Page 12 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

The little girl looked away. The Frenchman’s heart gave a sharp tug.

‘Please, petite , do tell me why you are all alone? Where is your family?’ And this time the child looked to the old man, moving her mouth in a whisper.

‘Forgive me,’ said Beno?t, ‘but you must raise your voice, for my hearing is not what it was.’ Here he hesitated.

‘Cannon fire, you see. In Russia. Perforated eardrum. Do you understand?’

At this the little girl cocked her head, and took a small step forwards.

‘What are your chickens called?’

Such relief the monsieur felt at hearing the child speak! And oh, what a forlorn and quiet little voice it was too. It made his heart reach out to her all the more.

‘Why,’ said he in reply, ‘how rude of me – I introduced myself and not them! Tsk tsk , such ill manners shall not do. I will rectify them immediately.’

Beno?t crossed the clearing and untethered his hens, raising their leads to urge them forwards one by one.

‘Here is Espoir. Handsome, n’est-ce pas ? But then, he knows it too. See how he preens?’

And he was preening. Glad to be released from the holly tree, Espoir was at that moment ferreting about with his beak in his black feathers, ruffling the tiny white flecks scattered within.

‘Do not judge him though,’ continued Beno?t, pressing a knowing finger to his nose. ‘He is the sweetest, most docile breed. Very friendly. You may pet him, if you like – he is rather partial to a little chuck under the chin.’

The monsieur was not sure if the little girl would oblige, but after a moment’s hesitation she approached. Beno?t tried not to notice how red her fingers were as she bent to caress Espoir’s sleek feathers, and when she did the fowl tilted his head with a spirited cluck .

‘There, see, he likes you,’ Beno?t declared, to which the little girl smiled in reply, and what a lovely smile she had; it lit up her sweet cherub face so beautifully one might forget it was covered with dirt.

A veritable doll would she be, if someone only took to the care of her.

‘I assumed,’ he continued, ‘that Espoir was a girl, like the others when I bought him. An oversight by the young lad when he sorted them at market, I’m sure.

I thought I’d have more eggs for breakfast, so when my little Houdan turned out to be un male it was quite the shock. ’

The child stood up straighter then, pressed her little hands once more into her filthy skirts.

‘What’s her name?’ she asked, nodding at the white hen which lingered close to her master’s leg.

Beno?t beamed. ‘That is my little Charité. She is partial to the attention of children for she does so like to be cuddled. Though she is, it must be said, a little shy.’

He had chosen his words with care. Not that it was a falsehood, for Charité could be shy around strangers, but the monsieur wanted to ascertain the depth of the child’s shyness and see if he might be able to draw her out further, for he had decided then and there that she should be brought back to Wakely Hall.

Conscience, and yes, guilt, would not allow him to abandon her.

Glorious winter’s day that it was, the light would soon draw in and the cold turn bitter and sharp in the night air.

But would the girl’s shyness, her caution (for Beno?t perceived no fear in her at that present moment), allow him to escort her to safety and warmth?

He was about to broach the subject, when the little doll asked:

‘Why are her legs blue?’

Beno?t blinked, and had to recall himself before answering.

‘Because, ma chérie , she is a Bresse. Such markings are typical of the breed. She is quite striking, is she not? Isn’t her red comb pretty?’

The little girl nodded, but turned her head.

‘I like this one.’

It was to the last of his hens she was referring, who at present was pecking at the shrivelled shell of an acorn nestled in the hoarfrost.

‘Ah,’ Beno?t said knowingly, ‘my lovely brown La Flèche. ’Tis her tail you like, oui ?’ and the child nodded again. ‘Peacock plumage. Particularly handsome when the sun shines on it. All those splendid rainbows! Oh, yes, my little Foi is a beauty indeed.’

The child looked thoughtful.

‘Please, sir, what does Foi mean?’ she asked, looking at him with such innocent interest that the Frenchman’s kind heart gave another little turn in his chest.

‘Why, mademoiselle , it means Faith.’

Her small face coloured as if the answer pleased her, which in turn pleased him.

‘Espoir means Hope,’ he said next, ‘and Charité … can you guess?’

The little girl’s eyebrows drew together in thought. ‘Charity,’ came the answer, and Beno?t clapped his hands in pleasure.

‘ Mais oui! Splendid, little one, splendid.’

