Polly opened her mouth to say she knew. And closed it again. It would be utterly spiteful to give Susan away. The kitten, awake now, clambered down from the bed and scampered across the room towards them.
Lady Eliot continued. ‘He has been staying with the Creeds, you know. A very good sort of family. Well connected.’
That went without saying. As did old money, wealthy. ‘Yes, aunt?’ She bent down and scooped up the kitten as one paw dabbed at the temptation of velvet skirts.
Lady Eliot fussed with her reticule. ‘Yes, Hippolyta. And I felt it best to tell you that Tom is betrothed to Miss Creed. Naturally Sir Nathan and I are delighted, and of course I have invited Miss Creed with her parents to visit us for the holiday.’ Lady Eliot paused for effect. ‘They arrive tomorrow and will be with us until Epiphany.’ She cleared her throat again. ‘Sir Nathan still insists that you must come to us for Christmas, that it would present a very odd appearance if you did not, so I have ordered one of the grooms to collect you in the gig tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you, Aunt.’ Polly lifted her chin. ‘I should prefer only to stay until Boxing Day.’ Clearly Susan had not passed on her message.
Her aunt inclined her head. ‘Obliging of you.’
Polly’s temper flared. ‘Not at all, Aunt.’ She gestured to the kitten nestled in her arms. ‘I prefer not to leave Speckles for so long.’
Lady Eliot’s mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed. ‘I see. Very well. I should have thought that the claims of your family—but never mind. Please ensure that you are ready when the groom arrives. There will be a great deal to do and I am sure you would wish to repay your uncle’s condescension by being useful.’
Really? You have a claim on me?
The words were there, riding on a surge of fury that threatened to consume her. Somehow she bit them back and escorted Lady Eliot to the door, mouthing polite inanities. Lady Eliot paused on the doorstep and fixed her with a severe look. ‘It is, of course, possible that Mr Martindale, as a man of the cloth, may feel obliged as a result of whatever has passed between you to offer marriage, Hippolyta. You may rest assured that his bishop would view such a connection, to a woman of soiled reputation, with extreme disapprobation. Good day to you.’
Her aunt stepped into the carriage and the driver whipped up the horses, who flung themselves into their collars.
Polly slipped back into the schoolroom, closing the door behind her against the bitter wind. Last Christmas and the one before at the Frisinghams’ had been dreadful. This one promised to be far worse. She blinked back tears. Crying was a waste of time and she had better things to do than wallow in self-pity. Better to shove it all down inside for now and get on with her chores. She had wood to bring in and supper to finish cooking. Stepping outside, Polly glanced up at the leaden sky. Even as she looked, the first fat flakes swirled down. The kitten mewed, twisting around her ankles. Polly smiled down at it. ‘Your first snowstorm, Speckles.’
* * *
Christmas Eve dawned frosty and clear on a dusting of snow. Polly came out of her back door carefully. The step was covered in ice. She breathed out and her breath froze on the air. Delighted, she did it again. When she was little Papa had pretended that she was a dragon, breathing fire. Mama had laughed at the idea, puffed out her own breath and joined in her delight when there was snow at Christmas. New life, hope born again. Everyone would be bringing in greenery today to symbolise that life and hope. And dragons breathing fire didn’t worry about snobbish aunts, especially on Christmas Eve. She hoped that it snowed at Christmas now for Mama and Papa.
‘Mrowp.’
She looked down at the kitten twining about her feet. It dabbed a paw at the icy step and took it back, disgusted.
‘No greenery for us today, Speckles,’ said Polly. She had to make sure the cottage was tidy and the fire out before the Eliots’ gig came for her. She sighed. There just wasn’t time to collect greenery, and no point since she wouldn’t be here to enjoy it.
A pity, though. There wouldn’t be much greenery at the Manor. Aunt Eliot thought such things vulgar. Only for the lower orders. But it was Christmas. A time for being with your family. Did Mr Martindale—Alex—indulge in Yuletide greenery at the rectory? She’d heard that his cousin, Lord Alderley, always had the Great Hall decked out, that he’d even married on Twelfth Night some years ago. Perhaps next Christmas there would be greenery and joy and—she shouldn’t think about it. Because she really ought not to marry him.
