Page 1 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

STAVE I.

Of Fruits so too was the lady considered a veritable beauty and her smiling suitor extremely handsome.

To many, these facts alone were enough to soothe any niggling doubts that might have lingered.

Who, after all, could deny the happiness present on the young couple’s faces as they stood before one another at the candlelit altar?

Yet it could also not be denied that Seigneur Nicolas Toussaint was a Frenchman, a matter which roused much mistrust.

Of course, it was widely known the Pépins were of French extraction themselves, but that family had long been settled in Merrywake, where four out of the five daughters were brought into the world, all of them educated in the manner of English customs and so very well too that one scarce remembered to hold their lineage against them.

Viscount Pépin himself stated publicly he had no sympathy for ‘Little Boney’ and his now-thwarted ambitions, and if it had not been for an old childhood injury in his left shoulder the viscount would have willingly fought under Wellington’s helm.

With no sons to call to military order, the Pépins were far removed from the conflicts which had so long reigned overseas.

Yet not all the residents of Merrywake could boast of such a remove.

The twilight days of 1816 saw Wakely Church’s pews possessed of vacant seats once belonging to sons and husbands, cousins and nephews, so too fathers and brothers, and though it was Christmas Day and a wedding at that (which should have occasioned utmost joy in the hearts of everyone in attendance), the sight of Toussaint sliding a gold ring onto his pretty wife’s finger still felt rather raw to some.

For Miss Frances Partridge – sitting as far back in the church as propriety would allow considering her position as lady’s maid – she gave not one fig her mistress had fallen in love with a Frenchman, beyond what such a circumstance would mean for her future.

Frances teased the skirts of her finest wool gown between cold-tipped fingers and kept her head assiduously bent, making sure as she always did not to raise her eyes in the event she might catch a certain someone’s gaze.

That was a hurt long buried, but as the happy couple proceeded down the aisle and Juliette (who understandably only had eyes for her new husband) did not look her way, Frances felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

How different matters would be if she had married.

If fate had not so unhappily turned against her all those years before, then she would never have been forced into the position of abigail at all, and now, for her prospects to be once again in question, and so late in life, too …

She pressed the old locket which rested beneath her dress, felt the coolness of silver against the thin skin of her chest. Unbidden, the memory of a stolen kiss impinged upon her mind, and in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness Frances did raise her eyes to look to the man who had only moments ago performed the ceremony, but he had already departed the altar.

Frustrated with herself for letting the memory thus affect her, Frances stood and followed the congregation outside just in time to see Juliette throw her bouquet of pink spray roses into the air, which fell into the waiting hands of Miss Prudence Brown, causing gasps of unladylike outrage from three of the four remaining Pépin daughters.

The girls pouted at the now giddy housemaid before sliding their eyes balefully to their eldest sister, who simply shook her head at them with affection.

Smiling, happy, kind-hearted Juliette – how like her to treat her sisters’ foibles in such a manner!

It was this generous mark of character Frances would greatly miss.

The week before, Juliette had asked if she might be prevailed upon to quit Merrywake and continue on with her as a companion, whereupon Frances might accustom herself to a more ‘peaceful’ way of living, but the idea of leaving the village in which she had spent her whole life was a most distressing thought, and Frances had declined the offer.

Sixty-eight was far too great an age to be gallivanting across Europe.

No, she would be better off staying where she was.

To stay meant continuing her service to the other girls, and since none of them were yet in possession of marriage prospects of their own, Frances’ position was secure for at least some years hence. But oh, what a disagreeable fate!

In truth, Juliette and Charlotte were the only daughters with whom Frances had no trouble – Juliette, due to her gentle nature and Charlotte, because she had no interest in being ‘fussed over’, much to the distress of the viscountess who had long bemoaned her third child’s disregard for ladylike behaviour.

But Maria, Louisa and Rosalie … Frances disguised her sigh with an over-bright smile as Toussaint helped his bride into the chaise, and raised her hand to wave.

Well, those other Pépin girls were most wearisome.

She would not lose Juliette quite yet, at least, Frances reminded herself as the vehicle’s wheels made their first rumbling turn, set in motion by Toussaint’s own prize stallion.

The chaise was only to take the couple back to Wakely Hall, for the viscount and viscountess had quite insisted upon their daughter staying with the family until Twelfth Day, whereafter the seigneur and new seigneuresse would finally begin their journey on to Paris.

Paris. A place so very far from dear quiet Merrywake.

But the alternative, Frances thought, as Rosalie – crying in a most aggravating fashion for a girl approaching eighteen – was led away by her mother to their waiting carriage, the other Pépins following closely behind … perhaps she could yet change her mind.

‘Miss Partridge?’

‘Oh, Mrs Denby,’ Frances said, turning to look into the red-cheeked face of Wakely’s cook. ‘Such a lovely service, did you not think?’

‘Quite charming,’ Bess Denby agreed, ‘and how like Miss Juliette to think to invite the servants. We were all so happy to be asked.’

The pair looked after the departing chaise, its white ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and Frances forced a smile.

‘Indeed, she has no airs or graces. But then, her parents are much the same – they treat us all with just as much civility and kindness as they do everyone.’

At that moment the Pépin carriage trundled by, led by the Wakely coachman and a pair of handsome dappled greys. Though the windows were shut against the creeping cold, the sound of Rosalie’s crying could be clearly heard through the glass and Frances and Mrs Denby shared a knowing look.

‘Such a singular girl, dear Juliette. So unlike her sisters. You shall miss her dreadfully.’

‘And I will worry for her dreadfully, too. To go to Paris, so soon after …’ Frances shook her head. ‘But Seigneur Toussaint tells me the city has been occupied by our English soldiers. No harm will come to her, he rests assured.’

Not one second after the words left her mouth did Mrs Denby’s eyes fill, and Frances bit her tongue.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, softening her voice. ‘I had not meant to remind you of …’

The cook gave a smile that did not quite hide her pain, but patted her hand.

‘I hoped I might beg a small favour of you,’ said she as two of the servants’ traps departed after the Pépin carriage.

Mrs Denby’s gaze drifted to another being boarded by some of the lower servants, all of whom were in fervent high spirits, especially Miss Brown who looked pleased as punch with her new rose bouquet.

‘Of course,’ replied Frances. ‘How might I assist?’

The other woman hesitated. ‘Well, we have so much to do already back up at the hall. I should ask one of them by rights –’ and here she gestured to the lowers on the newly boarded trap – ‘but being of local stock they’ve been allowed the afternoon to spend with their families on Christmas Day, and I did not want—’

‘Mrs Denby,’ Frances interrupted. ‘Pray, take breath and try again.’

The cook glanced away to a point beyond Frances’ shoulder and back once more.

‘’Tis just the viscount wishes for some pears to adorn the garlands for the ball, and it’s no secret that Reverend Soppe’s orchard boasts the best ones this time of year.’

Something much like a sharp sliver of cold pierced her chest as she understood to where the cook’s glance had gone: the small copse of trees behind the church.

‘Oh no,’ Frances found herself whispering. ‘Surely there is somebody else you can ask?’

A look of regret crossed Mrs Denby’s round face.

‘To be sure, there is no one. Mrs Wilson refuses to spare the uppers on such a menial task, and I cannot for I’ve so much to do myself.

Venison to prepare, syllabubs to make … It would delay me even further.

Since you have been given the whole day,’ Mrs Denby finished, ‘I thought you might be willing to assist.’

The sliver slid from the confines of Frances’ chest right down into her stomach where it stuck like an icicle.