After hours on I-95 North, the navigation system in the hired Discovery Sport informed him to take the next ramp. “It’s called a slip road, not a ramp,” he mumbled, strained to his limit and headachy.
Someone—and he highly suspected who—had sabotaged the Land Rover’s InControl apparatus. Instead of the accustomed dulcet English tones, the SatNav system spoke in an American twang similar to the young female who had answered—after seven bloody rings!—the phone at Homespun, his next and last stop for Christmas shopping.
At his command, the satellite radio came to life. From the Meridian sound system, instead of the expected strains of classical music, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” blared through its seventeen speakers. Wincing and cursing, he stabbed at the touchscreen, switching from one pre-set country station to another. “Aargh!” In no mood for his friend’s shenanigans, he hit mute. “Bingley, I’m going to kill you, you wanker!”
Exiting the motorway and bypassing the more populous town of Longbourn, William squinted through driving snow at a sign welcoming him to “Merryton, population 6,500.” Some optimistic graffiti artist had incorporated the extra R into the town’s name.
He turned, as directed, onto a winding road surrounded by bucolic hobby farms and tasteful but, to him, modest houses, all decorated for the holidays. Glancing around, he did a double take. What the…? Each and every property had the same tacky, inflatable, waving Santa on its front lawn.
Halfway down the road, the SatNav, in its annoying twang, announced his destination. Strange. No signage indicates such, but that farmhouse on the left must be the place.
All manner of vehicle—Subarus, pickup trucks, people movers—lined the driveway plus both sides of the road. Parking at the end of the line, he donned his cashmere hat and Pickett wool-lined gloves, pulled up the collar of his luxurious Zilli coat, and walked nine car lengths along the snow-covered gravel shoulder, cursing his inadequate footwear (hand-sewn Dover derbies with double leather soles, tanned for nine months in a solution of oak, spruce, and mimosa bark). Although unequalled in comfort and durability, the smooth-soled shoes did little to prevent his slipping, sliding, and uttering oaths about the weather in “New” England. What’s wrong with jolly “old” England? Couldn’t Georgie have found a jumper there?
A middle-aged couple—clad in apparel straight from L.L. Bean, which Bingley favoured for weekend wear—approached, nodding and smiling their hellos.
“Pardon me,” said William, “but where’s the Homespun boutique?”
The puzzled woman peered at him while snow accumulated on her woollen hat. “Boutique?”
Pushing up his cuff, William glanced at his Pinion wristwatch with dual time-zones. Damn! Already behind schedule.
“Yes, a small shop selling fashionable clothes and accessories. Do you know its whereabouts?”
Directed to a red-roofed outbuilding next to the house, William slipped and slid his way past smiling folk toting kraft bags.
What sort of upmarket business occupies a barn and uses plain paper sacks? Even Pottery Barn isn’t an actual barn… Is it? And for that matter, what sort of business doesn’t offer online shopping?
Fairy lights adorned the yard’s snow-covered pines. Chickadees flitted about the branches and clung acrobatically to mesh bags filled with suet. If not for the incongruous resident inflatable Santa, the scene might have resembled a greeting card.
Snow creaking underfoot and distant strains of “Let it Snow” reaching his ears, William nodded at other shoppers as they passed and wished him a merry Christmas. “Every idiot who goes about with merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and…” something, something, something. I really must re-read Dickens.
A cedar wreath with red berries and pinecones adorned the barn door, and a bell above it jingled as he stepped inside. Hand still gripping the handle, he froze.
What the hell? Instead of the upscale shop he expected, the place resembled a craft fair, complete with jumble table.
“Come in, come in! And close the door! Were you born in a barn?” A teenager in black leggings, Timberland boots, oversized, pillar-box-red sweater and matching nail varnish laughed and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him inside. The embroidered patch on the front of her sweater said “Pole Dancing” and had cartoon elves capering around the North Pole. “Brr! It’s cold enough to freeze your Winnebago out there!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hi! I’m Lydia Bennet. Welcome to Homespun. Would you like to browse, or,” she purred, “is there something in particular I could show you?”
