Page 11 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

It was a charming sight – the trees sparkled in the sunlight, and with the sky being so very blue the snow was lent a similar hue.

The sun cast shafts of hazy light through the bare branches, illuminating a half-frozen stream which emitted a gentle bubbling sound and, in any other circumstance, Beno?t might have been drawn to rest a while beside it.

But no such rest could be had, for there was his little Foi lingering on the stream’s icy bank looking down upon – Mon Dieu!

– what looked to be the body of a little girl.

What the Frenchman felt in that moment could not be described, but his heart pounded hard in his chest as a memory assaulted him – still so painful, still so raw, after all these years – and swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he beckoned Foi to return to him.

Foi did as she was bidden, and with trembling hands Beno?t tied the leads of all three hens to a nearby holly tree. Unused to being tethered, they lifted their tiny heads and each began to emit little nervous chatters.

‘Hush now,’ he murmured, and experiencing then a terrible sense of dread Beno?t approached the stream cautiously. He knew not if the child were alive, but when he found himself some three yards away Beno?t whispered hopefully, ‘ Mademoiselle? ’

There came no answer. Beno?t wondered what to do. He certainly could not leave her.

Not after what happened in Krasny.

Cautiously (for he was not as lithe as he once had been) Beno?t inched his way down the bank.

The earth was hard and cold where the water had not reached, but further down, the sluggish current lapped at the muddy verge.

Though he was intent on keeping his footing, Beno?t fearfully glanced at the child – the icy water did not touch her, be praised, but her cheeks were pale and streaked with dirt.

Even her dark hair held within its strands the crusted dusting of ice.

The poor, poor thing. Had she been in Wakely Forest all night?

Soon Beno?t reached her. Afraid to touch her in that moment, he watched the girl in the hope that he might detect the rise and fall of her little chest. Then he did detect it, and relief flooded the Frenchman like a balm.

‘ Mademoiselle? ’ he whispered again. ‘Can you hear me?’

When no response came, as gently as Beno?t dared, he reached out to touch the little girl’s forehead. It was freezing, which did so frighten him that Beno?t gripped the child’s shoulder and shook it hard.

‘ Petite , wake up. You must wake!’

Perhaps it was the force of his shake that woke her, or the desperation in his voice, but the girl’s eyes shot open. Beno?t’s profound relief was immediately dashed however as the poor child emitted a terrified squeal and scrambled to her feet in a desperate attempt to flee.

‘Oh, please,’ Beno?t cried, trying to hold her still. ‘Please do not run!’

But the child could not run, for he saw now that her ankle was trapped between the sinewy branches of a tree, its roots submerged in the hoarfrosted bank of the stream.

Down the girl fell, and crying pitifully she scraped at the earth in a bid to escape him.

A tattered shawl fell from her shoulders, and in that moment he found himself not in the pleasant peaceful county of ——shire, but back in the harsh frost-bitten fields of Krasny, looking into the petrified eyes of a girl dressed in rags.

He had pleaded with her to retreat to the safety of the village, reached out to her in desperation – to shoo her away, to take her onto his horse, he knew not – only to watch in horror as a cannonball blew her little legs from under her.

She had taken minutes to die, in which all Beno?t could do was hold her tiny hand until the light faded from her button eyes, her whimpers drowned out by the sounds of battle that continued on around them.

The memory was so chilling that, quite unable to stop himself, the Frenchman uttered a hollow cry, and the sound was enough for this girl to squeal again and redouble her efforts to escape.

‘ Mademoiselle! Arrêt! ’

His French appeared to shock the child – she stopped her struggles and stared at Beno?t in alarm. Hoping to alleviate her panic, he released his grip on her shoulder.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to alarm you. But I saw you here and oh, what a fright you did give me! I thought for a moment you were dead.’

The comment seemed to calm the child somewhat, for she wiped her runny nose and ducked her head, awkwardly wringing her skirts, whereupon a great feeling of pity and tenderness swept over Beno?t.

‘Come now,’ he said gently. ‘Will you permit me to release your ankle from its trap? It must be hurting you dreadfully. I shall not harm you,’ he added, when the girl stiffened. ‘You have my word of honour, petite , I assure you.’

