Cassie had gathered her young charges into the sanctuary of the church for their lessons on Monday morning, as her father was busy at the vicarage meeting with the village wardens. She and the children had kept on their outerwear because it was cold in the large unheated space. The twelve children sat in two pews, intent on her voice as she read a Bible passage from the book of Proverbs to start their discussions.
“…Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
She had just come to the most pertinent part of the reading when the door at the back of the church opened, letting in an even colder draft of air. Footsteps echoed as a shadowy figure approached under the gallery.
Even before he emerged where the light from the windows revealed him, she knew it was Lord Forthhurst. Had she come to know him so well she could recognize his mere shape, or the way he moved? Her heart sank before she steeled herself, summoning anger to fortify her resolve.
“Miss Tamworth, I apologize for interrupting your class.” He stopped his advance before he reached the pews where the children sat.
They, of course, all turned to see him, their concentration dissolving as instantly as a cloud of breath. Whispering and nudging each other, they riveted their excited attention entirely on the Lord of Misrule.
“If you did not interrupt us, there would be no need for an apology, Lord Forthhurst.”
“Ah, but it is the Lord of Misrule’s task to make certain merriment spreads everywhere during the twelve days, is it not, children? Who teaches class during Christmastide?”
“I do.” How had he found her here? Her father would never have told him where to seek her out.
The children cheered and encouraged him. Using them was so not fair.
“Well then, even lessons should have an element of fun, should they not? Who can balance their slate upon their head the longest, I wonder? Can you do it for as long as I need to speak with Miss Tamworth?”
Slates were set upon heads even before he finished, and the children began jostling each other and teasing, making faces, trying to disrupt each other’s delicate balancing act. Utter chaos. He was so good at causing that.
And yet, she had to admit a certain respect–he knew what children liked. He was good with them. He would make a splendid father. The unbidden thought made her clamp her lips tightly. Where was her traitorous mind going? She had to fight his effect on her. She had every right to be furiously angry.
“Whoever drops their slate first will be charged a forfeit,” he added, laughing–presumably at their antics and not the idea of making a child pay a forfeit in front of the entire village. As he said this, he moved up the aisle past the children to where she was standing in the front.
“I need to talk with you in private,” he said in that soft, low voice that still made her toes curl no matter how angry she was. “When will you be finished with the children? Can we speak then?”
“No. Not then, not ever,” she answered, very nearly hissing the words. “I do not care what your needs are. I have no wish to talk with you. There’s been more than enough talking, and also not-talking.”
She flicked a quick glance to see if he grasped what she meant. Of course he must. He was a man, and clearly had a man’s appetites. His skills at not-talking had a great deal to do with her folly of falling for his scheme despite all of her caution. Two fiancées, and she had so nearly become a third! Or would she have been a fourth, after Mrs. Darlington? How many women did he need in his life?
“I need to explain. There are things you misunderstand.”
She frowned fiercely. “I understand that you need to leave my class, now, and you need to leave me alone.”
Before he could respond, a new commotion erupted among the children. “She dropped it! She dropped it first,” they called, and then one by one took up the chant after one child began it, “Little Kate dropped her slate. Little Kate dropped her slate!” The rhyme was too delicious for them to forbear.
Cassie could see the child was about to dissolve into tears. She cast a furious glance at Lord Forthhurst, wordlessly pinning him with blame.
Kate begin to sniff, wringing her small hands. “My slate b-broke, Miss Tamworth.” And then looking up at Lord Forthhurst, “W-what is my forfeit?”
But Lord Forthhurst was between Cassie and the children, and he reached the pew where the distraught little girl stood before Cassie could. He scooped Kate up with one arm and twirled her around in the aisle, grinning. “Not all forfeits are bad, you know,” he said, gaining her attention at once. “Sometimes they can be something wonderful. The Lord of Misrule is going to think up something very special just for you, Little Kate.”
By all means, work your charm, Cassie thought uncharitably. Beware, Little Kate. Then guilt set in, for truly, he was averting a disaster. Drat the man!
“As for the broken slate, the Lord of Misrule will see that it is replaced.” He set Kate down and tousled her blonde curls. “All will be well.”
Looking towards the other children who were still attempting to balance their slates on their heads, he added, “I see all of you have the makings of champions, although did I say it was permissible to use your hands?” Immediately the few offending hands were pulled down.
