A Yuletide Treasure

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  With sudden panic, he settled Miss Twainsbury high against his chest and started running toward the house. She groaned, perhaps at the shaking she was receiving, and Philip ran faster, his feet understanding that she was still alive more quickly than even his head.

  Merridew shouted after him. “Hoy! What about the horses?”

  * * * *

  When Camilla came back to herself, she heard singing, high and hauntingly sweet. For a moment, she lay quite still, trying to place the tune. She was certain she knew how to play it, had practiced it a hundred times on the organ at the church, but for now the name escaped her utterly. She couldn’t even grasp at the tail end of a lyric.

  If she’d been fanciful, she might have imagined herself in heaven, listening to a choir of angels. However, something sharp was sticking into the calf of her left leg, and harsh fabric was scratching her cheek where it lay. Neither thing seemed to have anything to do with celestial eternity. Remembering the cool comfort of the snowbank, she couldn’t help feeling that she’d changed her situation for the worse.

  Camilla didn’t think she had made any noise, but no sooner had she returned to consciousness than she heard someone shout, “She’s awake, Sir Philip! Sir Philip! She’s awake.”

  Fortunately, the person seemed to be moving off. Camilla heard footsteps rattle over wooden floors, and the shouting voice lessened without losing one jot of excitement. Camilla blinked and sat up, a half-finished knitted quilt sliding off her legs onto the floor. The needles still poking up through the red and green yarn told her what had been poking into her leg.

  Beneath her hand, where she’d pushed upright, a fat horsehair cushion lay against the arm of a settee covered with blue satin. As she looked around, she saw a pleasant room, the walls a mild Wedgwood blue interspersed with panels of light satinwood. Green sprigged curtains hung over long windows, looped back to show the dreary gray of a snow-laden afternoon. An errant breeze threw a handful of snow against one, and Camilla jerked with surprise. The last pin that held her hair up dropped out, letting the damp mass slide to her shoulders. The heavy touch of it against her cheek felt like vines.

  Still feeling as cold as a mermaid, she stood up and walked to the fireplace, discovering some kind soul had taken off her soaked shoes. A newly kindled blaze giddily consumed small twigs, having not yet grown into a sober, well-fed glow among the larger logs. She held out her hands to it, feeling the remaining chill drop from her skin. If only the deep-bone chill that shook her every few moments would pass off, she’d feel as well as ever.

  “You are awake.”

  She turned to find the gentleman of the public coach and the inn smiling at her. “Yes,” she said. “Is this your house?”

  He nodded and came into the room, half closing the door. As he did, Camilla saw that two or three faces, some quite young, were peering into the room behind him. She raised her hand in greeting, and for a moment, it looked as if he wouldn’t be able to keep them from swarming in. “Not yet,” he said, quite kindly. “Let me talk to her first.”

  He glanced at Camilla again, then turned back, adding, “Run along, Tinarose, and tell Cook there’ll be one more to dinner—whenever that is.”

  “Oh, no,” Camilla said, starting forward.

  “Come, you’ll surely stay to eat with us. Then Merridew will take you wherever you want to go, though I’ve no doubt he’ll complain mightily while doing it. You mustn’t take any notice, however. It only encourages him.”

  Without quite knowing how he did it, Camilla found herself sitting on the settee once more, the knitted quilt again tucked around her knees. She pushed it aside. “I’m entirely recovered, Sir Philip. I thank you for bringing me inside, but I’m afraid I must delay your dinner.”

  “You can’t possibly delay it more than my cook does.”

  As he was speaking, a burly young parlor maid bustled in, the ribbons on her cap a-flying, carrying a large silver tray, burdened with a fat, gleaming teapot. Cups and saucers, little serving dishes and eating utensils, rattled like castanets as she walked, her steps firm and rapid. She hooked a small table with her large foot and sent it, with a kick worthy of a rugby player, skating across the highly polished wooden floor. It stopped in front of the settee, more or less.

  With an emphatic bang, she dropped the tray on the table. A few small cakes slid off their plates. “There you go,” she said cheerfully. “Cuppa’ll soon get the roses blooming in your cheeks, miss.”

