“—weighs several hundred pounds, has a wart in the center of his head, and has a sister.” At Perdita’s frown, he amended, “Well, perhaps not as bad as all that; I’ll let you make your own judgment. He has excellent manners, and supposedly likes to give short, to-the-point, sermons.”
Perdita’s sudden laughter filled the carriage. “Well, at least that’s better than the late, unlamented roly-poly Percy Smythe. Lord, what a mutton-headed mushroom he was. His sermons were such snoozers they would put me into a right old dudgeon. Most definitely not all the crack.”
“Perdita!” Cam’s voice rose. “Where did you learn language like that?”
“From you, Allister and Richard.” Perdita’s eyes widened. “You always talk that way about someone you don’t like.”
“It’s not language for a young lady,” Cam scolded.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t talk where I can hear you,” she countered primly.
“You mean where you can eavesdrop,” Cam said, keeping his stern tone. “We’ll discuss your linguistic habits later.”
“Oh, very well.” Perdita allowed him the point. “You’ve not mentioned if Mister Fleming is a married gentleman or not.”
“He’s a bachelor,” Cam said. “That’s why his sister came with him to help run the household.”
“A sister?” Perdita leaned forward. “Really? Did she come with him when she called?”
“No. She was helping Mrs. Crawford re-organize the kitchen and going over the household linens with Alice.”
“Oh.” Perdita’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Then you don’t know if they’re the same age or what she looks like.”
“Does that matter?” Cam asked.
“I hoped to meet someone new and exciting this Christmas season,” Perdita complained, “or it will be the same dull people as always.”
“Hush,” Cam warned. “We’re here. You’ll have enough excitement getting ready for your debut next year to last a lifetime.”
The carriage stopped in front of a brick two-story house next to All Souls Church and they stepped out. Just as Perdita described, two enormous green wreaths hung on the church’s double doors and someone wove ivy around the iron fence. Smoke wafted from the rectory’s chimney, and the steps that led to the porch gleamed—proof of a fresh scrubbing.
The front door opened before Cam could raise his fist to knock. Alice, the parlor maid, ushered them inside and curtsied. “Good morning, my lord. Good morning, Lady Perdita.”
“Good morning, Alice,” Cam said. “I presume our hosts have settled in comfortably?”
Alice gave a quick nod. “Yes, my lord. But heaven help us, all them books! And that Sco—”
“My lord St. Cloud.”
A tall, slender, blond man came loping across the foyer. He stopped before them and bowed. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
“Perdita, this is Mr. Stephen Fleming, the new rector of All Souls,” Cam said. “Mr. Fleming, my sister, Lady Perdita Hunt.”
The clergyman gave her a dazzling smile and bowed again. “I’m delighted to meet you, Lady Perdita. My sister Amanda looks forward to meeting you as well.”
Perdita beamed and offered him her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Fleming? I hope the rectory is to your liking?”
“It’s wonderful,” he said. “Such spacious rooms, and chimneys that don’t smoke, which is a blessing in itself. The library is big enough for all my books, and I imagine in the spring the garden will look splendid. And thank you, my lord, for providing a horse and covered wagon too so I might do my pastoral visits no matter the weather.”
“And the staff?” Cam asked. “Are they giving satisfaction?”
Fleming sighed happily and took Perdita’s arm. “To tell you the truth, my lord, this is the first position I’ve had that came with a staff of five. Amanda and I shall be quite spoiled by having a cook, housekeeper, two maids and male servant. Amanda won’t know what to do with all the extra time she will have. Amanda? Our guests are here.”
He led Perdita across the foyer, and Cam followed them into the sunny room. Then shock rooted him to the spot, making further movement impossible, as the cause of his sleeplessness—not to mention his ruined gloves and sprained ankle—rose from a chintz-covered loveseat near the fireplace. The sprite stared at him, face flushed, her eyes grown to the size of saucers while her hands quickly locked together and she stood as immobile as he.
Barking issued from a large basket in the corner as its occupant charged forward, tail bristling. The growling Scottie quivered before them, his black eyes fixed on Cam, who uneasily remembered a Scottish friend at school warning him that Scots had notoriously long memories. Obviously that applied to their dogs as well.