He laughed, and so did the amazed children. “I think you all deserve a reward. Hurrah!” The children joined him in cheering. He raised his hands and began clapping. He applauded as he walked up the aisle towards the door where he had come in. Just before he reached it, he called back, “I think when class is over you should all take advantage of the snow outside. But be at the Four Feathers at eleven!”
Somehow, the moment he went through the door all of the energy and brightness in the sanctuary seemed to have gone with him. Cassie gave up the notion of trying to herd the children back into some semblance of a class, and instead dismissed them to play out in the snow, leaving her alone with her thoughts in the cold, empty church.
The scene at the Four Feathers resembled each of the other times Adam had gathered the village to announce daily activities as the Lord of Misrule. With the notable exception of Miss Tamworth, he had been welcomed back warmly by everyone he encountered, although he had not yet seen Lady Anne or Squire Hammon. They were certain to be among the crowd this morning, but he doubted they would make any stir against him publicly.
Miss Tamworth was going to be a challenge. He had expected no less. He would have to wear her down. He hoped Lady Anne and the squire might help him, if he could make them understand the truth of matters. Unless they favored the curate’s suit. But if they did, why would they have been so supportive of bringing Miss Tamworth to Blakehill?
He shook his head, and realized he had in front of him a sea of expectant faces. Among them he saw Mr. Pratt, near the back, not far from where he spied Miss Tamworth, her father and the Hammons. Oh, yes, everyone was here. You are their Lord of Misrule. Pay attention and do your job.
He looked out, casting a benevolent gaze over them, and grinned. He tipped his hat, wiggling it just enough to set the bells that hung from the back of it ringing. “Good morning, good people of Little Macclow!”
Where were all the children? He realized as he looked more closely that he didn’t see any of them among the crowd. Hm. Laying an ambush? Or several ambushes? He smiled. He had told the ones in Miss Tamworth’s class to make use of the snow, and no doubt those dozen would rope in the rest. In the meantime, he had activities to announce.
“Today was supposed to be Silly Hat Day,” he began. “However, due to the ample snow on the ground, we will take advantage of that to instead have a village-wide contest to see who can create the best snow-man, or a sculpture made out of snow. As it would be impossible for me to tour the whole village at once at the end of the day, we will construct them on the village green or around the edges of the pond, or here in front of the inn if we need more space. The judging will take place at four o’clock. Go, be creative, and enjoy! We will observe Silly Hat Day tomorrow. Why should I be the only one to wear one? Be prepared!”
Sure enough, as soon as the crowd began to disperse, a barrage of snowballs came from around the corner of the inn. While some of the adults playfully scooped up snow to fire back, others hurried along the street to get out of the line of fire. Adam was watching David Pratt and saw a well-aimed snowball knock the curate’s hat cleanly off his head.
The curate scooped up both his hat and what was left of the snowball that had hit it. “Who threw this?” he called angrily, looking towards the corner of the building where the barrage had come from. Adam was quite certain the children had fled from there, to take up positions somewhere else. He smiled, but that drew the curate’s wrath.
“You, Forthhurst–Lord of Misrule. This is your doing. You encourage the children to misbehave and call it merriment, but only promote chaos, bad manners and lack of respect.”
Adam only smiled more. “There is a reason the title is called ‘Misrule,’ Mr. Pratt.” He walked down the few steps to the street, putting him on a level with the curate. In the so-called chaos, he had not seen in which direction Miss Tamworth and the Hammons had gone.
“Hmph. Of course I didn’t expect to hear an apology from you.”
“An apology, Mr. Pratt?” Adam continued to move, stepping closer to where the curate stood. “For doing my appointed job? No, I don’t believe you should expect one.”
The curate jammed his hat back onto his head. Throwing his shoulders back, he faced Adam. “At the least you owe one to Miss Tamworth, for toying with her. I heard that you persuaded her to attend the fancy ball at your parents’ home, something she would never have been interested in without your influence. You are nothing but a visitor here. You’ve no right to disrupt people’s lives.”
“I have the utmost respect and admiration for Miss Tamworth.”
Pratt barely paused for breath. “You would do well to stay away from her. I will advise you that Miss Tamworth is my intended. I have asked her to marry me, and I am awaiting her answer. Do not interfere.”
“Or else?” Adam took a step closer. “What will you do, challenge me to grass?” He looked around at the snowy landscape and gestured with his hand. “We have a distinct shortage of that at present.”
He turned and started to walk back towards the inn. Pratt’s name was on the list for forfeits multiple times. He would need to devise something particularly creative for the curate. Something that could keep the man busy and away from Miss Tamworth would be ideal, but what?