William slipped off his gloves and reached inside his coat. “My sister saw this item on Instagram.” He scrolled through photos on his mobile before turning the screen her way. “I called ahead and bespoke that particular jumper.”
“Could you please speak English? What does bespoke mean? And that’s one of our sweaters, not a jumper.” Once he explained, Lydia shrugged. “Sorry. Mrs. Long came by earlier and bought that sweater for her niece.”
“What?”
“I said, Mrs. Long came by—”
“Yes, I heard you the first time. But I told the girl on the phone I’d be by in a few hours to make the purchase. She assured me it would be held.”
“You spoke with me, sir, but you hung up before I could ask your name and number.”
William swiped away the photo and pocketed his mobile. “Do you not have another jumper just like that one?”
Lydia shook her head and beckoned a girl in an asparagus-green sweater with a huge appliqué on the front. Squinting, William discerned a cartoonish roll of festive, red wrapping paper sporting shades, bling, and holding a mic. He rolled his eyes. Of course. Rapping paper, yo.
Lydia led him over to the counter. “I’m sorry, but we don’t hold items without a name and number.”
“What sort of money-grubbing enterprise and shoddy service is this? I bespoke that item and intend to leave with it. The mistake was yours, and I expect you to rectify it.” His strong jaw line became harder. “Get on the phone with whomever was given my jumper, explain the circumstances, and ask her to return it before I become properly browned off!”
“Is there a problem, Lyddie? May I be of assistance, sir? I’m Cathy Ben—”
Swinging round, William shouted, “Yes! This incompetent clerk sold my jump—sweater.”
“Oh?” Lydia smirked. “Had you taken it off and put it down somewhere?”
“We recycle and felt old sweaters to make mittens,” said Cathy, “but only donated ones are used in Liz’s creations.”
Elbow on counter, chin resting on hand, Lydia eyed William up and down. “Right. We haven’t yet resorted to stealing customer’s clothing off their backs.”
He huffed. “Not my jumper! The one I bespoke over the phone. I was assured the item was in stock. But this muppet”—he pointed to Lydia—“sold it to another customer by mistake.”
“He didn’t provide, as per policy, the necessary info.”
“Listen here. Either get on the blower and have my jumper fetched or produce another.” Forefinger stabbing the countertop, William spoke sharply. “I demand satisfaction. I shan’t go until you’ve given me the jumper I want. Do us all a favour, and bring one out here. Now! Off you go!”
Brilliant. I sound like either Aunt Catherine or the song they just played—in which wassailers won’t leave until they get some figgy pudding. Damn.
More angry with himself than anyone else, he towered over the sisters. “Crack on, ladies, or I’ll file a complaint with your manager. What are you waiting for? I have a flight to catch, and you prats are trying my patience.”
Lydia’s jaw dropped, and she gawped.
Cathy’s lower lip trembled as she blinked away tears.
From behind William, a woman started singing. “You better watch out. You better not cry. Better not pout. I’m telling you why…”
William turned in amazement. A queue had formed behind him. The grey-hai
red woman, singing at the top of her lungs, was gradually joined by one after another of the shoppers in line. “…gonna find out who’s naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming to town.”
Every person in the shop—with one notable exception—raised their voice in song. Every eye was directed at him as he stood, frozen, in front of the counter. “He knows when you’ve been bad or good. So be good for goodness sake!”
Accustomed to speaking in front of stern-faced directors in conservative boardrooms or boozy philanthropists at lavish banquets, F. William Darcy felt his face reddening as the song ended. Criminy. I haven’t blushed in donkey’s years…if ever!
Facing them, William realised their expressions spoke not of bad-temper but pity and embarrassment over his poor attitude. Duly ashamed, he remained frozen in place.
A group of teenage girls brushed past him to hug and console Cathy and Lydia.
Squaring his shoulders and inhaling deeply, William raised his chin. Fake smile in place, he nodded and applauded the carollers, then strode outdoors for a breath of fresh air, hoping to cool his heated cheeks.
It took less than a minute.
