A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  "I have no doubt that your father was a paragon."

  Charlotte heard the throb of anger in his voice and looked at the set expression of his mouth and realized she'd allowed her impulsive tongue to run away with her manners. "I'm sorry," she said stiffly. "I had no right to tell you how to manage your affairs."

  He quickly recovered his composure. "As I was about to say, I have a great deal to learn about the management of the estate. Until very recently, I never expected to inherit, and since my school days I've spent little time at Cortona. Perhaps you didn't know that I'm the child of my father's second marriage. He was quite elderly when he married my mother, and he already had a son, my brother Robert, twenty years older than myself, who of course was the heir and whom my father groomed to succeed him. There was no need for me to know anything about estate management. In any case, both my father and Robert tended to leave the day-to-day details of running the estate in the hands of our bailiff, Silas Adams. Silas would almost certainly have resented any interest I might have shown, on the grounds, and quite rightly so, that it was none of my affair. I've come to the conclusion that my father proba-

  bly allowed Silas too much of a free rein over the years. To this day, months after I succeeded to the estate, Silas is all too inclined to say in answer to any question, "Now, now, my lord, you just leave these matters to me.' "

  Jeffrey paused for a moment and then said coolly, "I trust this explains why I seem so ignorant about my own property. You were right, you know. I should know whether the village has a school. I assure you that I intend to look into the matter immediately.".

  He didn't sound angry or resentful, even though she'd falsely accused him of being a neglectful landlord. Moreover, it had been an impertinence on her part even to raise the issue. She had no standing in his life. They weren't even officially engaged as yet. He had every right to be angry, but instead he'd retreated behind a mask of impersonal politeness. With a sinking heart, Charlotte thought back to the small beginnings of closeness she'd felt with Jeffrey earlier in their drive. The closeness was gone, and it was her fault.

  "Ye should have let me pack yer pattens, ma'am," said Sarah. "Mine, too," added the abigail. "My toes are fair freezing, that they are."

  "We'd certainly both be more comfortable if we were wearing pattens," Charlotte replied ruefully, looking down at her feet. There'd been a light dusting of snow during the night, and she could feel the cold dampness through her thin slippers. She hadn't thought to bring her serviceable pattens with her to a fashionable place like Cortona. But then, of course, it hadn't occurred to her that she might feel the need to flee from Jeffrey's house to take a long cold walk with Sarah in the park.

  She'd spent most of the evening last night trying to hide her low spirits over the depressing end to her afternoon drive with Jeffrey. He hadn't given any outward sign that he was annoyed with her. In fact, he'd been courteous and attentive, everything a considerate host should be. But she was well aware of the little gulf that had opened up between them after their visit to the village. There hadn't been even a trace of the warmth and companionship she'd felt earlier, during their encounter with

  the deer.

  Arabella and her brother Thomas hadn't made the evening any easier. They had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of anecdotes about Cicely's beauty and perfections. At one point, Arabella had looked up at Cicely's portrait over the mantel in the drawing room and said anxiously, "Charlotte, it just occurred to me—you're not thinking of taking Cicely's portrait down, are you?" Then she'd looked away in pretty confusion, but to Charlotte, Arabella's spitefulness was perfectly transparent.

  And Thomas had chimed in, "By Jove, Charlotte, if you take the portrait down, I know my mother will be happy to have it."

  Jeffrey had said curtly, "There's been no talk of removing Cicely's portrait," and quickly changed the subject.

  Sarah interrupted Charlotte's musings as they plodded along through the trees of the park. "Do ye have the headache, ma'am? Ye're very quiet this morning."

  "No, I'm very well. I just needed some fresh air." Certainly it would be understandable if she had the headache, Charlotte reflected. Thus far, her stay at Cortona had been unsettling. Take, for example, her latest encounter with her future mother-in-law.

  As Charlotte was completing her toilet that morning, Lady Sherborne had come to the bedchamber, ostensibly to inquire if her guest had everything she needed. It soon became obvious that the dowager had other concerns on her mind. "My dear Charlotte," she began with a sweet smile, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about something you said last night at dinner. Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say that your mother was a Dunston from northern Lancashire?"

  "Why, yes, my mother's name was Mary Dunston."

