A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5) (11 page)

“They’re not rich, to be sure. But it would have been a surprise if they had been.” He crossed to the fireplace and emptied his teacup on the bricks, where the contents hissed back at him in billows of presumably insipid steam. Maybe he could find a cup of strong coffee somewhere in the village.

“I don’t mean simply that they’re not rich.” She gestured to his empty cup. “That tea was made from leaves that had been used before; I’m sure of it. I saw Mrs. Porter take them from where they were spread out on a pan by the hearth.”

That
was
unusual for a farm family as respectable as the Porters seemed to be. And now that he took a look about this room, the furnishings did have a decidedly Spartan quality. There was no pianoforte, or bookshelf, or any other thing to suggest the family had leisure hours and the means to fill them. “It’s a fair sized house and grounds, though. Do you think they might have had some misfortune? A poor harvest?” What was he doing? What was
she
doing? They had troubles enough of their own. They didn’t need to engage themselves in the Porters’ fortunes.

“I don’t know.” She pushed away from the door and took up a nearer position on the hearth, clearly assuming they were now united in concern for the Porters above all else. “Mrs. Porter didn’t say anything on the subject. But their daughter married this year, so they must have had to provide a dowry, and if you’re right about the harvest, they wouldn’t have had much money to spare. And now they don’t even have their daughter for Christmas, because she and her husband have gone to be with his family.”

Andrew sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. His Christmas and hers were enough for him to shoulder. The Porters would have to make the best of their own. “I’m sorry for them, Lucy.” His mouth shaped itself so naturally to her name. “But I don’t see what we can do about any of it, particularly in the short time we’ll be here.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to them.” She folded her arms and scowled down at the fire. “Can I not tell them I’d rather wait in the kitchen? That would spare them having to heat this room.”

“I wouldn’t advise it.” Her charitable impulses were admirable—again, he had to admit her father had brought her up very well in some respects—but she doubtless had too little experience of the world to understand every hazard in acting on such impulses. “No matter what you might tell them, they’ll suspect you’ve noticed their circumstances and want to spare them the expense of firewood.”

“They’ll be embarrassed.” She nodded, still eyeing the fire. “They’ll think I pity them for being poor.”

“One has to tread carefully around matters of hospitality, I find. Especially so when the hospitality is offered by people who can’t offer it lightly. I’ll be as quick as I can about my errand to the village, and with luck you won’t be here long enough for them to have to add much more wood to this fire.”

She nodded again, this time angling her head to meet his eyes. “Can I at least refuse dinner, if they try to share theirs with me? Can I tell them I dined already on the road?”

“That seems an excellent idea.” When had she begun to care for his opinion on what she should do? At Downham Market she’d bluntly dismissed all his arguments in regard to their traveling alone. Was it merely the exercise of being Mrs. Blackshear that had her believing he might have worthwhile advice to offer? “I fear it may be a good while before you’ve reached Hatfield Hall and a proper meal, though. I’ll see whether I can’t find a meat pie or some such in the village, and bring it back for you.”

“I wish you’d find something for the Porters instead. Something for their Christmas dinner, maybe? I brought along some money for gratuities at the house party, but I doubt I’ll need it all. I’d be happy to—”

“Keep your money. You’ll be having to borrow someone else’s maid, and I expect you’ll want to give her an especially large gratuity.” He tapped the pocket that held his purse. “Let me manage the gift. I’m the one whose carriage they pulled from the ditch. Maybe I can find them a fat goose.”

“Oh, I hope you can.” Her eyes widened and went incandescent with her pleasure at the idea. “I’d feel so much better about the trouble we’ve put them to.”

“Well, then, I’ll make it my mission. And may I say I’m glad to see I chose so thoughtful and generous a bride.” It wasn’t quite distant or formal, that remark. But why shouldn’t he encourage her better qualities when they showed themselves? “Now what did you tell Mrs. Porter of our married life, that I must be careful to not contradict? Among the men there was very little talking on any subject as we brought the carriage back, so I won’t have crossed your facts on anything.”

“Likewise have I protected you.” Now the pleasure in her eyes took on a distinctly mischievous glint. “I told her all about the falcon, and from there I spoke generally and at great length on the practices of falconry. I believe Mrs. Porter learned more on the subject than she ever cared to know.”

“Well done, Mrs. Blackshear.” He felt for his watch, and busied himself in consulting it. Really, he oughtn’t to be enjoying this so. Deceiving an honest husband and wife. Conferring in private with the same girl he’d taken to task mere hours ago for her indifference to the forms of propriety. He oughtn’t to be cataloguing the qualities of pleasure expressed in her eyes.

All the more reason to be out of here and back on the road as soon as he could. He snapped his watch closed. “I’ll be off now. Wish me luck.”

“Of course.” She put out her hand for the cup he still held. “Good luck, Andrew,” she said in the second when their gloved fingers touched.

And yes, it did seem a matter of some urgency that he bring about their parting at Hatfield Hall as soon as he possibly could.

* * *

Five and forty minutes later he was grasping at thin threads of possibility, never mind luck.

The one local wheelwright, Jem Ryan, was gone. Every merchant in the village of Thornton Cross agreed on that. Andrew had gone up one side of the high street and down the other, asking in every shop, and every time he had the same answer: nobody local
,
besides Jem
,
repaired wheels. Jem was gone away for Christmas. Might be he’d stay away through Twelfth Night; might be he’d come back sooner. On this point there was some difference of opinion.

“It’s imperative I have this wheel repaired today, though.” He leaned a bit forward, gripping the edge of the bar, to cut off a budding debate between the publican and a customer on the likely date of Jem’s return, and to steer them to the more pressing matter of his wheel. The Goat and Thistle was a dreary place to be on Christmas Eve, its only patrons being of necessity those forlorn souls who hadn’t any family or friends with whom to share the holiday. Every minute he spent in here was a minute too many. “The butcher said there’s a wheelwright at Downham Market, and the tailor said so
,
too. Is there no one any nearer?”

