Page 36 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

It was a tapestry of memories, that tablecloth – his mother had endeavoured year on year to fill the once-white cotton with scenes from his childhood; young Nathaniel riding his first horse, his father Abraham cutting the cornfield, and herself, Hannah, sowing the seeds for next season’s harvest. There too, brought to life in fine brown thread, was the first herd of Ayrshires the Hodges ever bred, the rolling fields with a picturesque view of Merrywake village, Buck as a puppy chasing a goose.

And then, along the border, little milkmaids to represent the daughters she craved and lost. After the last loss Mrs Hodge had not the heart to finish, and so one maid remained incomplete.

That eighth milkmaid possessed only a blue dress and featureless face – no limbs with which to express herself, no countenance that might resemble a Hodge child, and in the maid’s lack of defining features Nathaniel had imagined upon her the sweet countenance of Prudence Brown.

Being so alone in life, Nathaniel took great comfort in Prudence-Maid (as he dubbed the figure).

He would speak to her sometimes when he found himself in the kitchen, cooking lonely meals for himself and for Buck.

He would tell her about his day, and how he hoped his parents were proud of him for everything he had achieved at Hodge Farm, all by himself.

Nathaniel would tell Prudence-Maid how sure he was that his mother would have approved of her, and how sorry he was that she had died before they had opportunity to meet.

Nathaniel had been eleven when a fever took Hannah Hodge.

Abraham was quite at a loss without her; he came to depend upon his son’s assistance about the farm to such a degree that it was no wonder Nathaniel wished to escape it the first moment he could.

But now … now Nathaniel was alone, for Old Mr Hodge did not live past the first year of his return, and all he had to keep him company was a black-and-white terrier and a half-finished milkmaid, embroidered into a faded cotton tablecloth.

And now there was porridge on her. With a sigh Nathaniel scooped the offending oats from her skirt and wet his thumb, whereupon he attempted to remove the mark that remained but alas, he made it worse.

The maid’s pale pink skirts now possessed a grimy watermark, and he would have to ask Mrs Jenkins to wash it when she next came to collect his laundry. Which was …

Nathaniel frowned. Having been in such a state of inattention these past few days, he had quite lost track of the day and time, but now he counted on his fingers (he moved his mouth silently, little Buck watching him with twitching ears) and sucked in his breath.

Mrs Jenkins was due tomorrow – Thursday – which meant today was Wednesday, which also meant that he was due to deliver Mrs Denby’s order no later than noon.

Oh, but he could do without going down to the manor house!

The first week of January Nathaniel always reserved for cleaning his tools and undertaking repairs about the farm.

By next week the snow should have melted, enabling him to spread the slurry, clear the ditches, and prepare the ground for planting some new trees along the north borders separating the Pépin estate from Heysten Park.

Even if he had not been indisposed to face Prudence Brown (or Ralph Hornby), Nathaniel would have preferred to stay put.

But Mrs Wilson (on behalf of the viscount) paid him well, and such handsome income was necessary if he were to continue to run Hodge Farm.

No, there was nothing else for it, he simply must venture down to Wakely, despite the pain he might experience in fulfilling his duty, and so before an hour had lapsed Nathaniel Hodge had readied the cart with all that was required, his trusty terrier Buck waiting for him on the sprung seat with a lively wagging tail.

If Nathaniel Hodge had found himself in ill temper these past four days, it was nothing to the upset which Prudence Brown felt.

Mrs Wilson had remarked on it often (though it must be said she had been somewhat kinder with her scoldings just lately), and as a consequence Prudence made all manner of silly mistakes; she had left a chamber pot outside Lady Warwick’s rooms, spilt the coal scuttle upon the floor in the drawing room (which Monsieur de Fortgibu’s chickens wasted no time in treading in, leaving little black claw marks on the hearth), and dropped a whole bucket of dirty water over some newly cleaned linen.

Well, this had been a bit too much for Prudence, who had promptly fallen into a fit of hysterics, and it was Lowdie Lucas of all people who comforted her.

What has happened? the scullery maid asked, whereupon Prudence tearfully told her.

‘Oh lawds, Prue, all this fuss over a man?’

‘You don’t understand,’ cried Prudence, to which Lowdie had rubbed her nose and shrugged.

‘Don’t you worry yourself over it. If Mr Hodge likes you well enough, he’ll not hold a grudge for long.’

But Prudence, having returned to the house after that disastrous garland-gathering excursion and hidden herself in her room so she might burst into tears, knew that could not be true.

Mr Hodge was a gentle man, a good man, a kind man, and though a man of such qualities might be able to forgive a girl for some things, flirting with another was an indiscretion particularly damaging to a courting couple.

And they were courting, or at least Prudence believed them to be.

Had she not spent all her afternoons off these past three years walking by Hodge Farm and conversing with the farmer for hours?

Had he not allowed her to accompany him when he fed the lambs or milked the cows?

Had he not (and this was most telling) introduced her to his father ?

Prudence had been sad indeed when the old man passed, for despite his grumblings he had shewn her such ease and friendliness.

She felt sure that if Mr Hodge were to ask her to marry him, Old Mr Hodge would not have objected.

Drying her eyes, she had looked at the flowers that Miss Juliette ( Segne— Seigneru— oh, never mind!) had thrown, which she had caught.

Beautiful pink spray roses they were, sitting in the glass vase Prudence received in her Christmas box, so fresh and lovely.

Roses were, so Prudence knew, the flower of love, and if one were to believe the superstition that whoever caught a wedding bouquet should be next to marry …

Of course, Prudence was not so silly as to believe that – Miss Partridge, after all, would be next – but she had thought catching it meant something .

A culmination of her courtship with Mr Hodge … a profession of his love.

But all that had been ruined on account of her behaviour with that rogue Ralph Hornby.

Now, as Prudence tried to concentrate on darning Katherine Allen’s apron, she thought of that day with guilt.

She had not meant to allow the valet to take her in his arms, but it was so wonderful to have a break from her work, so glorious to be out on such a crisp snowy day, that Prudence had found herself not really thinking; she had allowed Mr Hornby to hold her close and she had laughed at his guile like a fool.

It was not as if, Prudence considered, she had done anything wrong, exactly.

He held her for mere seconds, and he had only danced with her, nothing more.

But how could Nathaniel Hodge know that? How could she explain?

Prudence would never forget the look of shock on the farmer’s face, the flash of pain that crossed his expression before he was able to hide it.

She had hurt him, hurt him badly, and in doing so had hurt herself.

And it was not as if she could contrive a moment to get away to Hodge Farm and tell him the truth of it – at Christmastime no servant could be easily spared.

Instead, she would have to wait until Mr Hodge delivered Mrs Denby’s food order on Wednesday.

Which was today.

She tied off a thread, reached next for Richard Marmery’s cravat.

He had asked if Prudence might embroider a little N for ‘Nash’ in the folds, which he thought might be particularly dashing and in keeping with what a Romantic Poet might wear, and in the spirit of the season she was happy to oblige.

At that moment the footman was seated at the far end of the table in the servants’ hall writing away in his new journal, and Prudence watched as Katherine passed by him with a tray of freshly baked mince pies – the kitchen maid ran a finger along the back of Nash’s neck in a gesture of intimacy, and Prudence envied them in that moment, that they should have found love in such a place as this.

With a sigh she selected a burgundy spool from her sewing box.