For Adam, the rest of the worship service passed mostly in a blur. The choir produced some very acceptable music–the psalm and the usual Vespers service Magnificat and so forth. Adam enjoyed sorting out Miss Tamworth’s fine voice from the other woman’s. But beneath that enjoyment, he was worried. He needed to speak with Miss Tamworth as soon as possible.
He also felt guilty. He had learned at dinner that the irregularity in the choir was his fault–the missing male treble voice belonged to the Salsbys’ eldest son Peter, the postboy who had gone off with Christopher and not returned. Whether the boy’s absence had more to do with the snowy state of the roads or the unquestionable hospitality to be found at Hazelton Hall remained to be seen.
The service did include some carols, as promised. Clearly Dr. Tamworth was sensitive to the needs of his congregation, even if he did make them confess twice within the space of a night and a morning. Adam enthusiastically joined in singing “Hark, Hark, What News” and “While Shepherds Watched” with the Yorkshire tune. They finished with an earnest rendition of “Adeste Fideles.” The hymn sounded surprisingly good considering that it was sung by a small country congregation made up mostly of uneducated farmers who didn’t know Latin. What mattered was that they knew and loved the song.
The good Reverend gave the benediction to close the service and then he and the deacon (or whoever it was up front with him) started to walk to the back of the church where they could greet everyone on their way out. They stopped almost immediately at the front pew where Adam was seated, to pay respect to the Squire and Lady Anne, their patrons. When the Hammons rose, so did Adam.
“A fine service, as always, Dr. Tamworth,” the Squire said, reaching out a meaty hand to shake with the minister. “A fine new tradition you’ve started here. Always enjoy that singing!” He turned to Adam. “May I present the Reverend Dr. John Tamworth? And his curate, the Reverend Mr. David Pratt? Gentlemen, this is Adam Randall, Lord Forthhurst. His father is the Earl of Grantsborough. This unusual snow has left him stranded with us.”
Adam cut a proper bow, but not before noting the lack of warmth on Dr. Tamworth’s face. The expression on Mr. Pratt’s was not welcoming either, exactly. What was it? A small tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. As Adam straightened, he realized the curate’s eyes reflected something more like antagonism, or challenge. What had he ever done to these people? Nothing. Unless Miss Tamworth had indeed told them some tale. He just hadn’t taken her for that sort of a woman.
The two clerics made a perfunctory bow together. “Lord Forthhurst.” A pause, but nothing further.
Adam fell back on rote courtesy to fill the gap left by their lack of welcome. “Excellent service, sirs. Not what I am used to on Christmas Eve, I must say.” Shouldn’t they as a minimum have expressed sympathy for his predicament? Or have wished him well?
At least his comment did provoke a response from Dr. Tamworth. “Some years ago I felt moved to bring the custom of Christmas Eve vespers to our church, after I learned it is done in Germany and Austria. The practice seemed a worthwhile way to welcome in the Christmastide, and the bishop approved it.” He sounded almost defensive. Had he taken Adam’s remark as censure?
“I applaud your enterprising spirit, sir. Most worthwhile indeed!” Adam nodded, and pasted on a smile to help reassure the man. It was a relief when the two clerics nodded in acknowledgment and then moved on.
Lady Anne instantly turned to Adam.
“You sing so well, Lord Forthhurst! What a fine voice. You must come up to Highfield Manor–we’ll be singing away until the Yule Log comes in and there might even be some dancing. Won’t you walk up with us?” She seemed utterly delighted with him, although they had barely had time enough to exchange a few remarks after they had been introduced. As she spoke, her husband helped her refasten her cloak and scarf.
“And you should not be staying at the inn! I insist, you must become our guest at the manor while you are stranded here in Little Macclow.” Her warmth and enthusiasm contrasted sharply with the coldness of Miss Tamworth’s father.
“You are very kind to include me in your celebration, Lady Anne,” Adam said, shrugging into his great coat. He picked up his hat and turned to her. “I shall be delighted to walk up with you and the Squire.” He just hoped he could catch a word with Miss Tamworth first.
“Thank you also for your generous offer of hospitality. However, in truth I am made quite comfortable at the inn, and I doubt I shall be here more than a day or two at most.”
He didn’t add that he rather liked the idea that his patronage might help the small inn and the Salsbys who ran it. He also wanted to stay in the heart of the village where he could keep an eye on his prized cattle and would know the minute either the Salsbys’ tardy son or the errant smithy returned.