Why not? Because you have no money? He doesn’t care about that. Because you aren’t well born? He doesn’t care about that either!
You haven’t told him why you were dismissed...
Her joy in the morning drained from her. She should have told him the moment he offered for her. It had been the right thing to do, but she had been too afraid. Afraid of him not believing her, turning from her as the Eliots, her supposed family, had done.
Did she trust him, or not?
She scooped Speckles up and turned back into the cottage. What a foolish question. Of course she trusted him and, if he still wanted to court her after Christmas, she would tell him everything. And then...then if he offered again, they could be betrothed and perhaps marry at Easter. Her blood quickened at the thought, heart racing, light and swift at the thought of a kiss that wouldn’t have to stop.
And if he doesn’t believe you?
Then she would refuse his offer, even if honour made him hold to it. To wake up one morning and know that Alex regretted marrying her—lead condensed in her gut—that would be loneliness indeed.
For now, she would make her breakfast and pack her bag. Outside in the street she could hear the village waking up, people talking, children calling to one another.
* * *
Joe Turner was the first, arriving straight after breakfast with a vast amount of holly in his arms.
‘Merry Chris’mas, Miss Polly!’ His gap-toothed grin warmed her to the soles of her feet. He walked into her room and put the holly on the table she had just cleared. ‘Me mam says to give you this, and...’ he pulled a jar out from somewhere inside his jacket ‘...this.’ He set that on the table, too. ‘Plum, it is. From our tree. An’ the holly’s from the woods. Went out early for it an’ brought some extra for yeh.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Prickly stuff, but the berries is right pretty.’
They gleamed scarlet against the dark leaves.
Polly’s throat closed. ‘Thank you, Joe,’ she got out. ‘It’s...it’s beautiful.’
He grinned again. ‘Could show you how to twist it together. Makes a nice wreath. Mam does one each year.’
* * *
By the time Joe left, a slightly crooked holly wreath was hung up in pride of place over the fire and Polly’s heart was light.
Joe had scarcely left before there was another knock on the back door. Opening it, she found Caleb Fletcher and his little sister with a truly staggering amount of ivy in their arms. And a jar of apricot jam. After draping the ivy everywhere they could reach and climb, including around the bed, Caleb said, ‘And our mum says as how you’re welcome to dinner tomorrow, Miss Polly. We’d be real proud to have you.’
‘Thank you, Caleb, but I am promised to my cousins for the holiday.’ She said it with very real regret.
He nodded. ‘Aye. Mum said you might be, but to ask all the same.’
‘Please thank her for me.’
Polly’s eyes prickled as the children left. Christmas dinner with the Fletchers, surrounded by greenery, and Christmas joy...no. She couldn’t. Not after accepting Aunt Eliot’s invitation, no matter how little she wanted to go to the Manor.
By the time Rosie Appleby arrived with sprigs of bay—‘Mam says to use it in stews and soups after Christmas’ and a small bay tree in a pot for the coming year—the church clock had struck eleven. Polly blinked. Lady Eliot had
been most particular about being ready early because of the Creeds’ arrival. After deploying the sprigs of bay, she walked around the side of the cottage with Rosie, the small girl’s mittened hand tucked in hers.
‘Be you going to your cousins, Miss Polly?’ asked Rosie as they reached the street.
‘Yes. A little later.’
Wheels rumbled and a carriage came down the village street, drawn by two elegant chestnuts.
‘Coo!’ breathed Rosie. ‘Reckon that’ll be Mr Tom’s lady?’
If Polly had ever doubted that gossip traveled in a small village, that would have banished it.
‘Very likely—yes,’ she said as the carriage rolled past, giving a brief glimpse of Angelica Creed. ‘Yes, that is Miss Creed.’ Her heart sank. In a very few hours she would have to sit down to dinner, with Angelica as guest of honour. She wasn’t entirely sure she had enough Christian charity to remember her manners. And then a niggling doubt slid into her mind. Maybe the gig wasn’t coming at all?
