Page 4 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

Frances had no notion what it was she was pleading for, but the hand he had placed on her waist was instantly removed, and the lady felt some small flutter of regret.

Compose yourself, she thought as she at last found her way to the safety of terra firma and turned, blushing, to face her rescuer. He stood now at an appropriate distance, no trace of humour in his countenance at all.

‘Thank you,’ said Frances, for there really was nothing else to say, and in reply the vicar cleared his throat.

‘You are welcome.’

By the tone of his voice, it did not much sound to Frances that he meant it, and feeling most slighted she pointedly wiped her hands on her dirt-scuffed coat and sniffed.

‘A gentleman might have offered to hold the ladder for me in the first place instead of simply telling me where it was and letting me struggle by myself.’

Mr Soppe’s eyes narrowed. He had since removed his spectacles, and now that the glass no longer obscured his eyes Frances was reminded how, once, they shone with pleasure when he looked on her, rather than with annoyance as they did now.

In truth, Witherington was not annoyed. That is not to say he did not feel some semblance of the emotion, having had his day disturbed in such a manner, but no, he felt unaccountably moved.

How his heart had jumped when he saw Miss Partridge begin to flounder!

How he had run as fast as his old legs could carry him, in fear she would be harmed!

And how guilty he felt about all of it, for the lady was quite right.

A gentleman – no indeed, a man of God – would have offered his assistance from the start, but the moment he looked upon that beloved face all his wounded pride reared its ugly head, the hurt from long ago as fresh then as it had been fifty years afore.

Yet despite all this, and the relief he felt upon seeing Miss Partridge safely aground, Witherington could not bring himself to apologise.

Instead, he said in tones most grudging:

‘I will assist you now, if you still require it.’

It took all of Frances’ will not to shew her surprise, or her gratitude, for it must be said she had been rather frightened up in that tree.

‘Why thank you, vicar. I’d be much obliged.’

Mr Soppe’s face soured, but he turned to the basket (which rested now beside the tree trunk) willingly enough.

‘How many more do you require?’

‘Just four. Three from that tree over there, and …’

She trailed off, looking at the lovely big pear that had cost her the loss of her dignity. Reverend Soppe followed her gaze.

‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘Allow me.’

Frances held the ladder for him as he – with rather more vigour than might be expected for a man of his advancing years – climbed up and plucked down the pear with ease, and when he handed it to her their fingertips brushed together for the barest of moments.

Her breath caught, she turned away, and gestured to the sixth and final tree.

‘That one, now, vicar.’

She did not think she said these words in a manner he might construe in a bad light, yet Witherington Soppe turned on her then with such venom that Frances took a step back in shock.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ he snapped, blue eyes ablaze with an emotion she could not name. ‘Stop calling me “vicar”!’

Frances blinked at him rather owlishly.

‘But you are a vicar. How else might I address you?’

Witherington shook his head, that old hurt overpowering his guilt.

‘Come now, do you not think I hear your scorn? It positively drips from you. Good morning, vicar. Of course, vicar. Why thank you, vicar ! I know how much you despise addressing me as such, when once you might have called me “my lord”.’

Miss Partridge stared. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Oh, do not pretend with me,’ he returned, quite unable to keep the anger from his voice. ‘I know you, Fan, know you better than you realise. I always have.’

At the sound of her old pet name Miss Partridge drew herself up.

‘Upon my soul I do not pretend, nor do you know me at all if you can speak such nonsense.’

Witherington shook his head. How easily those long years disappeared in the face of wounds which had never truly healed.

‘Do you dare stand in front of me and declare yourself ignorant?’

To this the lady raised herself further, as tall as she might hope to achieve considering her squat stature, and Witherington would have laughed at how sweet she looked if his temper had not been so ripe.

‘Ignorant?’ she was exclaiming, an indignant flush pinking her delightfully round cheeks. He watched her clutch the pear he had just retrieved between her fingers, and the fleeting thought occurred that if she were to grip it any harder it would bruise.

‘Ignorant, yes,’ he exclaimed in return. ‘Perhaps over time your conscience has found a way to justify your betrayal, but I cannot fathom how such cruelty could be dismissed so readily.’

Witherington felt his heart hammering in his chest, the bitter relief of finally expressing the words he could not bring himself to utter all those years ago no real relief at all.

In the silence that followed he expected Miss Partridge to turn away from him with a curt dismissal, to abandon him as she had before, but instead she stared with an expression of deep shock on her face; to his disbelief her breath hitched and her soft brown eyes filled with tears.

‘My,’ Miss Partridge whispered, ‘you have a nerve to speak of betrayal and cruelty when you yourself have such mastery of them.’

He did not expect that. His forehead furrowed.

‘Madam?’

Miss Partridge took a step forwards so that they were mere inches apart. Witherington smelt the distracting fragrance of lavender upon her spencer.

‘I should have known,’ she said bitterly. ‘Like father, like son, all Heystens are the same, and I scold myself daily for not having realised it sooner.’

Whatever Witherington had expected her to say, it was not this.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ he exclaimed.

