Page 13 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Six years ago,’ he continued, his smile fading once again, ‘I encountered the fellow again. A man of nineteen and by then a promising poet. Two years later his La Paix Conquise was so admired it even won the praise of Napoleon. Old Boney told me so himself.’

Beno?t swallowed.

It was the same Russian campaign, some days before they reached Krasny.

While the snow had not yet started to fall in earnest the cold was impenetrable; the troops set up their white tents for the night as an icy wind shot sharply about the camp, the French flags billowed up a frenzy, and while the soldiers shivered about their meagre fires Napoleon sat wrapt in sumptuous furs within his palatial shelter, a glass of Chambertin wine in one hand, émile’s latest work in the other.

‘That young Deschamps,’ said Bonaparte to Beno?t, whom he had called so as to issue orders but since – in his liquor – had diverted the conversation elsewhere.

‘He understands what I am about. He recognises the inferiority of England, the spirit of France. See how the poet calls me King? He knows what it is to be a true Frenchman!’

Being one of the emperor’s colonels, the monsieur could do nothing but agree, although in truth he had been bitterly disappointed – non , angry – that émile should have been so seduced by a man who had been the cause of so much needless bloodshed, a man who came into power not through the will of God but an act of rebellion.

Nos armes font les rois . ‘Our weapons make kings.’

With a cough Beno?t caught himself, only to find the girl staring up at him with button eyes so very like the Krasny child’s that he found himself quite unable to meet her inquisitive gaze.

‘Well,’ Beno?t concluded, flustered, ‘I digress,’ to which Charité clucked loudly as if she agreed with him.

‘The point I wish to make is that we came upon one another in a shop in Paris, where émile attempted to purchase the very pudding I had put by myself.’ The monsieur sighed wistfully at the memory.

It was two years before émile had written the poem, a time when Beno?t still thought him honourable.

‘What a funny thing it was,’ he mused. ‘émile told me he had never forgotten my generosity, and seeing the pudding on the counter had roused in him that one special memory of Christmas in Orléans.’

‘What did you do?’ asked the girl.

‘Why, ma chérie , I shared it with him again. Most pleased was émile, too, I can tell you. What a merry pair we made that December afternoon. How affable he was.’

Affable. Yet the young man Beno?t thought he knew could not be reconciled with the poet. Did émile feel guilt at the terrible words he had written? Did he recognise their savagery, their needless viciousness, now that the bloodshed was over?

Foi clucked, tugged on her lead, distracting him.

The girl allowed the leather a little slack.

As if in pleasure the brown hen shook her peacock tail feathers and scarpered forwards to join Espoir and Charité, who were at that moment sauntering some paces ahead, Beno?t having already allowed them free rein of their leads.

‘Espoir,’ the monsieur scolded. ‘You pull, mon garcon .’ He tweaked the cockerel’s green tether; the little Houdan uttered a tiny cluck in response but then heeded nicely, stepping into line.

Up ahead, Wakely Hall came into view. It was a grand-looking house, with a classical portico of pillars at its entrance.

It was fortunate enough to face west, overlooking a sweeping lawn to a large ornate pond, and beyond, reaching fields and the vastness of the forest whence they had just come.

Oh, Wakely, Beno?t smiled. He had spent many a happy visit under that roof, thanks to the generous hospitality of Fernand Pépin.

His own town house in Orléans could not begin to compare with the freedom he so often felt there.

How he enjoyed reading his novels in the pillared orangery, how he delighted in meandering about the grounds, walking his three darlings down the yew tree avenue situated at the side of the house, and it was at that moment the unlikely pair reached the gate that opened out onto that avenue.

Beno?t held it open for the child to step through, but she lingered at the threshold, suddenly unsure.

He could see the apprehension in her pale face, marked with pity how her blue eyes darted this way and that.

‘Come, petite . You will be quite all right. Have faith.’

Her gaze snapped to his, then, and something in her expression changed. The monsieur could not decipher what it was he saw there, but whatever it was the child felt it was enough to assuage her fears for through she limped, little Foi at her toes.

‘There now. Mrs Denby shall provide you with a meal of roast goose, as promised,’ he told her, taking now her hand, which sat so small and cold in his.

‘And plum pudding?’ came the plaintive answer, which made the monsieur shout a laugh.

‘ Mais oui! Of course, of course.’ He grinned down at her. ‘So you did like it! I am so very pleased.’

When they arrived at the kitchen door the smell of fresh mince pies assailed the monsieur’s nostrils, and Beno?t beheld Mrs Denby removing a fresh batch of them from the stove.

Particularly irked did she look too, for the second-youngest Pépin daughter was at that moment attempting to claim a pie for her own.

