs clasped her hands across her ample bosom. “Oh, my lady! Are you sure his lordship wouldn’t mind?”

  “He will be delighted,” Phoebe said, mentally wincing. She really had no idea how Lucas would react, especially after last night’s troubles. But if restoring the old Christmas traditions gave the villagers something to look forward to, she would convince him it must be done.

  “Splendid, my lady! The villagers will be thrilled.” Mrs. Knaggs bustled up the aisle and set to restoring order amidst the chaos. After pulling two quarreling boys apart, she held them at arm’s length as she introduced Phoebe to her husband.

  Mr. Knaggs bowed over her hand. “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Lady Merritt.”

  Up close, the vicar appeared even thinner, the look accentuated by the hollows under his cheekbones and his large, bushy eyebrows. Standing next to his wife, the effect was comical. Phoebe had heard only a few nursery rhymes in her childhood, but she did remember one about a man named Jack Spratt. If memory served, Mr. and Mrs. Knaggs would have made excellent models for an illustrated version of the story.

  He folded his bony hands across his waistcoat and gave her a beatific smile, one so honest and charming it warmed Phoebe from the inside out. “How can I be of service, Lady Merritt?”

  She glanced around. Under Mrs. Knaggs’s direction, the din had subsided to a tolerable level, and the children had been lined up in a neat row. All of them, even down to the smallest one with a grubby thumb stuck in her mouth, studied Phoebe with avid curiosity. “Perhaps you might introduce me to the children, Mr. Knaggs,” she said. “Then I would like to chat with you.”

  With evident affection, the vicar introduced each child by name. Under his kind and encouraging regard, the little ones returned her greetings with shy grins and softly spoken hellos.

  “And what role might you be playing?” she asked one of the older boys, wrapped in a faded brown cloak that all but swallowed up his gawky frame. He had a sharp, clever face and big brown eyes, and something in his gaze reminded her of her youngest nephew back in America.

  “I’m Joseph, my lady,” he said. He reached behind and pulled a shy girl with a blue cloth on her head up beside him. “And this is my wife, Mary. We be the parents of baby Jesus.”

  The girl blushed and ducked her head, retreating quickly behind the boy.

  “We can’t really have baby Jesus here for rehearsal,” the boy continued in a long-suffering tone. “He’s got colic, Mrs. Martin says—that’s his real mum, the butcher’s wife—and he’s like to spit up all over us if we’re not careful.”

  He wrinkled his nose, as if all too aware of the hazards of a colicky baby. Then he gave Phoebe a gap-toothed smile that had her simultaneously biting back laughter and longing to see her own nieces and nephews again.

  “Young Sam is Ned Weston’s boy,” Mr. Knaggs added. “And quite the best scholar we have in school.”

  Phoebe smiled at him. “How wonderful! I am sure your parents must be very proud.”

  The light in the boy’s eyes vanished, as if smothered by a blanket. “I don’t have a mother anymore. And my p
a says I have no use for book learning, especially since there’s so much work to be done around the Ivy.”

  “Mr. Weston is our publican at the Holly and the Ivy,” Mr. Knaggs murmured from beside her. “Mrs. Weston died of consumption just this past spring.”

  “Oh,” Phoebe whispered. She cleared her throat. “I am very sorry, Sam. My mother also died when I was young. It is a difficult burden to carry.”

  Sam shrugged, as if it was not a great matter, but she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. Her heart ached for the brave little boy.

  “It’s been hard, but I helps my papa around the pub, and—” He clamped his lips shut at the same time as Mr. Knaggs let out a quiet hiss from between his teeth. Some kind of silent communication that seemed like a warning passed between man and boy.

  “Mr. Knaggs,” his wife sharply interjected, “I think you’ve taken up quite enough of her ladyship’s time with the children. It’s time for their dinners now. Their mothers will be looking for them.”

  “Now, my dear,” the vicar admonished in a gentle voice, “there’s no need to nag. The children will be home in ample time for their dinners. And there will be little enough for them to eat, in any event,” he ended on a mutter.

  “I never nag, as you well know. I only suggest. My lady,” she said, addressing Phoebe, “if you would be so kind as to tell my husband when you would like to tour the village and the school, I will be more than happy to accompany you.”

  “I will be sure to do so,” Phoebe answered politely, knowing full well she had just been handled. Rather expertly, too. But there was little point in objecting, and she might have better success extracting information from Mr. Knaggs in the absence of his redoubtable wife. Though they were clearly hiding secrets, she suspected the mild-mannered cleric might not be very good at keeping them.

  Phoebe stood at the head of the aisle and smiled at the children as they scampered off in Mrs. Knaggs’s ample wake. Sam Weston took up the rear. When he reached the vestibule, he turned and gave her a little wave. Her heart contracting once more with that quiet ache, Phoebe waved back. Then the door slammed shut behind him and the old stone building seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief as peace settled about them.