Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Liv hurriedly added, “Quite, and we both agree your cook is an absolute wonder.”

  Looking a bit skeptical, their silver haired hostess, dressed this afternoon in a complimentary grey gown, murmured, “I’m happy you think so. Please come with me.”

  Praying she wasn’t in trouble, Liv shot a worried glance toward Augusta, who shrugged as they followed the duchess across the hall and into her favorite parlor.

  Once their hostess had settled into the winged chair closest to the fire, Liv and Augusta perched on opposite ends of the red velvet divan facing her, their backs straight, ankles crossed, and hands clasped neatly in their laps.

  “No need to look so nervous, my dears. I’ve only a favor to ask of you and of Miss Crawford, should the lady ever make an appearance.”

  As if conjured by a witch, Miss Crawford, breathless and disheveled, came skidding through the doorway. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Grace! I was in the stables, admiring your livestock when summoned. I came as fast as I could.”

  The duchess’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I can readily see that, Miss Crawford. Do take a seat.”

  As Miss Crawford backed up to settle between Liv and Augusta, Liv spied hay poking out from beneath Miss Crawford’s deep purple bustle. Pretending to make room on the divan, Liv fussed with her own skirt and managed to pluck the straw from her new friend.

  What on earth had the girl been up to in the stable?

  The duchess cleared her throat. “Ladies, the villagers hold their annual Christmas festival at this time each year. Normally, I attend for a brief time on this, the night of the bonfire, to judge the Christmas buns and pass out these.”

  She held up a small linen pouch tied in a colorful tartan ribbon. “Below stairs you’ll find a basket with many more. Each purse contains a few coins, Blythe Hall’s traditional Christmas gift to each of the villagers. Miss Crawford, I’d like you and Augusta to see that each villager receives a gift. I’ve placed a list of names along with pen and ink in the basket, so you can be sure that you’ve given a gift to everyone, adults and children alike.”

  Miss Crawford preened. “We’d be honored, Your Grace, but why aren’t you attending? I’m sure many will be disappointed by your absence.”

  “I’d like to thinks so, but I simply can’t go. After supervising the placement of decorations all morn’ and fussing over the menus for the ball all afternoon, I’m quite exhausted.”

  Liv frowned. She hadn’t noticed signs that the eighty year old duchess might be exhausted but then she’d been quite distracted of late. She mentally chided herself for being so self-absorbed, pledged to pay more heed and to offer the woman her assistance should the opportunity present itself. The lady had, after all, opened her beautiful home to Liv and the others on only the strength of distant relations and ancient friendships.

  The duchess turned her attention to Liv. “Olivia dear, I would greatly appreciate you judging the villagers’ Christmas buns this year in my stead.”

  Having a talented French cook at home, never having baked so much as a loaf of bread in her life, Liv’s heart began to hammer. “Uhmm...of course, but...but...but I know nothing about Christmas buns and such.”

  “You can eat a pastry and tell whether or not you like it, can’t you?”

  “Well, yes, of course.”

  “Then you’ll do nicely. Do dress warmly, my dears, and wear sensible shoes. The village’s carriageway is quite rutted. The coachman will be ready for your departure in one hour.” Looking quite pleased with herself, she waved a dismissing hand. “That will be all, ladies. You’re excused.”

  Liv and her companions rose as one and beat a hasty retreat. Just as they reached the hall, the duchess called Liv’s name.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Another word if you please.”

  Liv mentally groaned and returned to stand before her hostess. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I forgot to tell you that when you arrive at the village you’re to ask for the MacNab. He’s also judging the Christmas buns and will explain everything to you.”

  Since she’d learned there were many here and in the village with the surname MacNab, she asked, “Which MacNab would that be, Your Grace?”

  “John MacNab. Oh no, that’s not correct. For several years now he’s preferred to go by Colin. Of course who could blame him? His father, also named John, was a sorry excuse for a man. A philander and drunkard if rumors are to be believed.”

  Her Colin?

  Now why on earth had she just thought of him as hers?

  The duchess couldn’t possibly be referring to the minister she’d met in the glen. Surely not.