Cassie watched Lord Forthhurst progress along the center aisle with Squire and Lady Anne. He smiled and conversed easily, his head slightly bent towards them. Just before they passed beneath the gallery and out of sight, he suddenly looked up, his green gaze locking with her startled one.
He didn’t smile, nor wink or give any other irreverent sign of acknowledgment. He just inclined his head in the slightest hint of a bow. That was all.
“Did you see that?” Sally Hepston nudged Cassie. They were still in the gallery, staying to go over the Christmas morning music since it appeared that Peter Salsby would still be absent. “He deliberately looked right up here at you, Cassie! Oh, my dear, you must make certain to put yourself in his way tonight up at the manor. I am certain he has noticed how lovely you are!”
“Sally, stop! Even if any part of that were true, what would be the point? He has been in London and no doubt could pick any beauty he wants among the fine ladies there. He will be on his way as soon as he can, and this interlude in Little Macclow will fade quickly from his memory. Besides all of that, you know how my father feels.”
Sally looked at her with sympathy. “Yes, his strong opinion is a difficulty, I’ll admit. And yet, you cannot blame me for wishing to see you in a love match with such a fabulously handsome man! It is a shame he is not some great lord’s steward, or no more than a baronet at best.” She giggled, and that helped to break Cassie’s illogically darkened mood. Then Mr. Cutts called the choir to settle in and the practice began.
Perhaps a half-hour later, they finished and all headed for Highfield Manor. Sally’s husband had been waiting for her, so Cassie walked with her father and Mr. Pratt. As usual, those two were deep in conversation, paying her no heed. If she slipped in the snow or fell a pace behind them, would they even notice? But perhaps it was for the best. They might note her distracted state. She sighed.
The walk to the manor was little more than a quarter mile, but the snow had become slick underneath and slowed the group’s progress trudging up the hill with their lanterns. Bits of conversations floated out into the darkness beyond the swaying circles of light, but the overall effect was quiet and peaceful. Except for the cold, Cassie quite enjoyed it. She tightened her cloak around her.
Surprisingly, Mr. Pratt noticed her movement. He must have been paying more attention than she thought. “Cold, Miss Tamworth? Here, take my arm and draw closer to the lantern. It does give off a bit of warmth.”
She couldn’t really refuse him. He was being gallant, and considerate. The fact that the move would also draw her closer to him couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t a bad man. Oh, why couldn’t her heart be content?
Her future was set, unless she did something drastic to change it. Mr. Pratt might not have yet declared himself, but certainly everyone she knew already believed that she would live out her days as his wife. It was the sensible course. Yet the thought of spending her evenings trying to converse with him and her days darning his stockings and managing his household dismayed her thoroughly.
The idea of bedding with him to start a family distressed her even more.
He drew her mittened hand inside the crook of his elbow and smiled, locking her arm tight against his side. That pulled her even closer, and struck her as a very possessive action, almost as if he didn’t trust her not to try to slip away. Did he suspect her true feelings? She had been trying very hard to hide them. What was the point in doing otherwise as long as she had no choice in her future?
He looked down at her with what she supposed was affection. “You sang beautifully in church this evening. I very much enjoyed listening to you.” He patted her hand. She gritted her teeth.
When they finally approached Highfield, Cassie could not help but draw in her breath despite the awkwardness of trying to walk so close to Mr. Pratt. (Truly, their gaits did not match at all.) Squire Hammon and Lady Anne’s gracious home was lit from top to bottom and shone like a beacon from its perch at the top of a rise. New snow decorated the festive garlands that draped the entrance and wrapped the lamp poles, but every flake had been swept clear from the walkway and steps.
As a liveried footman welcomed them, they could tell festivities were fully underway already, with people in every room laughing and talking, and music playing in the grand salon. A second footman took Cassie’s cloak and those of her father and Mr. Pratt. They were directed into the first drawing room, where Squire Hammon and his wife, Lady Anne, were greeting their guests. Christmas greens festooned the mantel, the wall sconces and the tops of the doorways, adding a festive note to the room which already featured wall panels painted a pale green.
“Ah, here you are, Cassie, Parson, and Mr. Pratt!” Lady Anne greeted them. “I am so glad to see you.”
As if they did not always come every year. “Of course, Lady Anne. We would not miss it. Our thanks!” Cassie said.
