Page 13 of A Sea View Christmas (On Devonshire Shores)
She smiled softly in reply and laced her arm through his. “You may.”
On St. Thomas Day, Sarah and the others gathered in the hall, waiting for Viola and Jack to come from Westmount in their carriage.
When they arrived, Jack helped Mr. Henshall and Mr. Gwilt carry out the heavier baskets, while the others carried the lighter items. Mamma, however, had decided to stay home and rest. She said she was feeling tired after a poor night’s sleep. Sarah hoped that’s all it was.
Viola and Effie rode in the carriage with the gifts, while Jack, Sarah, Georgie, and Mr. Henshall walked, the Scotsman carrying his guitar case. Thankfully the December day was temperate and sunny, far milder than the bitter cold and heavy snow of the previous winter.
Arriving at the poor house, they all helped carry the gifts inside while Effie held the door.
Miss Reed was no longer in residence, having married Simon Hornbeam, but their dear friend Mrs. Denby was still there, as were two retired fishermen, and a few new residents they had yet to meet.
Viola went around knocking on the residents’ doors to announce their arrival and came back pushing Mrs. Denby in her wheeled chair.
When all had gathered, they passed out gifts to sincere exclamations of appreciation, and Sarah noticed one elderly man discreetly wipe a tear from his eye.
“I don’t suppose you’d care for a song?” Mr. Henshall asked with a lift of his instrument case.
Mrs. Denby answered for them all. “Indeed we would. What a treat!”
He opened his case, and one of the old fishermen asked, “What’s that, then?”
“A Scottish guittar .”
“Never heard ’a one of them. Let’s hear it.”
He led them first in an old Christmas carol sung in the West Country for hundreds of years.
“The first Nowel that the Angel did say
Was to certain poor Shepherds in fields where they lay;
In fields where they lay, keeping their sheep,
In a cold Winter’s night that was so deep.
Nowel, Nowel, Nowel, Nowel, Born is the King of Israel.”
The residents joined in, warbly voices and shining faces raised. When the song ended, everyone applauded, and Mrs. Denby asked for another. Mr. Henshall led them in another traditional carol, “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.”
As he played and sang, Sarah admired his handsome face earnestly intent on his song, and his rich, pleasing voice.
His fingers moved skillfully over the guitar strings, and she recalled him trying to teach her to play at a summer picnic during his last visit.
He’d knelt behind her, his arms around her, his hands on hers, guiding her fingers to the strings.
She’d felt his breath tickling her ear, and the warmth of his chest at her back, the close position strangely intimate and thrilling. ...
People around her began clapping, which yanked Sarah from her reverie back to the present. She belatedly joined the applause.
After the singing, they remained awhile longer to chat with the residents. Mrs. Denby summoned Sarah over and asked to meet “your young man.”
Hoping he did not notice the flush surely moving up her neck, Sarah introduced the two.
“Ah yes,” he politely replied. “We met in passing the night of the flood, though I don’t believe we were formally introduced. An honor, ma’am.”
“You’re a handsome one. Fine voice too. And a keen eye if you’ve taken notice of our Sarah here. What a catch she would be, pretty and kind and an excellent baker too....”
Supremely self-conscious to be praised in Mr. Henshall’s hearing, Sarah felt the flush scald her cheeks now as well.
“I have indeed taken notice, and I wholeheartedly agree with ye.” He gave the woman a crooked grin.
Pleasure flowed through Sarah at his words, and Mrs. Denby giggled in delight. Though her laughter ended in a cough.
Viola was instantly at her side. “Are you all right?”
“Oh yes. Throat’s a little dry from all that singing.”
Then, after wishing them a happy Christmas, they bid the dear folks farewell. Viola helped Mrs. Denby back to her room, with a promise to collect her for the Christmas services followed by dinner with the family.
As they left, Sarah walked beside Mr. Henshall. “Thank you. Music was an excellent addition to our gift giving, and we all enjoyed hearing you play.”