“Hamish, stop,” Fleming ordered, and thankfully, the dog stilled. He trotted back to the sprite and sat, but continued to stare at Cam, as if deciding which part to taste first.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Fleming said “He’s really very friendly.”
“Of course he is!” Perdita cried. Kneeling, she coaxed, “Come, Hamish. Can’t we be friends?”
The little dog trotted to her, and Perdita scooped him into her arms and stood. Hamish licked her face, his tail wagging furiously.
“There, you see, brother?” Perdita scratched Hamish behind the ears. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“I’ll remember that,” Cam said, watching the sprite. The blush faded from her face, but her still tightly clasped hands suggested her earlier agitation remained.
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Fleming said. “Amanda, this is our benefactor, Cameron Hunt, the Earl of St. Cloud and his sister Lady Perdita Hunt. My lord, Lady Perdita, this is my sister, Amanda.
Miss Fleming preformed a graceful curtsy. “My lord St. Cloud. Lady Perdita. Thank you for offering Stephen the living, my lord. I have no doubt we’ll be most happy here.”
“You didn’t tell me he had a twin sister, Cam.” Perdita scolded.
“He didn’t mention it,” Cam said, his gaze never leaving Miss Fleming’s face. “Or that they had a dog.”
“Didn’t I?” Stephen frowned in thought. “Odd. Well, never mind. As you can see—”he gestured at a food-laden table. “Mrs. Crawford prepared a late morning tea for us. Has she always cooked at the rectory?”
“For years,” Cam said. “All of your current staff have, and there has never been any complaint. But do let me know if you find there is anything else you might need or want.”
“Well, as usual at this time of day, I’m famished,” Stephen declared, rubbing his hands together. “Amanda will do the honors, won’t you sister?”
“Of course.” Miss Fleming said, and Cam thought he heard a faint tremor in her voice. “Won’t you please be seated?”
“You’re limping, my lord,” Stephen said. “I hope you didn’t fall on your way here.”
“A rabbit frightened Cam’s horse the other day and he fell off,” Lady Perdita explained as she sat. “Poor brother.”
“I hope your horse sustained no injury, Lord Hunt?” Miss Fleming asked smoothly as she filled the cups with tea. “Sugar? Lemon? Milk?”
“None, thank you, Miss Fleming.” Cam managed to keep his tone steady. “And my ankle, while still sprained, is healing quite nicely.”
“I’m so glad.” A smile hovered around his hostess’s lips as she gave him his cup. “Rabbits can be such a nuisance, can they not?”
She finished serving the others and sat in the chair next to Perdita, who fed Hamish tiny pieces of a scone. After asking a number of questions about village matters, Fleming gave his sister his cup and sat forward.
“Someone told me there’s a sleigh race the day before Christmas Eve,” he said. “Can you tell me about that, my lord?”
Cam shrugged slightly. “The race is the last event in a series of holiday activities held the week before Christmas. Traditionally, my family holds a ball the night before the race. The race is open to anyone in the village if they have the dr
iving skills. The contestants are required to use a one horse sleigh, such as a Tilbury or a Sulky to race on a back stretch of property covering two miles at Heart’s Ease.”
“Cam and my other brothers have won many times over the years,” Perdita said proudly. “They’re all excellent whips.”
“Be honest, Perdita,” St. Cloud cautioned. “We’ve not won for three years.”
“Well, now that I’m home for good, you’ll just have to try harder.” Perdita handed her cup back to Miss Fleming. “Do you race, Mr. Fleming?”
“I’ve been known to go in for neck or nothing in my time,” the rector said cheerfully. “A benefit of growing up in rural Hampshire, I suppose. Amanda rides too. Did you pack your riding habit, sister?”
“Yes, but as we only have the horse for you to do your visits, I won’t be doing much riding here,” Miss Fleming sighed. .
“Oh, we have any number of horses you could borrow,” Perdita said. “We must go sometime. You can choose from our stables, can’t she, Cam?”
“If she wants.” Cam directed his gaze at Miss Fleming. A faint blush spread across her cheeks and her fingers played with the pearls around her neck. Cam thought she exchanged a glance with her brother and wondered if it were some kind of signal between them.
“Well, if the race is open to everyone, I think I’d like to try my hand at it,” Fleming said cheerfully. “Unless there’s a restriction for a member of the clergy to do so.”