  As if reading her mind, her hostess said, “I believe you met him this morning when his cart broke.”

  Liv’s heart hammered in earnest. How on earth did she know that? “Perhaps. Are there many Colin MacNabs in Clachankirk?”

  “No, he’s the only one. And please don’t look so alarmed, my dear. Gossip is coinage in every corner of the realm. Staff have eyes and ears. Someone must have seen you chatting. It’s the reason doting mothers regularly tell their young, ‘A good reputation can be ruined in the blink of an eye.’”

  Her panic rising, Liv could only nod.

  Smiling, the duchess said, “Now run along and do be sure to take the extra mistletoe balls in the lower hall with you.”

  Good Lord Almighty. What if Augusta or Miss Crawford blurts the truth to one and all about her being an heiress?

  Mr. MacNab had tried but failed to mask his distaste when he’d initially thought she was one of the ladies who’d come to Blythe Hall in search of a titled husband. Being a man of the cloth, he doubtless found marriages based on bank accounts repugnant. And he’d be right. Compounding matters, she’d not only dissembled, but had lied by omission.

  Fearing she might be ill, knowing she had less than an hour to convince her companions to keep her true identity a secret, Liv excused herself. She made it only as far as the doorway when the duchess, said, “One more thing, dear!”

  Mentally groaning, Liv walked back to the duchess. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Please do me the kindness of keeping an eye on Miss Crawford tonight.”

  “On Pricilla, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. According to her mother, the chit is a bit of a hoyden. Gets herself into all manner of trouble without giving her station—or theirs—even a moment’s thought. Her parents sent her here for the explicit purpose of finding her an acceptable husband. I can’t see that done if she’s found rolling in the hay with a stable lad.”

  Oops.

  Apparently, Liv wasn’t the only one to notice hay poking out from beneath Miss Priscilla Crawford’s pretty silk bustle. “Of course, Your Grace. I’d be delighted to help.”

  “Excellent. You’re excused.”

  Sweet Mother of God...

  She now had two things to worry about.

  Liv glided in ladylike fashion out of the parlor then sped past Blythe Hall’s grand marble staircase and headed straight for the faster servants’ stairwell to her right.

  Entering the poorly lit stairwell she hiked her skirt and raced up the stairs. Half way to her fourth floor goal, she collided with Maisy, one of the young chambermaids.

  The startled maid pressed her back to the wall. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Conor, but whatever are you doing back here?”

  “No need to worry,” Liv said, assuring her, “Americans are just practical.”

  As Liv sped on she heard the maid mutter, “Aye, but daft’s more like it.”

  TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE

  CHAPTER SIX

  Colin grinned, standing in the midst of the milling crowd anxious for the start of the Yule Week festivities.

  With barely a penny in their pockets, his tenants had still done themselves proud. Every garden had been snowed up. Every spent flower clipped, every weed pulled. Every doorway had been draped in pine boughs. Even the bairns had been caught up, dipped and polished. Heaven ob
viously approved. The moon was full, the temperature mild and the wind naught but a whisper.

  Someone tapped his arm, he looked down and found the widow Bryce, dress in her finest, at his elbow.

  “Good eve’, Mrs. Bryce. Lovely night, is it not?”

  “Aye, m’lord, but ‘tis not the weather I’m curious about. I couldn’t help but notice that ye scooted out of the kirk before we had a chance to talk to ye about the pretty young lady ye were with this morn’.”

  Surveying the crowd milling along Clachankirk’s main carriageway, Colin nodded. “I did.”

  The widow huffed. “Had pressing matter to attend to, did ye, m’lord?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, ye appear to have naught pressing ye now, so please be so kind as to tell us who is she.”

  “She’s a guest at Blythe Hall.”

  “Oh. One of them, is she?”

  “Nay, not one of them. She’s a suffragist.”

  Mrs. Bryce’s expression shifted from one of open curiosity to one of pure shock. “Ye mean she’s one of those that wants to take away our whisky?”

  He grinned. The good widow did like her nightly tipple. “Nay, those are temperance ladies. Miss Conor wishes to give ye the vote.”

  “Me?”

  “Not just ye, but all women.”

