Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Goose Read online

  Inevitably, the talk turned to the Peninsula campaign. Christian tensed, but to his relief, no one asked about his service or even commented on battles past. The major led the way; although long retired, he had friends in the hierarchy and was well informed as to Wellington’s intentions. Lady Osbaldestone, too, was surprisingly knowledgeable, especially as to political strategy. Despite himself, Christian was drawn into the exchanges, and the company as one turned to him for his insights into the enemy’s likely next moves.

  Like the major, although he’d sold out, it hadn’t proved possible to cut himself off from the arena in which he’d spent the past decade. Moreover, he still had friends among the officers fighting for king and country.

  As the company progressed through the courses and the conversations swirled, he found himself—entirely unexpectedly—relaxing. Other than Mrs. Woolsey, he’d known everyone there since childhood, and as they’d all…not overlooked but either ignored or dismissed his injuries, he discovered to his amazement that he had no difficulty interacting with them in a perfectly normal way.

  It was the first such event he’d attended since being hauled half dead from the field at Talavera.

  The first time he’d found himself completely ignoring his injuries, too; in the Hartington Manor dining room, they seemed of no account.

  When the main course—a large roast duck and a side of venison—was laid before them, the talk turned to farm management. Christian wasn’t surprised to be included very much as a matter of course. What did make him blink was that the young lady seated on his left was equally included—if anything, more so.

  From her answers, it became obvious that, at present, she was critically involved—indeed, the lynchpin—in the management of the Fulsom Hall estate.

  Inwardly frowning, Christian tried to recall what the situation with her family was, but simple ignorance defeated him. He assumed her parents had died, and he knew she had a younger brother, Henry, and, courtesy of the smashed gate, that he was old enough to drive a curricle, but Christian had never known the boy’s age.

  Finally, in the lull before the dessert course, he turned to Eugenia and, lowering his voice, asked, “I gather you oversee your brother’s holdings. How old is he?”

  Briefly, she met his eyes. “Nineteen. Old enough to drive a curricle, but not yet old enough to have acquired any great degree of circumspection.”

  “He’s what—at university?”

  She nodded. “Oxford.” She looked down the table. “That’s where the four friends staying at the Hall hail from. It’s my belief they’re all much the same and egg each other on.”

  “As youths of that age are wont to do,” he drily stated. After a moment, his voice low, he added, “I can remember some of my own exploits at that age, and they weren’t episodes to be proud of.” He glanced at her as she looked down at the empty sweet dish the butler set before her. Christian hesitated, then, in a nonchalant tone, offered, “If you have any trouble managing the group, I’ll be happy to speak with them.”

  She chuckled and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, but Lady Osbaldestone met them. She claimed to have their mothers on her correspondence list. I don’t know if she truly has or not, but the implied threat worked wonders.”

  He grinned. “I can imagine. At that age, just the thought of one’s mother being informed of one’s misdemeanors is guaranteed to induce a high level of caution in any young gentleman.”

  She nodded. “That’s precisely what has happened. Since they encountered Lady Osbaldestone, they’ve been exceedingly careful. I haven’t heard a peep of complaint from our staff, where previously there’d been a litany every day.”

  The tension between them had faded sufficiently that he felt able to say, “From all I’ve heard, you’ve been managing the estate for quite a few years, yet you can’t be that old yourself.”

  Her lips twitched. “No, indeed. I’m only five years older than Henry, but when his mother—my stepmother—died, our father encouraged me to take over the household, which I did. I was fourteen at the time, and as the years passed, Papa allowed me to become his right hand in running the estate as well. Whether he realized he wouldn’t live to see Henry reach his majority, I don’t know, but as Papa died three years ago, his foresight proved wise. Our solicitor, Mr. Mablethorpe, has his chambers in Southampton, but he was a longtime friend of Papa and knows us well. Under his aegis, I’ve continued to run the estate.”