“None that I’m aware of, Mr. Fleming. We’d be happy to have you enter.” Cam finished his tea and set his cup on the table. “Have you spoken to the choirmaster about Perdita singing this Advent and Christmas season?”
“I have indeed,” Mr. Fleming affirmed with a nod. “He is full of nothing but praise for her musical talents. I do hope we can count on you to join the choir this Christmas season, Lady Perdita.”
“I would like nothing better,” she said. “Do you sing or play the pianoforte, Miss Fleming?”
“Not very well,” Miss Fleming said. “But I am most talented at turning pages for others.”
“You can certainly say that,” Mr. Fleming agreed, provoking a laugh from Perdita. But recalling his ruined gloves and stained greatcoat kept Cam from joining their mirth. “A talent you are no doubt called on to use on any number of occasions,” he said dryly.
Miss Fleming raised her chin as if issuing a silent challenge. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate at this Sunday’s service if help is needed.. That is if your ankle will allow you to attend.”
“Speaking of music, Lady Perdita needs to practice for her lesson this afternoon.” Cam rose and bowed. “Thank you for your invitation and hospitality, Mr. Fleming. Miss Fleming. Come, Perdita.”
With a sigh, Perdita put a protesting Hamish on the floor. “I hope you will call on me soon, Miss Fleming,” she said.
“I would like that,” Miss Fleming said, getting to her feet. That is if my lord St. Cloud will permit me to do so.”.
“Of course he will!” Perdita exclaimed before Cam could answer. “I’ll send a note ‘round.” Excitement lit up her face. “You can turn pages while I practice my singing and I can show you Heart’s Ease and we can go riding—”
“Come, Perdita,” Cam ordered again. “We’ve intruded on the Flemings’s hospitality enough for one day.”
He headed for the hallway, trying not to let his limp slow his progress. But Perdita, as if to vex him, took her time in saying goodbye to the Flemings. At the door, Cam turned to see her bend down to scratch Hamish’s ears. “I’m very glad to have met you, Sir Hamish,” she said. “You may come and visit Heart’s Ease as well.”
The little dog offered her his paw in farewell, but his black eyes were only for Cam. They studied him for a long moment, then one slowly and deliberately winked. Behind him, Miss Fleming watched, her own eyes bright with unspoken mischief, and a strange apprehension set Cam’s heart pounding at a curiously rapid rate.
“Come Perdita,” he called again and this time his sister obeyed. Once they were inside the safety of their carriage and on the way back to Heart’s Ease, Perdita squeezed his hand. “I say, Cam. Aren’t the Flemings the nicest people? Really bang up to the knocker. I think this year is going to be a cracking good Christmas, don’t you?”
“Whatever you say, dearest,” Cam said, too busy trying to calm his still pounding heart to scold her use of cant. “Whatever you say.”
Chapter Three
“An unusual text for one’s first sermon, don’t you think, Amelia? ‘Do unto others’?”
“I suppose The Reverend Mr. Stephen Fleming will want us to start knitting socks and hats for the gypsies’ Christmas presents next, my dearest Cecily.”
The opening notes of the last hymn covered their snickers. Cam rose with the rest of the congregation, determined not to turn around in the St. Cloud family pew and glare at Cecily Tarwater and her sister, Amelia Baker. For more than twenty-five years, they ran the Ladies Auxiliary, the Altar Guild and anything else at All Souls they could pull into their clutches. While a rector might be in charge of the parish’s souls, the immovable force of Tarwater, Baker and their crony Grace Hopewell, kept an ironclad grip on every social aspect of All Souls. It was rumored Cecily and Amelia kept their husbands— Hiram and William, the Vestry’s Senior and Junior wardens respectively—under their thumbs as well. As did Grace Hopewell, whose husband Wilfred also served on the vestry. Decisions made by these gentlemen and those who served with them, more than suggested a strong influence by their wives.
As he joined his voice with the others, Cam’s gaze flickered toward Miss Fleming in the pew opposite his. Her smile suggested she was satisfied with her brother’s sermon.
It also made her look uncommonly pretty. Health bloomed in her face and her eyes sparkled with an unfeigned joy. Odd he hadn’t noticed it in their earlier meetings. Miss Amanda Fleming was no doubt—when she and her dog weren’t scaring horses and their riders—a very happy young woman.