She had barely time to get the words out before Lady Anne continued, clearly excited. “Cassie, there is someone in particular I want you to meet–Lord Forthhurst, Lord Grantsborough’s son. He–“
“There’s no need,” Cassie’s father said tersely. “She has already met him.”
Lady Anne looked first at the good Reverend, then at Cassie, obviously taken aback by the interruption.
So, Lord Forthhurst had not told her. Then what could he have said when he was looking around the church and making a point of staring up at the gallery? Had she only imagined that? Cassie could tell by her father’s frown that she had better leap into the breach, for the sake of good manners at the very least.
“I met him earlier today, in the village,” she explained. “At the inn, in fact. Poor fellow is stranded here for Christmas.”
“Oh, why, of course.” Lady Anne’s smile faltered. Likely she was disappointed not to be first to introduce Cassie to their high-ranked visitor. But she quickly continued. “Yes, indeed, the poor stranded viscount. What a fine, handsome fellow he is. Can you believe he has declined our offer to remove himself from the inn and stay with us?”
Cassie smiled, amused to see how easily Lady Anne had fallen for Lord Forthhurst’s charms.
A sudden loud burst of singing issued from the salon. “God rest ye merry, gentlemen!”
A flurry of rowdy responses and guffaws of laughter followed. “Indeed! Are we merry, gentlemen? We are!”
Cassie tried to keep the conversation going. “Mr Salsby would be disappointed to lose his business,” she ventured, “But at the same time, the inn hasn’t staff on hand to give his lordship the level of service to which he is no doubt accustomed. You are goodness itself to offer to accommodate him here, Lady Anne.”
“It is the least my husband and I can do. Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”
“Let nothing you dismay!” sang the boisterous singers. “Yes, nothing! Indeed, why should we?”
Lady Anne sighed. “Come, please, all of you, and join his lordship in the salon. He deserves some more refined company than Mr. Claypool and Mr. Notly who have been entertaining him with strong ale and tales of wassailing through the village.” She looked in the direction of the other room. “And who are now singing, after a fashion. Perhaps you can dissuade him from participating in that rowdiness to come.”
Cassie thought quickly. “Perhaps if the mince pies were to come out? That might distract him and perhaps pull him away from them. We could try to switch him over to the wine punch.”
“I think someone else can perform those duties,” her father said. “You have no reason to converse with him.”
Cassie nodded. Joining Lord Forthhurst, especially in company with her father, was the last thing she wanted.
“On the contrary, Reverend, I think it would be quite rude for Cassandra not to speak to him, after she has already met him earlier today.” Lady Anne raised an eyebrow and gave Cassie’s father a look that no one else would possibly have dared to give him. He shrugged.
Lady Anne led them into the coral and gold grand salon, where they were first greeted heartily by some of the other villagers. The patterned French salon rugs had been rolled up and removed in preparation for the Christmas Eve gala, and the furniture, mostly gilded chairs, had been placed against the walls. The odd little assortment of musicians, the same ones who provided the instrumentation for church and any social affairs in the village, were set up at the far end of the room. The so-called singers were grouped near them, not that the two groups were engaged in a common activity. Cassie saw Lord Forthurst seated between Mr Claypool and Mr. Notly, enthusiastically engaged in another round of ale and attempted song. Well, more like recitation than actual singing.
“Remember Christ Our Savior was born on Christmas Day!”
“Yes, on Christmas! Do you remember? Of course we remember Christmas Day!”
Given the loudness and the dramatic gesticulation which accompanied the chanting, and the commentary, it was clear the ale had been flowing steadily.
“But do they remember Christ?” muttered her father.
“Good heavens, the man appears to be in his cups already,” exclaimed Mr. Pratt.
Cassie wondered why this was cause for comment, since by the end of the evening nearly all of the men in attendance would be in the same state of inebriation. That Lord Forthhurst and his companions had merely taken a head start did not seem terribly evil to her. That he was willing to socialize with the common tenants from the village seemed to his credit, in her mind, and that he appeared to be jovial when in his cups was also a credit. She had seen many a celebration soured when drink affected the celebrants to quite a different effect.
Still, somehow it annoyed her to see him so effectively charming everyone he met. And that annoyance made no sense. What, did she want to be the only one susceptible to his magic? Could she possibly be a bit jealous?
“He appears to be enjoying himself,” she said evenly. “Given his unfortunate circumstances, I think that should be to his credit.” Her father sent her a probing look and she decided she should say no more.
