Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Goose Read online

  She’d somewhat cynically moved up to accommodate two of Henry’s friends. Roger Carnaby and George Wiley must have all but run to reach the church in time.

  That, of course, had put her in very close proximity to Christian, but after having landed in his arms while decorating his house, she’d known her senses wouldn’t mind.

  As, indeed, they hadn’t. While the service rolled on and several choristers sang piercingly sweet solos, her senses and her nerves positively basked in the warmth of Christian’s presence. It was, she inwardly admitted, a rather heady feeling.

  The hour-long service ended too soon, at least for her.

  The reluctance with which he shut the hymnal they’d shared suggested he felt the same way.

  She raised her gaze to his face and met his hazel eyes. His expression seemed less clouded, more open than before. With simple grace, he inclined his head. “Thank you for making this service especially memorable. You have a very lovely voice.”

  She smiled wryly back at him. “Your voice quite puts mine to shame—and you know it.”

  His lips twitched before he could control them, and she laughed and turned as Henry touched her arm.

  She followed Henry out of the pew and into the throng of villagers queuing to exit the church.

  Christian followed Eugenia out of the pew, but then retreated along the pew’s back, into a spot where the shadows fell more deeply. He waited there while the rest of the congregation, smiling, laughing, and earnestly talking, filed past. While he might no longer feel it necessary to hide the destruction of his face from the elders of the village, he was still convinced the sight of his ravaged cheek was likely to give the younger children nightmares.

  He hung back until everyone else had left, even the deacon, who had looked questioningly at him, but when Christian had nodded distantly, had continued on his way, transparently pleased with how the evening had gone.

  Although he was the last to emerge from the church, Christian wasn’t surprised to find the good reverend still at his post, farewelling his parishioners and exchanging a few words with each. However, the crowd still gathered in the church grounds took Christian aback; given the sharp chill, he’d thought that everyone would have hurried off home, but no—a very large portion of the congregation remained chatting avidly, spread along the path and over the lawns in groups of happy revelers, each group lit by the festive lanterns many men held aloft on poles.

  Even as he shook Reverend Colebatch’s hand, Christian was struck by the image. If he’d been at all artistic, he would have used paints to capture it—the quintessential village Christmas scene.

  He’d forgotten that, too, and the memory-made-new-again stirred his latent, dormant self to life.

  He was immensely thankful when immediately after their hands had parted, Colebatch was summoned to adjudicate some argument between the choirmaster and the organist. Colebatch apologized profusely, but Christian smiled and denied any need to claim more of the reverend’s time.

  As Colebatch turned away, Christian stepped off the church stoop, instinctively seeking the deeper shadows outside the circles of light cast by the lanterns.

  Only to have Henry Fitzgibbon step into his path.

  “I say, Lord Longfellow. We haven’t been introduced—well, not recently. Henry Fitzgibbon, my lord.” Henry held out his hand.

  Perforce, Christian had to halt and grasp it. “Good evening, Fitzgibbon.”

  Releasing Henry’s hand, Christian would have nodded and walked on, but Henry rushed to say, “I wanted to speak with you particularly—to apologize about your gate. I should have come to you immediately, but, well…”

  Reluctantly, Christian waited; he had a fair idea of what would come next and, from experience dealing with subalterns, knew he had to hear Henry out.

  Sure enough, Henry drew in a breath and confessed, “I regret I was foxed at the time. I didn’t notice the damage to my curricle until the next afternoon, and by then…well”—Henry glanced to where Eugenia had come up to stand between them—“matters had got away from me.” Henry looked again at Christian and met his eyes. “I understand you won’t hear of us paying for the damages, but at least accept my very sincere apology for the damage and for any inconvenience it caused.”

  Christian glanced fleetingly at Eugenia. Inconvenience such as having to argue with Henry’s sister? But he looked back at Henry and inclined his head. “I accept your apology, and I suggest we agree to let the matter rest.”

