Page 45 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

Phillip saw on his approach that the carriage’s back wheels were stuck in the mud.

A tall and very beautiful woman with blonde hair wearing a pelisse in a striking shade of crimson stood on the wayside, clutching her skirts so they did not touch the ground, watching as the coachman and three other gentlemen were attempting to push the carriage from its trap.

‘For pity’s sake, Cordelia!’ one of the men puffed. ‘Help us, will you? If we can just get a little extra weight there on the right we will be able to—’

‘Humphrey, I told you no,’ snapped the lady. ‘This gown is brand new and I shall not have it ruined. ’Tis bad enough my boots are caked in filth. I refuse to dirty myself further.’

There came some ungentlemanlike swearing, some further grunts and a chorus of ‘heave-ho’s, and reaching them somewhat out of breath Phillip asked:

‘Can I be of assistance?’

The men all ceased their struggles and turned to Phillip.

The gentlemen – whose faces fell a little as they beheld him – looked him up and down, so too did the coachman with a little less obvious confoundment, but the lady could scarce disguise her disgust, and only then did Phillip remember his nomadic state of dress.

‘Forgive my appearance,’ said he, clutching his cap. ‘I have been travelling a good many days, but I can assure you I’m no vagrant. I can help,’ he added, when the gentlemen looked unsure, but the coachman beckoned him.

‘You speak well enough like a decent sort,’ said he, ‘and we should be thankful for help.’ The coachman removed a dew-drop from his nose with the pad of his thumb. ‘The wheel has jammed on its spike, but I can’t free it until the carriage is lifted from the mud.’

Phillip nodded, turned to address the man the lady had called Humphrey.

‘Right side you said, sir? Front or back?’

The gentleman nodded, the confoundment clearing from his face to be replaced with an expression of relief.

‘Front, if you please.’

The other two gentlemen murmured their agreement, and soon Phillip had positioned himself at the front right of the carriage. It took some strength on all their parts, but the five of them were able to free it, and with a great squelch the vehicle’s wheels came loose from the ground.

It was just at this moment – in the midst of some rather hearty ‘hurrah’s uttered by the three gentlemen – that another lady appeared from a narrow country lane to Phillip’s left.

This was not a lady of quality such as the one named Cordelia.

No indeed, this was a young woman wearing a plain dress of dyed wool and matching spencer jacket, together with a shawl of lace which she clasped now tight to her neck.

Truth be told it was not a shawl suitable for winter, but Molly Hart had never owned anything quite so lovely before, and so pleased had the housemaid been to find it in her Christmas box that she had made a point of wearing it at every given opportunity.

Such an opportunity had arisen when Molly – for the third time since Mrs Wilson instructed her not to venture upstairs except to the bedroom she shared with Prudence Brown – became frustrated at being kept so confined, and decided to take herself off for a walk.

Why, after all, should she be punished for something that was not her fault?

Of course, Molly knew that was not precisely true.

The moment the Duke of Morley had looked at her, Molly knew what he was about.

She was conscious of feeling flattered by his admiring stare, of being seen , and since Ralph Hornby had only the hour before shunned her in favour of a dance with Prudence in Wakely Forest, Molly was feeling particularly vulnerable to flattery.

It had been nothing after that to loiter about the upper rooms of the hall where she might bump into him, nothing at all to agree to meet the duke beneath the mistletoe under the stairs.

What she planned to achieve by such a dalliance, Molly did not quite know.

The thrill of it, perhaps. The exhilaration of a good kiss, for it had been so very long since she had experienced one.

To feel something. Anything! But she had not accounted for Sir Robert’s bruising lips or the rough grip of his hands on her shoulders – Molly did not realise he would be so passionate, nor that he would mistake her moan of distress as encouragement.

And as he pushed her dress from her shoulders in the shadowed confines of Wakely’s entrance hall, she realised then how foolish she had been to chase the past in arms that were not those of George Jenkins.

It had been both relief and torture to be discovered by Viscountess Pépin, to escape the Duke of Morley’s clutches and retreat to the safety of her room.

Yet such dread she thus experienced, waiting to be called by Mrs Wilson, or worse, the viscountess herself.

Not one wink of sleep did she have that night, listening to Prudence’s steady breathing in the bed beside hers, and it was only when it was all over that Molly dared once more to breathe steadily herself.