  “Good heavens, why ever would she want to do that?”

  Thinking it an excellent question, Colin said, “I’ve no idea.”

  “Humph! I dinna think hers is a good idea. Nay. Please tell her—”

  “Oh look! The Duchess is arriving. If ye’ll excuse me, Mrs. Bryce...”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode toward the tavern where the coach always stopped.

  The Duchess’s matched pair of white thoroughbreds came to a halt before the Stag’s Head Tavern, the coach rocked once on well-oiled springs, and he reached for the folding steps.

  When he pulled the door open, the hand that grasped his was not that of the Duchess, but that of Miss Olivia Conor.

  Before he could collect himself, she said, “Oh my. Hello again.”

  “Hello. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Yes.” She quickly stepped down and turned toward the young woman exiting the coach behind her. “This is Miss Augusta Beauregard of Knightsbridge, London, the Duchess’s grandniece. Augusta, this is Mr. MacNab of Clachankirk. The gentleman I told you about.”

  Colin bowed over the pretty blonde’s hand. “Miss Beauregard. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Miss Beauregard dropped into a pretty curtsey. “Ah, the pleasure is mine. I’ve heard much about you from Olivia.”

  He arched a brow as he looked at Miss Conor. “Have ye now?”

  Flushing to a pretty pink, Miss Conor murmured, “All good I assure you.”

  Before he could ask how so, another lass, a plump blonde in an elaborately trimmed, deep green dolman coat and pert bonnet, scrambled from the coach and said, “Hello! Who are you?”

  Miss Conor closed her eyes as if in pain, then murmured, “Mr. MacNab, please make the acquaintance of Miss Pricilla Crawford of New York, New York. Miss Crawford, this is Mr. MacNab, the gentleman I told you about.”

  “Oh! The one with the pigs. How fun! Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Grinning at the lass’s impertinence, Colin looked inside the coach, expecting to find the aging Duchess. Not finding her, he turned to Miss Crawford. “Is the Duchess not coming?”

  “I’m afraid not. She had a tiring day.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this.”

  His tenants would be greatly disappointed. They looked forward to not only the Duchess’s cheerful presence but to her annual gifts.

  Miss Priscilla Crawford tapped his arm to garner his attention. When he looked down, she said, “Mr. MacNab, please be so kind as to tell me why Scotch men wear kilts. Aren’t your legs cold? A woman’s skirt not only goes to the ground but we wear high stocking, pantaloons and petticoats beneath. What do you wear beneath your kilt?”

  Olivia had all she could do to keep her hands at her side, so great was her desire to strangle her new friend. She’d been explicit about how she wished the ladies to conduct themselves when introduced to the minister.

  Through grit teeth, she said, “Miss Crawford, why don’t you help Miss Beauregard with the baskets of gifts from the Duchess.”

  Miss Crawford, apparently enthralled with Mr. MacNab’s wardrobe said, “Huh? Did you ask me something?”

  “The gifts, Priscilla. Now.”

  “Oh. Of course. Where should we place them?”

  Having no idea, Liv looked to Mr. MacNab, who did look quite dashing in his tartan kilt, badger sporran and deep blue cutaway coat, not that she really cared. “Where do you suggest?”

  Pointing across the carriageway to a thatched cottage with a small table and chair before a garden gate, he said, “The Duchess always sits there, before the cottage with the red door.”

  “Thank you.” Turning to her friend, she said, “Miss Crawford, why don’t we—”

  Miss Crawford was nowhere to be seen.

  Confused, Liv craned her neck and looked inside the carriage thinking Pricilla might have left something inside. No Pricilla. She then circled the carriage. Still no Pricilla. She returned to where Mr. MacNab and Augusta stood in deep conversation.

  Tapping Augusta’s arm, Liv said, “Excuse me, but do you know where Miss Crawford went?”

  Augusta shrugged. “She was here just a moment ago.”

  “Yes, but do you know where she is now?”

  Augusta shrugged yet again. “I’ve no idea.”

  “Is something amiss?” Mr. MacNab asked, taking the heavy basket containing the coin-filled pouches from their coachman.

