Page 17 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Oh,’ came the bemused reply. ‘I thought mistletoe was merely a symbol of prosperity and long life.’

The finely dressed man standing next to him chuckled and heartily slapped a gloved hand upon Nicolas Toussaint’s shoulder.

‘Ah, mon ami , you’ve lived such a sheltered existence!’ (His voice – William thought – was exceedingly pompous.) ‘Kissing under mistletoe is a long-held tradition here. It’s deemed bad luck not to follow through.’

‘Well, I find that highly irregular. What if the lady – or gentleman, for that matter – does not want to be kissed?’

Viscount Pépin chortled. ‘My dear boy, it is not as if couples find themselves beneath it by accident.’

‘But if they do?’

The other man, the pompous one, shrugged.

‘Then the kiss is taken.’

Seigneur Toussaint gave him then a look which William could not define, but if he were to guess, it was distinctly disapproving, as if his behaviour was commonplace. Not seeing the look Miss Maria, smiling, linked her brother-in-law’s arm.

‘Dear Nicolas, you’re such a goody-goody. However does Juliette manage you?’

‘Maria,’ came the weary reply. ‘I am sure my Juliette should think the same as I. Where is the romance? Love is not a game. Do you not agree, my lord?’

This last was addressed to Viscount Pépin, but he was not given the opportunity to answer for the other gentleman exclaimed with a laugh:

‘What a way of putting it, Toussaint. I daresay kissing beneath the mistletoe is an exceedingly pleasant experience for both parties, game or otherwise.’

‘Oh, Morley!’ exclaimed Miss Maria, her cheeks colouring a distinct shade of pink. ‘You are incorrigible.’

‘I am not incorrigible at all, my dear Miss Pépin. I merely speak the truth.’

There was much chortling then, all in fine jest, but because William had not been sure of where to direct his eyes his gaze had turned to those of his fellow servants, and it was at this moment that a flush of pink had crept too upon Molly Hart’s cheeks.

Indeed, she was looking at the man named Morley in so direct a manner (and was that gentleman not returning her oh-so-shameless look?) that William felt obliged to clear his throat.

‘If you’d be excusing us, your lordship,’ said he to Viscount Pépin, ‘we’d best be getting along.’

‘But of course, my good man,’ replied the viscount with a broad smile.

‘The sooner the garlands are put up the better. Hornby, would you mind awfully if you saw to it this instant? I am impatient to see the house dressed for our celebrations. You know the days preceding Twelfth Night are my favourite time of the year.’ Here Viscount Pépin frowned.

‘’Tis Cobb who assists you usually, is it not?

Well, why don’t you have Moss here help instead, since the dear chap is still so out of sorts? ’

The bottom of William’s stomach dropped to the toes of his boots.

Mr Cobb had not mentioned that he would have to assist inside the house as well as out!

And though it made sense for William to apply himself to this task too under the circumstances, it was most disagreeable, for had he not only a half-hour afore resolved never to even think of Ralph Hornby?

How might such a thing be achieved now ?

But the valet was already bowing his dark head.

‘Of course, my lord,’ said he, with a small and rather pleased-looking smile on his face which William did not like. ‘We shall attend to the matter this instant, shan’t we, Mr Moss?’

Rather dejectedly, William took himself to the ornamental gardens where he collected the rosemary, box and bay leaves to accompany the holly, fir and pine cones, then returned to the house.

Ralph – who in the meantime had commandeered the wheelbarrow and arranged the foliage into neat piles on the chequerboard-tiled floor of the vast entrance hall – was waiting for him, a basket of pears at his feet.

‘Could you have taken any longer?’ he drawled, rolling up his sleeves to display his lean forearms. ‘We don’t have all day, Will. I’ve yet to iron his lordship’s inexpressibles for this evening, and he still hasn’t decided which of his waistcoats to wear so I must iron all of them.’

Ignoring him, William deposited the tin bucket he carried next to one particularly large pile of foliage that had balanced upon its top a scrap of paper on which was written the word BALLROOM .

‘And what are those for?’ asked William, tone over-sharp as he pointed to the basket of pears, and Ralph sniffed.

‘Touchy, aren’t we? Still angry, I suppose,’ but when William did not answer the valet shrugged.

‘The pears,’ he said, ‘are to crown the displays.’ Ralph squatted down then to sift through the Reverend Witherington Soppe’s bounty.

