“Perfectly delightful, I'm sure. But you shouldn’t be in the public room, Louisa,” he said in a low voice.
“Normally, you would be right, Charles,” she agreed in a confidential whisper, “but these are Jim’s friends, not strangers. And as soon as I heard them singing, I had to discover what they were about.” She gestured to them to move closer and said, “You must listen to one of their songs!”
Before Charles could say anything to stop them, Jim’s company burst out in crude harmony, the young man's voice leading them all with his hearty baritone.
“Good day, good day,
My Lord Sir Christemas, good day!
Good day, Sir Christemas our King,
For every man, both old and ying,
Is glad of your coming. Good day!”
The song continued; its pleasing notes, joyous words and bubbling spirit made Charles want to linger to hear more. But, determined on his errand for the morning, he drew Louisa aside to speak to her.
“Are they not marvellous?” she whispered before he could speak. “Jim calls it carolling. They visit all the houses in the village. He says it is quite a custom with the people here.”
“I have heard of this custom before,” Charles informed her. “It's very quaint, and no longer practised much. Louisa, this is all very well and good, but we must be going.”
Her face fell. She looked at the singers wistfully. “Jim did say I might accompany them--”
Charles swallowed an oath, and she added hastily, “But only until you come back with Miss Wadsdale! We shan't go out of sight of the inn. There should be no complication. I have given you my promise, Charles!”
“But, Louisa, this is not an acceptable pastime for young ladies! Only the poorer classes engage in it.”
“But very seldom, as you said. And I cannot help thinking, Charles, that these songs should be recorded before they disappear entirely. It is plain, if you listen, that some of them are quite old. If I went along, it should be merely with the intention of marking them down later as I recall them. I don't see what harm it would do.”
She looked at him pleadingly. The song over, Jim approached them and stood at her elbow to await Charles's verdict.
Uncomfortable under their gazes, Charles ran his eyes over the carollers and could find nothing objectionable about them or their manners. They stood a respectful distance behind Jim--a dozen or more shining faces, ready to engage in an ancient and perfectly harmless pursuit–these people of England, the backbone of his country.
Louisa watched him anxiously.
It was true, he had not planned to take her to Ned's with him, thinking that perhaps he, alone, might be better suited to dealing with a person of Miss Wadsdale's temperament. The only evidence he had seen, so far, of a temper in Louisa had been directed at the chaperone's ungenerous comments. It would not serve to bring them together too soon.
He recalled that it
was
Christmas Eve. They would have to spend Christmas Day on the road somewhere, for they were too far away to arrive in London in time. He should have pressed harder, he realized, and even now could not comprehend why he had not. Surely these queer starts of Louisa’s could have been fixed or dealt with in a shorter time. But perhaps he had allowed the incident to delay them, knowing a lonely hearth awaited him in Town.
But it was too late, at any rate, to undo the damage he had done. They would be off this morning, with or without Miss Wadsdale, but only if Louisa could be made to stay out of trouble. Charles reflected that he should be relieved that this time the object of her crusading spirit was only songs. Perhaps she would keep out of mischief if she had something to occupy her mind.
He looked at dependable Jim Spadger and decided Louisa would be better off in his care than if left to her own devices.
“Very well,” Charles said. Louisa rewarded him with a melting smile that caused a curious pull at his stomach. “But Jim, I must trust you to stay with Miss Davenport at all times. If anything happens to delay our departure again–even if it involves the most miserable of animals–I will hold you responsible. Is that understood?”
“Aye, yor lordship!”
He doubted whether Jim fully understood his reservations, but that the boy was prepared to deliver her back to the inn on time, he would believe. Louisa had blushed at his strictures, but now she dimpled at him. He fought the urge to smile back at her, but lost the battle.
Charles started out for Ned's with little hope that Miss Wadsdale would come with him this time, but honour bound to try his best diplomacy on her. He vowed to give her half an hour, no more, before he would give up and start again for London.
But the prospect of two more days alone in Louisa's company stirred a dangerous feeling deep inside him. It made him more determined than ever to put some safe presence between them.
