Page 21 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

Under no circumstances at all was she willing to entertain the likes of the Duke of Morley as a prospective son-in-law.

Unfortunately, while he remained under her roof Sir Robert was a threat, and with no other men of age or fortune currently in the vicinity of Merrywake (the Busgrove heir did not count!), there was no means of distraction for her daughters.

Of course, there would be many gentlemen in attendance on the night of the ball, but how many of them would be suitable matches?

So many sons of her and Viscount Pépin’s acquaintances were already spoken for, or too young, or too old.

However, did not Lord Heysten recently mention a renewed acquaintance with his much younger cousins, the Sharpes?

Ambrosia removed a crisp piece of paper from her desk drawer, nib of her swan feather quill poised before the inkwell, but for a long moment she hesitated.

The Sharpes were a fine family (so he said), and possessed more than one eligible bachelor.

They would make a welcome addition to the Twelfth Night Ball …

if only he could be prevailed upon to agree to invite them to stay with him, as he had implied he might.

Yet Ambrosia felt most acutely that the incident with Louisa and the soup, not to mention Maria’s impropriety, had soured the relationship between Lord Heysten and the Pépins, for what other excuse could he have for not responding to her perfectly amiable letter?

Throughout Ambrosia’s troubled musings the fire crackled comfortingly in the grate. Louisa munched her sugared almonds. Maria’s needle flew. Charlotte turned another page of her Snelgrave and Rosalie played with the cat on the rug.

Well, until his lordship confirmed that a rift now existed between them, there could surely be no harm in extending the olive branch once again. With a frown of concentration Viscountess Pépin dipped the quill:

My dear Lord Heysten,

I trust this letter finds you well, and in better spirits than when I saw you here at Wakely.

Again, I wish to express my sincerest apologies for what occurred at dinner Thursday last, and those of my daughters – Maria, who is mortified to have caused offence with her insensitive comments, and Louisa, who is sorry to have damaged your fine waistcoat.

I trust you are satisfied with our attempts at repairing the damage, but if you are not, I am of course more than happy to send payment for its replacement.

You need only communicate your wishes, and I shall see to it directly.

Ambrosia paused. It was vexing that he had not replied to her first note. She had been earnest in her regrets, and it was ungentlemanlike to have ignored it, especially when she thought she had been making such good progress.

The fact of the matter was, she had spent weeks attempting to garner favour with Lord Heysten.

His father, Archibald, who had finally passed from this world in the summer, had been much like his own father: cold, cruel and calculating.

It was Theophilus Heysten who had disowned his firstborn, Witherington, after he made what Theophilus deemed a disastrous match, and proceeded to transfer his riches to Archibald, the second son, who made no effort to repair the breach.

Theophilus had shunned the Pépins for providing Witherington with a living after he was disinherited.

After Archibald’s death, when the fortune and estate of Heysten Park passed to his son, Charles, it had been the hope of everyone that he might take after his reverend uncle.

Indeed, the newest Lord Heysten had spent many years travelling the Americas, having declared some years before his wish to have nothing whatsoever to do with his father.

So, when he was forced to return home to take on his inheritance, Ambrosia thought it a perfect opportunity to connect the families again.

And why should they not have helped Witherington?

Ambrosia still felt guilt for the part she had played in Mr Soppe and Miss Partridge’s separation.

If she had not fallen into premature labour with Edmond, Frances would not have been late for their meeting and Eliza Granville would never— Ambrosia shook her head, placed the silver nut she still held on her tongue and began to suck.

Frances had only been a housemaid then, so happy and innocent in the throes of young love, though the match was vastly imprudent.

But despite the pronounced differences in station Ambrosia believed Witherington to be much in love too, and she had expected their engagement to be announced at any moment.

But then … Well. Elevating Frances to the more reputable position of lady’s maid and companion had been the only way Ambrosia could dampen the claws of scandalous gossip in case they should find their way beyond the walls of Wakely Hall, and Fernand – being such good friends with the original Heysten heir – had done what he could.

Still (and here Ambrosia smiled into the crunch of her almond), true love won out in the end.

Frances and Witherington were to be married, and Viscount and Viscountess Pépin could not be happier at such an unexpected development.