The weather had taken yet another turn for the worse. The late afternoon sky had grown black, and a gust of north-easterly wind swept tiny ice pellets and freezing rain across the snowy yard. A gritter—motor growling, blade scraping on gravel and pavement, flashing lights muted by swirling precipitation—spread salt along the opposite side of the road. Needle-like projectiles lashed William’s face, forcing him to turn back just as a tide of anxious locals surged outward toward their vehicles and homes.
Confident in the Land Rover’s ability to get him safely to the airport on time, William re-entered the shop. Despite abominable customer service, something more than Georgie’s obsession with a fluffy pink jumper impels me to linger.
Brushing ice crystals from his coat and removing hat and gloves, he breathed in mingled aromas of evergreen, wood smoke, brewed coffee, spicy mulled cider, and baked goods. His stomach growled. Ah, that’s why I linger. I’m hangry. Nothing more substantial than a handful of macadamia nuts—plus an inferior takeaway coffee—had been eaten since breakfast, and his inflight gourmet meal was still hours away.
Treading across creaky plank floors, he noted the barn’s aged beams, antique wood stove, and seasonal decor he’d been (in his snit) oblivious to before. A massive balsam fir tree—with white lights and an eclectic assortment of handmade ornaments—occupied a corner. Around the room’s perimeter, clotheslines were strung with patchwork quilts; woollen hats and socks; knitted scarves; crocheted baby blankets, bonnets, and booties; felted-wool mittens made from recycled sweaters; and, of course, the infamous sweaters themselves. Most items had embroidered appliqués with groan-inducing puns. William caught himself sniggering at a few and glanced around, hoping no one had noticed.
Few people remained in the shop.
Two middle-aged women, obviously siblings, stood behind a work table gathering up quilt blocks and reels of cotton, packing them into totes. Whispering, they looked his way until joined by a beautiful redhead with a coat draped over one arm.
Another reason to linger.
“Mom, did the Lucases say whether any of their relatives need the loft? I’ve cleaned the bathroom and changed the linens. It’ll be warm and cosy up there as long as the stove keeps burning, and there’s enough firewood stacked in the storeroom to last a week.” Donning her coat, the redhead added, “I’m heading over now to help Dad with supper.”
“The relatives are staying at the inn, but thanks for doing that, Jane. I didn’t have the energy to deal with that wretched pull-down staircase today, not after cooking and baking all morning, then working out here. I’ll drive Sis home and be back lickety-split.” The woman speaking glanced at a frosted window while buttoning her coat. “I hope Ed and his family arrive soon. It’s nightfall and not fit for man or beast out there.” She beckoned her sister, and they followed the redhead out into the storm.
“Baby It’s Cold Outside” blasted from the barn’s speakers. William sang along in his head. I really can’t stay. Baby it’s cold outside. I gotta go away. Baby it’s cold ou—
A cleaner holding a push broom had flipped a switch, silencing Idina Menzel and Michael Bublé.
I really “should” go. I still have a three-quarter-hour drive before me. But first, a flipping jumper to procure!
Employees were involved in the shop’s closing routine—tidying up, turning off tree lights, sweeping the floor, counting cash at an old-fashioned till. “Pardon me,” he addressed Cathy, “but I wonder if you’ve had a chance to retrieve my jumper.”
The young women all dropped what they were doing to stare at him.
“Geez,” cried Lydia, scrambling out from under the tree, extension cable in hand, “I thought you were long gone.”
“As you see, not.” William drummed his fingers on the counter. “So…?”
Cathy, gathering a wad of bills into her hand, heaved a sigh. “Dang! I lost count again.”
Lydia brushed dust from the knees of her black leggings. “Truly, we assumed you had been driven away by— I mean, we thought you had driven away after, um, the, ah…”
“After the flash mob, you mean?” Darcy smirked. “No. We’ve still the matter of a jumper to settle.”
The worker William had assumed was the caretaker emptied her dustpan into the bin, placed her push broom against the counter, and waltzed up to him, bold as brass. The embroidered, decorated evergreen and “Spruce Things Up” patch on her apron reinforced his presumption.