* * * *
As soon as he left, Louisa ran up to her room and donned Miss Conisbrough's fur-trimmed pelisse, the cold outside being far too severe for her spencer alone. Then she rushed out to join Jim and his friends in the inn yard.
They strolled from house to house, singing a variety of songs that Louisa had never encountered, with a lilting, playful nature, designed more for dancing in a ring than for spiritual nourishment. She tried very hard to remember the words as they went along, but had to give up after the first two or three verses.
In deference to Charles's wishes, Louisa did not join in the singing, but held back, maintaining the role of listener. Charles would not have believed her, she knew, but she, too, was becoming anxious about their delay. She knew her guardian's temper, and wonderful as their sojourn in Snaithby had been, realized that one day more and they were sure to be treated to a show of it.
She was eager to face the general and have done with the punishment he was sure to mete out. Only claims on her conscience could have taken precedence over her duty to hasten home. But as long as Charles insisted on trying Miss Wadsdale again, she reasoned, she might as well take this chance to enjoy herself. If she knew her guardian, it would be some time before any amusement would be granted her.
The carollers came to another door and began a song which demanded sport from each and every person who crossed the threshold.
Listening to their cheerful music, Louisa tried not to think too wistfully of her future, or of how unlikely it would be that she would ever see Charles again. Her chosen escort had proved to be far more to her than a mere protector. She could not think of Charles without admiration and–she confessed--excitement. She even appreciated the caution with which he greeted her ideas. No sensible man would go off half-cocked, and Charles was far more sensible than most.
Intelligent, too, and thoughtful. As an image of his lean, sensitive face rose before her, she recalled how skillfully he had dealt with Bob and Eliza, even though she had not believed him capable of such tender handling. She should have known that a man so high in the government would have superior skills to recommend him, something besides a handsome face and a charming manner ... which he certainly had, whenever he chose to use it.
What she could not have guessed was how attractive all these things would make him to her, how much she would come to rely on his judgement, or ... how deeply she would enjoy seeing him smile. Now, all she could think of was the way he made her feel when he touched her inadvertently or looked on her with his brown eyes, of the thrill that shot through her when he clasped her hands and smiled, of the melting need she felt every time she hoped he wanted her.... Oh, how much she would dread to tell him goodbye....
“Now thrice welcome, Christmas,
Which brings us good cheer,
Minc’d pies and plum porridge,
Good ale and strong beer;
With pig, goose and capon...”
The carollers intruded on her thoughts with a song so merry that Louisa had to smile. As she followed them to the next door, wistfully, she resolved to listen intently to the music to ward off all thoughts of her leave-taking from Charles. And for his sake, she even tried to think more charitably of Miss Wadsdale.
After a few more stops, the singers left the last house in the village and circled back with a hopeful chorus of “let’s eat and drink freely, here's nothing to pay!' Then they came to the road and paused to sing for a carriage which had stopped to hear them.
The window of the elegant travelling coach had been lowered. A fashionable young lady peered outside, and she smiled to encourage the singers. But, while they sang for her, her attention seemed drawn more and more towards Louisa; after she had studiously glanced up and down Louisa's figure, the young lady's smile grew stiff.
Feeling strange under such scrutiny, Louisa tried harder to seem one with the singers. She moved closer behind Jim Spadger and attempted to shield herself with his bulk. She even pretended to sing the words she did not know, but the lady in the carriage soon called a halt to the performance.
She beckoned imperiously to Louisa to move closer to the carriage.
With bemused glances, the carollers parted to let her come forward. Louisa took a few hesitant steps toward the carriage and curtsied politely.
The lady stared at her and then said, “That is an attractive pelisse you are wearing.”
Louisa flushed at what seemed an impertinent remark. “Why, thank you.”
“You will pardon me, I hope,” the young lady said with an arrogant tilt to her chin, “but I do not know you. Are you staying hereabouts?”
Louisa puzzled over her interest; then she reasoned that her newness must be the cause of this lady's questions. A stranger in a village this small must certainly arouse curiosity.