  “I say, that’s dashed good of you.” Henry’s relief showed in an expression of unburdened happiness that forcibly reminded Christian of one of his subalterns.

  He looked at Eugenia and was, once again, about to take his leave as, finally, many others were, when Reverend Colebatch came striding up, the skirts of his cassock flicking about his long legs. Lady Osbaldestone walked rather more sedately in his wake.

  “Miss Fitzgibbon! Lord Longfellow! I’m glad I caught you.” His face alight and rosy with the cold, Colebatch clapped Christian on the shoulder and smiled delightedly at Eugenia. “I wanted to thank the pair of you for your performance this evening. Your voices! So rich, so true—so very perfect for this night. You might not have been aware of it, standing at the rear of the congregation as you were, but your voices simply soared over the heads of us all and led us in a most magnificent celebration. I have never heard better, not even in the much larger city churches I presided over years ago.”

  Lady Osbaldestone had come up in time to hear the reverend’s compliments; she leant on her cane and regally stated, “Your combined contribution was nothing short of a tour de force, a feat appreciated by all who were honored to hear it.”

  Eugenia blushed. With a sidelong glance, Christian caught her eye. Neither could demur or in any way play down their apparent accomplishment without disparaging the other—which, of course, neither would do.

  Catching the satisfied gleam in Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, Christian was perfectly certain she’d happily orchestrated their mutual trap. Yet another thing he and Eugenia had in common—their evident inability to escape her ladyship’s coils.

  Someone on the path leading to the carriages called for Henry. He glanced that way, then looked questioningly at his sister.

  Still blushing, if anything a touch more fierily after her shared glance with Christian, Eugenia nodded and wound her arm in Henry’s. “We should get on. Goodnight, everyone.”

  Lady Osbaldestone, the reverend, and Christian echoed the farewell, then Christian shifted, preparing to depart.

  “I say, Lord Longfellow”—Colebatch turned to him as if having just remembered to ask—“do you happen to have a donkey?”

  The question was so unexpected, Christian answered without thinking first. “Yes, we have one.”

  “Oh, thank Heaven!” The reverend’s expression was all earnest supplication. “Might we borrow the beast tomorrow? Just for the middle of the day? We’re in dire need of a donkey for the re-enactment of the nativity scene, you see. You must remember that tradition—it dates back to before your childhood, I’m sure.”

  Reluctantly, Christian nodded, although his memory of the event was sketchy.

  “I wouldn’t ask, what with you and your people being only recently in residence, but it transpires that with the untimely death of the Johnsons’ Neddy and the Foleys at Crossley having sold their Scraggs, there’s not a donkey to be had in the parish.” Colebatch, his wispy gray hair standing up in tufts on either side of his head, looked almost plaintively at Christian. “Please say we may borrow your beast. Otherwise, I don’t know where we might find one at such short notice, and the children will be so disappointed.”

  It occurred to Christian that Lady Osbaldestone, who was observing the exchange with a smile on her face, wasn’t the only one in the village given to manipulation—if not outright blackmail, given the reverend’s invoking of the children’s happiness.

  Stifling a sigh, Christian surrendered. “Yes, of course. At what t
ime will you need the animal?”

  “Thank you!” The reverend caught Christian’s hand between his own and shook it heartily. “The re-enactment is scheduled for eleven-thirty tomorrow on the green. If you could bring the beast somewhat earlier?”

  Christian caught the interest in Lady Osbaldestone’s eyes at the reverend’s assumption that he, Christian, would be delivering the animal and couldn’t suppress his own small smile. “I’ll make sure Hendricks gets the animal to you in good time.”

  The chiding look Lady Osbaldestone bent on him bounced off his emotional armor. Christian excused himself and, with a nod to the reverend and a bow to Lady Osbaldestone, stepped back, turned, and strode into the deeper shadows. The church stood not far from the border of the Dutton Grange estate. A brisk walk through the woods in the dark of the icy night would douse the lingering warmth the carol service and its aftermath had set wreathing about his beleaguered brain.

