Page 30 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Good morning,’ she called softly. ‘Where is your mate?’

The great bird merely regarded her, its beaded eyes unfathomable. Was this the male or the female? The male was larger, she knew, but swans were sizeable birds no matter the gender, and at such a distance Charlotte could not tell which it was.

She liked the swans. Every year, they would bring their cygnets to the pond where they could raise them safely away from poachers, for though Merrywake was a peaceable place, such wretched pastimes were still prevalent.

Did not the Earl of Starling complain of his nye of pheasants being decidedly thinner than usual the other night at dinner?

Charlotte hoped that the swan’s mate had not fallen prey to a poacher’s gun.

If it had, there would be no more cygnets to watch for in the summer, since swans were known to mate for life.

Earlier that year Charlotte had had the privilege of seeing five of their cygnets raised to adulthood; seven of the creatures bobbing about safely on the pond, keeping the spirit of little Edmond company.

Her gaze drifted to where his monument rose from the middle of the frozen body of water, the stone urn reaching high in the grey sky.

She could see from where she sat the finely carved dove, the revered symbol of innocence, purity and sacrifice.

Sacrifice.

It was a word that held particular meaning for Charlotte.

Dear little Edmond, the brother she would never know.

She had asked one day, holding on to her father’s hand, why there was a pillar in the middle of the pond.

And so the viscount told her; how Maman had brought a little boy into the world, only to lose him soon after.

And though it was uncharitable to think such thoughts, for it was Edmond in the end who was the ultimate sacrifice, had not her mother sacrificed herself, too?

Her father’s imparted knowledge made Charlotte realise how her mother had done the same on five other occasions; sacrificed herself again and again, over and over, becoming weaker and weaker, each and every time.

And for what, really? If Edmond had lived, he would have travelled the world, done and become anything he wanted.

But her mother, her sisters, Charlotte herself …

their lot in life was simply to breed and live under the helm of their husbands.

Sometimes, Charlotte envied Wakely’s maids – they had purpose, every day.

But girls such as she … They were meant to be reined in, to be owned, to be passed from one man to another, just to ultimately sit behind their embroidery and fans and surviving children, all without a voice or a penny to their name.

If Charlotte were to marry, the money first controlled by her father would then be controlled by her husband.

Oh, if only she had been born a boy!

Ah . There was the other swan, ambling across the lawn towards her.

Smaller, too, which meant (Charlotte twisted on the cold stone lip of the pond) the swan swimming in the pond was the cob.

But, frowning, Charlotte considered it more closely.

The swan had not moved its position, was not swimming at all, in fact.

Was there something wrong? As if in answer the magnificent creature made another whomp whomp whomp of its wings, together with a sound that cut harshly through its beating feathers.

It was a sound she had never heard before, something between a rattle and a sharp-pitched cry, and as the disturbing noise erupted from the swan’s bright beak its elegant neck bobbed and stretched erratically. Charlotte leant forwards, squinted. Dear heaven, the swan was stuck!

The swan’s mate – nearer now, and looking very threatening – honked at her, and in alarm Charlotte stood.

She rushed further down the line of the pond so she might take a closer look (which made the male swan flap its wings more wildly) and gasped.

Oh yes, the cob was stuck! The water had completely frozen over; the swan’s legs trapped beneath the ice!

Charlotte spun about, a moan of distress on her lips. The pen stared at her with beady black eyes, cocking her head as if to say, Well? What will you do about it?

What indeed? Where, thought Charlotte, was the gardener, Mr Cobb, or his assistant, Mr Moss?

Where was anyone for that matter? But the frosted lawns of Wakely Hall were empty, the servants’ quarters situated on the other side of the house, and she could perceive no figure at the windows at whom to gesture for help.

No, there was no one, and if she were to run back to the house now the poor swan would suffer further still.

The bird made another desperate noise, and thus it was decided: Charlotte did not need a man to help her. She would rescue the Cygnus herself.

It mattered not that it was the last day of December, and the temperature was below freezing.

It mattered not that she wore nothing more than a walking dress (though it was warm serviceable wool), a pelisse of thick suede, kid gloves and leather boots, all of which would be ruined if they touched water.

