Page 22 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

Maria shrugged. ‘Discussing pineapples with investors, I assume. Remember, Maman , it was in Bath he settled on the idea? I don’t think we saw him all evening, and since we left for Merrywake early the next day he was unlikely to hear of it from the gossipmongers.’

Ambrosia tightened her grip on the quill. Oh, Fernand!

He was not a selfish man by any means, but so often he failed to see that which was before his very eyes, wrapt up as he was in the care of others or of his own pursuits.

The realisation that he had been oblivious to his daughter’s suffering was upsetting to her, and upon seeing Ambrosia’s troubled expression Maria tossed her head.

‘Do not worry, Maman . Cordelia soon had the smirk wiped off her face.’

The viscountess regarded her daughter warily.

‘What did you do?’

Maria grinned wickedly. ‘Let us just say her fine muslin gown is no longer white, but a lovely shade of claret.’

‘I see …’ As the girls laughed, Ambrosia turned back to her letter with a deeply puckered brow.

What to do? She could not extend an invitation to the brothers and not to the sister.

Certainly, questions would be asked, not least by Lord Heysten himself.

But to have such an odious creature as a guest at Wakely Hall was a distressing notion.

And what of the brothers? Were they of similar constitutions?

But, considered the viscountess, there could be only one way to discover the truth of it.

What other option had she? No, invite the Sharpes she must, including their dreadful sister …

and let the girl see where her insults took her then!

At that moment there was a knock upon the drawing room door, and Ambrosia’s eldest daughter entered the room.

‘Good afternoon, girls,’ greeted Juliette, lilac skirts swishing gracefully about her satin-pumped feet as she crossed the rug and placed a dainty kiss upon the viscountess’ cheek. ‘Good afternoon, Maman . Do you know, I think I am quite worn out?’

Maria – with a rather too-knowing look in her eyes – smiled widely. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Maria,’ said Ambrosia in as stern a manner as she could muster. ‘I hope you cannot imagine! Such thoughts are vastly unsuitable for a girl of your age.’

‘Of any age,’ chimed in Charlotte, barely raising her head from her book, and both Louisa and Rosalie giggled. Juliette, patient as she always was, merely gave them all a faintly admonishing look.

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ she said warmly, but the blush that had appeared on her round face might be taken to indicate otherwise.

‘I am speaking, of course, of our little house guest.’ Juliette’s colour faded a fraction.

‘Do you know, Maman , she is a clever creature. Monsieur Beno?t has been teaching her chess and she has beaten me at the game twice in the last hour. The girl is clearly educated, but refuses to reveal where she is from. I fear someone must have scared the poor thing to such a degree that she is disinclined to tell.’

Ambrosia shook her head. ‘It is all so strange. A child of quality must surely be known to be missing.’

‘Exactly,’ said Juliette, sitting herself beside Louisa on the sopha. ‘But every time I ask anything about her past she grows pale and silent, and I feel monstrous cruel for pushing her. Oh, hello, my ginger prince. How fare you?’

Mr Palamedes, who, like everybody, adored Juliette, had approached her as soon as she sat, and was now padding his paws on the cushion of her lap, a sure prelude to his settling down upon it.

‘Perhaps,’ mused Rosalie, ‘she escaped a dastardly guardian who planned to marry her off to some wealthy old relation.’

At this Charlotte sent her youngest sister a withering look. ‘You read far too many ludicrous novels.’

‘No matter her background,’ cut in Maria, standing to proffer the embroidered handkerchief to Juliette who sighed in admiration at her sister’s immaculate stitching, ‘the child cannot hail from Merrywake – a notice of her disappearance would have circulated by now if she did. Why don’t you ask Lord Heysten in your letter, Maman ?

’ she suggested. ‘Did he not mention he donated to some charities in London? Perhaps he might know something.’

Now that was a good idea! Sometimes Maria could be perfectly sensible if she wished it.

‘I shall do so at once, my darling,’ said Ambrosia, raising her quill once more and dipping it into the inkwell. ‘But, how to word it …’

On a different and more delicate matter, I hope you might be willing to assist in a circumstance most troubling.

