Page 3 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘They are for the viscount,’ she said in tones most biting. ‘He has expressed an ardent wish to use the pears in his festive decorations. I am sure you could spare some for his lordship?’

At the mention of that man the reverend’s face softened, and so it should for Viscount Pépin was a gentleman Witherington held in highest esteem.

Was it not Viscount Pépin who – being such a kind soul – secured the living at Merrywake for him and, later, offered succour when Witherington’s son came early, without passing breath?

Was it not Viscount Pépin who, later still, dealt with the unfortunate particulars of Eliza’s death and engaged the services of Mrs Jenkins so to ensure he would be well taken care of in his old age?

And so it was that Witherington found himself grunting and nodding his head.

‘I suppose I can spare a few.’ He jerked his head in the vague direction of the orchard just beyond the parsonage’s garden gate. ‘Help yourself to them.’

Frances opened her mouth to thank him, when all of a sudden she had a mortifying thought.

‘Oh dear.’

The reverend threw her a look that raised his thinning eyebrows upward on his wrinkled brow.

‘What is it?’

‘Mrs Denby …’ Frances felt herself colour and was thankful she wore a high collar. ‘She did not provide a basket with which to collect them. I don’t suppose …’

The vicar’s lined face shuttered. With another grunt he bade her wait and turned, disappearing back into the dim confines of the parsonage.

Frances watched him go with a bite of her lip and wondered if he celebrated Christmas at all for no foliage hung within, no candles warmed that darkened hallway.

Was he lonely, without Eliza Granville to keep him company, the woman who so long ago had been her friend, and the means of destroying all her prior hopes?

Presently Witherington returned, a wicker basket in his hand.

‘Here,’ he said, proffering it to her at arm’s length. It held within it snatches of dust and small pieces of worn leather that looked to be flakings from book spines.

He always had liked his books.

‘That should serve.’ The vicar hesitated, moved awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘There’s a ladder near the woodshed.’ He looked her up and down then, and Frances was conscious how dowdy she was, how short and squat. ‘You’ll be needing it, I should think.’

And with that Reverend Witherington Soppe shut the door quite firmly in Miss Frances Partridge’s affronted face.

Insufferable conceit! Unless he had forgotten (and Frances was sure he had not), Witherington knew perfectly well how much her height bothered her, and to say such a thing without allowing any opportunity to offer up a rejoinder was most infuriating.

She had not even the satisfaction of thanking him to shew she was better mannered.

For, really, at their ripe age, neither one had a right to be so childish, no matter how much hurt had passed between them.

With a huff Frances stomped round the back of the parsonage where the woodshed nestled between the privy and a lopsided gate which opened out onto the fields south of Wakely Hall.

Here was where the vicar walked sometimes – Frances had occasioned to see him (mercifully unobserved) striding long-legged across the pastures that made up Old Mr Hodge’s farmland, making, no doubt, for Wakely Forest. How often had they trysted between those towering poplars, so sure of themselves and each other before all had come to ruin?

Well, Frances thought as she hefted the icy-runged ladder under one arm and returned the way she had come, clearly the vicar was not tortured by such memories for if he were he would not have spoken to her in so unfeeling a manner.

Frances plodded across the grass, the heels of her leather boots tapping hard upon the hoarfrost. The ladder was bulky; the wicker basket swung against the cold wood with an oddly hollow smack and she was perceivably out of breath by the time she returned to the orchard, whereupon she stared consideringly up at the trees.

It took some minutes for Frances to settle on which to divest of their fruit.

Mrs Denby did not state how many pears Viscount Pépin required, but by Frances’ calculations the garlands he wished decorated would be located within the ballroom, dining room and drawing room, the grand staircase too, of course …

surely no more than three pears per garland were needed, and no more than two garlands per room.

That meant she might deprive six of Reverend Soppe’s trees evenly whilst still leaving some for his own enjoyment.

Not, Frances sniffed, that he deserved it.

Settling the basket beneath the first pear tree, she propped the ladder against the trunk.

It did not occur to Frances in that moment that this was foolhardy of her, that the ladder might slip or that the rungs themselves would be slippery beneath the soles of her boots.