‘Miss Partridge collected them on Christmas Day. Three pears per garland I think she proposed, and I am inclined to agree. Oh, but this one is bruised. Clumsy biddy.’

William looked down at the offending fruit in Ralph’s hand. It was a handsome pear, lushly green and rosy, but undeniably there was a bruise set within a small indentation in the flesh, as if the old woman had gipped it a little too hard.

‘’Tis not the end of the world. The pear can easily be displayed bruise-side back. The viscount will never know.’

‘Hmm,’ Ralph frowned, but after a moment of contemplation he placed the damaged pear back into the basket. ‘Well, we can hardly replace it now at such short notice.’

He stood, stretched out his arm towards him, and William, breath catching, took an involuntary step backwards.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ cried Ralph, and William was surprised to see something akin to hurt cross his face.

‘You’d think I’d struck poor Prue the way you’re carrying on.

Look,’ he said, ‘just give me that bucket and fill the wheelbarrow with that pile there.’ He prodded his toe at the foliage labelled BALLROOM .

‘All you have to do is put the garlands where I tell you to, and if my presence bothers you that much, I’ll stand six safe paces away. How does that sound?’

William did not answer, he merely glowered, but Ralph seemed to accept this for an answer and turned on his heel towards the ballroom, bucket and basket in hand. William stared after him with a peculiar feeling in his belly.

Ridiculous, that he should feel guilt at acting so childishly!

But how could Ralph possibly understand his feelings?

Still angry, I suppose . William heaved the fresh-smelling pile of foliage back into the wheelbarrow.

Though more than an hour had passed since the incident with Prudence and Mr Hodge in the forest, he did still feel angry.

Angry, and damnably anxious.

So often had William imagined an opportunity to share some time alone with Ralph Hornby.

How many times had he watched him at the dinner table flirting so confidently with the housemaids, while William sat quietly at the far end and wondered what it would be like to have the valet look at him with such affection or touch his arm in a manner so familiar?

As vexed at Ralph as he was, the attraction William felt for him was hard to suppress, and now he must pass an hour or more alone with him hanging garlands. No wonder he acted as he had.

‘Come along, Will,’ Ralph called from where he lingered in the doorway of the ballroom. ‘The faster you go, the sooner it will be done.’

The valet had already cleared the mantelpiece by the time William joined him. Setting the wheelbarrow down, he waited for Ralph to offer his first instruction.

‘That long curved one,’ said he, pointing to a holly branch on the top of the pile, and diligently William removed it from the wheelbarrow. ‘Lay it there, on the right.’

A large mirror hung upon the mantel. As he set the holly branch upon it, William glanced up.

Ralph was watching him, and it struck William yet again how very good-looking the valet was.

Sleek black hair, pale skin, smooth jaw, straight nose, pink lips.

William swallowed, glanced at his own reflection.

He too had black hair, but in comparison to the prim and proper valet, he was a swarthy specimen with unruly curls that never sat well on his head, and a nose that crooked too far left.

It never used to be so, but William’s father did have such an awful temper …

‘Good,’ Ralph said softly, still looking at him in the mirror. ‘If you place another branch on the opposite end, now. Get the one with that nice bend at the base.’

Suddenly, despite the size of the ballroom and the fact that no fire had been lit in the grate, William became rather hot. He could distinctly feel a patch of heat within the dip of his back, and with a little huff he tore his grey eyes away from the valet’s seductive brown.

Was Ralph mocking him? Or was William simply losing his mind to strange fancies?

‘This one?’ he asked, somewhat breathless.

Ralph hesitated.

‘Yes, that’s it.’

William did as he was bidden; Ralph pointed next to a twig of fir, a sprig of box, and when the mantel was finally dressed, they both between them added the last flourishes of pine cones, rosemary and bay.

Finally, Ralph reached for the large pear and nestled it directly in the middle, bruise-side back.

‘The crown,’ he murmured. ‘What do you reckon, Will? Not bad for your first go,’ and despite the fluttering in his throat at Ralph standing so close (six safe paces away, indeed) William offered up a hesitant smile.

‘I think it nice.’

‘Nice?’ came the affronted reply. ‘Come on now. It’s far better than nice .’

‘Very well,’ conceded William. ‘Beautiful.’

Ralph turned his head to look at him.

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I think so too.’

William’s breath caught as their gazes met. What, he thought, was Ralph about? They had been speaking of the garland, but in that moment the meaning became unclear, and suddenly frightened, William turned away.