What need had she for such fripperies when an innocent creature needed help?

And so, approaching the swan cautiously, Charlotte swung her leg over the lip of the pond.

She suspected her weight might break the ice and was therefore prepared for it.

So when the ice did not break, she felt both surprise and a surge of confidence.

Still, Charlotte was not (or so she considered herself) a stupid creature, and instead of tiptoeing across the ice she committed to distributing her weight more evenly by crawling on her hands and knees towards the straining swan.

And oh, what an almighty racket it was making!

On her approach the creature had begun to actually hiss at her, of all things – surely it should realise she was only trying to help?

Unperturbed, however, for the third daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Pépin was a stubborn woman indeed, Charlotte continued her careful crawl.

It was as she was prostrate in so unladylike a position, her body pointed in the direction of Old Mr Hodge’s lower field, that Charles Heysten galloped into view.

At first his lordship did not see Miss Pépin, for he was in the process of reining the Arabian in.

He had just spotted the ha-ha, and was turning his head this way and that to ascertain how to gain entrance to Wakely’s grounds from the rear, but as he did so he took in the singular sight – a young woman, on all fours in the middle of a frozen pond, derrière upright to the sky … crawling towards a swan!

Did the chit not realise how dangerous swans were?

Worry tightened Charles’ throat and he dug his heels into Samson’s flanks, pushing the stallion onwards into Wakely Forest, taking the very same path as Monsieur de Fortgibu had some four days afore.

In frustration he navigated those little gates, but Charles was a superior horseman and soon found an opportunity to jump the low boundary wall that separated Wakely Hall’s lawns from the path, at exactly the same moment as there came a sharp and alarming crack .

Stranded in the middle of the pond, Charlotte froze. Her stomach leapt; her heart pounded. The swan hissed noisily; its mate flapped her wings. And just as Charlotte was contemplating the manner of her next course of action the treacherous ice broke beneath her knees, and into the water she went.

Charlotte gasped as a thousand icy needles shot up and down her body, and though she knew the pond could not be so deep that she could not stand up in it, the shock of the moment, together with the weight of her clothes pulling her down, made her quite forget it, and so she flailed in the water, unable even to scream.

She could neither see nor hear except the pulsing of blood in her ears and the thunderous flash of white beating wings; no thought entered her mind, no measure of feeling beyond the notion that she could not breathe.

It was only when she felt a strong pair of arms about her waist that Charlotte was brought back to herself, and she became conscious that a sturdy figure held her firm and was forcing her legs to straighten, so her feet should find purchase on the bottom of the pond.

‘ What the devil did you think you were doing? ’

The voice which uttered these words was hard and unforgiving. A blunt voice belonging to a man that Louisa – so Charlotte remembered – had only the other day categorised as boorish.

‘Lord Heysten,’ said she, waspish. ‘Unhand me this instant.’

‘Unhand you?’ came the biting reply, spinning her about in the water, his large hands pressing into the shoulders of her sopping wet pelisse. ‘I shall not. It seems to me you are in need of severe handling !’

Charlotte stared at the man in front of her. If it were not for the way he kept her pinioned she would have raised her arm and struck him, the brute!

‘For pity’s sake,’ he continued, dark eyes hard and glaring, ‘don’t you realise a swan’s wing can break a man’s arm? Think what it might have done to you, you fool of a woman!’

At this, she struggled in his embrace, sending the cold water surging between them.

‘How dare you,’ snapped Charlotte, quite unable to control her ire, but Lord Heysten merely raised his eyebrows.

‘How dare I?’ he snapped back in turn. ‘I dare well enough, when you would risk yourself in such a manner! And you did not answer my question – what, Miss Pépin, did you think you were doing?’

‘I, sir, was rescuing the swan. What else do you suppose I was doing?’

Her reply succeeded for one brief moment to stymie him, but almost in the same moment he sucked in his breath and released her.

‘You mean that swan?’

‘Of course, that swan!’ Charlotte retorted. ‘Why would I try to rescue the other one when it was safely on land? I—’