Squire Hammon deposited himself next to her and nodded in the direction of the little group they were observing. “Now there’s a fine, handsome gentleman, my dear Cassie. Since you’ve already met him, as I hear, then there is no reason at all why you should not go over and engage him in conversation.”
No reason at all except her resolve to stay away from him, her father looking daggers at her, the unhappy look on Mr. Pratt’s face, and the awkwardness of interrupting the so-called singing. Not to mention the sudden flaring of her own nervousness. She had no business conversing with the likes of Lord Forthhurst, despite the squire’s obvious ideas–well, apart from thanking the man for his help earlier, which she could not do in front of all these people.
“Oh, it wouldn’t do to interrupt them,” she said lightly, trying to halt the butterflies in her stomach. Really, what was wrong with her? “I’m certain I will have a chance to speak with him later. Do let us have some of your famous wine punch, squire. Would you escort me to the punch bowl?”
She took the Squire’s arm and leaned against him, a flirtatious move she had learned from his wife. As she hoped, he was instantly diverted, and led their small party into the dining room, where the mince pies were just being brought out on trays from the kitchen. “Oh, the pies!” she cried in delight she did not have to pretend. “Oh, it just wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without the mince pies.”
As she and a crowd drawn by the delicious scent of mincemeat watched the pies sliced with great ceremony, she forgot about Lord Forthhurst and his new cronies. She was startled when his low voice sounded close to her ear.
“You did promise me there would be mince pie. I have been looking forward to it.” How did he manage to imbue such innocent words with a sense that he meant something else entirely? Or was it all in her own mind again? He sounded perfectly sober, now, only suggestive. He had wedged himself between her and several others, and when she tried to step away from him, she found she was blocked by more people eagerly anticipating pie. Her father and Mr. Pratt had become separated from her in the growing throng.
“Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed,” she said, utterly unable to think of anything clever.
“Far from it, I’m sure.” He pressed one hand against her lower back, warm even through the layers of her dress and chemise. “Steady,” he whispered, as if he had felt the shock of his touch run through her. “You don’t want to be jostled in this crowd.” As quickly as he had put it there, he removed his hand. No one could have noticed, yet she was thoroughly shaken.
He deserved a scolding, but how could she say anything while amongst all these people? He was taking unfair advantage, but that did not surprise her.
“Hurrah, the pie!!” cheered the people around them. As the slices were deposited on plates and handed around, he took her elbow and began to pull her away.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, resisting.
He tugged her a little harder, forcing her to take several steps. Speaking close to her ear, he said, “There is plenty of pie to go around. I’m certain we shan’t miss out on our share of it.”
His low voice in her ear was doing strange things to her insides. She had to tilt her head up in order to speak in hushed tones to him. “I can’t go anywhere with you! What are you thinking? Are you even thinking? My father and his curate, Mr. Pratt, are both right here in the room with us!”
“Everyone’s attention is on the pie, my dear. No one will notice if we steal a few moments to ourselves in the back where we can breathe.”
This was such a bad idea, she didn’t know where to begin. “I can breathe perfectly well right here,” she insisted. “If you are having trouble breathing, you should take yourself to the back.”
“I am having trouble breathing, but it is because you take my breath away, Miss Tamworth. I think you are the only one who can restore it to me.”
Such fustian! That some part of her liked his words only annoyed her. “Do all your London beauties believe you when you say such things to them? Just because I am not accustomed to such flummery does not mean I will fall under your spell, my lord.”
“My spell! You astound me, Miss Tamworth. It is entirely I who has fallen under your spell.”
“Well, I haven’t cast any such spell, so you are entirely mistaken.” She pulled her elbow out of his grasp. “You had better go and catch your breath, or you won’t be in any condition to partake of the famous pie. ’Twill be your loss.”
Determined to put space between them, she turned and wormed her way in between two staunch village matrons. She fervently hoped they’d heard nothing of her whispered exchange with Lord Forthhurst.
Adam watched her press her way through two rows of people and envied them the casual brush of her body against theirs. She had put him in his place once again, and he, as usual, deserved it. While the situation had seemed to him the perfect opportunity to steal a few moments to speak with her, she was right, of course. It had been extremely unwise, a plan without thought behind it.
And that was the problem. He seemed unable to think clearly when he was around her, whether he had been drinking or not. He had been telling her the truth about his feelings, but quite naturally she would not believe him. Why would she? Words had no value, and taking action was denied him. What course was left?
