Season's Regency Greetings (18 page)

“
What do we do, Josh?” he asked his son, who sat on a stool, drying plates.

“
We read Luke Two, because it talks about shepherds, I think,” Josh said. “Then we watch for the carolers.” He looked at his father. “Will there be carolers this year?”

“
I rather doubt it, son, considering the depth of the snow.”

“
Do you feed them sausage and eggs after they sing?” Mary teased.

“
I will have you know, I make an excellent wassail,” Joe replied. He laughed and flipped his son with the drying towel. “The secret to living here is to maintain low expectations.”

When the other guests had left the house—the Shepards by carriage and the Kings on foot—Joe and Joshua made wassail. They carried it outside to the road crew, which was beginning work now on the side streets of the village, now that the main thoroughfare was open for travel. As she watched from the sitting room window, a steady flow of traffic worked its way in both directions, coaches full of travelers anxious to be home by Christmas, or failing that, Boxing Day.

She thought she would find the house lonely, but she did not. She took her copy of
Pamela
into the bookroom, made herself comfortable in the chair where she already fit, and began to read.

As she read, she gradually realized that she was waiting for the sound of Joe returning with Joshua, and then the Kings coming back, probably to sit belowstairs, drink tea, and chat. At peace with herself, she understood the gift of small pleasures. It warmed her heart as no other gift possibly could, during this season of anxiety for her. She smiled when she heard them finally, realizing with a quick intake of breath that she was as guilty as Joe of thinking and speaking as though she were part of the family. We have to belong to someone, don't we? she asked herself. If we don't, then life is just days on a calendar.

She closed the novel when they came into the bookroom, bringing with them a rush of cold, and the fragrance of butter and spices. Joe carried a pitcher and a plate, and Josh dangled the cups by their handles. “We had a little wassail left, and Father purloined the biscuits from belowstairs,” Josh said as he sat down beside her on the hassock. He held out a cup while Joseph poured, and handed it to her. “Father says I am to read Luke Two all by myself this year, but if I get stopped on a word or two, he will help me.”

Joe handed him the Bible and opened it to the Book of St. Luke before he sat down with a sigh and stretched his long legs toward the fire. He closed his eyes while Joshua read about governors, and taxes, and travelers, and no room. Mary watched his handsome profile and felt some slight envy at the length of his eyelashes. This is a restful man, she thought, not someone tightly wound who is never satisfied. She wondered what he was like in spring and summer, when his life in the fields and among the grain brokers probably kept him in motion from early light until after dark. Did he become irritable then, restless like his brother? She decided no, that Joseph Shepard was too wise for that.

“ ‘
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.' ” Joshua had moved closer to the fire to see better, his finger pointing out the line. He leaned against his father's legs.

As she watched him, Joe opened his eyes and looked at her. He smiled and reached across the space between them to take her hand and hold it firmly, his fingers intertwined in hers. She almost had to remind herself to breathe. You keep watch over your own little flock, don't you, sir, she thought. You even care about your unexpected guests. It was a wild notion, but she even dared to think that he had been caring for her for years, in his own way. She tried to dismiss the notion as patently ridiculous, but as he continued to hold her hand, she found herself unable to believe otherwise.

He released her hand when Joshua finished, and took his dead wife's son on his lap, holding him close. “Well, Josh, we have almost rubbed through another year,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “What do you say we go for another one?”

Joshua nodded. Mary had to smile as she realized this must be a tradition with them.

“
What about you, Mary? Will you go for another one?” Joe asked her suddenly.

“
I … I do believe I will,” she said. Even if it means things do not turn out as we wish, some hopes are dashed, and the future looks a bit uncertain, she added to herself. “We are all dealing in futures, eh?” she asked.

He reached for her hand again. He held it until he heard the Kings returning, when he got up to become the perfect host, and carry his son to bed. When he returned to the bookroom, she was standing by the window, admiring the snow that the moonlight had turned into a crystal path. He stood beside her, not touching her in any way, but somehow filling her completely with his presence. When he spoke, it was not what she expected; it was more.

