Page 46 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Oh, how splendid,’ interceded Mr Humphrey Sharpe, who patted his stomach.

‘I’ve heard great things about Wakely’s cook.

Her roast goose dinners are notorious, apparently – I met the Earl of Starling in Bath last summer, and he waxed lyrical about them!

And to be clear, Mr Denby, the earl is not a man easily pleased.

I look forward to sampling your mother’s cooking very much. I do love a good roast dinner.’

Phillip, feeling somewhat gratified at such praise, ducked his head, and Bertram Sharpe turned his attention to Molly.

‘Are you also from Wakely Hall, Miss …?’

‘Hart, sir. I’m a housemaid there.’

‘You are far from your position, Miss Hart.’

Molly hesitated, a shot of colour appearing in her cheeks. ‘’Tis my afternoon off, sir.’

‘Is it? Then we shall not delay you any longer.’ He adjusted the lip of his top hat. ‘You must forgive that we do not offer you both a ride back to Wakely, but alas …’

The gentleman trailed off, his meaning clear – the carriage was small, fit only to accommodate the Sharpe siblings at close quarters, and the upper portion of the vehicle had room only for their luggage and the coachman.

And of course, their station would not allow it.

‘Even if there were room,’ Phillip replied to acknowledge the fact, ‘we would have to decline your kind offer.’

‘Just so, just so,’ Humphrey Sharpe nodded. ‘But I hope you do not think us uncharitable. Truly, your help was invaluable, and I shall be sure to tell the viscount of your conduct.’

‘That is very kind, sir.’

‘Not at all, not at all.’

There came then a loud tsk to Phillip’s right.

‘Pray, let us continue,’ said Miss Sharpe, sweeping past him in a shot of crimson velvet. ‘My feet ache, and I have no wish to loiter in the cold.’

’Twas uncharitable nerve to say her feet ached when it was clear Phillip and Molly were themselves to walk to Merrywake in such icy conditions, and her brother gave a scolding shake of his head.

‘Cordelia, you’ve no manners. Do you not wish to thank Mr Denby?’

In reply the lady looked down her nose at her rescuer, uttered a very taciturn word of gratitude and proceeded to sidle her gaze to a spot beyond Phillip’s shoulder.

‘You,’ said Miss Sharpe to Molly, in a haughty manner most disagreeable for a woman of quality, ‘yes, you,’ she added, beckoning the maid who – to her credit – did not move a single inch, at which Miss Sharpe narrowed her eyes.

‘You say you are a servant at Wakely Hall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, miss , is the correct answer! Honestly, I declare—’

‘Oh, do hush, Cordelia!’ snapped Tarquin Sharpe, who too was looking at his sister with barely veiled disgust. ‘Honestly, I declare that I’ve never known such shocking manners.

Our aunt never raised you to behave thus.

She would turn in her grave.’ The brother bowed in the face of his sister’s look of affront.

‘Forgive her, Miss Hart. We’ve been travelling these past four days from the north in this frightful snow and the delays have put quite a strain on all of us …

though some, it appears, more than others. ’

Miss Sharpe sighed with an indifferent air.

‘Tarquin, I hardly see why you should declare it to all and sundry, nor why I need be forgiven by a maid! But,’ she added, with a smile that was by no means friendly and more than a little condescending, ‘in the spirit of the season I shall not hold a grudge. Pray, Miss Hart – you say you’re from Wakely Hall.

Can you please advise if the Duke of Morley has arrived? ’

Curiously, the little patch of colour that had appeared in Molly’s cheeks disappeared, to be replaced by a striking paleness. She opened her mouth then closed it again, before managing to visibly compose herself.

‘He is, Miss Sharpe. He has been since Christmas Eve.’

‘Splendid. And has, per chance, Lord Heysten visited?’

‘He is staying at Wakely, miss.’

The lady stared. ‘Is that so?’

‘But I believe he returns to the park every now and then.’

‘I see.’ Miss Sharpe’s fair eyebrows rose. ‘Strange then, Bertram,’ she said, turning to him, ‘why our letters should have been ignored.’