As if aware of his scrutiny, she turned her head in his direction. Twin spots of pink covered her cheekbones, but her gaze did not falter. Cam nodded and she turned back to her hymnal.
The singing ended and the congregation headed toward the parish hall. Cam stepped into the aisle where he was met by Mrs. Tarwater and Mrs. Baker. Stifling a sigh, he bowed. “Good morning, ladies. I hope I find you well.”
“Very well indeed, my lord.” Mrs. Tarwater made a deep curtsey. “What did you think of our new rector’s sermon?”
“To the point,” Cam said. “I prefer that in a sermon.”
“I noticed Lady Perdita in the choir,” Mrs. Baker said. “Such a beautiful voice. And so accomplished. She must be looking forward to her come-out next spring.”
“She is,” Cam agreed. “I understand you ladies have organized a reception in the parish hall to welcome Mr. Fleming and his sister?”
The women exchanged smug smiles. Cam doubted very much if either one actually did any of the work. They excelled in ordering others to do their bidding and then took all the credit.
“It’s the least we can do,” Mrs. Tarwater said primly.
“After all, the Good Book commands us to practice hospitality,” Mrs. Baker added.
“So it does,” Cam said, “as well as practicing charity as Mr. Fleming’s sermon reminded us. If you ladies will excuse me, I must find Lady Perdita.” He bowed and left for the parish hall. A few moments in their company was all he could tolerate.
The parish hall was crowded, probably as much for the refreshments as to welcome Mr. and Miss Fleming. They stood together, greeting their new parishioners. Cam looked over the room for the still absent Perdita, resigned himself to his fate and took his place at the end of the line behind Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Tarwater. Perdita could take twenty minutes just to hang up her choir robe and put away her music.
“But at least seein’ as ‘ow you’re twins, we ain’t gonna have no problem in tellin’ ye apart even if ye are brother and sister,” S
quire Henry Beecham, a local yeoman farmer chortled while he pumped Mr. Fleming’s hand.
“I certainly hope not,” Mr. Fleming’s expression of mock horror produced a hearty laugh from the squire.
“Ye might be all right,” he said, slapping Mr. Fleming’s arm. “Least ways you’ve got a sense of humor, which is more than old Percy—him that was rector before you—had.”
“Really, Squire Beecham,” Mrs. Tarwater said with a loud sniff. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Ain’t no concern of ye what I say to the rector,” Beecham said gruffly. “’Specially if ‘tis true. Mr. Smythe could put a dead man to sleep with ‘is sermonizing. I like the Gospel preached simple and to the point.”
“Stephen turned down a teaching position at Balliol College at Oxford to accept the earl’s kind offer of the living at All Souls,” Miss Fleming said proudly.
“Well, we’re mighty glad to have you.” Beecham looked back at Mr. Fleming. “Ye should come by the farm and see one or two of my horses if ye think you might be wanting to enter the sleigh race. I’ve got a Tilbury sleigh I can loan ye, too. I’ll send my boy for ye.”
“ ‘scuse me, please.” A tiny woman whose bonnet had seen better days, thrust herself forward as Beecham stumped away. Mrs. Tarwater frowned in disapproval at the intrusion, but the new arrival gave no notice. “Hate to break in, but I’ve got to get back home ‘fore Sadie delivers ‘er next litter of pups.” She thrust a small basket at the surprised Mr. Fleming. “I’ve brought you the last of my summer jams, Mr. Fleming.” Worry widened her eyes. “Ye do like strawberries, don’cha? I used my ma’s old recipe.”
“Really, Mrs. Nichols.” It was Mrs. Baker’s turn to scold. “Mr. Fleming doesn’t need any jam.”
“Oh, but he loves strawberry jam!” Miss Fleming exclaimed. She beamed at Mrs. Nichols before glancing at her brother. “Don’t you, Stephen?”
“Y-yes. It’s quite my favorite.” Mr. Fleming moved the cloth covering the basket’s contents. “How very nice of you, Mrs....?”
“Nichols. Hattie Nichols.” The little woman shot Mrs. Baker a triumphant glance and Cam coughed back his laugh. It was well-known in the village that Mrs. Baker—even though her cook helped her—could not master the art of jam-making, no matter how hard she tried.
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