  "Was she related, by any chance, to George Dunston of Highcliffe Hall? A very old family, not titled, of course, but much respected."

  "No, there's no connection. Mama's family kept a sweet shop in a little town near Lancaster."

  " 'Oh. I'd hoped ... It would have been of so much interest to all our friends . . ." Lady Sherborne's voice trailed off into

  disappointment. In a moment, however, she came back to the attack. Glancing at Charlotte's simple black sarcenet gown, she said, "My dear, might I make a suggestion? I appreciate your desire to remain in mourning for your father, but I do think it might be more appropriate if you were to go into colors for the Christmas Eve ball. I'm sure you wish to look your best, in view of the important announcement that's to be made at the ball."

  When Charlotte didn't reply immediately, Lady Sherborne said quickly, "Naturally, no one would expect you to wear anything bright or gaudy. One of the quiet shades of second mourning would be the very thing." She looked down complacently at her own dress of light purple silk. "I've taken my own advice, as you've noticed. My dear husband has been gone for only six months, but I know he wouldn't wish me to look like a black scarecrow during the holidays! Now then, I realize there's not enough time to have a new ball gown made for you, even supposing there was a modiste in Banbury who was capable of it. So I'd be very happy if you would wear one of my own dresses. We're much of a size. Only the slightest alteration would be necessary." The dowager paused to look at Charlotte with an expectant smile.

  Charlotte felt a sudden sharp stab of resentment. Apparently Lady Sherborne had resigned herself to her son's unfortunate marriage and was now attempting to put the best face on the situation by making sure Charlotte at least looked presentable in front of her friends. That it would never occur to the dowager that she was being condescending was even more hurtful and humiliating than her offer of a ball gown.

  Repressing an urge to seize Lady Sherborne by her exquisite neck and strangle her, Charlotte replied, "That's very kind of you. If you really think I could wear your gown, I'd be happy to do so."

  But after the gratified dowager left, Charlotte had vented her feelings by picking up a small mirror from the dressing table and throwing it against the wall. Immediately she knelt down to pick up the pieces. There was no need for her outburst to create additional work for the chambermaids. Was she

  overreacting? After all, she'd always planned to come out of mourning after her engagement was announced. Papa would have wanted it that way. And agreeing to wear the dowager's gown was a very small concession to make, surely, if it meant an improvement in her relations with Lady Sherborne. But Charlotte hadn't been able to convince herself. Still seething, she'd grabbed her bonnet and pelisse and called for her abi-gail, and had gone for a walk in the park.

  "Oh, look, ma'am, there's one of them tiny deer we saw from the carriage the other day."

  At the abigail's words, Charlotte looked up to find that she and Sarah were approaching the little domed folly. Several fallow deer were grazing beside it. Charlotte checked her steps at the sound of a shrill scream coming from the direction of a nearby copse of trees. She ran behind the trees, pausing in horror at the sight of a small child collapsed on the ground and wri
thing in pain. The child, a girl of perhaps ten, clothed inadequately in a cotton dress and a tattered shawl, was shoeless. Apparently she had stepped on a jagged bit of fallen branch that had pierced her bare foot. Beside her on the ground was a leather snare encircling the neck of a dead rabbit,

  A man burst through the underbrush, exclaiming, "Caught ye red-handed, by God!" At the sight of Charlotte and her abigail, he stopped in midstride. Charlotte recognized the gamekeeper whom she and Jeffrey had met the day before. He raised a finger to his cap. "Good day, ma'am. If ye'll excuse me, I'll jist attend to this here poacher." He reached down a rough hand to pull the child to her feet. Sobbing with pain and terror, the girl collapsed against him. Blood was streaming from her foot.

  "What will happen to her?" Charlotte asked apprehensively.

  The man shrugged. "Cain't say, ma'am. A whipping, surely. Mayhap a spell in gaol. She's lucky, she is, that she warn't carrying a gun. That'd mean fourteen years transportation. If she'd shot at me and wounded me, she'd be for the nubbing cheat. Hanged from a gibbet, if I make meself clear," he added

  with relish.

  "Hanged?" Charlotte repeated in horror. "For catching a rabbit?" She looked again at the weeping, bedraggled child and said firmly, "I can't believe Lord Sherborne would wish to imprison a child for snaring a rabbit. Release her, please. I'll take all responsibility."