Rosie let go of her hand. ‘Here’s Sally Hough, Miss. With bread.’
Sally rushed up to them. ‘Did you see the carriage? Mam says as it might be Mr Tom Eliot’s new lady!’
‘We saw her,’ said Rosie importantly. ‘It is. Miss Polly says so.’
‘Oh.’ Sally was visibly deflated. ‘Well. I brought some bread, Miss Polly. Mam made an extra loaf and said to bring it over.’
The warm, yeasty fragrance wreathed itself around her. New bread. One of her very favourite things. ‘Why don’t we take that lovely loaf back inside, you two?’ she said. ‘We’ll cut it and have some with jam.’ And if the gig came, then it could just jolly well wait!
Chapter Seven
The gig hadn’t come by the time Polly and the two girls had munched their way through two slices of bread and jam each, and the noon Angelus had rung from the church bell tower.
‘Getting cold in here, miss,’ observed Sally, licking plum jam from the corner of her mouth with great concentration.
‘Yes. I let the fire go out because I’m going to my cousins,’ said Polly. ‘You’d better go home now, girls. Before your mothers wonder where you are.’
The girls rushed off together, hand in hand, waving to Polly. She went back inside and gazed at the cooling hearth. If she lit the fire again the gig would probably arrive just as she got it blazing. Instead, she put her cloak on and sat on the settle. It might be a little warmer there close to the fireplace.
* * *
But as the afternoon drew in, and the church clock struck three, Polly’s head finally accepted what her heart had known since seeing the Creeds’ carriage. It was time and more to light the fire again—the gig wasn’t coming. The Eliots dined at three. They would already be seated around the dining table, their grace said, tucking into a splendid dinner, lamplight and candles glittering coldly on silver and glass.
Hurt and fury boiled up and for a moment she hesitated. There was something else she could do—she could walk over to the Manor now and arrive in the middle of dinner, embarrassing all of them.
The gig must have got lost, Uncle. I do hope your groom is all right.
She could hear herself saying it. Revenge sang in her, luring and coldly sweet.
‘Mrowp?’
She looked down. Speckles was trying to climb her skirts. Succeeding, she arrived at her waist in a triumphant rush. Polly had arranged to leave the kitten at the rectory with Mrs Judd... She looked around at the bare, cold little room. Her reception at the Manor would be even colder.
Shivering, she went to the wood box in the corner for kindling. Her icy hands fumbled with the tinder box, but ten minutes later she had a merry blaze crackling in the hearth. An hour later the little room was warm again, and the last unacknowledged hope that the inconvenience of having to douse the fire would summon the gig had died.
No one was coming now. She doubted that they had forgotten her. At least, Sir Nathan probably had forgotten, but Aunt Eliot never forgot anything. Not unless it was convenient to do so.
With a snort, she collected an onion, turnip, carrot and potato to make soup. Rashly, she cut a larger slip of bacon than usual from the flitch. Before long her pot was simmering over the fire, fragrant with herbs and the bacon. She tossed in a handful of barley and dried peas to thicken it.
Her task complete, she curled up in the corner of the settle with the kitten and one of Pippa’s novels, her counterpane tucked about them both, and looked around at her little room. Beyond the shutters darkness had closed in with a lowering sky and the threat of snow. The children had draped the window with great festoons of ivy, the holly berries winked from the slightly lopsided wreath by the fireplace and sprigs of bay and rosemary had been stuck into chinks in the wall. More ivy decorated her bed, and a pot of rosemary, alive and growing, sat on the shelf with her books and clock. Beside the teapot was the little caddy Alex had given her. And somewhere inside her an icy lump she had not suspected melted in a great rush.
This bare little room held all the love and joy that she could have hoped to find. On this night, of all nights, she knew that a small, bare, unimportant room could hold something greater than the whole world and there was no space in here, or in her, for regrets and the bitterness of might-have-beens. And after all, if she had walked over to the Manor in bitterness and rage, she would not have enjoyed her dinner anyway.
Tomorrow, when she went to church, if Caleb Fletcher’s mother repeated her invitation, she would accept. With joy.