The publican wiped his bar with a rag and twisted his mouth into a studious frown. “Think there may be a fellow down by Welney. Think I heard Jem speak of him
,
once. Said he ain’t as fine with his work, but I guess one wheelwright would say that of another. And I guess maybe fine work don’t matter so much to a man trying to get home for Christmas.”

“Welney ain’t any nearer than Downham Market, in my opinion,” the argumentative customer muttered into his ale before taking another swallow.

“Happens distance ain’t a matter of opinion, Bill.” The publican shot a look to Andrew, as if seeking his concurrence. “It’s something you can measure out in furlongs and miles, and know the facts of.”

Andrew dragged a hand over his face. Even through a kidskin glove, the ragged texture of his cheeks and jaw asserted itself. A day and a half since his last shave. To say nothing of the state of his cravat. He must look as forlorn as any man in here.

Never mind that. The point was, if the distance to Welney was so like the distance to Downham Market that these two could argue over it—as indeed they were doing, with such gravity as would do a Parliamentarian proud—then he faced the same difficulty of making the journey there and back in enough time to allow for the repair and the persuading and all the rest of the trouble he must go through if he was to deliver Miss Sharp and get himself home tonight.

He curled his fingers round his sad bedraggled cravat. “There must be someone in or near this village who owns a covered carriage. I’d be willing to pay well for the use of it.” He could drive Miss Sharp to Hatfield Hall, and then go on to Welney and try his luck with this not-so-fine wheelwright. He might need to let go the hope of reaching home tonight. But at least he could get Miss Sharp to her destination and spare her from the scandal of spending a night who-knew-where without a proper chaperone.

“Well, there’s Sir Francis up at the manor who has one.” The publican leaned his elbows on the bar, considering. “Never struck me as a lending-out sort of man, though, particularly of something so fine what he even had a crest painted on it.”

“Not to mention he’s not here to lend it.” Bill contributed this intelligence with an air of triumph. “He’s gone away to a house party these twelve days. I had it from my cousin who works in the stables there.”

“Newell the grocer has that cart sort of thing all closed up.” The man’s hands angled and stroked, describing a box shape. “Only I doubt he’d want it going out in this weather.”

“Particularly given you’ve already put one vehicle into the ditch. Which I don’t fault you for
,
because I’ve done it myself.” Bill inclined his head. “I’m only saying what Newell might think.”

“I didn’t put anything into the ditch.” He spoke through nearly gritted teeth. “I had a—” He pushed back from the bar and rubbed a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t going to be drawn into this debate, and he certainly wasn’t going to expose John Coachman to these men’s criticism. It wasn’t even the driver’s fault they’d gone into the ditch, and even if it had been, that was hardly the most pressing of his concerns at the moment.

He couldn’t get home tonight, and neither could he get Miss Sharp to Hatfield Hall. They were stranded in Thornton Cross until tomorrow.

“For God’s sake, Bill, you’re speaking to a gentleman.” The publican snapped his rag for emphasis. “Show a little damned respect. While you’re at it show a little pity for a man who’s got somewhere pleasant to be for Christmas and can’t get there.”

Splendid. Because all the cumulative indignities of the day had apparently not been enough to appease whatever malign spirit toyed with him, he was now reduced to being an object of pity for the likes of Bill and this pub owner.

“Are there any inns?” There weren’t. He would have seen them, in a village so small. “Any place that offers a room for the night?” But wait—he couldn’t. He’d been thinking he’d best serve decency by leaving Miss Sharp with the Porters and finding himself a room. He was supposed to be her husband, though. He couldn’t leave her without making the Porters suspicious.

“Nothing like an inn, truly.” The man went back to wiping his bar. “I suppose the widow Mather might let you a room.”

“I suppose she might indeed.” Bill’s voice sank into that range that seemingly every man employed when framing a risque witticism. “Only I should be sure to bolt my door before I went to sleep. Or you might find yourself getting more than what you paid for.”

“Shut your impudent mouth, Bill. We don’t any of us know if those stories are true.”

God. If at this time yesterday, when he’d been squirming at the impropriety of the Sharps’ dinner table, someone could have told him those transgressions might look quaint to him within a day, he would never have believed it.

There was nothing more to be done but to march back through the snow and the cold to the Porters’ house and tell Miss Sharp the bad news.

Or rather, there was something—one more thing—to be done before he set out.

“I need something to drink.” He fished his purse out of his greatcoat pocket and tossed it down on the bar. “A good amount of something. May I hope you have rum?”

One look at Mr. Blackshear’s face, and she knew she wouldn’t be getting to Hatfield Hall tonight.

Not that she’d held out much hope, by the time of his return. Truly, she’d known the odds were against it even when he set out. And with each quarter-hour bringing them nearer to dusk, and settling yet more snow upon the roads, she’d seen the chance recede further.

So when at last Mrs. Porter called her from the drawing room into the kitchen and he came in the back door, his cheeks reddened by the cold, his mouth pressed tight as if he’d swallowed something bitter, he didn’t have to speak a word for her to know. Even the quick, somber look he sent her, and accompanying shake of the head, were superfluities.

“No luck with the wheelwright?” Mr. Porter, who’d opened the door, quietly closed it.

“No.” He didn’t have a goose. Instead he carried two bottles, which he set on the kitchen table before dipping into his coat pocket for a small lumpy parcel. “I’m afraid Mrs. Blackshear and I must presume further upon your hospitality. Tomorrow morning I’ll set out for Downham Market and the wheelwright there.”