‘Oh,’ she cried, turning her face. ‘You, now, pretend ignorance!’

‘But I do. I cannot—’

‘I saw you,’ Frances declared. ‘You and Eliza, kissing under the poplars fifty Christmases ago, in the very place you asked for my hand!’ She took a shuddering breath at the memory. ‘How could you? How could she? You both betrayed me, and I cannot forgive it.’

Nor could she forget it. Eliza Granville, the girl who she thought to be her friend, had stolen the man she loved.

What a fool Frances had been, to confide in her.

But she had been young and so very sure of Witherington that she felt no qualms at telling her friend of their plans to marry.

It did not occur to Frances that Eliza might have been jealous.

She thought her fellow maid would be happy for her. How very wrong Frances had been.

As Frances tortured herself with the memory, Mr Soppe set his jaw.

‘A pretty tale,’ said he, ‘but you had already chosen to end our engagement when you discovered my father had disinherited me.’

Frances stared. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You may beg!’ Mr Soppe cried. ‘Just like I begged my father to understand that your lack of fortune had no bearing on my love. But it seems money meant more to you than I did, given that when you found out he had cut me off you felt it in your heart to do the same.’

Now, Frances could scarce take breath.

‘How can you say such a thing?’

‘Because it is the truth. You never loved me, Frances. It was all a lie.’

‘Was it?’

With a little sob Frances pulled at her neck with her free hand (for the other still clutched the pear), tugged the lace of her collar down to expose the chain there and began to wrench it from the confines of her stays.

Mr Soppe watched her in confusion until she brought forth a silver locket engraved with filigree swirls.

‘If I never loved you, why should I keep this, all these years?’

She heard his breath catch. He stepped forwards, took the little oval in his hands and opened it – within one side there nestled a lock of dark blonde hair, within the other a small portrait of a man, the very mirror of the one who looked down upon it, if not for the passing of five decades.

All three he had given her, and she had treasured them, always.

‘I do not understand,’ he whispered. ‘Why keep this, when …’

Frances shook her head. ‘I kept it because I loved you. I always loved you, even though you betrayed me so cruelly. I swear, I did not know about your disinheritance until Viscount Pépin announced the living which allowed you and Eliza to marry.’

There was silence as he took this in. A sharp breeze cut around the orchard but neither one of them appeared to feel it, wrapt up as they were in their own confused memories.

‘I did not betray you,’ the reverend said. ‘At least … not in the way that you think.’ He sighed, raised his gaze to hers. ‘Eliza came upon me in the forest. I was waiting for you as I did every week, but you had not come.’

‘I’d been waylaid!’ cried Frances. ‘The previous night the viscountess, she … she had fallen ill, and I was needed. I begged Eliza to tell you, that I would come as fast as I could, but when I arrived there you both were, in each other’s arms. I could not bear it.

I ran back to Wakely. I wanted to be as far from you as possible. ’

It was Mr Soppe’s turn to stare.

‘I thought you already knew of the disinheritance.’

‘ How? ’

‘I do not know. I do not know! You had not come, Eliza said you had changed your mind, and I assumed the worst.’ An expression of pain crossed his face.

‘Pity me, Fan. I was distraught at the thought of losing you, and when Eliza offered comfort … It was a foolish kiss, a moment of madness, that was all. But I did not expect her to go to her father, nor for him to demand a marriage between us. She claimed more happened than it actually did, and he threatened to tell the whole village. It was a matter of honour. I had no choice.’ He shook his head.

‘What a shock it was to all of them, when they realised no money would come from the union. How angry was Eliza, what further injury, to find she must take the less fashionable name of my mother. Believe me, Fan, our years together were not happy.’ Witherington shook his head.

‘I have been in misery since the moment we wed, and all the years after.’

With shaking hands Miss Partridge took the locket from his fingers and closed the clasp, tucked it once more down the collar of her dress.

‘How was I to know you had not already intended her as your bride?’ she whispered. ‘You did not even write, did not explain.’

‘I could not,’ Witherington said. ‘I was so hurt, so angry.’ He frowned. ‘You could have written to me too, you know.’

‘I could not,’ Miss Partridge whispered, ‘for the very same reasons. But I never stopped loving you, Withers, never.’

‘Nor I you.’

She sucked in her breath, dared to meet his searching gaze.

‘Really?’

Witherington smiled then, a true smile that brightened his grey features and made him once more look young.

‘You have aged, Frances, but your eyes are as beautiful as I ever found them. Like chestnuts, they are, I always thought it.’

Those eyes filled with tears. Witherington gently took her round face between his hands.

‘Fan, my own darling Fan. You will marry me now, won’t you?’

‘Oh, Withers,’ Frances said on a choke of laughter, finally daring to believe her good fortune. ‘What complete and utter fools we have been. All these wasted years!’

‘Then let us waste no more of them,’ the reverend replied, his usually subdued voice tumultuous, but quite powerless to stop it from being so he gathered her in his arms and held her tight, the stout and rosy pear pressed firmly between them.