Ordinarily I would not ask such a thing of someone who is such a recent acquaintance, but I remember you spoke of your charitable connections in London when you dined with us lately, and I wondered if you might have heard any word – through them – of a missing child?

Two days ago, our good friend Monsieur de Fortgibu happened upon a little girl in Wakely Forest. She was malnourished and possessed the appearance of a vagrant, but her speech is eloquent, and she had on her person a garment that seemed more suited to a child of good breeding.

The item is a pink shawl with satin roses sewn into the fabric.

Her age is thought to be that of either seven or eight.

She will not tell us her name. Beyond this, not one of us here at Wakely can garner from her much more information than that.

If you can be of any help to us in this matter, we should all be extremely grateful.

She appears to be a dear sweet child, and I sincerely wish to discover where she has come from, and how we might be best positioned to help her.

On all counts I have outlined in this letter, I soon hope to receive a response and wish to be

Sir,

Your most obliged and humble servant

Viscountess Ambrosia Pépin

‘I think that will do very nicely,’ said Juliette, for once again Ambrosia had spoken aloud to the room, and looking down at the letter the viscountess nodded.

The missive would do, and she would instruct the footman, Mr Marmery, to arrange for its immediate delivery.

For now, however, the task must wait as her stomach then proclaimed itself in a singular fashion, prompting Ambrosia to look upon the clock on the mantel and announce that it was time for them all to dress for dinner.

Wakely Hall had, from the Feast of St Nicholas, received a steady stream of guests.

The dining room (which looked particularly festive with the addition of a pear-crowned garland adorning the fireplace), was near fit to bursting, and the company which the Pépins now hosted about the table was of wide and varied stock.

There was Sir Gregory Warwick and Sir Victor Marshchild together with their vastly elegant wives; the (most unsuitable) Duke of Morley; the (most pompous) Earl of Starling; the esteemed family of Busgrove; the widow Lady Falshaw, whose daughter, Lucy, was a shy little thing but had found a doting friend in Louisa.

Seated too at the table was Monsieur de Fortgibu; the dancing master Mr Thorpe and his wife, Cecily (who had once been Wakely’s governess); and directly opposite them the Reverend Soppe, seated beside (of course), Miss Partridge.

As one must imagine by now, Wakely Hall’s dining room was exceedingly large, and so it is perhaps easy to see why those belowstairs should find Christmastime a trying period in the Pépins’ social calendar.

The conversation flowed freely for such an eclectic mix of guests and Ambrosia – despite the headache that had not yet ceased – kept a pleasant smile upon her face and touched her wine glass to her lips.

Poaching was discussed over dishes of roasted pheasant and goose; the recent election of Sir Victor as the local magistrate conferred about amidst the fish course; Napoleon’s exile became the topic of choice across platters of salmagundy; the abolition of slavery deliberated over bowls of cauliflower soup (a conversation to which Charlotte’s attention, so Ambrosia noted with displeasure, was markedly keen); and as the jellies and plum puddings were brought in (much to Monsieur de Fortgibu’s delight) the conversation shifted to that of the upcoming nuptials of the Reverend and the Pépin daughters’ former abigail.

However, during such particulars, a loud and fluttering laugh could be heard from the opposite end of the table. Turning her face in its direction, Ambrosia frowned to see Rosalie making rather foolish eyes at the Duke of Morley.

The viscountess watched as he leant to say something close to her daughter’s ear, whereupon Rosalie gave forth another fluttering laugh, Sir Robert laughed heartily in turn, and Ambrosia swallowed a mouthful of wine.

As a guest of the Pépins, it was natural that the duke should be attentive in his considerations to Rosalie; indeed, to all her daughters and herself.

However, on closer inspection was his hand not a little too near to Rosalie’s, and did he not look at her with an expression bordering on the inappropriate?

Whatever did they laugh about, for goodness’ sake?

Dear Rosalie did not have the wit to amuse a man of his intelligence, nor could she possibly understand the nuances of an educated man’s humour.

Impossible to ask, too, what with Ambrosia ensconced at the other end of the long dining table, and there was still time to pass yet before the gentlemen would withdraw to the parlour and the women to the drawing room.

Ambrosia smiled and did her best to converse pleasantly with the rest of the party, trying to ignore her growing misgivings and the painful ache at her temples.