He had gone perhaps ten paces when a sudden jolt between his shoulder blades caused his back muscles to tense. The layered capes of his greatcoat dulled the impact. Had Pratt hit him with a snowball? The children had all retreated.
Well, good for him. Perhaps the fellow was not as hopelessly self-righteous as Adam thought. He turned, grinned and touched the brim of his hat in salute. May the best man win her.
Cassie was struggling. The snow around her was too light and dry to stick together well enough for creating a snowman or any other kind of figure. The three rounded lumps she had made and arranged so far looked like the head, body, and tail of a small crouching rabbit, without the ears. She was at a loss for a way to make those.
Glancing around her, she could see others who were having similar difficulties. Apparently the snow on the bank of the pond where they were was too shaded to become sticky, the way the exposed snow on the village green apparently was. Looking up and across to the green in the distance, she saw several snowmen standing erect, still being worked on by their creators.
Why did it matter? She was not attempting to win this competition, was she? She had chosen to work down here by the pond because it was more likely to be out of the way of Lord Forthhurst.
She had seen him come out of the inn several times to walk around, checking on the progress being made by those working closer, but he had yet to come this far. She assumed he couldn’t charge her a forfeit as long as she tried to make something. A rabbit without ears might be the best she could offer.
People were going inside the inn to warm up when they became too chilled to continue working. Lord Forthhurst was working from there, so she had tried to think of an alternative. She was thoroughly cold by now. Unfortunately, all the shops were closed so people could participate in the activities. The only place open that might serve was the livery stable, directly across from the inn. The chance that she would run into the Lord of Misrule during the few minutes it would take her to walk up there seemed remote enough to risk it, and she was too cold now not to try.
“I shall return to do more work on mine,” she reassured her neighbors as she gathered her red cloak around her and started to walk up the slope towards the green. “I just need a few minutes to get warm.” She looked back at her three small lumps of snow and admitted her “rabbit” looked pathetic. Never mind.
When she reached the edge of the village green, she saw Lord Forthhurst strolling along the other side of it, apparently intent on inspecting the progress of the snowmen being built there. If she hurried along, perhaps he wouldn’t see her. Even if he did, he was busy. Maybe he would assume she was going to the inn.
She slipped inside the big door of the livery stable and found John Frigg and several of the grooms gathered around a small table playing cards by the light and heat of a large lantern. Mr. Frigg lumbered to his feet as soon as he saw her.
“Gentlemen, please, do not disturb yourselves on my account,” she hurried to reassure them as the grooms began to follow his lead. “I only want to stop in for a few minutes to get warm, and–uh–it is too crowded in the inn.”
“Please, Miss Tamworth, have my seat,” Mr. Frigg insisted, pulling his straight-backed chair away from the table. He placed it to one side and gestured toward it with a bow. Most of the others, she noted, were sitting on stools or a bench. She nodded gratefully and sank onto it. “Thank you.”
There was awkward silence at the gaming table. “Please, do carry on,” she said. “Pretend I am not here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Mr. Frigg cleared his throat. “So, how goes the snowman contest? Anyone going to win it?”
She chuckled. “The snow is not very cooperative down by the pond. Apparently the snow is better up on the green.”
“Did you see our entry? We pitched in together as a team effort. Hardly took us any time at all with so many hands.”
“Is that your offering in front of the building?” She had seen what looked to her like a glorified pile of snow. She hadn’t realized it was intended to represent something.
“We made a snow-horse. We figured no one else would try something like that, an’ what could be more fitting?”
The door opened letting in a draft of cold air as the liveryman spoke. Cassie’s pulse jumped as Lord Forthhurst entered the stable. Had he seen her come in? Had he followed her here?
“What else indeed? I applaud you gentlemen for your ambition and also your imaginations.” His words were for the men, but he was looking directly at Cassie, one eyebrow raised. “Miss Tamworth, I am surprised to see you here. Would you not find it warmer in the inn? There is a lively fire in the big hearth.”
She would have to stick to her story. “No, it is too crowded for me, I fear. I am not cold. In fact, I was about ready to go out again.” That was a lie, since she had not been there long enough yet to truly warm up at all. But if he was here, she would not stay. She stood up.
“Please, don’t depart on my account. I came in merely to check on my horses. I have four here now.” He tilted his head to look down his nose at her pointedly.
The gibe was deserved. She hadn’t felt remorse about leaving him at Blakehill yesterday morning, but later, when the snow had started, guilt had begun to creep in, striking her the hardest at waking moments during the night. However, she would never admit it.
