Page 42 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

Oh yes. The toy soldiers used to be as popular as the Merrywake Dollies – even more so, perhaps.

At the start of the wars, Barnabus had made a rich packet with his drummers and pipers and cavalry figures.

It did not occur to him back then that he was glorifying death and making a profit from it – fighting for one’s country seemed a thing that Merrywake’s men and boys should be proud of.

It became something to aspire to, something George aspired to, and na?vely Barnabus did not think there was more to it all than that.

But then the letters came. Heartbreaking notifications that those same men and boys had either lost their lives or gone missing in action, and the shine turned to brass, his riches something akin to blood money. And then, then …

Barnabus sucked in his breath. He would never forget the opening line of that dreadful letter from Sergeant Harrington:

It is with deep regret that I must inform you of the death of your son, George William Jenkins, who died in battle on the eleventh day of April, the year of our Lord …

Well. He simply could not bring himself to make more soldiers after that.

‘Mr Jenkins?’

It was Miss Pépin who spoke. Barnabus cleared his throat of the bubble that had formed there, and stepped down from the ladder.

‘Here you are, young lady,’ said he, in a voice brighter than he felt, and watched as the little girl reached for the wooden soldier and took it gently in her arms.

‘Oh, look,’ the child cried. ‘Look how bonny he is!’

She ran her fingers over the soldier’s uniform; its tiny buttons, the tasselled epaulettes, its feathered hat. She touched the drum and its finely carved ropes, the little drumsticks and then, finally, she touched the soldier’s handsome face.

The face of his poor George.

Alice watched her husband, and was so fully aware of what this moment cost him that her heart fluttered.

But so too did it warm at seeing a child once more find joy in his creation, and as Lord Heysten and Miss Pépin admired the artistry of the toy soldier themselves she moved to stand next to Barnabus, took his hand in hers and squeezed.

She need not say anything. She knew he understood what she was telling him.

Let him go, my love. Let him go.

And after some moments, her husband squeezed back.

Alice smiled at Miss Faith. ‘Would you like me to wrap him for you, pet?’

Lord Heysten and Miss Pépin raised their eyes to hers.

‘But I understood the soldier was not for sale,’ his lordship remarked, to which Alice shook her head.

‘It had not been, but now it is. Is that not so, Mr Jenkins?’

Beside her, Barnabus took a shallow breath. ‘Aye, Mrs Jenkins. ’Tis time.’

Faith – who had clutched the soldier to her at hearing the words – let out a delighted noise of glee.

‘I may have it then? Truly?’

Lord Heysten shared a look with Miss Pépin who it must be said, looked, oddly, frightfully smug. After holding her gaze for some seconds, he lifted both hands in a gesture of despair.

‘Oh, very well. Though I really do think it strange for a girl to chuse a toy soldier to play with when there are such pretty dolls to be had instead.’

‘Just as I said before – not all little girls like dolls, nor should they have to.’

Miss Charlotte’s rejoinder was scathing and self-satisfied, and Alice wondered at it. To Lord Heysten (who was shaking his head as he searched his greatcoat for his pocketbook), she said:

‘Miss Faith is a very lucky child. We have not sold a soldier these past two years,’ to which Lord Heysten nodded almost absently.

‘I hope, my dear,’ Alice added, addressing now the child, ‘you shall take good care of him.’

‘Oh, I shall,’ she breathed, looking overjoyed by the prospect. ‘I shall name him Beno?t, after Monsieur de Fortgibu.’

Beside her, Barnabus went very still.

‘A French name.’

His whispered words made Miss Pépin frown.

‘Are you quite well, sir?’ she asked, to which Lord Heysten – having found his pocketbook – regarded Alice’s husband with concern.

‘I say, Mr Jenkins, you have gone rather pale.’

Barnabus turned his back and reached for the grounding comfort of the toyshop counter.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, then fell silent. He wished to say more – to tell the little girl that such a name was most unsuitable for his wooden soldier – but it was not his place, he knew. Alice, patting his hand and guiding him back onto his stool, sent Lord Heysten an apologetic look.

‘Indeed, you must forgive him. ’Tis just there is something of a history with these soldiers.’

‘Is that so?’ his lordship replied.

‘It is. But you need not trouble yourselves about it, my lord.’

Lord Heysten frowned. ‘Please, Mrs Jenkins – somehow we have caused you and your good husband distress, and that was not my intention. I should like to rectify the mistake, if I can.’

At such a gracious comment Barnabus found it within himself to offer a smile.

‘There is nothing to rectify, my lord. This is my burden.’