  Chapter 9

  The following morning at eleven o’clock, Christian walked toward the green along the same woodland path he’d taken the previous night to and from the church.

  Behind him, at the end of a stout length of rope, trotted Duggins, the Grange donkey.

  Since Christian had returned to the Grange, despite not having seen him for more than ten years, or perhaps because of that, Duggins, who had been a young jack when Christian had left for the army, clearly retained fond memories of Christian and now refused to be led anywhere at all beyond the confines of his barnyard by anyone other than the new lord of Dutton Grange.

  Swearing at the beast in several languages had done not a whit of good.

  That episode had brought a grin to even the stoic Hendricks’s face; he and Jiggs had been the only ones within earshot who had understood the epithets Christian had heaped on the donkey’s gray head.

  Duggins had simply looked up at him and—if donkeys could do such a thing—smiled.

  When Christian had run down, Duggins had brayed.

  Jiggs had insubordinately suggested Christian take that as a sign and had handed over the rope.

  And that was how Christian came to be doing the very last thing he’d intended to do—heading for the green on the other side of the vicarage, into what would surely be a crowd of the village’s impressionable youngsters, all excited and impatient to get on with their re-enactment.

  As he reached the edge of the woods and stepped onto the lawn surrounding the church, he glanced at Duggins. “I’ll take you to the green and hand you over—it’s up to whoever’s in charge to make you perform as required. I won’t be there—I won’t be staying.” How was he to get the animal back to his barn? Striding on, he pondered that, then informed Duggins, “If I know anything of you, you’ll happily trot home to get warm and be fed. I’ll pay a couple of the village boys—perhaps those three who were beside me in the church yesterday, if I can find them. I’ll get them to bring you home.” He cast a sharper glance at the donkey. “And if you make any fuss, I’ll tell the boys to send for Jiggs and Johnson to come and fetch you—that will serve them right, too.”

  As he rounded the back of the vicarage, he looked sternly at Duggins. “Just get it through your thick skull that no matter what you do, I will not be dancing to your tune.”

  He was, however, talking to a donkey.

  With a sigh, he faced forward and trudged on.

  The village green was separated from the vicarage by a hedge and a stone retaining wall. With Duggins trotting amiably behind, Christian circled the far end of the wall and turned east toward the lane. Ahead, he saw the milling crowd gathering on the green to either participate in or bear witness to the village’s traditional re-enactment of the nativity scene.

  The children of Little Moseley had always been a hardy breed and not to be denied. Christian could remember similar events held in snow, in near-torrential rain, in fog so thick that Mary and Joseph had lost their way, and, memorably, once in a near-blizzard. The animals had run amok that time. Today, however, although the morning remained cool, the temperature had risen sufficiently to ward off the deeper chill of the night and melt the light frost. Although uniformly gray, the skies appeared benign, and the stiffer breeze of the early morning had fallen away.

  He approached the crowd with Duggins pressing close behind him—almost as if the donkey was eager to join in the evolving melee. Christian was tall enough to see over most heads. He located Reverend Colebatch in the center of the throng, surrounded by more than twenty children.

  Halting at the edge of the crowd, Christian glanced around, hunting for likely helpers, but his plan to hand Duggins over to some boys died a death as he realized that every last one of the village’s children, up to and including those of fifteen or so, had claimed a role in the upcoming drama. Every lad he could see was swathed in sheets or towels or had an upturned saucepan on their head and carried a wooden sword, and most were struggling to herd sheep and goats and even a family of ducks.

  A bleating, quacking, baaing chorus threaded through the cacophony of many human voices steadily rising in an effort to be heard over the barnyard din.

  Then Reverend Colebatch saw Christian and, face lighting, beckoned him forward.

  Jaw setting, telling himself to ignore the looks and just get on with it, he advanced through the shifting crowd with Duggins tripping eagerly at his heels.

  “Excellent!” The reverend beamed. “And in perfect time, too.”

  Mute, half ducking his head to conceal his face, Christian handed over Duggins’s rope.