  Although she didn’t quite sigh, Christian sensed her present state did not meet with her unqualified approval. After a moment, he asked, “Have you started involving Henry in managing the estate’s reins? Even in small ways?”

  Now, she sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “I would dearly love to involve him in the day-to-day decisions, at least while he’s at home, but he keeps putting it off. And given that he does, I have to ask myself whether he’s yet ready to take on the responsibility.” Briefly, she met Christian’s eyes. “If he isn’t yet ready to take up the mantle, I suspect forcing the responsibility on him would be a grave misstep.”

  He thought of his father’s attempts to train his brother, Cedric. After a moment, he said, “You’re right. If the weight falls on shoulders not yet willing or prepared to support it, the risk of collapse, in one way or another, is very real.”

  That was what had happened with Cedric. He’d fought against what he’d seen as a yoke—and ended in a ditch with a broken neck.

  She’d turned her head and was studying him. When he glanced her way and arched a brow, she hesitated, then quietly asked, “I wondered if you…resented the responsibility of the Grange falling on your shoulders. You couldn’t have expected it.”

  He held her gaze while he considered the question; he hadn’t actually thought of it before and had to look inward to seek the answer… He blinked, somewhat surprised by what he saw. “You’re correct in that I hadn’t anticipated inheriting the estate. But when I heard of Cedric’s death and realized it would fall to me, I discovered I was…ready.” He met her eyes again. “I hadn’t been, earlier, but by the time I inherited, I knew I had all the right training and abilities to make a success of it.”

  He paused, looking inward and back, and in a tone of quiet understanding, said, “When I was wounded and recuperating, through all the long days and nights, the Grange—the role of Lord Longfellow of Dutton Grange—shone like a beacon. I knew it would be here, waiting for me, when I…got through the worst.”

  That—knowing he had work to do, that people needed him—had played a large part in saving his sanity.

  Looking around the table, he added, “My only regret is that it took me so long to get home.”

  Mrs. Swindon, on his right, heard his last comment. She patted his arm. “Well, you’re home now, dear, and one of us again.”

  The rest of the table had, it seemed, been discussing the possibility of putting on some sort of theatrical show to coincide with the village fair. Mrs. Swindon looked at Eugenia and asked for her thoughts on the notion.

  Christian watched, amused, as Eugenia glibly sidestepped the issue, endeavoring not to become embroiled in the pending organization.

  The conversational ball rolled on down the table.

  Christian continued to listen and learn. After a little while, he realized he was smiling.

  He hadn’t smiled like that, relaxed and at peace—his old quietly arrogant, confident, and easygoing nature surfacing—for…a very long time.

  Again, he looked inward. He could all but see the prickly walls he’d built to protect himself dissolving, thinning and fading away.

  He felt…as if he’d come home.

  As he’d imagined he one day would, hale and whole and able.

  The feeling was so tempting—so attractive, so addictive—he instinctively drew back, reminding himself that although the company around the table were those with whom he would interact most frequently, they were only a small fraction of the village community.

  From the other
end of the table, Therese watched her latest project unfold. She was entirely content with the way the evening had gone, and as the company rose from the table and ambled back to the drawing room—no port and brandy for the men in this group—she smiled approvingly at Eugenia and deftly stepped in to divert Mrs. Woolsey, who had seemed to be drifting back to her charge’s side. Eugenia could take care of herself, and better she should do so within Christian’s orbit.

  Back in the drawing room, the major, Christian, and Eugenia gathered in a group, discussing the impact of the weather on their fields and the outlook for the next year’s crops. Meanwhile, the Colebatches, Sally Swindon, Therese, and Mrs. Woolsey continued their discussion of possible plays that might prove suitable for the village players, with Mrs. Woolsey once again surprising them all by revealing a decidedly thespian bent.

  By the time Crimmins wheeled in the tea trolley, they had almost settled on Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer as the most appropriate selection. “An old play, true enough,” Mrs. Swindon stated, “but quite unexceptionable, and it does tend to satisfy the audience.”