She extended her right hand. “Hello. I’m Elizabeth. May I be of assistance?”
Wrinkling his nose, William flinched away from her grimy palm. “I think not.”
Exchanging cagey looks with Cathy, Lydia scooted behind the counter. Both girls leaned elbows on the polished wood and waited, chins propped on hands. “I wish we had popcorn,” Lydia said.
William glared at them. “You’ve given me no option. I’ve run out of time and patience and must demand your manager be brought into this straight away.” Twice, he snapped his fingers. “Fetch him for me.”
“Him?” Elizabeth’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Uh-oh!” cried Cathy at the same time Lydia shouted, “Take cover!” Together, they giggled.
Why must teenaged girls be so dappy? “I beg your pardon. You’re entirely right. One shouldn’t make assumptions about gender. Nevertheless, kindly ask your employer to join us.”
Elizabeth bowed her head, all meekness. “Of course, sir. Right away, sir.” Stepping to the far end of the counter, she untied her apron, flinging it on a chair. A young woman—wearing a black sweater with an appliquéd “Frostbite” and a vampire snowman—polished the wooden surface. Elizabeth winked and snatched the rag from her hand. “Thanks, Mary.”
Wiping her hands on the waxy cloth, she walked back to the others. Tossing the grotty rag to the two girls, she extended her right hand to their customer. “Hello. I’m Elizabeth Bennet. While not technically the manager, I am in charge here. May I be of assistance?”
William’s eyebrows shot up. Should another of today’s performances be applauded? No, no, best not. Those eyes shoot fire. Mustn’t fan the flames. Instead of clapping, shake her hand, wanker.
Long, strong fingers slid against daintier, waxier ones. Green, challenging eyes held fast to his darker ones. Clasping hands, they shook once—a firm, lingering, mutual squeeze until, as one, they discovered a hot potato in their grip and snatched back their hands.
Stone the crows! “Yes,” he croaked before clearing his throat. “There’s been, you see, a bit of a problem. Earlier today, I reserved one of your jumpers. But someone”—he glared at Lydia—“sold it out from under my nose.”
Elizabeth asked if he had given his information.
Still speaking condescendingly but in a kinder tone than used with her younger sisters, he drew himself up. “No. I’m ex-directory and didn’t want my na
me, F. William Darcy, bandied about.” His eyes widened at her puzzled expression. “You haven’t heard of me?”
“No, but I’ve heard plenty about you. Folks hereabouts spoke of little else following your outburst. The English gentlemen I know pride themselves on being comparatively civil.”
He stiffened, head rearing up. “Say no more. I understand. I properly bodged that up.” Yanking at the knot pressing on his Adam’s apple, he gritted his teeth. “Sorry.” Readjusting the tie, he forced a smile. “There now, let’s put all this behind us, shall we? I’m in a hurry, so please be so kind as to fetch one of the ‘Peas on Earth’ jumpers from the back room, and I’ll be on my way.”
Rubbing wax from her palms onto her jeans, Elizabeth explained their wares were not mass produced. “We called our organisation ‘Homespun’ for a reason. Each item we sell is unique, lovingly crafted by local knitters, crocheters, quilters, and such.”
“Yes, yes, I get it,” he grumbled, still offended, still on the offensive. “Homespun, as in clothes made from fabric spun at home and, by extension, clothes that are plain and homely…like those worn by American colonists who boycotted British goods back in the day.”
Hands on hips, Elizabeth stepped forward until her Columbia Bugaboots were toe-to-toe with William’s shiny Edward Green shoes. “Do you find our merchandise lacking in any way?”
Glancing around, he shrugged. “Your merchandise is tolerable, I suppose, in a charming, amateurish sort of fashion. Admittedly, though, I have rather high standards and rarely shop off-the-peg. Items must be of impeccable quality to tempt me. But, for some reason, someone very dear to me simply must have that fluffy, pale pink ‘Peas on Earth’ jumper or she’ll—in her words—simply die. How long would it take to make another? Fifteen minutes?”
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