  Despite her rising anxiety, Liv said, “No, no. I’m sure she’s here somewhere.”

  With the basket tucked under his left arm, Mr. MacNab guided her toward the Duchess’s usual place. “I’m sure she’ll show up shortly. There’s little enough to see in the village. Perhaps she spied a kitten and followed it.”

  Fearing Miss Crawford might have spied a strapping lad and followed, Liv blew through her teeth. “I suppose I’m being silly, but...”

  “She’ll come to no harm. All here respect the Duchess and her guests.” Setting the basket on the table, he said, “Am I correct in assuming you’re travelling with one of the ladies who arrived with you?”

  Liv pulled the Duchess’s list of names and writing implements from the basket and set them on the table. “No, although both are delightful company. Augusta came up from London with the Duchess several months ago. Miss Crawford just arrived, which is why I’m concerned that she might be lost.”

  “Please don’t worry. The village is small, more of a hamlet really.”

  Not convinced, Liv continued to search the growing crowd for Priscilla. “I should have kept a better eye on her.”

  “She’s at a country fair. She’s probably just meandering among the tinkers’ stalls in the muse.”

  Why hadn’t Miss Crawford said this before she disappeared like a will-o’-the-wisp?

  Behind her a woman said, “Might I have a word, m’—“

  “Mrs. Bryce!” Mr. MacNab shouted, interrupting the poor woman mid-sentence and startling Liv. “What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for ye?”

  As Liv directed her attention to the apple-cheeked woman dressed in yards of faded blue chintz and a drab green shawl at Mr. MacNab side, he said, “Miss Conor, this is the widow Mrs. Bryce. An absolute wonder. She’s organized our fair for years. Mrs. Bryce, this is Miss Olivia Conor from Lynn, Massachusetts, America.”

  Liv bobbed a short curtsey as the stocky woman did the same while examining Liv from hair roots to boots. “Ye’re the one who wants to give me the vote, are ye?”

  Surprised that Mr. MacNab had shared this with the woman, Liv could only nod.

  “Ye ken I’ll need time to think on this,” the old woman said.

  It
wasn’t a question but a declaration. “You’ll have ample time, Mrs. Bryce. Passing legislation often takes years.”

  “Verra well.” To Mr. MacNab she said, “The ladies were wondering when the bun judging would commence, m’—”

  “Immediately, Mrs. Bryce.” Taking Liv’s arm, he said, “This way, Miss Conor.”

  As they walked three abreast along the main street Liv studied her surroundings. From her morning romp she knew most of Clachankirk’s cottages were really two homes in one, each end having its own front door and separate chimney. Shafts of warm light fell across their path from those that were occupied. Many, however, were dark and shuttered as they had been earlier in the day.

  She was about to ask why, when Mr. MacNab said, “Mrs. Bryce, do you know that woman with the two wee bairns standing in yon doorway?”

  Liv followed his gaze. The woman he was looking at was little more than skin and bone, her clothing little more than rags. The children, also painfully thin, were better dressed but barefoot.

  “Aye, says she’s a Stewart,” the widow Bryce murmured. “Husband was a miner at the Blantyre Colliery before he died. She’s on her way to Newcastle upon Tyne with the hope of finding work, says they won’t stay but a day or two. The wee laddies, being so hungry and tired, broke my heart, so I took it upon myself to feed them and offer them auld Angus’s empty croft for the night. I hope ye’ll not be turning them out, m’—”

  “Mrs. Bryce,” Mr. MacNab said, wrapping an arm about the woman’s shoulders and pulling her close. “You did what any good Christian woman would. The MacNab would be pleased. Let her know she may stay as long as she wishes. Now run along and let the good woman know she has naught to fear, that she and the bairns should enjoy the festivities.”

  Looking confused, Mrs. Bryce bobbed a curtsey. “As ye wish, although...”

  Tucking Liv’s arm through his, Colin quickly turned, saying, “Last year two hundred and seven miners died in an explosion at Blantyre. ‘Twas the worst mining disaster in Scotland’s history. From the woman’s and the bairns’ conditions, they’ve likely been living hand to mouth ever since.”