  "But ma'am, it's my job ter pertect his lordship's property from poachers," began the keeper uneasily, still retaining his grasp on the child. "If n it gets about that I've let some'un off-"

  "Your job will be quite safe," Charlotte assured him. "You can go. No, wait. The child's foot is bleeding badly. If you'll carry her to the house, 111 see that the wound is attended to."

  The little girl began to struggle. "Please, ma'am, don't make me go ter his lordship's grand house," she sobbed. "There'd be no hiding who I am or what I've done. Everyone'd know I'd been caught poaching."

  The girl's terror was quite real and understandable. If Charlotte appeared in the servants' quarters of the house with a wounded child in tow, the news would be all over Cortona in minutes. Although Charlotte was quite certain she could persuade Jeffrey not to prosecute, it might be much better for all concerned if the incident never became public. She said to the gamekeeper, "Go to the stables and tell my coachman to bring the carriage here immediately. I'll take the child to her home. Don't tell the coachman why I want the carriage. In fact, don't speak of this to anyone, including your fellow gamekeepers, do you understand?"

  Visibly relieved, the gamekeeper replied, "Yes, ma'am, I understands perfickly. I'll jist be off, then." He lowered the little girl to the ground and walked off through the trees.

  Sinking down on her knees beside the child, ignoring the damp cold that penetrated through her clothing, Charlotte said gently, "Let me look at your foot."

  Slowly, hesitantly, as if she was still afraid to trust her newly found benefactor, the girl pushed her foot forward. Charlotte examined it carefully. The wound had ceased to bleed profusely, but the sharp stick had pierced completely through the

  foot, leaving a deep, jagged wound. Rising, Charlotte glanced around her and then lifted her skirts, quickly unfastening her petticoat and pulling it off. She knelt down again and gently swathed the injured foot in the petticoat. "There, that'll do until we can get you home. Where do you live?"

  "In the village, ma'am, right next ter the church."

  "And what's your name?"

  "Jessie. Jessie Reeves." The child was shivering with cold in her worn shawl, but she seemed somewhat less fearful.

  "That's a pretty name. Jessie, why—?" Charlotte broke off. She'd been about to ask why the girl had been setting snares for Jeffrey's rabbits when she must have known the stringent penalties against poaching. It was a stupid question. From the child's extreme thinness of body, her ragged clothes, and her lack of shoes, it was obvious that Jessie had been poaching to provide food for her family.

  Charlotte looked up with relief as her carriage rolled to a stop in the driveway. The coachman jumped down from the box and walked toward her, his face deeply puzzled.

  "We're taking the little girl to her home in the village," Charlotte told the coachman. "Will you carry her to the carriage, please?" After Jessie was settled on the seat, Charlotte picked up the dead rabbit and deposited it on the floorboards of the carriage. The child's eyes widened.

  The carriage passed the church at the end of the village street and halted in front of one of the small stone cottages. Several children watched curiously as the coachman carried Jessie through the garden gate of the cottage. Instructing Sarah to remain in the carriage, Charlotte grasped the snare with the rabbit dangling from it and jumped out to follow the coachman up the path.

  The door of the cottage opened before the coachman reached it. A frightened-looking woman appeared in the doorway. She wore a mob cap and a voluminous calico apron, and she was obviously in an advanced stage of pregnancy. She stared in dismay at the bloodstained linen wrapped around Jessie's foot and stammered, "I saw all o' ye coming from the window —what's wrong with my Jessie?"

  The child lifted her wan face from the coachman's shoulder. "I've hurt me foot, Mum. This kind lady brought me home. She's visiting at his lordships's house."

  Stepping around the coachman, Charlotte said, "Good day, Mrs. Reeves. I'm Charlotte Kinley."

  The woman's eyes were fixed on the rabbit hanging from Charlotte's hand. Her face twisted with apprehension.

  "Mrs. Reeves, I really think we should get Jessie into the house so we can attend to her wound."