  “It also doesn’t require too many players.” Mrs. Colebatch accepted a cup and saucer. “In a village this size, that’s a real consideration.”

  “If we can pull it off,” Lady Osbaldestone said, “I daresay we’ll have a goodly crowd, especially given we intend to run it on the evening of the fair.” She looked at Reverend Colebatch. “Does the fair still draw people from as far afield as Romsey?”

  The reverend allowed that it did. “I expect we’ll have to beg the use of the Witcherly Farm barn to accommodate the crowd.”

  Soon after, the Swindons declared they must away, and the company broke ranks. Therese stood in the front hall and saw her guests off. Mrs. Woolsey and Eugenia prepared to leave on the Swindons’ heels. In the doorway, Therese lightly gripped Eugenia’s sleeve and, smiling, caught the younger woman’s eye. “Good work. I daresay I’ll see you at the carol service tomorrow.”

  Eugenia admitted she would be there. “I have no idea if Henry and his friends will attend—I suspect the verdict will be that such bucolic entertainment is beneath their notice.”

  Therese gave her a commiserating look. “Young men, sadly, are still men.”

  Eugenia laughed and left with a wave. Their coachman drew their carriage up before the steps, and Eugenia helped Mrs. Woolsey in, then followed.

  Therese turned back into the hall, to the Colebatches, who were rugging themselves up. Christian was assisting Mrs. Colebatch, who had tangled herself in a very long knitted scarf.

  “If I didn’t know the pair of you enjoy plodding through the winter night,” Therese said, “I would have my carriage brought around for you. Are you sure you won’t avail yourself of it?”

  “Or of mine,” Christian said. “It will be the work of a minute to drop the pair of you off at the vicarage.”

  “No, no.” The reverend held up his hand. “We wouldn’t hear of it—it’s out of your way—but regardless, as her ladyship says, Henrietta and I do enjoy our solitary walks in the moonlight.” This last was said with a fond smile at his wife, who returned the gesture.

  “Oh—but wait.” The reverend turned back to Christian. “I meant to ask for your help in another way. It’s the carol service tomorrow, and I was hoping I could persuade you to attend. We’re rather thin of male voices, you see—not much strength to anchor the sopranos and altos—and I remembered you have an excellent voice.” The reverend suddenly looked uncertain. “Or at least you did.”

  Therese leveled her gaze on Christian; she could almost see him debating whether to seize the excuse Reverend Colebatch had left dangling. When Christian continued to hesitate, she bluntly stated, “I’ve heard you roar. I cannot believe your injuries have affected your vocal cords in the slightest.”

  Smoothly, Christian inclined his head. “What vocal abilities I was born with I still possess.”

  “Excellent!” Reverend Colebatch was no slouch himself. “So you will come, won’t you? It’s only for an hour, and it would make such a difference to the end result.”

  Christian knew when he was outgunned. He inclined his head again, this time to the reverend. “I’ll come and do what I can to assist.”

  “Wonderful.” Henrietta Colebatch beamed at him. “Six o’clock. We’ll see you there.”

  Christian resigned himself to the inevitable. He could hide in the shadows—the church had plenty of those—and still contribute to the singing.

  The Colebatches headed out of the front door. Lady Osbaldestone saw them off, then turned at last to him.

  She eyed him with far too much understanding for his comfort. “I thought the evening went rather well.”

  There was a question buried in that statement. He wasn’t keen on answering it, yet somewhat to his surprise, heard himself admit, “I enjoyed the evening.” He paused, sensing that truth resonate within him, then bowed and quietly said, “Thank you for inviting me.”

  She smiled, evidently delighted. “It was a pleasure, dear boy.” As he straightened, she turned to the partially open door as wheels crunched on the gravel. “And here’s your carriage.”

  Her butler opened the door wider.

  Lady Osbaldestone stood back on the other side.