The question of course was not a difficult one with the word being so similar in sound to its English counterpart, but nonetheless Beno?t sensed that here was a little girl of education; he was convinced now she must have originally come from respectable stock.

Where else might she have come into possession of a shawl of pale pink embroidered with tiny satin roselets?

Where else might she have inherited the pleasing way in which she spoke?

This was no farmer’s daughter, no milkmaid. But who was she?

There really could be no other call for it – the child simply must return to Wakely Hall with him, and he could only hope the Pépins would discover the child’s identity in due course.

‘I wonder, ma chérie ,’ said he, ‘did you enjoy your plum pudding?’

The delighted smile which had crossed the girl’s face in consequence to Beno?t’s praise wavered. Almost fearful again, she gave a small nod.

‘Well, then, you must come along to the house and we can ask Mrs Denby for a plum pudding of your own.’ Immediately she began to shake her head, but Beno?t would not be dissuaded from his duty.

‘Oh do, mademoiselle ! You would not be disappointed, of that I can assure.’ He assumed a thoughtful expression.

‘If plum puddings are not to your taste, I am sure another culinary delight could be found. Mrs Denby is quite famous around these parts for her roast goose dinners. Besides,’ he added, as the little girl’s eyes grew large and hungersome, ‘it will be warm at Wakely Hall. A bed can be found for you there, somewhere comfortable to shield you from this horrible cold.’

It was at that moment there came an icy breeze that wove its way through the leafless trees, sending a shudder through the Frenchman on the very spot where he stood; the child clutched at her threadbare shawl, and even the three hens trilled at the change in the air.

Beno?t raised his nose to the sky, then looked down at the child in all seriousness.

‘There will be more snow tonight,’ he said, more firmly than he had spoken to her before, for he was keen to press his point. ‘Come, chérie . Surely you do not wish to spend the night outside, again, alone?’

If Beno?t de Fortgibu had harboured any doubts that the child had not spent more than one night sleeping in the wilds of Merrywake, these doubts were quashed in that very instant, for the girl’s pale eyes shone then with tears.

‘Very good,’ the monsieur said with a smile.

It was one of relief, but to the girl he hoped it portrayed only sincerity and warmth.

‘Perhaps you might wish to walk Foi for me? She can be a boisterous little chick when she wishes, but with you, petite , I believe she will be quite at ease. Besides,’ he added with a small laugh to lighten the mood once more, ‘three hens can be an awful handful. You would be doing me a great service.’

Shyly the child held out her hand, and Beno?t placed Foi’s little red lead into her dirty palm.

‘Shall we?’

And so off they went. Their progress was slow for the poor girl had sprained her ankle, but Beno?t patiently guided her from the clearing – back through the woodland, onto the path, up towards the iron gate.

Once more he lifted his arm and the leads of Espoir and Charité to allow easy passage through the narrow gap, and a little way behind him the child did the same.

What a fast learner she was, the Frenchman thought as he turned left to complete the circle that would take him and his new companion back to the entranceway of Wakely Hall. Such quick wits, such gentle manners!

Whoever could have abandoned her?

They walked in silence at first, for this was a thought that deeply troubled him; the ghost of the Krasny girl would not leave him, and so too his memories of émile.

How could such a sweet innocent boy grow up to become the man he so evidently became?

The Frenchman pictured the child émile in that moment – rosy-cheeked with eyes aglow at the taste of rich currants and orange zest, a smile of pure pleasure upon his cherubic face.

How similar the little girl at his side had looked, and Beno?t found himself compelled to speak of the comparison.

‘You will not be the first enfant I have converted to the joys of plum pudding,’ he murmured as the girl limped beside him down the woodland lane.

‘I once met a boy in my home city of Orléans. I was visiting the boarding school there.’ Here Beno?t paused and managed a small conspiratorial smile.

‘I delivered a lecture on the intelligence of chickens, would you believe, and he was seated at my table. The school knew of my love of plum pudding and was kind enough to procure one for me. But, as with yourself, I shared my pudding with young émile. He had never encountered one before and was most perplexed by it, but I urged him to try a slice and to my delight he found it just as pleasing as I did. Now you have tasted some for yourself, I am sure you would agree.’

She did not answer, but the monsieur did not expect her to. His only intention at that moment was to keep the girl safely with him and not scare the poor dear away the nearer they reached the hall.