She would not be dismissed – Viscountess Pépin was adamant on that fact which was terribly kind of her, and the relief Molly felt was acute, for with no family living except an older brother at sea, she had nowhere else to go.

But Mrs Wilson … the scolding she received from the housekeeper served to temper that relief with nausea, for she realised just how close she had been to ruin.

What if you had become with child? What would you have done then?

The duke wouldn’t have seen you right – men of that ilk never do!

So Molly, humbled, accepted her chores belowstairs with little complaint: tablecloth after tablecloth was pressed, chests of bedlinen checked for moths, rugs beaten in the yard, and down in the cellar used wine bottles cleaned and stored ready for the viscount’s batch of honey mead in the summer.

But then, as one day began to seep into another and thoughts of George haunted her conscience, Molly could bear it no longer.

She had to escape Wakely Hall, the merriment of her fellow servants (especially Prudence, who was positively giddy about finally being engaged to Nathaniel Hodge), and the festive cheer which made her so very, very miserable.

And so she walked. Not for so long that Mrs Wilson should chance to miss her, but long enough that she might gain some respite from her thoughts and renew her chores with vigour on her return.

But today … today Molly had walked further than she meant and in so doing became quite lost. All those bottles left to wash!

Mrs Wilson would surely have discovered her gone by now – she had been absent from the hall for over two hours.

What a telling-off the housekeeper would give her!

Even if that woman’s tongue was not quite so harsh these past few days, there was no excusing Molly’s absence for such a long period of time and Mrs Wilson was sure to mark it.

Indeed, Molly would deserve the scolding, but equally, she was not altogether sure she could take another one, and for some minutes she wandered the fields in tearful agitation until she heard the distant sounds of men’s voices and the distressed whinny of horses.

Wiping her eyes the housemaid followed them until she found herself on a dirt track which, she hoped, would take her to the main road leading to Merrywake, and such were Molly Hart’s thoughts when she happened upon the scene before her.

‘Good heavens,’ she exclaimed. ‘Has anyone been harmed?’

Phillip turned. Stared. For a moment he was struck dumb, for he would have known her anywhere. One does not forget such striking blue eyes or curls the shade of molasses. Oh yes, Molly Hart had always been a beauty.

No wonder George had adored her.

‘Not at all, miss, not at all!’

It was the gentleman named Humphrey who replied. He tipped his hat and turned then to Phillip.

‘My name is Sharpe,’ said he. ‘Bertram Sharpe, and those are my brothers Humphrey and Tarquin –’ here the gentleman gestured first at one man, then the other – ‘and that lady there who has been abominably unhelpful is our sister, Cordelia.’

Miss Sharpe turned her pointed chin and sniffed.

‘I don’t see why you are making such a fuss. You managed perfectly well without me.’

‘Only because of this man here.’ Humphrey Sharpe – wearing an expression of exasperation – shook his head at the lady and turned back to Phillip. ‘Pray, to whom is my sister indebted?’

‘My name is Denby, sir. Phillip Denby.’

There came then a small gasp from behind him.

‘Phillip Denby?’ Molly whispered. ‘You … you are Mrs Denby’s son? Bess Denby, of Wakely Hall?’

‘That I am,’ he said, and Molly (he had never called her Miss Hart) raised a hand to her mouth, looking at Phillip as if she had seen a spirit.

That look could account for many things.

His appearance certainly was shocking, for Molly would have remembered a chubby boy of barely sixteen, brought up on Bess Denby’s hearty cooking, quiet and painfully shy.

Now he was tall and thin, wearing dirty clothes and a month’s worth of road dust on his face – no wonder she looked at him so strangely.

But … she might also look at him in such a way because she did in fact believe he was a spirit, and in that moment, Phillip was desperate to ask the maid about his poor mother, what misconception she suffered under.

Did she think him a deserter? Or did she believe her son to be dead?

‘Well!’ exclaimed the brother named Tarquin. ‘How fortuitous. Wakely Hall, you say? Why, we have been invited there for the Pépins’ Twelfth Night Ball! Not heard the name Denby though …’ Mr Sharpe frowned. ‘A servant, is she?’

The words were not said in any manner which would be considered superior. Indeed, they had been perfectly cordial, but Phillip raised himself up all the same.

‘She is the cook at Wakely, sir. Has been for many years.’