  Colebatch took it and waved to two of the older children. “Now, Mary—yes, I mean you, Jessie Johnson. Up with you now, and as Joseph, Ben, you get to hold the rope.”

  Christian glanced at Duggins, but the donkey seemed fascinated by the youngsters all around and didn’t even glance Christian’s way. Mentally consigning responsibility for whatever happened next onto the reverend’s head, Christian backed away, leaving Colebatch, assisted by Filbert, the deacon, and Goodes, the choirmaster, working to organize the excited children into their component groups and assemble them around a ramshackle structure to which Fred Butts, the baker’s husband, assisted by several of the Johnsons and Foleys from Witcherly and Crossley Farms, was still putting the finishing—stabilizing—touches.

  Given the dearth of available youth, Christian glumly accepted that he would have to wait until the end of the event and retrieve Duggins himself.

  Keeping his head down, angled to better hide his damaged cheek, he swiftly tacked through the distracted crowd—many now bobbing on their toes in an effort to keep their children in sight—and made for a spot at the side of the shifting mass, where it was limited by the retaining wall. The ground canted upward to the base of the wall, which at that point rose above Christian’s head. He reached the wall and put his back to it. His height combined with the vantage point gave him a reasonably clear view of the proceedings.

  They were just as chaotic as he remembered.

  Leaning against the wall, freed of immediate duties, he took his time surveying the crowd. He started with the children and spotted Lady Osbaldestone’s three scamps. Temporary interlopers they might be, but of course the village had included them. Jamie and George were garbed as shepherds, draped in striped sheets and with towels tied about their heads. Watching Jamie direct the other boys in keeping the assembled farm animals in some sort of order, Christian wryly approved Colebatch’s assignment of duties; Jamie was a born…not leader so much as a director of men. The boy definitely had a way with him—very likely inherited was Christian’s guess.

  Lady Osbaldestone herself was standing on the other side of the sea of children. Tallish for a female, she stood upright and erect and, by her very presence, seemed to impose a degree of obedience on both children and animals alike.

  Christian finally spotted Lottie with the younger Milsom boy and two others Christian decided must be the Bilson twins watching over a brood of baby chickens, ducklings, and a gosling or two.

&nb
sp; Although the children were all there, more adults were arriving as the moment for the re-enactment to start drew near. The crowd shifted and swirled as bodies pressed in from the direction of the lane.

  Then Filbert and Goodes started shooing back the adults to create a suitably large circle around the “stable” for the children and animals to move and the tableaux vivants to be seen and appreciated by the surrounding throng.

  Inevitably, the crowd lapped against the wall, then pushed back, with others joining Christian hard up against the stone. There was a jostling to his left as a newcomer tried to shield a lady; Christian glanced around, away from the central spectacle—and found himself looking into Eugenia Fitzgibbon’s face.

  From the surprise in her eyes, she hadn’t seen him until that moment.

  Restricted by the wall and the press of other bodies around them, he managed a half bow. “Good morning, Miss Fitzgibbon.”

  Her features relaxed, and a smile, warm and encouraging, bloomed. “Good morning, Lord Longfellow.” She looked out at the children, now forming up behind Mary, perched on an apparently eager-to-please Duggins. Eugenia cast Christian a sidelong glance. “Reliving youthful exploits?”

  His lips twisted in a wry half smile. “It’s difficult not to—the sight does bring back memories.”

  He leant around her to exchange nods and greetings with Henry, who had dutifully steered Eugenia around the thick of the crowd to the relative shelter of the wall.

  Christian looked at Eugenia. “Were you ever Mary? I can’t remember.”

  Eugenia nodded. “I was, but I don’t think you were here that year—you’d gone to stay with school friends and didn’t get home in time.”

  A sudden bray from Duggins as Joseph prodded him to get him moving combined with a blast from two trumpets inexpertly blown to herald the commencement of the pageant and fix everyone’s attention on the spectacle, which, without further ado, got under way.