She curtsied again, and decided not to take offence at the lady's impertinence. She should ignore it rather than bring attention on herself and risk involving Charles.
“Yes, miss,” she said, intending to sound more humble than she was. “I am staying with the Spadgers here in Snaithby.” Better, she thought, to let the lady assume she was some distant kinswoman of theirs. A cousin, perhaps, of a higher class than they--even a cit. It would not matter as long as her answer quelled further questions.
But she had reckoned without considering Jim, and her heart jerked in anticipation when the young lady turned to him with an angry look and asked, “Is this true, Jim?”
“Yes, miss.”
His answer put an end to her strange interrogation, for the lady merely stared at Louisa once again, and then, pulling back into her carriage suddenly, called to the driver to go on. The carollers backed away from the horses' path, and the coach soon disappeared down the road.
The mood of revelry, which the lady had interrupted, soon took hold of them again. Rather pleased with her performance, and her handling of a situation which might have led to some embarrassrnent, Louisa joined them in the next verse. The group made slow progress down the opposite side of the road, until, some time later, they once again found themselves outside the inn.
Louisa looked for evidence that Charles had returned, but seeing none, she turned back to bid her companions goodbye. She had given her hand and made her adieux to three of the women when she suddenly sensed a large, wheezing presence behind her.
Louisa turned to be confronted by a heavyset, red-faced officer of the Crown.
He looked her over and nodded. Then he cocked a brow and said, “Jim, tha’ says this 'ere lass be staying wi' thy folks at T' Crown and Pear?”
Jim frowned and came forward. “I say it do be so.”
“Wull, lad, I doesn't know what tha’s been up to, no I don't. But this lady 'ere be under arrest.”
“Arrest!” Louisa stared hard at the man, not believing her ears. “Whatever do you mean? What for?”
“For thieving--so Miss Conisbrough says,” the bailiff answered.
“Miss Conisbrough! “ Both Louisa and Jim cried out the name.
“Aye. Drove ta my house just now, she did. And made 'er complaint.”
Louisa's mind darted about, until she recalled the incident not a half hour before. So that's who the young lady in the carriage was! She had never thought of asking Jim the lady's name. She had been so certain her assumptions were correct, and so satisfied with her own conduct, that Miss Conisbrough had been sitting across from her, believing her to have stolen her pelisse, and Louisa none the wiser.
“There's some mistake,” Louisa told the bailiff. “I've taken nothing. If I could simply speak to Miss Conisbrough, I'm certain this could be cleared up immediately.” She was conscious of the villagers' eyes turned upon her. All those people, who had appeared so friendly and eager to have her with them, now looked at her with shocked suspicion.
Only Jim still believed her, but even he looked shaken.
No matter, though, what his loyalties were--whether to the Conisbroughs or to the law--he took her part. He formed two fists and started to circle around the bailiff.
“Now, lad--” the man put up both hands and spoke in an avuncular tone “ –tha’ doesn't mean ta start a wrangle. Tha' can't ignore what his lordship's sister says now, can tha? Leave off, now-do! Or tha'll find thysel' in gaol alongside o' t' lady.”
“Yes, Jim,” Louisa said hurriedly, not wishing to cause trouble for him, as well. “We must do what the bailiff says. But you mustn't worry. It's all a misunderstanding, and I'm certain it can be set right.”
Then she thought of Charles, of the inconvenience this would cause him and of the wound his dignity would suffer if anyone were to hear of the scandal.
She swallowed unhappily and said, “You must tell my cousin that he must not delay his journey on my account. You will give him that message for me when he returns ... won't you, Jim?”
She saw immediately that her last words had been a mistake. Jim put down his fists and stared at her with the first hint of suspicion. What kind of cousin, he must be reasoning, would abandon her to the law?
With Jim’s hurtful look burning a hole in her back, Louisa accompanied the bailiff down the road to his gig. The band of carollers had grown silent. Shame and a guilty conscience persecuted her as she rode away from them.