Page 48 of A Winter’s Romance
“ T here you are, Mr. Fortescue,” she said as naturally as she could. “Now please won’t you all sit down? You too, Papa!” She raised her voice to her father, who, once the carolers had gone, had returned to his book. He looked up and, gesturing to the table, she said, “Supper, dear,” then went into the kitchen.
Wilf looked up at his master. “I don’t got t’ sit in ‘ere, do I, Guv’nor? I’ll be better off in the kitchen.”
Mr. Fortescue nodded and followed him in that direction. “Miss Wilberforce,” he said, ducking his head through the kitchen door, “Wilf would much rather eat out here, if you don’t mind. He’s, er, unaccustomed to society manners.”
Elisabeth laughed. “So are we! I’m afraid you’ll find the distinctions of class quite lacking here, but it’s as he wishes. I want him to be comfortable.” She smiled at Wilf, who blushed.
Supper turned out to be a soup of mostly vegetables, flavored with a little bacon, and served with bread and cheese, with mince tarts to follow. After the heavy and ill-cooked meal he’d been forced to consume earlier, Mr. Fortescue found it perfect. The conversation turned to politics, into which Mr. Wilberforce joined with an enthusiasm that surprised their visitor. There was a lively and often humorous exchange of views. It became clear that though they lived in a very retired way in the country, they were quite well informed; Mr. Wilberforce received regular letters from London. More than that they did not say, and their visitor was too well-mannered to ask.
Once the supper dishes were cleared away, Mr. Wilberforce returned to his seat, and his daughter announced she was going to bring in the holly and ivy to decorate the hearth.
“Let me help you,” offered their guest. He was more and more fascinated by this woman who talked London politics one minute and washed dishes the next.
“Oh, the holly is frightfully fierce this year,” she said, “It pulled my shawl all to bits when I approached it. I should hate for your fine clothes to be damaged. Or for your lovely boots to be scratched.”
Mr. Fortescue, to whom an injured coat meant no more than a trip to his tailor to order a new one, and whose boots were as a rule tenderly polished every day by his valet, using a mixture of champagne and wax, laughed this off. “It’s the least I can do,” he said, “to repay your hospitality.”
“I’m a-comin’ too,” pronounced Wilf, who had decided Miss Wilberforce was a bang-up mort for whom he was more than willing to receive a scratch or two.
Elizabeth took an ancient handsaw from the dark recesses of the kitchen, the three of them donned their coats, hats, and gloves and went out the back door of the cottage. Neat furrows of an extensive vegetable garden could be seen, the ice on them glistening in the moonlight. “Brr! It’s so cold,” said Elisabeth. “I should have done this earlier, but I got caught up with baking the mince pies, then you arrived and…”
“All the more reason for us to help,” replied Mr. Fortescue, taking the saw from her hands and attacking the holly with it. “Ouch, you brute! And through my gloves, too! But I shall prevail. Which branches do you want, Miss Wilberforce?”
“How lucky you’re so tall!” she said. “The branches with the best berries are always above my head. Look! Those there.”
In a few minutes, three or four branches with good loads of bright berries lay on the sacking Elisabeth had brought out for the purpose.
They then pulled strips of ivy from the side of the henhouse, causing a few disgruntled shufflings inside. Wilf carried the ivy cuttings into the kitchen, while his master wrapped up the holly in the sacking and did the same.
“What I usually do is make small loops of string on the holly to hang it on the mantle,” said Miss Wilberforce. “There are hooks on it from years ago. Then I festoon it with the ivy. But the holly fights you all the way. No wonder it’s always been considered the male plant. Did you know that? The smooth ivy leaves represent the female.”
“That seems a little unfair,” protested Mr. Fortescue. “I’ve known a number of women with very sharp tongues.”
“Of course! But we women mostly hide our sharpness. Men are much more direct. Ivy climbs up things using tiny little claws you don’t even notice. But holly, once you get past the thorns, is defenseless.” She laughed.
It turned out that Wilf, with his small, strong hands, was especially adept at making the string loops on the holly, so it wasn’t long before the shiny green leaves and red berries adorned the mantle. The ivy was then festooned over and under it. They all stood back, admiring their handiwork.
“Now we drink a cup of the mulled cider to toast the holly and the ivy,” said Elisabeth. “It’s supposed to ensure fertility, though that’s hardly appropriate in this house.”
“I don’t know, daughter,” said her father, speaking up suddenly. “Mr. Pounds has been showing you a marked attention these past months.”
“Who’s Mr. Pounds?” asked Mr. Fortescue, before he could stop himself.
“The curate,” Elisabeth answered. “You’ll see him in church tonight.”
If her visitor had some lingering reluctance to go to the services that night, it immediately disappeared.
Suddenly, the bell ringing stopped. In fact, they had ceased to hear it, and the silence smote their ears more than the sound.
“Oh! They’ve come to the end of the peal!” said Elisabeth. “We’ll need to get ready for church soon. It will take us about half an hour to walk there, so we need to leave around half past ten. I’ll just run up and change my gown. I won’t be long.”
She wasn’t long, but in any case, most of the time was taken up in changing the sheets on her bed. She replaced them with the best set they had: the only ones not sewn ends-to-middle to get a bit more wear out of them. Then she took her slippers from under her bed and her nightgown and robe from behind the door, blushing to think Mr. Fortescue must have seen them earlier. That done, she quickly changed her gown, ran her fingers through her braids and deftly brushed her curls up onto the top of her head. She fiercely secured them with pins, hoping they wouldn’t work loose before they even left the house. Then she bundled up her old gown with her nightclothes, and took them and her sheets into her father’s room.
As she came downstairs, Mr. Fortescue watched her as she had watched him. Her boots peeped out from under the hem of a green silk gown that he knew immediately was not of recent vintage. The skirts were fuller than the prevailing mode, but had the advantage, he observed with appreciation, of fitting into her trim waist. A fine shawl hung from the crooks of her elbows. The décolleté of the bodice revealed a tantalizing glimpse of the tops of her breasts, and her slim, white neck held a head crowned by a riot of red-brown curls. He, the darling of the ton for the past five seasons and object of innumerable attempts to engage his interest, thought he had never seen a more alluring woman.