“I shan’t be departing on your account. Why would I do that?” She gathered her cloak and shot him a challenging glance. “I’m simply departing. Thank you, gentlemen, and again my apologies for disturbing your game.” With her chin high, she walked back out into the cold.
She could go into the inn, now that she knew Lord Forthhurst was not there. She still needed to get warm. She passed another glance at the supposed snow-horse, but still couldn’t see it. No winner there.
Across the street in the inn, all was lively as well as warm. The noise of many voices, the smell of ale and clink of glassware washed over her as she opened the door and entered. Somewhere in the far back of the crowded taproom, Mr. Dallman was picking out a tune on his fiddle. Normally such a festive scene would have lifted her spirits, but she was uncommonly out of sorts today, and instead the noise and smell just overwhelmed her.
This irritability was Lord Forthhurst’s fault. She was trying very hard to hate him, but her effort was failing. Perhaps she should just return to her earless snow rabbit, although even that pathetic creation seemed to demand something from her. As she stood in the entryway frozen in indecision, David Pratt emerged from the crowd in the taproom and worked his way towards her. His round face reflected both eager anticipation and a measure of anxiety. Her heart sank.
“Miss Tamworth! Cassie. Well-met. I am so glad to see you.” He reached for her hand and pressed a quick kiss on her wet and undoubtedly cold glove. “The weather trapped me in Fritchley, did you know? When I finally was able to return to Little Macclow, you were gone. Off to a fancy ball at Lord Forthhurst’s parents’ home, as I was told. Can you imagine my disappointment and chagrin? I have been waiting an entire week to learn your answer to my proposal. Beyond a week.”
He looked around, as if only just remembering the very public spot where they stood. “Please forgive my eagerness. This is hardly the place for us to have this conversation. But I hope you can understand my frustration.”
She could. In truth she felt some sympathy for the poor fellow, especially knowing that she was about to disappoint him further. But moving to a more private location would only prolong their discussion and might make it more difficult to separate from him, so she stood perfectly still.
“Mr. Pratt, I am so sorry for what you have gone through this week. The weather has been challenging for everyone.” She could not help comparing the curate’s easy capitulation against what Lord Forthhurst had accomplished despite the dreadful weather and greater distance.
“I did speak with my father. He is not opposed to our making a match, but he agreed that I should take time to consider both of our futures carefully. I have been doing so. I am sorry to tell you that I am convinced we would not suit.”
The curate’s face reddened, and his eyes seemed to bulge. “No? After all of the time we have spent together? I must say, that is not what I expected.”
He paused, and she could almost see his mind reordering his thoughts. Then he nodded. “I understand where this is coming from. Lord Forthhurst has exerted his influence upon you. He has turned your head after all, and filled you with dreams of a different sort of life than you were made for, a life that is not in God’s service or interest, or even in your own best interest, my dear.”
Was that true? The ball at Blakehill was already beginning to fade like a dream, now that she was home again and back to her routine life. Were her hopes of a different life futile and selfish? But David Pratt had his own interests at stake, so of course he would see things this way.
“I was shocked when I learned that you had gone to his New Year’s Ball with Lady Anne and Squire Hammon,” he continued. “I’m certain they thought exposing you to his world would help you to see how frivolous it is and how impossible it would be for you to fit in there.”
He took up her hand again, his face etched with sincerity. “Twelfth Night is the day after tomorrow. His position as Lord of Misrule will end, and he will have no more reason to stay in Little Macclow. He can stop causing havoc and enticing children to mischief and disrespectful behavior. And I certainly hope his influence over you will cease. It can only be counted as wickedness to plant seeds of discontent in another person and nurture them to no good end. I believe with all my heart that we belong together, and that God placed us where we are just for that purpose.”
But hadn’t God also placed Lord Forthhurst here? Or was some other force at work? Was it all mere coincidence?
Cassie realized the key to her future lay in sorting out the answers to so many questions. Had the Lady guided Lord Forthhurst to Little Macclow? Was he truly wicked? Or was he her heart’s desire, the answer to her prayers?
What did she believe?
She knew one thing. The seeds of discontent were her own. She hadn’t needed Lord Forthhurst to plant those. But if magic was real, where was it now?
Mr. Pratt had not finished. “I am confident you will have a change of heart. Please think on it some more. I will ask you again on Twelfth Night.”
Could she sort out her confused feelings in two days time?