  She stood there, arms folded across her significant bosom. “Well, g’wan,” she said, when Camilla hesitated under this unorthodox treatment. “Set you up a treat, it will. Nobody makes a cuppa like Cook.”

  “It’s very good of you,” Camilla said with a sideways glance at Sir Philip. He didn’t seem to find anything odd in his parlor maid’s behavior.

  “Try one o’ them little pink cakes,” the maid urged. “They’re my favorites. She makes ‘em special for me.”

  “Thank you for sharing them.” She felt that for two pins the maid would have nudged her companionably and asked her to make some room. Having been raised to show scrupulous politeness to everyone, from the highest in the land to the most lowly, Camilla allowed no trace of her amazement to appear in her expression.

  “Lawks,” the maid said cheerfully, “I’ve been and forgot the milk. I’ll be back before the cat can lick her ear.” Still with resounding footsteps, the maid hurried off.

  “Mavis doesn’t often forget the milk,” Sir Philip said, leaning forward to pour out a cup of the blackest tea Camilla had ever seen. “Usually it’s the sugar. She’s right, though, the little pink cakes are delicious.”

  Though she tried to look attentive, all Camilla’s interest focused on the steam that coiled up from the Queensware cup. The savory scent of the tea wafted toward her, rich, vibrant, Indian. He smiled and passed her the cup.

  Her mother and Nanny Mallow would have sneered at the tannin-thick brew. To Camilla, feeling the last shred of ice melt away from within under the pressure of the bitter, boiled liquid, it was the finest cup of tea ever created. She sighed with contentment, replacing the cup in the saucer, which, she now noticed, did not match the creamy whiteness of the Wedgwood cup. On the contrary, the saucer blazed in shades of red and blue, Imari from mysterious, cloistered Japan.

  “You wanted that,” he observed, reaching out to pick up the pot again.

  “Yes.” Restored, she recollected her duty. ‘Thank you, Sir Philip, for rescuing me from the snow. I may have seemed insensible, but I am aware of your kindness.”

  “Kindness? Not a bit of it. I merely thought you looked untidy lying out on my lawn.”

  She smiled at that, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. “I must impose on you further. When I reached Nanny Mallow’s cottage, I found her injured.”

  “Injured?” he said, a small cake halfway to his lips.

  “Unable to help herself. She’d fallen a day or two ago and had been lying on her floor ever since.”

  “Shocking,” he said, his brows coming together. He put the pastry down on a plate. Dusting his fingers, he walked to the fireplace to pull a tapestry bell rope hanging there. “I leave the neighbors to Lady LaCorte,” he added. “But she’s been unwell of late, and I fear I have not yet taken up my full duties here. Lord of the Manor is a mantle that sits strangely on my shoulders.”

  Camilla knew a flare of disappointment and was ashamed of herself. She had not thought herself so shallow as to be cast down upon discovering an attractive gentleman’s married state. Of course, Sir Philip must be married. A moment’s reflection would have informed her reason that such a man, genteel, gentlemanly, and possessed of some fortune, must of certainty have a wife.

  The parlor maid reappeared, bearing a sugar bowl cupped in her hand. “There you are, miss. Put a few spoons of that in the tea and it’ll brighten your spirits. Oh, I forgot to ask if you’d care t’ drop a ball o’ fire in it. If you want, I’ll fetch you a tot from the library.”

 
Camilla took the sugar bowl from the maid’s hand and put it next to the one already on the tray. Fortunately, she never took milk in her tea. Her mother considered it an extravagance and uncultured to boot. The reference to “a ball o’ fire” confused her until Sir Philip clarified the matter.

  “I don’t think Miss Twainsbury cares for brandy, Mavis. Would you ask Mr. Perriflyn to come down as soon as he has finished with Lady LaCorte? Then tell Merridew to harness the horses once again. I shall need him to drive.”

  She nodded at him, very offhand, coming back to the point she felt was at issue. “You’re certain, now, miss? Me ol’ dad always said there’s nothing like a drop o’ brandy in tea to set you up right. Course, as time went on it was more brandy and less tea, if you catch my meaning.”

  “You’re very kind,” Camilla said, helpless under this onslaught of confidence. “I don’t believe I’ll indulge. Do please tell your cook how much I enjoyed her tea.”