  As with a final nod, Christian moved past her, she murmured, “I do hope you now recognize that there’s no need at all to hide away from the village—from those who’ve known you all your life. They don’t see the scars—they just see you.”

  Christian halted on the porch. He sensed that she was closing the door. When he finally glanced back, it was shut.

  He stared at the panel for several moments, then he turned and went down the steps to where Jiggs and his carriage were waiting.

  Chapter 8

  The next day, at close to midday, Jamie took himself off on a mission all his own.

  He and George were using the bedroom above the dining room, and the fireplaces shared a flue. The previous night, once George had fallen asleep, Jamie had lain awake listening to the murmur of the conversations of those in the room below.

  Gradually, his ears had grown attuned to the voices; he’d realized Lord Longfellow had to be sitting at the head of the table, nearest the fireplace, because Jamie could hear him most clearly of all.

  He could also hear Miss Fitzgibbon, at least when she was speaking to his lordship and, presumably, facing the fireplace.

  Jamie had felt quite chuffed at being able to listen in. He hadn’t intended to pay any great attention, but then something Miss Fitzgibbon had said, and even more the way she’d said it—and his lordship’s understanding responses—had struck…he supposed it was what people called a “chord.” It had felt as if something rang inside him.

  And he’d known what he should do.

  Exactly how to approach his self-appointed task was a question he’d spent half the morning debating. When the weak sun had shone through the clouds while they’d been finishing their elevenses, he’d been struck by inspiration. He’d suggested to his grandmother that it might be useful if he and George spent an hour or so talking with the younger boys of the village, who would very likely gather on the green to make the most of the burst of finer weather.

  His grandmother had studied him for an uncomfortable moment, her black gaze unnervingly sharp, but he’d met her gaze steadily, and eventually, she’d nodded. “By all means, see what you can learn. Any clue at all about the geese will be welcome.”

  He and George had left the manor and gone straight to the green, and as Jamie had predicted, they’d found a band of boys about their age and some a trifle older, Johnny Tooks and the two Milsom boys among them. A battered sled had sat discarded by the lane; there was insufficient snow to use it. Instead, the boys were playing marbles, and as he and George had already met some of the boys during their investigations, the group readily welcomed the pair of them into the game.

  George had always had excellent aim; he quickly established himself as t
he one to beat.

  Jamie had waited until the game had taken hold of all the boys, then had picked a moment when George was sitting out the play, leant closer, and whispered, “I’m going to walk over to Fulsom Hall. I want to see if I can have a word with Miss Fitzgibbon’s brother.”

  George had looked puzzled. “What do you want with him?”

  “You know what Lottie said—about Grandmama thinking a match between Miss Fitzgibbon and his lordship would be a good idea?”

  George had nodded.

  “I overheard Miss Fitzgibbon talking to his lordship last night—through the chimney. It gave me an idea.”

  George had frowned. “Well, don’t get into trouble. You know what Mama said—we have to be good for Grandmama if we want our presents.”

  “I’m not going to do anything bad.” Jamie had stood and brushed down his breeches. “If I’m not back by the time the church clock strikes one”—the time they were supposed to return to the manor—“go home and tell them I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Grandmama will be cross.”

  Jamie had set his jaw. “I have to try this, and I have to go alone. She’ll understand when I explain, but I’d rather do it first and explain later.”

  George had understood that reasoning; he’d screwed up his nose and waggled his head. “All right. But I’ll wait here until one o’clock in case you make it back by then.”

  Jamie had nodded, then had turned and walked to the lane and set off for Fulsom Hall.

  He heard the church clock strike twelve as he reached the Hall drive. Rather than walk along the gravel, he slipped into the trees and bushes that lined the avenue and quietly made his way toward the house. Skirting the forecourt, as he and George had done on their earlier visit, he crept into the gardens that flanked the right side of the house.

  While skulking through the gardens on that earlier visit, he and George had come across a small glade, on the grass of which butts from cigarillos had been liberally scattered.