Carola Dunn (23 page)

Did she want Miles to kiss her? Not under the mistletoe, she decided. Not just because the mistletoe was there. That was just like a stage kiss. A proper kiss, though, the kind she had sometimes glimpsed when Mama and Papa thought she wasn’t looking...

“Our turn, Miss Wingate,” said Clive Digby, and swung her on his arm.

She threw herself into enjoyment of the dance, and she did enjoy it, thoroughly, and those that followed. The General was the only gentleman to venture a kiss, at which she could not possibly take offence. Always conscious of Miles’s whereabouts, of whom he was dancing with, she never actually witnessed him succumbing to the lure of the mistletoe--so perhaps he did not. He arrived promptly to take her in to supper, just when she was sure she could not possibly dance another step.

It was after supper that she saw him standing up with the plainest young lady in the room, a pudding-faced, awkward miss who had scarcely danced all evening. That was when Nerissa realized Miles had made a point of alternating between the prettiest girls and the wallflowers.

And that was when she realized she loved him.

* * * *

Had something happened at the assembly to subdue Nerissa’s usual cheerful spirits? Miles frowned unseeing at the trampled saplings, nodding automatically as Bragg asked his permission to chastise the tenant-farmer whose cattle had wreaked the havoc.

“Have him replant come spring,” he ordered the bailiff, “and he’s to fence the plantation.”

For three days now she had been quiet, almost listless. Had some impudent sprig of the squirarchy dared take advantage of the mistletoe to kiss her? His blood boiled at the thought.

Yet she was no milk-and-water miss. He doubted she would let such an occurrence overset her--unless she happened to find herself in love with the fellow concerned. His frown deepened. None of them would do for her, but there was no accounting for feminine whims and crotchets.

“...Unless you had rather not...” Bragg’s uncertain voice trailed away.

“Not what? I beg your pardon, my mind was elsewhere.”

“I thought we might drop in at the Addled Egg, sir, and drink a wassail, seeing tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. It’ll be dark in half an hour and the men’ll be coming in from the fields.”

“A splendid notion.” He turned Samson’s head towards the village. “I have a distant memory from my childhood: was not Sir Barnabas used to give a Christmas party every year for his tenants and dependents? On Boxing Day, I think.”

“Aye, sir, in the great barn at the Home Farm, but it ha’n’t been done this twenty year and more, since Miss Anthea’s been gone.”

“Miss Anthea’s daughter is back now and Sir Barnabas is gone. It’s too late to arrange for this year, I dare say, but we’ll see about next year.” It was a good tradition, even though Miss Anthea’s daughter would be gone again long before next Christmas. Perhaps she and her parents might come for a visit for the festivities--unless she married a Dorset man.

Bragg on his cob at his side, Miles rode into Addlescombe village in the early winter twilight. Lights shone in the windows of the flint cottages, trimmed with brick and roofed with elaborately patterned thatch. The clock on the square tower of the little flint and stone church struck half past four as they dismounted before the ale-house. By the light of a lantern hanging from the inn sign, a cracked egg, they tied the horses.

The low-ceilinged, black-beamed room fell silent when Miles entered its smoky warmth and doffed his hat. Then came a murmur of respectful greetings. An old gaffer nodding on the wooden settle by the fire was forcibly removed to give place to the master. Miles knew better than to protest.

“What’ll you ‘ave, zir?” The innkeeper’s buxom daughter Nancy swayed her hips and flaunted her bosom, tugging down her bodice as she dodged between the close-set tables.

“Bring out the wassail-bowl,” Miles commanded. “It’s mulled ale all round and chalk it up to me.”

A cheer went up. Old men nodded knowingly to each other: this was something like, like the old days when the lord of the manor had not disdained to drink his cup with his people.

The first bumper arrived, a brimful pewter tankard with spicy steam rising. Miles raised it--”To Addlescombe and all who dwell therein!”--took a hearty swig and almost choked. Mine host’s recipe for mulled ale apparently included a bottle or three of gin.

Nancy dashed about with half a dozen tankards in each capable hand, blond curls flying. She looked prettier to Miles with every toast he joined in, to the crops, the beasts, a merry Christmas, the New Year. Then she was seated on his knee, a cosy armful, giggling as he accidentally drank to his own health. His empty tankard miraculously refilled itself. The fumes rose in his head and Nancy’s warm breath caressed his cheek. Her breast was soft and full beneath his hand. His loins stirred.