  “Them cakes are a treat; didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yes, you did. Now if you would impress upon Mr. Merridew—is it?” She glanced at Sir Philip, who nodded. “Impress upon him that there is some urgency in harnessing the coach. And if you would be so good as to put in a few blankets and pillows or a bolster? Yes, a bolster would be the very thing.”

  “I’ll pass the word, miss, but Merridew ain’t going to want to go out in this again. It’s blowing up to be a real blizzard.”

  “I’m afraid it’s imperative,” Camilla said firmly. “Do you know Nanny Mallow?”

  “Course,” Mavis said, her freckled face split by a grin. She had large but fairly regular teeth. “Everybody knows her.”

  “She’s lying in her cottage with an injury to one of her legs. We mustn’t leave her there any longer than we must.”

  “So I’ll say,” Mavis said. She had whistled when Camilla had told her about Nanny Mallow, and Camilla realized the parlor maid, for all her size, couldn’t be more than about fifteen years old. “Well, don’t you worry no more ‘bout Merridew. Ill rouse him, and if I can’t, Cook’ll. He can’t say ‘no’ to her; he wants to marry her, and she ain’t said she will nor she won’t.”

  “You’re undoubtedly right,” Camilla said.

  “And I already told Mr. Perriflyn to see to her,” Mavis added with a nod toward Camilla. “I’ve sent m’mum up to make up a bed for you, miss. Best place for you, to my way of thinking. I told her to scorch the sheets, too.”

  Though a bed with warmed sheets and a hot brick at her feet sounded like the anteroom to heaven, Camilla glanced toward Sir Philip. “That was thoughtful of you, but I shall accompany the gentleman to Nanny Mallow’s cottage.”

  “Bring Miss Twainsbury her cloak, please, Mavis. And a pair of her ladyship’s boots.”

  Camilla smiled at him, having expected to argue the point. She hated being coddled. People, especially men, always seemed to think of her as being some fragile poppet to be protected at all costs. It was as confining as a cage and more frustrating. One could not batter at walls of courtesy, not while retaining some measure of self-respect.

  “Never mind her ladyship’s. I’ll bring her me best boots, since hers won’t never be the same. I think they shrunk a bit when we put ‘em in the stove.”

  * * * *

  In keeping with the strange household, Merridew grumbled incessantly, his voice hardly muffled by the scarf he wore over his mouth. Even over the wind, rising outside the stable, Camilla could hear the constant grievance. “Interfering females, got no sense of fitness. Damn-fool woman ...”

  Sir Philip, helping with the harnesses, glanced at Camilla. “Keep it courteous, old fellow.”

  “Nanny Mallow couldn’t help falling, Mr. Merridew,” Camilla said quietly.

  “Could’ve picked a better night for it,” he said.

  “She did—last night. But no one knew until today.”

  “All right, miss. Sure I mean no harm.”

  “I am sorry for the horses, though,” she said, coming around to gaze at one massive roan. The intelligent eye and quick ear on the side closest to her took her measure. “It’s a cold time to be driven, indeed.”

  “Nothing to them, miss,” Merridew said gruffly. “I seen ‘em play with the snow like boys out on holiday.” One work-twisted hand came up to tug at the carriage horse’s forelock. The other horse, seeing this mark of favor, blew out a gust of breath reprovingly. “Oh, aye, you as well,” the coachman muttered and, as if ashamed of being seen as such a soft heart, started grumbling again.

  In the carriage, as they waited for the doctor, who ran back for a forgotten bottle, Sir Philip lowered his voice confidentially. “You must be shocked by the free-and-easy give-and-take of the household, Miss Twainsbury.”

  “Not at all, Sir Philip.”

  “No? Well, perhaps you wouldn’t presume to comment, but I could see shock in your eyes.”

  “Hardly that, Sir Philip. Showing surprise would be as presumptuous as comment. Your household is your own affair, and your wife’s.”

  “A wife would be useful for many things, but not schooling my servants. They are all old family retainers, or relations of family retainers, and not so easily taught new manners. You haven’t met Cook yet; she’s the most recalcitrant woman on earth. I hope Merridew’s wooing prospers if only to tame him. She is uncontrollable by any earthly means.”