Up she went, wicker basket hanging from the crook of one arm, and began to pick the pears from their branches.

Oh, but it was difficult to proportion her weight correctly whilst the basket hung from the crook of her elbow and she reached for each pear one-handed!

More than once the ladder wobbled precariously, and despite the cold Frances soon found herself perspiring.

It might, perhaps, have made the task easier if she had left the basket on the ground and thrown the pears down into it, but this would serve only to damage them and what good would they be then?

The viscount would not wish for spoilt fruit upon his garlands, and so Frances persevered; terribly slowly and with the greatest of care.

Straight-backed, Witherington watched all this from the sitting room he had not shut off from the rest of the parsonage.

It was the only one of the two that faced the orchard, and he often – during the balmy months of summer – sat by the open window and admired the lush canopy of leaves his fruit trees afforded, listened calmly to the rustle of them when a sweet-smelling breeze chanced to pass through their branches.

He enjoyed too the way the sunlight dappled between those glossy leaves, like joyful dancing lights …

but his pear trees held no foliage in December.

The pears Witherington grew were a winter variety of French origin (a gift from the ever-generous Monsieur de Fortgibu) and he liked them for their sweet, melting flavour.

He liked too the look of them – their green skin was often touched with a very appetising ruby red, made all the more obvious against the dull leafless branches.

And without those leaves, the stark winter sunshine shone unobstructed.

Witherington could see from Miss Partridge’s profile that she was squinting as she reached up to pluck another pear from its stem.

He shifted at the window. The woman had succeeded in divesting four trees of his prized pears.

Why did she not take from just one and have the matter done with?

Why make things so difficult for herself?

Well, Witherington thought with a grim expression on his face, Frances had always been stubborn.

Once a thought entered her head, there was as much chance of her changing her mind about it as a hound would loose its fatal grip on a fox’s neck.

Oh, but whatever was she doing now ? At this rate she would lose her footing and fall.

Of all the ninny-hammered things to do. Did she not see it was too high?

And so it was in that moment that Frances had committed herself to plucking from a tall and lofty branch one particularly handsome-looking pear.

So large, so stout, so lushly green and rosy!

Would it not look perfect in the ballroom, crowning a garland on the mantle?

But alas, the sun was in her eyes, she was too short, could not quite find purchase, and her foot was beginning to slip …

‘Miss Partridge!’

Too late. The ladder wobbled precariously on the hoarfrost and with a curious skip in her stomach Frances felt herself fall.

Crying out, she reached for one of the lower branches of the tree as the ladder clattered to the ground and the wicker basket swung against the trunk, causing her to release it from her grasp.

There came below a rather loud oomph accompanied by that oddly hollow smack and Frances – hanging from the branch with both hands, little booted feet kicking nothing but air – found strength enough to twist her head in the direction whence she heard the sounds.

Below, staring up at her with narrowed eyes, was none other than Witherington Soppe himself, the basket of pears in his arms.

‘What a fool you are,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you have no sense at all?’

‘Well, I declare!’ Frances managed, directing her attention now to the branch from which she desperately dangled. ‘Would you really prefer to scold me instead of offering your assistance?’

‘If you had not acted so foolhardily you would not have need of it.’

Frances gritted her teeth, gripped the tree branch a little harder. Intolerable man.

‘If you please, Mr Soppe! Now is not the moment to be indelicate. I require your help – I fear I cannot hold on much longer.’

To this there came no answer. Instead, Frances heard him place the wicker basket on the ground, the clatter of the ladder being set upright.

‘There,’ said he. ‘To your left. Can you …?’

She twisted to see. The ladder was close – all she need do was swing. But Frances Partridge was not a lithe creature; the very act of it would be most inelegant. Swing she did, however, her limbs all ascrabble, and soon succeeded in bringing the toe of her foot to a frosty rung.

‘Almost there,’ Witherington murmured, and by heaven was that a laugh she heard in his voice? And then – making her quite jump for the shock of it – she felt a hand at her waist, steadying her.

‘Oh!’ she gasped, clutching the ladder tight. ‘Mr Soppe, if you please …’