She raised her gaze to his. Of course, the poor child could not know for certain that Beno?t would not harm her, but she must have seen something in the old man’s kindly eyes, or heard the sincerity in his tone, or perhaps saw his fine manner of dress, which convinced her to very slowly nod.

Gently, Beno?t began to move the branches of the trunk. It took a minute or two, for they were fiddly and did not bend easily, but soon the little girl’s ankle was free.

‘Can you stand, mademoiselle ?’

The girl tested her weight on the foot which had been trapped, and though she winced she offered another tiny nod.

Just like the child in Krasny, this girl appeared to be no more than eight years of age.

She wore a dress most unsuitable for the season, being thin and of paisley fare.

Her boots were scuffed with mud, her pale cheeks and bare arms patterned with dirt, and her dark hair was a veritable rat’s nest. As she wrapped the dirty rose shawl she wore tighter about her shoulders, Beno?t saw on closer inspection it appeared once to have been fine, having clearly been a pretty shade of pale pink.

Little satin roselets were sewn into the shawl’s tattered hem.

This shocked him. Beno?t had assumed the girl was a vagrant, a pauper child with no home to call her own, which of course was bad enough though not, regretfully, unusual. But for a child of quality to be out in such treacherous conditions was exceedingly strange indeed.

‘My dear girl,’ said the monsieur, wonderingly. ‘Where is your family?’

There came no answer.

‘’Tis a very cold day to be outside,’ he tried carefully. ‘Do you have nowhere to go?’

At this she gave a small shake of the head.

What to do, what to do!

Well, what to do before anything else, Beno?t realised, was return to the safety of the forest floor, and so the Frenchman said:

‘Come, little one. Let us climb free.’

This feat too, took some minutes, for though the child was sprightly enough, Beno?t was not – his old knees had stiffened, and therefore he was slow.

It crossed his mind as he scrambled up the bank that the little girl would run from him the first moment she reached the clearing, and he was in no fit state to stop her.

Run she did not, though – she waited for him patiently, and when he reached the top of the bank she even held out her hand to assist.

‘ Merci, petite. Merci! ’

And so there they both were – standing in a charming sunlit woodland clearing looking thoroughly bedraggled, and the irony of it was not lost on Beno?t.

He would have laughed, if he had not been so anxious that by doing so he might frighten her off.

She may have helped him up the bank, but she was still watching him warily.

For a moment he was quite at a loss what to say to her, until – the child having licked her lips – a thought occurred.

‘Are you hungry?’

From his coat pocket Beno?t removed a small and rather misshapen napkin-wrapt bundle.

Of course, one could easily and rightly guess what said napkin might contain; inside it was the last slice of his daily plum pudding, which he had intended to save for a mid-walk refreshment, and Beno?t smiled what he hoped was a kindly smile.

‘Some plum pudding for you, ma chérie . And though in our little escapade it has become a trifle squashed, I assure you it will still taste delicious. Here,’ he added, spying a large rock at the clearing’s verge which would serve perfectly well on which to place his offering, ‘I shall leave it here … just so … and you may help yourself. I shall not take one step closer.’

The little girl regarded the plum pudding, unsure.

But in an instant her hunger overrode any doubts she might have had at taking it, and so she proceeded to limp towards the rock.

In all of three mouthfuls the slice was gone, and Beno?t could not help smiling at the look of delight on the child’s face.

‘See, petite , was that not nice?’

The child managed another small nod, but still she said nothing.

Was the poor thing mute? Beno?t wondered.

Well, what a terrible thing if so. But then, he reasoned, she had voice enough to cry when he woke her.

Perhaps she was still afraid of him and needed drawing out.

With a flourish of his hand the monsieur took a deep and formal bow, ignoring the painful creak in his knees.

‘My name, mademoiselle , is Beno?t de Fortgibu. And these are my feathered friends.’ Here he gestured to Foi, Espoir and Charité still tethered to the holly tree, and her gaze fell to the three hens in doe-eyed wonderment.

‘We are newly arrived in Merrywake as guests of Viscount and Viscountess Pépin. Do you know the Pépins, chérie ?’

Of course she did not – she could not possibly – but that was by the by.

‘They are a delightful family,’ continued the monsieur, quite determined to continue this conversational mode of discourse, ‘most kind and most generous. The viscountess especially would be extremely distressed to find one such as yourself all alone, especially at Christmastime.’