“I rode with Ross.” Hot water arrived, so Pen went behind the screen to undress and wash. “Cherryholt seems to observe all the old Christmas traditions.”
“Lovely, dear, as long as I don’t have to go out into the cold to take part.”
“I’m sure you’ll be excused. But when we bring back all the greenery, you can help arrange it. You’ve always been clever at such things.”
Pen washed, put on her robe, and came out from behind the screen to find a suitable gown for the day.
Her mother said, “We did have some pleasant Christmases when your father was home, didn’t we?”
“And when he wasn’t. You always made a merry Christmas for us when we were young.”
“A family Christmas is so important. Such a shame there aren’t any children here. When Ross marries a new cycle will begin.”
Pen hunted for a clean shift, considering stays or no stays. She might as well be conventional. She added those to the shift, then chose a green woolen gown.
Her mother had finished her breakfast, so she climbed out of bed. “Let me help you, dear, and then you can help me.”
“The Gable-Gores don’t approve of Christmas traditions,” Pen said, wanting her mother’s reaction. “Yule logs, mummers, mistletoe boughs.”
“Then why are they here?”
“I think Miss Gable-Gore has hopes of Ross Skerries.”
Her mother tugged on laces. “I wondered about that, but I don’t think they’d suit.”
“She plays the harp well.”
“That hardly contributes to a happy marriage. I noticed that neither joined in the card games.”
“They don’t play cards,” Pen said, imitating Mrs. Gable-Gore’s tone.
“How very odd.” Pen’s mother knotted the laces. “I’m sure Ross has too much sense to choose a bride who won’t enjoy his home. After all, he is the heir.”
Pen put on her green gown, which overlapped and fastened at the front, and then helped her mother dress in a pretty lilac shade. With the addition of warm shawls, they were soon ready for the day, and set out for the drawing room.
They found all twelve of the ladies in the house party were gathered there. It was well warmed by the large fire, but the distant corners remained chilly, so everyone gathered in the center.
Conversation was general and cheerful, but most ladies had needlework to occupy their hands. Pen wished she’d brought her quilling, though it would have sent her off to the table in a chilly corner.
Cassandra smiled at her. “Do you not have your stitchery with you, Miss Brockhurst?”
“I’m no hand at it, I’m afraid.”
“What a shame,” Cassandra said. “I could teach you.”
So, she was a worthy opponent. Pen was glad of it, for she intended to rout her completely.
“How kind,” Pen said, “but I do not sew.”
Cassandra flushed. “How is that possible?”
“I never cared for it.”
“Perhaps you paint,” Mrs. Gable-Gore suggested.
“Only walls,” Pen replied. “I achieved a lacquered room at Lowell.”
“I much admire the Chinese style,” Lady Azure said. “When I have a home to decorate, I shall attempt that.”
“It’s a dilemma,” Pen said, “isn’t it? Whether to respect the way a house is or change it to suit fashion. The room I painted was a bare one with no pleasing features at all. There’s such a fashion now for tearing out paneling. Of course, it is always dark. . . .”
As she’d hoped, Cassandra took the bait. “We are in agreement there, Penelope. I have seen cases where it’s been painted a pale shade to a much lighter effect.”
What a shame Lady Skerries wasn’t here to note that.
“Yet the patina of old wood is of value,” Pen said. “Once painted over, it would be lost forever. As I said, a dilemma. But I see no uncertainty over a handsomely plastered ceiling such as this one.”
Everyone agreed on that, and talk wandered the ways of house design and decoration, ancient and modern.
Pen felt satisfied with her small skirmish, and after luncheon would come the gathering of the greenery. She had great hopes of that.
As it played out, battle began at the informal meal, for Cassandra won the seat beside Ross and said all the right things about the delights of Cherryholt, both building and company.
Yes, a worthy opponent.