“
I loved Melissa,” he told her, his eyes on the snow. “I have to tell you that in some measure, I think I loved her because she reminded me of you.” He glanced at her quickly, then looked outside again. “I'm not completely sure, but it is my suspicion. I … I've never admitted this to myself, so you are the first to hear it.”

He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I am quite sober tonight, Mary McIntyre, so I will say Happy Christmas to you, and let it go at that for now.” He shook his head and laughed softly. “Oh, bother it, I would be a fool to waste such a celebratory occasion.” He kissed her cheek, gave her a wink, and left the room. In a moment she heard him whistling in the hall.

The Shepards left as early as they could in the morning, Thomas just happy to be away, and Agatha shaking her head and apologizing for the rush, but wouldn't it be grand to be in York with grandparents before the day was entirely gone? Of the two, Mary had to admit that Thomas's attitude, though more overt, at least had the virtue of honesty. Joe must have felt the same way. As they stood in the driveway and saw the Shepards off, he turned to Mary. “My brother is honest, even when he says nothing.”

Joe declared that his Christmas gift to the Kings was breakfast. “Mary and I will cook eggs and sausage for
you
, my dears.” He winked at Mary. “And do I see some presents on the table? That will be the reward for eating my cooking.”

By keeping back two presents she had ordained earlier for Thomas and Clarice, Mary had gifts for the children: a sewing basket with a small hoop and embroidery thread for Abby, and a book with blank pages for Joshua. “This is your journal for 1816,” she told him. “And let us pray it is a more peaceful year than 1815.”

“
It usually is in Edgerly,” he assured her, which made Joseph look away and cough into his napkin.

Mr. and Mrs. King presented both children with aprons, Abby's of pale pink muslin that had probably been cut down from one of Mrs. King's traveling dresses, and Josh's of canvas, which turned out to be a prelude for his present from his father of carpenter tools. “I saw what 'e was giving you yesterday, lad. Every man needs his own carpenter's apron,” Mr. King said.

Nothing would do then but they must all troop out to Joseph's workshop to see the bench Joe had made for Joshua that did not require a box to reach, and the tidy row of tools with smooth grips right for an eight-year-old's hand. While they were there, Joe pointed to a hinged box held tight in a vice. “That is for you, Mary,” he told her, and his face reddened a little when he glanced at the Kings. “I will have it done by Twelfth Night and bring it to you at Muncie Farm.” He smiled at her. “Provided you are still there. I was thinking of painting it pale green, with a brass lock, unless you have a better idea.”

She shook her head, unable to trust her voice. She thought of the presents she had received from Lord and Lady Davy through the years, not one of which had been made by hand. “I … I … wish I had something for you,” she stammered when she could talk.

Mrs. King was merciful enough to distract them all by throwing up her hands and admonishing Abby because she was faster on her feet to rush back to the kitchen and remove the sponge cake from the Rumford before it turned into char. Mary followed quickly enough herself, happy to leave the men in the workshop, comparing notes on the construction of a miter box.

When crisis, agony, and certain doom had been averted belowstairs, Mary went to the maids' room to pack, a simple task, considering that she had worn her plainest dresses of the entire Christmas season. The coachman had removed her luggage from the old carriage that traveled with the Shepards, and the sheer magnitude of it caused her to blink and wonder what her grandmother at Muncie Farm would think of such extravagance. Does a woman really need all this? she asked herself, wondering why she had ever thought it so important. I should have left some of my hats at Denton with Sara.

They ate Christmas dinner when the noon bells tolled in Edgerly, a charming tradition reserved for Christmas and Easter. Mr. King had been pleased to offer grace, and did his Methodist best with enough enthusiasm and longevity to make Joshua begin to squirm, and Mrs. King finally whisper to him that the food was getting cold, and what was worse than a shivering Christmas goose?