  "Oh. Yes. Please ter come in, ma'am." The woman stood aside. The coachman carried Jessie into the cottage and placed her carefully on a wooden chair, one of the few articles of furniture in the painfully neat but scantily furnished room. A little boy of two or three sat on the floor next to a meager fire of twigs and sticks burning on the hearth.

  Dismissing the coachman, Charlotte said to Mrs. Reeves, "Please don't worry about Jessie. I'm sure she'll be quite all right once the wound is cleaned, although she'll be uncomfortable when she walks for a few days. Will you be able to manage? You have some clean cloths for bandages?"

  "Yes, thank ye." But the woman stood as if rooted to the floor, seemingly unable to take her eyes from the dead rabbit. "Did Jessie-?"

  Charlotte nodded. "Yes, she snared the rabbit, Mrs. Reeves, but don't be concerned. I promise you she won't be punished. And as long as the creature is dead, you may as well have the use of it." She hesitated a moment. Then, opening her reticule, she took out a handful of coins. "I'd like you to have these. Perhaps you could buy a treat for the children."

  The woman's face crumbled. She groped her way blindly to a chair and sat down, rocking herself back and forth while the tears gushed down her cheeks in a steady stream.

  Stricken, Charlotte turned to Jessie. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to offend your mother."

  "She's not offended, ma'am," said Jessie, her thin little face glowing beneath the tear stains and the lines of pain. "She's happy, if ye can believe it. Ye have no idea how much that"— she pointed to the coins in Charlotte's hand—"how much that

  will mean ter us. Things 'ave been right bad of late."

  "I'm glad I could help. Jessie, did your father die recently? Is that why matters have been so difficult for your family?"

  "Oh, no, ma'am. Pap ain't dead. Fact is, until last spring, he was working as a laborer on his lordship's home farm, and we was doing very well. But then he got hurt and lost his leg and couldn't work, and since then we've been livin' on the rates, and we jist ain't been able ter manage on eight shillings a week, not in the winter, anyways. Summers we kin grow a few vegetables in the garden, and we don't need no fire then, neither."

  Charlotte was so shocked that she couldn't speak for a moment. Then she said incredulously, "Your total income is eight shillings a week? But no family could possibly live on eight shillings a week."

  "It's been hard, ma'am, and that's
the truth. Pap always says we'd have been better off in the old days, before the Enclosures, y'know. Back then, we could have grazed some chickens or a pig on the commons, and gathered firewood in the waste, too. But o'course, we ain't allowed ter do that now."

  After a pause, Jessie added in a small voice, "I know it was wrong ter poach his lordship's rabbits, ma'am, but y'see, we didn't have no food in the house. I couldn't let Billy starve"— she motioned to the silent little boy near the fireplace—"could I? And Mum, ye may 'ave noticed, she's increasing. She needs extra food now."

  Charlotte drew a deep breath. She opened her reticule again and drew out several banknotes, which, together with the coins, she pressed into Jessie's hands. "There, that should help for a while. Look, Jessie, I told your mother my name, but I'm not sure she took any notice. Can you remember it? It's Kinley, Charlotte Kinley. Now, if there's any further trouble about that wretched rabbit, or if you should need help of any kind, send me a message at Cortona. Ask for Sarah, my abigail." She patted the little girl's shoulder. "I'll be going now."

  "God bless ye, ma'am. I think ye must be an angel in disguise."

  Charlotte laughed. "I never yet met an. angel dressed in black. Goodbye, Jessie."

  * * *

  "My dear Charlotte, you're very quiet. Are you feeling ill?" asked Lady Sherborne in a low voice, under cover of the steady hum of conversation in the drawing room.

  Charlotte shook her head. "Pm very well," she murmured. Which was true, as far as it went. There was nothing wrong with her physically, but she was feeling increasingly uncomfortable under the strain of being on display in front of Jeffrey's friends and acquaintances.

  Today, as had happened every day since her arrival, the local gentry were calling at Cortona in droves. By now, Charlotte suspected, her coming betrothal was an open secret. Most of these callers were coming to have a closer look at the future Marchioness of Sherborne than they might be likely to obtain amid the large crowd of people at the Christmas Eve ball tomorrow night. Charlotte also suspected that every one of these people today, and every caller of the past few days, had compared her drably dressed self with the ethereal golden-haired beauty in the portrait over the mantelpiece.