“My pleasure, Miss Summers. Any time.”
When Sarah returned to Sea View, she went belowstairs to see if Mrs. Besley had started a batch of wassail, but their cook was not in the kitchen. Lowen was sitting in a chair in the corner, peeling parsnips. He said, “She’s feeling poorly today. Went back to her room.”
“Oh no, what’s wrong?”
He hesitated. “Better ask her.”
Although the two elderly retainers were of similar age, usually it was Lowen who was laid low with some ailment or another. Mrs. Besley had remained hale and spry, at least compared to him.
Concern flaring, Sarah went down the passage and knocked on the door to the cook’s bedchamber.
“Come in.”
Sarah tentatively opened the door and was disconcerted to see Mrs. Besley in bed during the day, something Sarah had never witnessed before. Her foot was wrapped in flannel and propped on a pillow.
“Sorry, Miss Sarah. This foot is paining me something fierce.”
“Oh dear. Did you injure it somehow?”
“No, miss. I’m embarrassed to say it’s an attack of the gout. Plagued my mother too, when she was even younger than I am. Thought I’d escaped it, but no.”
Sarah’s concern mounted. Gout could be debilitating. “Are you sure that’s what it is? I thought only men suffered from gout.”
“More men, yes. Though women too. Runs in my family, sad to say. No doubt all the rich food I prepare and partake of here does not help.”
“Shall I call for the doctor?”
“No need. Though if someone could find the Epsom salts and perhaps buy some oil of wormwood from the apothecary? And goutweed, if he has any?”
“Of course. Straightaway.”
Sarah tasked Mr. Gwilt with the errand, then returned to her workroom, thoughts in a tangle.
First Emily leaving and now their cook laid up?
Was God trying to tell her something? She pushed the unhappy notion aside and began preparing the batch of wassail—spiced cider topped with roasted apple slices—as well as gingerbread and small mince pies.
She knew some groups of men or lads went “wassailing” on St. Thomas Day, while others did so on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or even Twelfth Night. Either way, she wanted to be prepared.
Since moving to Sidmouth, Sarah had learned that in cider-producing counties like Devonshire and Somerset the old wassailing tradition also included blessing the apple trees in local orchards in hopes of an abundant harvest in the coming year.
Sure enough, at dusk, a group of young men and boys came up Sea View’s drive, their leader carrying a lantern. Sarah recognized the apprentice Billy Hook among them—the lad who shot through Woolbrook’s nursery window during the Duke and Duchess of Kent’s stay last year.
The group sang,
“Wassail! Wassail! All over the town!
Our toast it is white and our drink it is brown; Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree; With the wassailing bowl, we’ll sing to thee.”
And,
“Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green;
Here we come a-wand’ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too;
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year.”
Drawn by their singing, more boisterous than melodious, people from around the house gathered at the door. Georgie opened it and stood there listening, arms crossed.
When they finished singing, they held out earthenware cups, which this group carried instead of one large bowl.
Georgiana said, “You’re a bit early, Billy Hook. Are you not?”
“Not a bit of it. It’s the day for charitable giving, after all.” He winked and held forth his cup.
Sarah brought out the gingerbread and mince pies, while Mr. Henshall carried the heavier pitcher of cider. Together they walked among the group, distributing their rewards. Mr. Henshall paused to clap one youth on the shoulder, saying, “Fine voice, lad.”
The ginger-haired boy flushed as red as his hair with equal parts pleasure and embarrassment.
The revelers wished them prosperity, drank to their health, and then moved on to another house.
Sarah watched them go, then turned to Mr. Henshall. “After that raucous music, I think we need something pleasanter to ease our ears. Will you oblige us?”
“Twice in one day?” he asked, brows high. “I don’t wish to weary ye with my simple songs.”
“Not at all,” Sarah encouraged him. “I for one should never tire of hearing you.”
He looked at her quickly at that, as did the others. Sarah’s ears heated. Ease our ears , indeed. She attempted an unaffected smile and gestured them all into the parlour.