When the meal ended, she kept hold of his arm, and her mother went up to get her cloak. Pen wouldn’t put her mother to such trouble, so she went for her own. When she returned to the hall she had one satisfaction. Her own cloak was red, lined with fur as dark as her hair. Cassandra’s was a soft fawn color lined with gray. It made her look rather like a mouse.
All the same, Ross showed no sign of minding, or of admiring Pen’s bolder style.
Damn him.
There were ten in the party when they left the house, agreeably balanced, two by two, with the five unmarried ladies, each carrying a basket, escorted by five bachelors. Cassandra had Ross, and Pen was with a Mr. Hawley, a Skerries cousin.
Lady Azure seemed pleased with a military man, Captain Skerries, and Julia by a neighbor only a little older than herself, Mr. Passmore. Quiet Caroline seemed well suited by Doctor Scott, even though he must be in his thirties and the oldest of the unmarried group.
Pen was well enough with Mr. Hawley, who was cheerful and amiable, but she made sure to walk just behind Ross and Cassandra so she could hear some of their conversation. It seemed bland at the moment, and she was sure Cassandra was being very careful, but perhaps the pagan merriment would lead her to dig her own grave.
As they entered the orchard, Ross began a traditional song.
“Hey ho, the mistletoe
It’s off to the greenwood we do go.
My lady fine and I.”
Unfortunately he sang it to Cassandra, who smiled up at him as if he’d declared eternal love.
Mr. Hawley sang the next verse to Pen.
“Hey ho, the mistletoe bough,
That a daring lass stands under now
To tempt the man in her eye.”
She looked up and saw that she was indeed beneath a spray of berries. It would only be in fun, but she didn’t want to kiss Mr. Hawley here, in front of Ross....
“Now, now,” Lady Azure said, “mistletoe only gives kissing privileges when it’s hung indoors, sir. Then, we’ll all be willing to tempt, for it is our duty, isn’t it, ladies?”
There was a carol of agreement, but Pen noticed that Cassandra didn’t join in.
Time to strike. “You don’t agree, Cassandra?”
“Agree?” Cassandra asked, smiling with lips only.
“That it is every single lady’s duty to grant mistletoe kisses.”
“As you push me, Penelope, I must admit, I think kisses sacred to marriage.”
“You don’t think them proper between a betrothed couple?” Pen asked, trying to sound simply surprised.
“A firm engagement to wed allows for more intimacy,” Cassandra agreed. “Of course that presents problems if such an engagement is broken.”
Oh, a neat shot.
“Three times,” Pen said, choosing a bold defense, “which does mean three intimacies. But I cannot hold mistletoe kisses in the same respect. They are public, light, and only for amusement. I do hope you change your mind, Cassandra, as I’m sure do all the gentlemen.”
A couple of the men, insensitive to nuance, agreed heartily. Ross was unreadable, but said, “We need ladders, gentlemen. Ladies, baskets at the ready.”
He propped his ladder against one tree and climbed up. “Now, Miss Gable-Gore, which sprig of mistletoe may I cut for you?”
Pen gave Cassandra credit. She pointed to a branch that was heavy with berries, and as the afternoon progressed, she added holly, ivy, and laurel without complaint.
Yes, a formidable opponent, and very determined to catch Ross Skerries as husband. It seemed strange to Pen that any l
ady chase a husband whose life and pleasures were so at odds with her own, but she supposed a viscount was a viscount, and a coronet a coronet.
They paused to gather up some pine boughs that had already been cut, and finished in the herb garden, snipping rosemary. The gentlemen had already lit the lanterns, for the sun had set, and they did make a warm light as the party began the procession back to the house, singing “The Holly and the Ivy.” Cassandra did seem to join in, perhaps because the traditions had been given a Christian twist.
“The holly bears a blossom as white as any flower,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to be our sweet savior.
Oh the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.”
As they crossed the open lawn, Pen moved herself and Hawley alongside Ross and Cassandra. “How is Christmas observed at your home, Cassandra?”