Someone whispered in his ear, “If you was to take our Nancy upstairs, zir, you wouldn’t be the first, not by a long chalk.”

Wriggling, Nancy wound her arms about his neck and pressed closer.

Miles took a deep draught of mulled ale. A cacophony of shouts, song, and laughter shook the rafters and resonated in his head. His hand found its way beneath the willing wench’s petticoats.

A cry arose, “We ha’n’t drunk ‘the young mistress.’ A health to Mistress Wingate, Lord preserve her.”

“And the old maister. Here’s to Sir Barnabas, God rest his soul.”

Miles froze, his befuddled mind screaming a warning. Sir Barnabas’s soul might or might not rest in Heaven. His Will unquestionably stalked the Earth, threatening disaster to those who indulged in a little harmless pleasure. To one of those, at least, namely himself.

He was among friends. They were drinking his health again, this time with sly winks and nudges. No one would give him away to the dastardly crew up at the manor. Nancy was eager, breathing in his ear, now, and stroking the nape of his neck.

She slipped down from his lap and urged him to his feet. He had to steady himself with one hand on the settle back as she took his arm to lead him to the delights of her bed.

Was it worth the risk? He was far too top-heavy to reckon the odds, yet surely Lady Luck would smile just this once if he broke his rule and gambled while jug-bitten!

He glanced down at Nancy--but he must be even boskier than he thought for his gaze failed to focus on her face. Instead an image of another face interposed, Nerissa’s, disconsolate, a plea in her great grey eyes.

Gad, he was foxed if he was seeing visions! Only drunkenness could explain why he felt he’d be letting her down if he had his way with Nancy. After all, should he be betrayed, Nerissa’s inheritance would instantly double.

And he’d have to leave Addlescombe, leave her to the tender mercies of her ever-loving family.

Nancy tugged on his sleeve. He shook his head regretfully.

“It’s time I was getting on home.” Bussing her cherry-ripe lips in farewell, he patted her ample behind and weaved his way to the door.

“G’night, zir.”

“Merry Christmas, zir.”

“Happy New Year.”

Someone handed him his hat. He waved it at the company, cried, “Merry Christmas!” and stepped out into the night.

The cold air made him stagger. Bragg appeared at his side and gripped his elbow.

“I’ll see you home, sir. Should have warned you about the daffy in the wassail bowl.”

“The more the merrier,” said Miles, his head rapidly clearing. “Thank you, but I’ll do now. You be off to your family.”

By the light of a waning moon he rode Samson home at a walk, listening to the night sounds. An owl hooted nearby and another answered in the distance. As he crossed the bridge over the Addle, an otter whistled. In the dark of a spinney a badger raised its white-striped head and stared at him before returning to its rooting for grubs. Then he was out in the moonlight again, the fertile fields spreading on either side.

Lord, he loved Addlescombe! Thank heaven he had not lost it for the sake of a brief moment’s bodily gratification.

Reaching the house, he went straight to his room, sprawled on the bed, and sank into oblivion. When Simpkins woke him to change for dinner, the last wisps of gin had cleared from his brain and he knew just how to drive off Nerissa’s blue devils.

The valet helped him dress and bore off his riding clothes with a sigh. Miles was proving a sad disappointment to Simpkins, as his wardrobe grew more and more countrified with every purchase.

Miles went down to the drawing room and found Nerissa already there, listlessly turning the pages of a magazine lent by one of her new friends. She looked up, flushed, and gave him a wan smile. He had to take her mind off whichever popinjay had caught her fancy.

“Nerissa, I’ve just recollected that Sir Barnabas used to give a party for the tenantry and servants every Boxing Day.”

“Boxing Day!” She was dismayed but he had her interest.

“I know that’s impossible. Hibby and Cook would collapse in spasms if we suggested such a thing. But why not Twelfth Night? Could you organize it by then?”

“Twelfth Night? I shall have to consult Cook and Mrs Hibbert but I don’t see why not. Oh Miles, that does sound like fun.”

The sparkle had returned to her beautiful eyes and he was satisfied.

* * * *

“Parties for peasants!” snorted Euphemia Chidwell. At last recovered from the indisposition which had kept her abed for a fortnight, she lolled on the sofa in the morning room, stouter than ever. “Pearls before swine! And talking of pearls, I can scarcely credit the unmitigated impudence of that man Harwood spending our--well, Neville’s--money on pearls for that Paphian. Why, my own are not half so fine!”