But, to the point in hand. Charles Heysten had dined with the Pépins five times since his return to Merrywake and had been, if not enthusiastic about repairing the rift between the families, accommodating enough.

But then – Maria having already dampened the mood with her flighty suggestions – the matter of the waistcoat occurred, and it seemed all Ambrosia’s attempts to heal the breach were in danger of failing.

With another frown, she reapplied her quill:

You must of course have discovered by now that your uncle has announced his plans to marry since we last met, with the happy event occurring the morning of our Twelfth Night Ball.

The wedding is to take place under special licence at Wakely Church, conducted by a parson from the next village, and the viscount and I will be hosting an intimate reception here at the hall.

I would not presume to advise on your actions in that quarter, but I do hope you still might be prevailed upon to attend our Christmastime festivities in the evening.

The invitation is of course extended to your cousins, the Sharpes, as they would be most welcome to join our festivities if they have – or intend to – come to Merrywake.

‘Oh, no! Please say she is not coming?’

Ambrosia – realising she was reciting her letter out loud as she was often wont to do – lifted her quill from the page.

‘What was that, dearest?’

‘Cordelia,’ said Rosalie, the blue ribbon with which she was teasing Mr Palamedes now quite still.

‘Cordelia?’

‘Yes, Maman , Cordelia. She is the youngest Sharpe cousin.’

‘Oh! You have met the cousins already, then?’

‘Only her,’ replied Rosalie with a grimace, ‘and such an abominable creature she is too. Cordelia was positively beastly to Louisa in Bath, was she not?’

At this Ambrosia frowned. ‘Louisa? Was Miss Sharpe beastly to you?’

‘Well,’ Louisa said quietly, bashful. ‘Only a little.’

‘That’s not true,’ interjected Maria. ‘She was needlessly vicious at Lady Warwick’s Midsummer Soirée, and I let her know it.’

‘Dear heaven. Whatever did she do?’

Ambrosia watched Louisa with concern, who would not meet her mother’s gaze.

‘Honestly, Maman , it was nothing of consequence,’ but then Louisa swung her legs about on the sopha to sit upright, and in doing so the almond bowl tipped over and a stream of gold and silver sugared pebbles scattered onto the Axminster rug.

There was much commotion in that moment, as all the girls and their mother attempted to return the almonds to the bowl, with Mr Palamedes making the feat all the more difficult for thinking the whole thing a mighty fine game, and it was some minutes before Ambrosia could return to the matter at hand.

‘Come now, dearest. What did Cordelia Sharpe do ?’ and finally Louisa huffed.

‘She trod on my skirts and tore my gown.’

‘Oh,’ Ambrosia replied, not a little confounded. ‘Was that all?’

‘No, that was not all,’ retorted Maria. ‘The little vixen insisted it was Louisa’s fault for not paying attention, because she was – and I quote – “overindulging at the buffet table”, and that if Louisa had not been so gluttonous she might have minded her feet.’

‘ And ,’ interjected Rosalie, ‘she said so in front of all the young men, including Mr Grose.’

‘Mr Grose? That fine young man you met in London last season?’

It was Maria rather than Louisa who nodded.

‘Cordelia said that Louisa’s only chance of finding a husband was if he were willing to bankrupt himself at Fortnum’s to feed her. Everybody laughed, everybody , and to make matters worse … Mr Grose laughed along with them and removed himself from her dance card.’

Louisa, then, sullenly pushed the refilled bowl of sugar almonds away from her, and Ambrosia felt her chest grow hot with indignation.

The gentleman in question had been – so Ambrosia recalled – more than passing amiable towards Louisa earlier that year, and the viscountess had hoped something might come of the connection. Alas, Louisa had not mentioned Mr Grose once since the summer.

And now she knew why.

If only she had been there! The night of Lady Warwick’s Midsummer Soirée Ambrosia had been ill with a frightful headache.

Usually she attended all social gatherings – often to keep a careful watch on Maria – but that evening the viscountess could not face the hot fug of an assembly room in July, and with Juliette and Charlotte choosing to stay behind to keep their mother company, her other daughters had been left in the care of the viscount.

‘Where was your father during all of this?’ she asked faintly.