‘No, Miss Louisa,’ scolded the cook, attempting to swipe her away. ‘You shall burn your fingers.’

‘But they smell so delightful,’ pouted the girl, a declaration with which Monsieur de Fortgibu could not disagree.

‘ Mais oui ,’ said he then, guiding the child and his hens inside before shutting the door behind them, ‘most delightful, Mrs Denby. Once they have cooled, might we beg a pie or two?’

The cook, Miss Louisa and Katherine Allen (who held another tray of the delectable treats), all turned, at which their mouths dropped as they beheld the monsieur and the little girl at his side.

‘Good heaven,’ remarked Mrs Denby, recovering herself by placing the tray down upon the table. ‘Who is this? The poor mite. She looks fit to faint.’

‘Mrs Denby,’ said the monsieur with a small bow. ‘If you cannot spare a mince pie at present, could I prevail upon you for another of your excellent dishes? I have promised this little girl a meal of roast goose and one of my plum puddings. Would you be so good as to oblige?’

There was a moment’s hesitation (for this was an unexpected request), but soon – amid the whispers and stares of Wakely’s servants – the child was ushered in to sit before the fire, a cup of warm cinnamon milk placed in her tiny hands, while the kitchen maid hurried herself to prepare a plate of leftovers and one of the monsieur’s puddings.

As the little girl sipped from her cup, Beno?t took Miss Louisa and Mrs Denby aside.

‘I found her all alone in the forest,’ he murmured. ‘Her ankle is sprained. You must understand, madame , I could not leave her there.’

‘But she cannot stay here ,’ the cook whispered, tweaking her apron as the two hens standing between them pecked at the raw pastry stuck to it.

‘Where can we keep her? I believe the guest rooms upstairs are all taken or soon to be, and the servants, well … I cannot ask them to vacate their beds on account of a foundling.’

‘A foundling?’ came Miss Louisa’s high-pitched response. Wide-eyed, she turned to stare at the child. The monsieur’s sigh – if she had bothered to mark it – held within it a hint of impatience.

‘I do not think her a foundling,’ said he.

‘Look at the shawl she wears, the quiet manner in which she conducts herself. And if you were to hear her speak, you could not think her to be of low stock.’ Beno?t grew pensive at the thought.

‘We must discover where she belongs. Miss Pépin, if you would fetch your parents, I shall explain it all to them.’

Miss Louisa readily agreed and – giving a soulful look at the steaming mince pies on the table – retreated into the servants’ corridor and out of sight. The cook watched her go with a dubious expression.

‘Oh, monsieur. I do hope they come quickly. If Mrs W finds the child here – and eating our leftovers at that – she will have much to say about it, you can be sure.’

‘’Tis Christmas,’ said the Frenchman, patting Mrs Denby’s hand. ‘Surely she cannot be so uncharitable at such a time?’

At this the cook looked troubled, but unable to keep himself from his charge Beno?t was already approaching the little girl and did not see Mrs Denby’s expression.

‘There now,’ he said, releasing Espoir and Charité from their leads (who proceeded to scuttle off across the flagstones and almost collided with a snub-nosed scullery maid – Oh, lawds, you bothersome chickees!

), ‘you shall be kept safe and warm here, just as I told you. But might I beg something in return?’

The child blinked up at him. Her eyes were watery, though from the warmth of the kitchen or emotion, he could not be sure. Still, Beno?t was gratified to receive a nod from her, and with a gentle smile he put his hands upon his knees.

‘Tell me, petite . What is your name?’

She ducked her head and did not answer. Foi – still attached to her little red lead – proceeded to settle herself at the child’s feet where she began to preen her glorious brown feathers with happy little trills.

Beno?t sighed. If the girl did not wish to divulge her name, he would not force the issue, nor could he, for in that moment the kitchen maid returned with a warm plate of roast goose and vegetables, and a steaming plum pudding.

The child’s face alit with pleasure, and Beno?t was struck again how similarly émile had regarded his pudding, all those years ago.

émile, Beno?t thought, as the little girl greedily ate her supper.

Surely the boy he once knew had not completely disappeared?

It was perfectly possible, now the wars were over, that the poet did feel remorse for the poem he had penned; he had been young, after all, when he wrote it, and did not everybody make mistakes?

Certainly, Beno?t had made plenty of his own. The memory of the Krasny girl would always haunt him, so too the memories of all the atrocities he had committed during those awful years under Napoleon’s rule.

Perhaps, Monsieur de Fortgibu thought, he would meet émile again. If he did, there was a chance his faith in the poet would be renewed, and as the Frenchman watched the lost girl joyfully savouring her plum pudding, he found a sense of hope rising within him for whatever the future had to bring.