Page 16 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Oh yes, of course! Come on, Will,’ cajoled Ralph, watching him with a look that William could not – nor wished to – fathom. ‘It can’t do much harm.’

‘But Mrs Wilson …’ began Prudence in worried tones, and in response Molly rolled her fine blue eyes.

‘Don’t be such a prude, Prue.’

‘’Tis just a lark,’ rejoined Ralph, and William sighed.

‘Do as you must then. But be quick about it.’

‘Well …’ Molly looked between the other three. ‘ I cannot reach, and Prudence certainly can’t.’

Ralph frowned. ‘And I did say I’m only here to advise.’

William sighed again, more heavily this time. ‘Fine, then. Prudence, give me those clippers.’

Still looking monstrously worried she did as bidden, and William began to shimmy up the tree.

It was just as well, he thought, really.

The further away from Ralph Hornby he was, the better.

And the higher up he went to reach the mistletoe, the calmer William felt; the cold air grew sharper and he breathed it in deep, and soon he was far enough up the poplar to see the extensive fields surrounding Wakely Hall, Hodge Farm up on the hill, and the cluster of buildings further down that made up the village of Merrywake.

It was a truly beautiful sight, and what peace William felt, to know this was his home, that this idyllic life should be his.

But what loneliness, too, that he was destined to live it alone.

Birdsong trilled at his ear; William twisted to see.

Two blackbirds sat watching him, and though there was no way to be sure, he was almost positive one was the same colly he had fed not a half-hour before.

Both birds were coal black with bright orange beaks and a striking yellow ring about their eyes, and sitting so close together, too, wing touching silken wing.

’Twas unusual, William thought, to see two males together, and he smiled wistfully.

At least they will not be lonely.

‘Make haste!’ shouted Molly.

‘Be careful!’ called Prudence.

With a huff William turned to the nearest cluster of mistletoe, and snipped off two sprigs. It was all he dared take and as he inched his way back down, Ralph began to sing:

The Misletoe hangs from an oaken beam,

The Ivy creeps up the outer wall;

The Bays our broken casements screen,

The Holly-bush graces the hall.

Molly clapped and cheered, and called for another to which Ralph obliged, taking a surprised Prudence in his arms to dance her about the snowy forest:

It happen’d, that some sport to shew

The ceiling held a Misletoe.

A magic bough, and well design’d

To prove the coyest Maiden, kind.

‘Ralph,’ cried Prudence as the valet spun her about with great muster. ‘You go too fast!’

‘How else am I supposed to turn your head?’ came the humorous reply. ‘But remember, Prue, there is no mirth without mischief!’

Ralph had drawn the maid close to his chest (Molly Hart looked vexed indeed), and at that moment William, seeing it all with clenched jaw, reached terra firma.

The blush upon Prudence’s face was furious with Ralph’s arms about her waist, and over her bonneted head he met William’s gaze.

There was something about the valet’s expression that hinted at a challenge, but there was no chance for William to consider it for there was then a crunch in the undergrowth, the shrill yap yap of a dog.

All four of Wakely’s servants turned.

Come from the direction of Old Hodge Farm was there standing the young Mr Hodge, his black-and-white terrier at his side, and he was staring at Prudence and Ralph with a mien most stunned.

‘Mr Hodge!’ Prudence gasped, shrugging out of the valet’s arms as if she had been burnt. ‘I didn’t … you must not …’

In that moment, William understood. There was, it seemed, an understanding between Prudence Brown and Nathaniel Hodge – the housemaid appeared on the verge of tears and the farmer was staring hard now at the forest floor, a muscle in his freckled jaw working furiously.

‘Have you seen a lamb wandering about in the forest?’ mumbled he. ‘One of mine escaped its pen this morning.’

Mr Hodge’s tone was flat, quite devoid of emotion. In fact, the farmer’s entire countenance appeared now as if he did not care at all, but William knew better; he knew well what it felt to have one’s heart irrevocably bruised.

‘’Fraid not, Hodge,’ came Ralph’s droll answer. He had not relinquished his hold on Prudence’s hand despite her fervent pulls. ‘No little lambs about Wakely Forest except sweet Prue here.’

The farmer blinked. The terrier barked. And then, silent as you please, the young man nodded, retreated the way he had come, his canine companion trotting loyally behind.

‘Mr Hodge …’

Prudence’s call was plaintive, her eyes wet, but the young man did not turn, and as Ralph met his gaze once again all William could do was shake his head and bestow upon him a look of great admonition.