Pen sensed she’d scored a hit, but Cassandra answered. “More quietly, I must confess. We do not decorate.”
“Not at all?” asked Hawley. “Shame, that. Adds to the spirit of Christmastide. I’m sure you enjoy a jolly dinner, though.”
“Of course. Roast beef and goose, and the company of the vicar and his wife.”
“You’ll find it much more fun here, Miss Gable-Gore. You’ll be able to take the traditions back with you for next year.”
Pen struggled with laughter. Unawares, he’d fired a cannonade, for Cassandra was surely thinking of the sobriety she could bring to Cherryholt next Christmas—as Ross’s wife.
Chapter 7
Once back in the house, everyone welcomed the cups of hot punch offered to warm their bones, and soon the indoor party was helping to spread the greenery around and constructing mistletoe boughs.
“At least three,” Lady Skerries declared. “One for the hall, one for the drawing room, and one for the servants’ hall. Ah, mince pies!” she declared, as a footman came in bearing a huge platter. “Hot from the oven and well laced with brandy. Pen, come and have one.”
Pen bit into it carefully, but it was just warm enough rather than hot enough to burn. “Delicious, Lady Skerries. The best I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s the brandy, dear.” Lady Skerries hurried over to Cassandra, who was waving the platter by. “You must try one, dear. It’s tradition.”
Cassandra obeyed, but there was something in the way she bit into it that promised retribution one day. Mrs. Gable-Gore was sitting as audience, smiling blandly, but she waved on the platter of pies. Such a fear of inebriation! It was surprising that they drank wine with dinner.
Ross was organizing the hanging of holly high on the walls, ignoring the pall that hung over the future of his home. As Cassandra had lost her grip on him, however, Pen took her place.
“I like the addition of pine,” she said. “Along with the rosemary, it gives such a lovely smell.”
He smiled. “It’s always Christmas to me. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Splendidly.”
“Where did you spend last Christmas?”
“At Lowell, and it was lovely, because there was William, Anne, and the little ones, and a few neighbors up for Christmas dinner. My father only bought the place twenty years ago, however, so we don’t have deep roots. We were invited to other houses around the area during Christmastide, however. That’s where I met . . .”
She bit that off.
“Lord Thretford, your most recent conquest.”
“Yes. Christmas can make fools of us all, so be wary, if you please.”
“Did you recover your wits on Twelfth Night?”
“Hardly, as I persisted past Halloween.” When I met you again. To break the silence, she said, “I’m done with such follies, however. No more foolish commitments for me.”
“A sad loss to men everywhere,” he said, and she longed to take her words back, or to say, “Not you.”
And here came Cassandra, brightly smiling. “How lovely all this is, and evergreens are a symbol of eternal life, aren’t they?”
Pen went off to help make the kissing boughs, afraid that her future was slithering through her fingers, beyond any power of hers to halt and grasp. What if Ross didn’t feel anything other than friendship for her? What if he truly loved Cassandra, despite her prissy ways?
The punch kept coming around, and Pen kept drinking.
Eventually, all the greenery had been placed around the main rooms, and the three kissing boughs were finished, each heavy with berries and entwined with red and green ribbons.
Lord Skerries made a great business of hanging one in the drawing room, and then tugging his wife beneath it for the first kiss. “And thus,” he declared, “the bough is rightly brought to life!”
Amid laughter, Ross carried the other into the hall, where it would hang from the bottom of the chandelier.
“I’m like to get dripped on by wax,” he complained as he climbed the stepladder and tied the ribbons.
Pen watched, realizing he would now choose some lady for the first kiss. Cassandra had positioned herself nearby, and her eyes were bright with expectation. Pen couldn’t bring herself to fight for the honor.
Ross descended and looked around. “Miss Gable-Gore, I won’t offend you by proposing an unmarried kiss. Now, who won’t mind such a thing?” He looked around. “A sister? That will not do. An aunt?” he asked, stepping toward one laughing lady. “No, no.” He turned to Pen. “You won’t be offended, will you, Pen?”