He pushed his way to the back where, indeed, it was easier to breathe. He had intended to ask if she had betrayed their secret to her father. Was the man expecting Adam to propose marriage, for compromising her? Or if she had not, then he wanted to learn why the parson so clearly disliked him. He had wanted to test if he’d misjudged her. But he could not do those things here in the midst of village revelers.
He watched the spectacle of the pie distribution with a sense of awe. These simple, jovial people took such pleasure in the smallest of things. He admired the authentic honesty of their response, and envied the easiness of their joy. The squire and his wife beamed like proud parents as they stood supervising the process. They actually cared about these villagers under their benevolence. He couldn’t imagine his parents doing any such thing, or any of the people he knew making such a fuss over pie, even on Christmas Eve. Making a fuss over anything just wasn’t done.
Miss Tamworth made her way gradually over to her father and the curate, Mr. Pratt. In repose the Reverend Dr. Tamworth had the chiseled face of a stern man, no doubt a strict father, with set ideas. But the creases in his face lifted when she approached, nearly approximating a smile. Did his eyes soften? Adam felt a little envious, for it seemed that the man actually loved her.
The curate, on the other hand, lit up like a lantern when she joined them. Infatuated, most certainly. He appeared to be of an age with Adam, perhaps a little older, a little shorter and heavier. He stood with his shoulders thrown back as if facing a challenge, which had the unfortunate effect of emphasizing a paunch which would no doubt grow larger with age and inactivity. His blond hair was unfashionably long, and his round face unfashionably red.
Miss Tamworth did not appear to return Mr. Pratt’s feelings, which was heartening. She deserved better. Certainly she did not light up in a similar fashion from being near him, and in fact she seemed quite purposely to direct all her attention to her father. Interesting.
Adam was beginning to enjoy his role as observer in the back of the room, but moments later his drinking companions of earlier found him, Discovering he had not yet been served pie, they pushed him forward to make certain he received his share.
“Oh, my goodness, Lord Forthhurst!” Lady Anne exclaimed. “I have been so remiss in not seeing you were served first! Will you forgive me? I quite lost track of you in the crowd.”
Since getting lost in the crowd was exactly what Adam had been trying to do with Miss Tamworth, he certainly could not fault Lady Anne. “Dear madam, please do not think you have failed in your duty! It was my choice to hold back until the first eager press of these good folks had been satisfied. I would be most pleased to partake of your famous mincemeat. I’ve been told I am lucky indeed to be here on Christmas Eve to sample this treat.”
Lady Anne fluttered her lashes at him. “We are so honored to have you with us, Lord Forthhurst. Have you a cup of punch? Would someone see to that? I propose a toast, to the snow that brought you to join our festivities!”
Someone pressed a cup of the wine punch into his hand, and amid the cries of “hear, hear, to the snow!” Adam found himself drinking to his nemesis.
Even with his brain slightly befogged by alcohol, he could appreciate the irony. In truth, he was enjoying himself a great deal more than he had expected, and more than he would have if he had reached Blakehill. He held out his empty cup and someone instantly replaced it with a full one, almost as if by magic.
The pie, when he was finally served, was indeed delicious–the crust flaky and light, the filling moist and chewy, redolent with spices and brandy. He closed his eyes for just a moment, savoring it. In that exact moment of culinary delight, his tongue discovered something hard among the morsels. What the devil? Turning his head to the side, he discreetly extracted whatever it was.
Between his fingers was a small silver charm, in the shape of a crown. “What the devil?” he repeated, only this time aloud. Had he been more sober, he might have been more careful with his choice of words, but then again, perhaps not.
The people nearest him looked over to see what was amiss. “Oh, my heavens, he has the crown!” exclaimed the woman next to him.
“He has the crown!” cried others, taking up the message.
Adam had a sinking suspicion some mischief was at work here.
“What does it mean?” He had never heard of putting charms into mince pies. Surely that was a custom reserved for Christmas Cake? Or Twelfth Night Cake? Cake, at the very least.
His neighbors hustled him up to the front of the room, where Squire Hammon and Lady Anne beamed upon him. He glanced quickly to where Miss Tamworth stood with her parent and her suitor (for that is what he calculated the curate must consider himself), and noted the look of shock on her face. Well, that was worth something! He broke into a smile and aimed his look right at her.
“Lord Forthhurst, this is most extraordinary!” Lady Anne said, drawing his attention back. Puzzled curiosity best described the expression on her face. She held out her hand for the token. “It means Fate has chosen you to serve as our Lord of Misrule for the twelve days!”