* * *
Alex walked into his library at six o’clock, having dined at Alderley. Mrs Judd had lit the fire and it cast dancing light into the shadows. He hung his great coat on a hook to dry by the fire. Bonny, snoozing on the rug, looked up, thumped her tail and came to him, shoving her way between his legs and curling around for a pat.
Next year there might be a cat curled up with you by the fire, Bonny-lass.
Next year, please God, Polly would be here with him, filling the old house with her brightness. If she accepted him. That she might not...
Mrs Judd bustled in with a tray, her apron as crisp and white as it always was. ‘Thought as I heard you, Rector.’ She brandished the tray. ‘Mince pies. Made extra. Thought I’d give some to Miss Polly tomorrow.’
‘She’s with her cousins, Mrs Judd,’ he said, quelling the nasty little spurt of selfish jealousy. It was right that Polly was with the Eliots. It was Christmas, when God had given the greatest of His gifts. Love had come down. A better man would pray that Polly might find some measure of peace and acceptance from her family, rather than wishing she were spending the holiday with him.
Mrs Judd’s snort was eloquent. ‘Well, she’s not, then. Didn’t send for her, did they?’
‘What?’ Outrage exploded inside him and he was on his feet before he knew it. ‘Are you sure?’
Mrs Judd nodded. ‘Those blessed children were in and out of her place all day greening it up for her. All packed and ready to go, she was. Rosie Appleby said as how they saw Mr Tom’s young lady go by in a grand carriage, an’ Miss Polly was home then. Still home two hours later, and I reckon she’s still there because she hasn’t brought the kitten—’ She broke off. ‘And where might you be going, Rector?’
The question went some way to clearing his mind. He realised he’d taken his great coat off the hook. ‘To Polly,’ he said simply.
Mrs Judd’s knowing look was grating, but he let it pass, shrugging into the coat.
‘Better take these.’ She handed him the plate of pies. ‘And this.’ The brandy bottle was shoved into his other hand. ‘Are you taking that dog?’ She eyed Bonny with disapproval.
Alex hesitated as he put the bottle in the pocket of his coat.
‘Best to take her,’ opined Mrs Judd. ‘Gossip do spread in this place,’ she said virtuously, ‘but no one’s
going to think nasty thoughts about you paying a Christmas Eve call on Miss Polly with your dog along to play bodkin. No need to mention the brandy.’
* * *
The rapping on her door roused Polly from her reading. ‘Who is it?’ Surely not someone from the Eliots at this hour? And if it was, what on earth would they say when she declined?
‘Me. Alex.’
She scrambled up, depositing Speckles on the settle, who gave an outraged mew, and laying down the book.
She opened the door and stared at him.
Snow lay on his shoulders and hair. The foolish man had come out without his hat, muffler or gloves.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.
‘Probably ruining your reputation if anyone gets wind of this,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Would you like a mince pie?’ Not bothering to wait for a reply, he stepped past her into the cottage.
Somehow, without her quite knowing how it came about, she found herself on the settle again, the counterpane tucked around her, a mince pie in one hand and a tumbler with a small amount of brandy in the other. Alex was bent down, adding a log to the fire. He’d discarded his coat, saying the cottage was as warm as toast, and she tried not to watch the bunch and pull of his shoulders under his linen shirt. It had to be wrong, watching the parish priest like this.
‘Is this a...a pastoral visit?’ she asked, taking a bite of the mince pie and nearly moaning in pleasure as the sweetness burst in her mouth.
He considered her question for a moment, adjusting the log. Flames danced and crackled. ‘Well, I suppose we could lie and pass it off as pastoral if necessary, but I don’t normally take a bottle of my best brandy on pastoral visits. Soup, maybe.’
He glanced up at her as she eyed the brandy in her tumbler suspiciously and he smiled. ‘Try it,’ he invited. He rose effortlessly, took the bottle and another glass from the shelf above the fire and poured himself a measure. She took a cautious sip and choked as the spirit burned its way down.
‘So if it’s not pastoral—’ She broke off as he sat down beside her.
A Sprinkling of Christmas Magic Page 8