Mary knew she had never eaten a better meal anywhere. She was asking for Joe to pass the stuffing when Mrs. King suddenly set down her fork and stood up. “Mr. King, I think it is time for us to go,” she announced, her face calm, but her eyes tormented. “Don't we have to look for David? Won't he wonder where we are?”

“
I am certain of it, my dear,” her husband said. He rose and gently pressed her back down to her seat. “We will finish this wonderful dinner that you have made, and then we will be on our way to Scarborough.”

To Mary's amazement, Abby burst into loud sobs. She covered her face with her Christmas apron and cried into it. “I don't want you to go, Mrs. King,” she cried, getting up from the table to run from the room.

Before she could leave, Mrs. King was on her feet and clutching the child to her ample belly. There was nothing vague in her eyes now, nothing tentative in her gesture. She hugged the sobbing girl, crooning something soft. Mr. King seemed to be transfixed by this unexpected turn of events. He looked at Joe; the glance that passed between them was as easy to read as headlines on a broadside.

“
I just had a thought, Mrs. King,” Joe began. “Tell me how you feel about it. Hush, now, Abby! You may want to hear this, too.” He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Abby's a grand girl in the kitchen with the pots and pans, but did you see how she handled that rolling pin yesterday?” He shook his head. “I'm not entirely certain, but it is possible that when my cook returns tomorrow, she just might be jealous of Abby. Where will I be then?”

“
These are weighty problems, Joe,” Mr. King said, and there was no disguising the twinkle in his eyes. “You could find yourself without a cook, and forced to live on sausage and eggs.”

“…
and wassail …” Josh interjected.

“…
for a long time.” Mr. King cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to part with Abby?”

“
Well, this is a consideration,” Joe said.

Mary looked from Joe to Mrs. King, whose eyes were alert now.

“
We would give her such a home, Mr. Shepard,” the woman said. “I could certainly use the help, but more than that …” She stopped, unable to continue.

Joe didn't seem to trust his voice, either, because he waited a long moment to continue. When he did, his voice sounded altered. “We could ask Abby what she thinks. Abby? Would you be willing to go home with the Kings?”

“
You wouldn't be angry with me, would you?” Abby asked.

“
Not a bit! We would miss you, but I look on this as an opportunity for you.” Joe smiled at her. “I think you should do it.”

Mr. King looked at his wife. “Myrtle?”

“
Oh, yes, let us do this,” Mrs. King said, her voice breathless, as if someone were hugging her tight. Her eyes clouded over for a moment. “Mr. King, I think we should return to Sheffield now, and forget Scarborough this year. I hope this does not disappoint you, but Abby must come first.”

“
I agree, Mrs. K,” he replied. There was no disguising the relief in his voice, or the optimism.

Joe stood up. “I do have one condition: the three of you must return here for Christmas next year. I think we should make a tradition of it. What do you think, Mary?”

There he was, including her again. “I think it is a capital notion,” she said.

“
Then we all agree,” Joe said. “Abby, Happy Christmas.”

The Kings and Abby left when the dishes were done, their driver smiling so broadly that Mary thought his face would surely split. Abby hugged Joe for a long moment then whispered, “Mr. Shepard, I think you should go to the workhouse and ask for Sally Bawn. She cried and cried when you picked me in September.”

“
Sally Bawn, it is,” he said. “I will tell her she comes highly recommended.” He kissed her cheek and gave her a pat in the direction of the Kings. “That may be the wisest thing anyone ever did,” he said to no one in particular as the post chaise rolled south. “Mary, it's your turn. Joshua, shall we take her to Muncie Farm?”

She blushed over the amount of luggage she had, but Joe got what he could into the spring wagon and assured her he would bring the rest tomorrow. Joshua climbed into the back, and he gave her a hand up onto the high seat. “Not exactly posh transportation,” he said in apology. “I could probably hire a post chaise, but I'd rather not trouble the innkeeper on Christmas.”