He tugged her beneath the mistletoe and put a firm, warm kiss on her lips.
Their first kiss.
Offended? Pen felt completely overset, but as they stepped apart, she made sure to smile brightly. “Thus the bough is rightly brought to life?” she said.
“Vividly,” he said, smiling around. “Come, ladies and gentlemen, make merry with it until the berries are all gone.”
There was much dancing around as ladies young and old pretended to try to avoid the mistletoe but allowed themselves to be caught, but the Gable-Gores had disappeared.
Soon everyone went up to the drawing room, where a light supper was laid out, along with wine and more punch. There was also tea, perhaps especially ordered by the Gable-Gores, who sat, safely distanced from the mistletoe, sipping in sober virtue.
Pen couldn’t settle to this conventional gathering.
She’d been kissed by other men, and more thoroughly, too, and often enjoyed it. None of those kisses had had the electrical power of that brief press of lips to lips, and she was finding it hard not to follow Ross with her eyes as he went around, chatting to one and all.
Even though it left the field to her rival, she escaped. She went toward her room, but feared someone might look for her. She walked past the door and to the end of the corridor, but almost collided with a maidservant on an errand. Cherryholt wasn’t a large house, and it was full of guests and servants.
Then she remembered the roof. She returned to her room to get her cloak, then found the narrow stairs that led up to the attics. There was a door there that led onto a walkway around the roof.
She stepped out into crisp cold that made her breath puff white, but it was lovely up here, and completely safe despite the dark. The walkway was wide enough for two, and a waist-high wall stood between her and a fall.
She looked up at a sky full of stars, many as bright as diamonds. She knew some must be planets, but she didn’t know which. Was it stars that twinkled or planets? There was the Christmas star, brightest diamond of them all, guiding all true hearts to Christ’s birthplace.
This was a Christian festival, but it was a pagan one, too, and rightly so. Now, in the darkest time of the year, when night fell upon them at four and held its grip until eight, without the moon and the stars people might give up hope. No wonder they embraced fire, with its golden warmth from lantern, candle, or log, and had so since ancient times.
Yule, the great festival of faith and hope, along with the evergreens, a reminder t
hat life existed even in the cold and dark.
The Gable-Gores and their like were wrong. People like them would strangle the true spirit out of Christmas and leave everyone the worse for it. She wouldn’t let it happen here.
She was startled out of her thoughts by singing and the ringing of small bells, and then she saw bobbing lights coming up the drive. The mummers were approaching.
Chapter 8
Pen paused in her room to shed her cloak and make sure she was tidy, then ran down to the hall where the mummers were just arriving. Everyone at Cherryholt had gathered to see the performance, including the servants, who lined the walls.
There were some chairs for the older people, but most guests stood, and some were on the stairs for a better view. Pen spotted Julia, Azure, and Caroline and joined them.
“Splendid costumes,” she said.
“They’re treasured and augmented over generations,” Julia said. “The Turk’s helmet is a real one, brought back from some travels by one of my ancestors.”
The Turkish Knight was a splendid figure in long black robes, the pointed helmet, and a sword on an embroidered belt. He wore a dark beard and mustache and a long, dark wig. His magnificence was just a little undermined by him being mounted on a hobby horse.
Robin Hood was a fine young man in Lincoln Green, with a longbow and quiver of arrows.
“That’s Tom Fletcher,” Julia said, “and his bow’s real. He wins championships.”
“Excellent. He can kill the dragon.”
There was one—a small dragon attached to the Turk by a chain, and clearly a man on all fours with a long snout on front and a very long tail behind.
Robin Hood had a Maid Marian in tow—a lad in a long flaxen wig and a vastly overstuffed gown.
“Why is Maid Marian wearing a helmet?” Pen asked.
“Because she’s also Britannia.”
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