It was a divided group who returned to Wakely Hall.

For William, the journey was achieved in a silence punctuated only by Prudence Brown’s hiccoughed sniffles and the rumbled lurchings of his wheelbarrow through the snow.

If he trusted himself to keep his countenance William might have offered the poor maid some words of comfort, but the truth of it was he did not trust himself at all, so angry was he with Ralph Hornby, and all he could do was proffer her his creased handkerchief.

Oh, how rotten that man had been! It was clear Prudence was upset, but all the valet did was shrug his shoulders and declare that a little jealousy hurt no one.

‘’Twill do young Hodge good,’ said he with a laugh.

‘Perhaps now, Prue, he might shoot his aim,’ to which Molly Hart had agreed, professing the whole sorry business a veritable lark, and possessively linked arms with the valet.

To William’s surprise he had shrugged her off, whereupon Molly glared and trudged out of the forest behind him, with Prudence and William trailing further behind in even lower spirits.

William watched the back of Ralph’s dark head, and not for the first time questioned why he should find himself so drawn to him.

He was evidently not a nice fellow; despite his uncommonly good looks Ralph possessed no redeemable qualities for he was a tease, a flirt, a selfish unfeeling cad.

What, William thought, would the valet do if he was to discover his secret?

He felt sure Ralph would either disclose the truth to the whole household, or find some way to torture him with it.

No indeed, it would be best for William to pull his head from the clouds and never think of Ralph Hornby at all.

It was in this melancholy frame of mind that William continued his ungainly plod across the fields, until at length the small party reached the gravel drive of Wakely Hall, whereupon another party of equal number stood at the bottom steps of the house, clearly having returned from a morning walk.

William spied Viscount Pépin, one of his daughters, Seigneur Toussaint, and a very tall and finely dressed gentleman whom he did not recognise.

‘Ah ha!’ called the viscount, waving the servants over with a broad and welcoming grin. ‘Are these my garlands, Hornby?’

The viscount – Willam knew from experience – was a fine and jolly gentleman with easy, unaffected manners.

Of middling height, never to be seen with his hair askew or his shoes unpolished (though Ralph surely had something to do with that), he might give the impression of a man who prided himself most conceitedly on his appearance, but Viscount Pépin held no airs or graces.

He was beloved at Wakely Hall for his unfailing kindness, generosity of spirit, and his conscientious respect for those who served him.

Often the viscount had stopped William in his tasks to discuss at length the state of the gardens and his beehives, or the merit of growing pineapples, and though he found some measure of enjoyment in such discussions, William was always somewhat relieved when Viscountess Pépin interrupted them to remind her husband that his gardeners did not have the time to indulge in idle chatter.

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Ralph with a formal bow. ‘The finest specimens have been selected for you, as always.’

The viscount approached the wheelbarrow, eyes alight beneath the rim of his hat.

‘So they have, Hornby, so they have! They shall make a wonderful display together with Reverend Soppe’s pears and Cobb’s additions from the ornamental garden. How is he, Moss? Any better?’

‘Middling, my lord. Still keeps to his bed, I’m afraid.’

‘Well,’ came the cheerful reply, ‘you are doing a fine job in his absence.’

‘I do my best, my lord.’

‘Just so, just so,’ enthused Viscount Pépin, looking very much as if he meant to offer more praise, but then his eye caught on the sprigs of mistletoe.

‘Ah, but what have we here? We did not have these last year,’ and he plucked one sprig from the wheelbarrow to hold up so his three companions should see.

‘Mistletoe,’ exclaimed Miss Pépin. ‘Oh, what fun!’ to which the seigneur frowned.

‘Fun, Maria?’

‘Why yes, brother,’ she said, looking to him, blonde curls bobbing in the icy breeze.

‘And I dare say our guests will find it most amusing.’ Here her pretty face fell into a frown.

‘But I would hang it, Mr Hornby, somewhere not quite so easily found. I do not think Maman would be best pleased if our guests spent the entirety of the ball beneath it, no matter how much fun it might be!’

At these words Seigneur Toussaint looked confused.

‘Forgive me,’ said he, ‘but I do not understand the significance. Why would one linger beneath a sprig of mistletoe?’

The party laughed, and William, not entirely sure what to do with himself since they had not been dismissed, knew neither how to act nor where to look in the face of a conversation above his station.

‘Why, Nicolas,’ said Miss Maria, eyes round with shock. ‘Ladies and gentlemen kiss beneath it!’