Sir Barnabas grinned. If Harwood was so brazen as to disregard the intent, if not the letter, of the Will, at least the fellow had the sense to let Nerissa’s pearls outshine Effie’s.

“Dear Nerissa looked quite charming,” sighed Sophie, guiltily retrieving a hairpin from her lap and shoving it at random into her hair.

“The hussy has thoroughly gulled you, as well as Harwood. You appear to regard her as a daughter!”

Sophie pinkened. “Oh no, not a daughter, Effie. I am much too old. More as a granddaughter, perhaps.”

Something caught in Sir Barnabas’s throat and he had to clear it in a way that would have emerged as a loud “Harrummph!” had it been at all audible.

“Pah! You always were a sentimental nodcock, Sophie. If we don’t make shift to send your ‘granddaughter’ packing, and Miles with her, we shall find ourselves struggling for existence in a tumbledown shack.”

“Tumbledown shack?” Sophie faltered.

“Tumbledown shack,” said Effie firmly.

Sir Barnabas wished he could reassure Sophie. Vague as ever, she had no idea that the four hundred a year he had left the sisters, together with Effie’s two from her husband, would allow them a comfortable if not luxurious life.

Effie continued. “We must act. Merely watching and hoping will get us nowhere. Barnabas was a looby to suppose the two of them are not clever enough to outwit his paltry rules.”

Looby, indeed! Who was the only one to make any positive effort to encourage Miles and Nerissa to succumb to their lecherous propensities? His momentary lapse into sentiment banished, the late baronet snarled with frustrated fury. Whatever he did, Effie would never know.

“I cannot imagine why I did not think of it before,” Effie was saying. “Just because Miles and Nerissa have not indulged their base passions where we could observe them, there is no reason why we should not report to Harwood that we caught them misbehaving.”

“Oh, Effie, no! Bearing false witness... I am sure dear Raymond would not approve.”

“Drat Raymond! Between his piety and Jane’s fear of social ostracism, we shall never oust the usurpers. We shall not tell them. Lawyer Harwood will scarcely have the impertinence to doubt my word.”

Will he not? thought Sir Barnabas gleefully. Much she knew of the little man’s stubborn wilfulness. It wouldn’t work, and who’d be the looby then?

“Don’t sit gaping at me, Sophie. Ring the bell. And pass me those comfits. I must keep up my strength.”

Unhappily Sophie obeyed.

Effie managed to crunch up a dozen sugared almonds before a footman appeared. “James,” she directed him, “find Mr Harwood and tell him I wish to speak to him at once.”

As the door closed behind him, Sophie raised her voice in timid protest. “That was Ben, Effie, not James.”

“Fiddlesticks. All footmen are called James.”

“Only recollect, Nerissa told you most particularly that the servants are to be called by their proper names in her house.”

“Nerissa is not here,” said Effie, displaying with a savage crunch her opinion of Nerissa’s reproof. “And Addlescombe Manor will not be her house much longer!”

The dish of comfits was empty by the time Mr Harwood came in. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, ladies,” he said genially. “I was in the middle of an important letter when your message reached me. Now, what can I do for you?”

Effie’s scowl showed what she thought of the lawyer’s letter being more important than her business, Sir Barnabas thought, amused. However, rather than taking Harwood’s words as a warning, she smoothed the ill-temper from her face and replaced it with what he guessed to be an attempt at disillusioned sorrow.

“Effie, pray don’t,” Sophie pleaded.

As usual her sister ignored her. “Mr Harwood, I deeply regret being the bearer of sad tidings. Your trust in Miss Wingate and Mr Courtenay has been shockingly abused. With my own eyes,”--she produced a shudder that made her look like a singularly unappetizing purple blancmange--”I saw them together,” --here her voice lowered dramatically--”in bed! In the very act!”

“Indeed.” Harwood’s voice was a very patterncard of scepticism. “When did this distressing incident occur?”

Effie obviously had not prepared her story. “Oh, last night,” she said with a dismissive wave of her pudgy white hand. “I would have told you earlier but Sophie begged me to keep it secret. Naturally, I know my duty to the truth and to Sir Barnabas’s Will.”

“Naturally. Might I enquire where you saw the...hm... aforementioned spectacle?”