‘ Our burden,’ his wife corrected. ‘My dear, you really do take too much upon yourself.’

Miss Pépin and Lord Heysten looked troubled; however, in the spirit of politeness they accepted the answer without further question. But the child, Faith, had no such compunction.

‘Why can’t I name my soldier after a Frenchman?’

‘Faith!’

‘Beno?t is a good name,’ she insisted, speaking over his lordship. ‘Monsieur de Fortgibu is a good man.’

Alice inclined her head. ‘I’m sure he is, my dear.’

‘Then why ?’

Lord Heysten offered his sincere apologies; Miss Pépin attempted to hush the child, and in that moment Barnabus hesitated. He had forgotten how insistent children were, and this one was especially tenacious. Just as George had been.

‘You may call the soldier any name you like,’ Barnabus said quietly, though the words pained him, and so too the next: ‘It is only that we lost our son in the Battle of Toulouse.’

Miss Pépin’s handsome face flooded with understanding.

‘The wooden soldiers,’ she said. ‘You made them in the image of your son?’

Barnabus gave a small and careful nod.

‘And you lost him to a French soldier.’

‘We did,’ replied Alice.

‘I see.’ Miss Pépin smiled in sympathy, then turned to address the little girl.

‘Faith,’ she said, ‘do you see? It would be in poor taste to name your soldier after the monsieur. Besides,’ Miss Pépin added, in more strident tones, ‘this soldier has an English uniform. For an English soldier. A French name would not suit at all.’

The little girl frowned. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose it would not.’ But then her face brightened. ‘What was your son’s name, Mr Jenkins?’

Barnabus blinked, and though it might seem obvious that such a question should have followed, he was not prepared for it at all. His chest grew tight, his eyes a trifle warm.

‘George,’ he whispered, and once more Alice squeezed his hand.

‘Then I shall call the soldier George,’ announced the little girl. ‘That would be more fitting, would it not?’

‘Yes, Faith,’ replied Lord Heysten softly. ‘I do believe it would.’

There was silence then, in which Barnabus took up the cup and ball to resume his carving, and Alice dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief she had just removed from her sleeve. His lordship cleared his throat.

‘Well then,’ he said, with a cheerfulness that he clearly hoped would disperse the air of melancholy that had befallen the toyshop. ‘That settles the matter! Please, Mr and Mrs Jenkins – how much do I owe?’

With Barnabus concentrating so deeply on his carving and with such an air of deliberation that implied he was not truly concentrating at all, it was Alice who opened the purchase ledger and marked the sale.

‘We are much obliged to you,’ she said once his lordship had paid the soldier’s price. ‘And I do hope your daughter will treasure our George, though I see my words are not necessary – by the way she clings so tightly to him it is clear she shall.’

Lord Heysten seemed to hesitate. A meaningful look was shared between him and Miss Pépin, though Alice could not guess at what that meaning could be. The gentleman cleared his throat.

‘Faith is not my daughter, Mrs Jenkins.’

‘Oh! Oh,’ Alice said again for she was not quite sure how to respond.

‘Forgive me, my lord. You look so alike. Her colouring, and yours, I assumed … Well, what with you being in the Americas so long I wondered if perhaps you had …’ Alice ducked her head, scolded her strident tongue.

‘Forgive me,’ she said again. ‘It was not my place to comment on the matter, especially in front of the child,’ to which his lordship shook his head.

‘Pray, do not trouble yourself. We look alike because Faith is my sister.’

Alice started. Lord Heysten returned his pocketbook to the confines of his greatcoat.

‘You may well be surprised. Indeed, the circumstances are delicate, but Faith is fully aware of her history for I keep nothing from her. I’ve only to regret her prolonged absence, which will now be rectified.’

Well, well. It would take a very pious woman not to express some measure of curiosity as to what the aforementioned ‘circumstances’ might be and Alice was no such woman.

Still, this time she held her tongue, and next to her Barnabus intervened, asking in a stronger voice than he had possessed before:

‘You plan to stay in Merrywake, then, sir?’

‘I do,’ Lord Heysten replied. ‘Heysten Park is in dire need of improvement – my father neglected it shamefully – but I intend to settle here nonetheless.’

‘You are to restore the park, my lord?’

‘I am, although I am considering other uses for it.’

Beside him, Miss Charlotte frowned. ‘Other uses?’

‘On which I am still ruminating,’ came the careful reply. ‘But either way, I have every intention of renewing its prospects.’

This news gave Alice much pleasure and she told him so.