  Camilla had never known the tyranny of a loving servant; her mother did not encourage familiarity, even from those who had served her longest. “Forgive me; I must have misheard you. You did say something about ‘Lady LaCorte,’ did you not?”

  “My widowed sister-in-law. I’m afraid she’s not recovered from the loss of my brother and is often unwell.”

  “I’m very sorry,” she said, embarrassed. Could he tell that she’d been disappointed to learn he was married and was now pleasantly surprised to find she’d been wrong? The doctor came, and she couldn’t pursue the subject.

  They arrived at Nanny Mallow’s cottage in so short a time that Camilla could hardly believe that they’d not taken some secret shortcut. She suggested it as Sir Philip opened the door.

  “Not at all. It’s just the difference between trudging through snowdrifts and riding over them. I haven’t told you how much I admire your perseverance.”

  “As well you might,” Camilla said with a toss of her head that made the hood slide off. Then she gave him a rather cheeky grin. “If I had made it all the way to your door. But I didn’t.”

  Chapter Three

  As soon as they entered Nanny Mallow’s spare room, it became obvious who was in charge of this expedition. Philip himself was ordered out almost at once as Nanny Mallow prepared herself to permit Mr. Perriflyn to make a preliminary examination. Miss Twainsbury stayed within for “I’m not so vain as to think m’beauty’s going to overwhelm you, Mr. Perriflyn, but people do gossip so.”

  When Perriflyn came out, they could hear Nanny Mallow giving Miss Twainsbury orders. Perriflyn laughed a little, hoarsely. “I don’t think she’s broken anything. Merely a bad sprain of the knee, very painful, however. Elderly women don’t fall well; she’s fortunate not to have broken something. She is also slightly dehydrated and more than a little hungry, but some decent meals will soon set her up again.”

  “I feel some guilt knowing she lay there for two days before anyone found her.”

  “These things happen,” Mr. Perriflyn said with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Even in large cities where every neighbor lives cheek by jowl, let alone in small hamlets like Bishop’s Halt.”

  “Can she be moved? I’d like to take her back to the Manor.”

  “Absolutely. I should recommend it even if she had done less of an injury than she has.”

  “Very well. Will you tell Merridew we’ll be leaving in a few minutes? “

  Philip went into the bedroom. Miss Twainsbury scurried around in her too-large boots, collecting various items to fold hastily and place into a valise under Nanny Mallow’s instructions. F
or a moment, Philip took an overwhelming interest in the ceiling rather than observe the mysterious underpinnings of Nanny’s attire that Miss Twainsbury flourished. Once Nanny gave orders to move on to the outer clothing, Philip went to kneel beside her.

  “For someone who has been lying on the floor for two days, you look remarkably healthy,” he said. He absently fondled Rex’s bent-tip ears.

  “That’s not saying much,” Nanny replied tartly. “But I feel better now that all of you are here. It was being on my own, with never a soul come by me, that made me feel so low.”

  “You can hardly complain of neglect now,” he said. “We’ll have you out of here and in a comfortable bed. Before you know it, all this will seem like a bad dream, popped like a soap bubble upon waking.”

  “Oh, what about Rex?” Nanny asked.

  “He is more than welcome to come to the Manor,” Philip said, “providing he stays out of my sister-in-law’s apartments. Lady LaCorte is still unwell.”

  “She should bestir herself and take exercise daily,” the older woman said tartly. “I’ve never believed in wrapping women up in cotton wool. Our strengths aren’t like a man’s, thank mercy; but we’ve our own power, and letting it waste away doesn’t do anyone a particle of good. Never mind the stays, dear. I don’t think I’ll have much use for them.”

  At last the packing was done. Merridew gladly seized the valise and stomped out. “Poor man,” Nanny said. “Some there are who can’t stand the sight of pain in others.”

  “I’m one of them,” Philip said with a smile, coming over to kneel beside her. “I do hope I won’t hurt you too much,”

  ‘You’re not the kind to walk away,” she said somberly. “If you hurt me too bad, I’ll not be shy about telling you so.”

  “I know Mr. Perriflyn brought laudanum,” Miss Twainsbury said “Perhaps a composer to make you feel more the thing?”

  “Now that’s something I don’t hold with,” Nanny countered. “Not when my head’s not clear.”