‘Yours have,’ returned her other brother. ‘And I can hardly blame the man either, not when you make such demands on him. I’d ignore you too if I could.’

‘ Bertram! ’

Again Miss Sharpe looked affronted, and taking this as his and Molly’s cue to part ways with the strangely matched siblings, Phillip cleared his throat and addressed the waiting coachman:

‘If you will not be needing me, I would beg to be excused.’ To which the coachman – now seated atop the carriage – expressed his assurances that Phillip had done everything that was needed and the three Sharpe brothers gave their profuse thanks once again.

Only Miss Sharpe said not one further word, and looking rather stony-faced ascended the carriage, disappearing into its confines with a flurry of skirts.

Her brothers, with polite tips of their hats, joined her, and shortly afterwards the carriage was clattering away, leaving Phillip and Molly quite alone on the open road.

They had watched the carriage depart in silence, but when it curved a bend in the muddy road and disappeared out of sight, Molly turned to the young man who stood so still beside her.

Could this really be Phillip Denby? He had been young when he left Merrywake, but the Phillip Denby she looked at now was different.

It was not just his physique that had changed; he was taller and leaner than when she saw him last, but there was something about the way he carried himself that could not be hidden by his dirty apparel and uncombed hair.

There was a strength, a reserve, a fundamental element of maturity that had not been present before.

He had returned to Merrywake a man.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked softly, and though Phillip (she could not think of him as Mr Denby) turned to her he did not meet her searching gaze.

‘In France.’

‘All this time? Your mother. She …’

‘What does she think?’

His tone was harsh, though she did not think he meant it to be. Molly could tell by the shot of pain that crossed his face, the shuttering of eyes so like the cook’s.

‘She isn’t sure what to think. When word of George came …

’ Molly hesitated. She had not said his name in years and it stuck tightly in her throat.

‘When word of George came, everyone presumed the worst. Musicians are always first in the line of fire, so they say. But then a week after that Mrs Denby received word that you were missing, and …’

‘Missing?’ He looked at her then. Straight in the eye, like a bullet. ‘Not dead?’

‘No, not dead.’

Phillip breathed out. His breath pooled the sky.

‘Does she believe me to be a deserter, then?’

Molly hesitated again. It had crossed all their minds. But Mrs Denby did not speak one word against her son. In fact, she did not speak of him much at all and Molly told him such.

‘I think the subject gives her too much pain.’

Phillip watched her a long moment before giving one single nod. Then he placed his cap back upon his head, and began to walk. She let him take a few steps before she called his name and, reluctant almost, he stopped.

‘ Did you desert?’

At this, he turned about, and Molly saw then he held such an expression of torture in his eyes it made her chest tighten against her stays.

‘Not willingly.’

‘Not willingly ?’

Good heaven, what did that even mean? But when he said nothing else Molly felt that tightness clamp about her ribcage and she closed the distance between them, clutching tightly at the lace trellis of her shawl.

‘Did you leave before or after George died?’

‘George?’ Phillip echoed, as if he had not followed him about like a besotted dog all those years before, and Molly – whose emotions had been so lately in turmoil – began to give in to her agitation.

‘You were in the same regiment! Played together, side by side! You’d have seen him, wouldn’t you? Seen him die. Unless you left before then.’

Though Phillip’s skin was dark with dirt, Molly saw him pale nonetheless. He swallowed – hard – and for one moment she thought he might admit to it. But then he shook his head.

‘Yes, I saw him die.’

Molly sucked in her breath. ‘Was … was it quick?’

Phillip nodded.

‘How?’

‘A bullet,’ he said quietly. ‘To the chest. It was instant, I promise you.’

She shut her eyes, as much in relief as in pain.

Molly had tortured herself over George’s death – she knew no details beyond that he fell at the Battle of Toulouse, for gossip spread from the Jenkins’ toyshop to the dressmaker, thence to the baker and the Crown Lodge where Richard Marmery had heard it and brought the unhappy news back to Wakely Hall, where Molly learned the awful truth at supper that very evening.

The footman delivered it without preamble, not realising such unhappy communication should be imparted gently, and it took all of Molly’s strength not to sob into her mutton then and there.

Instead she had excused herself on the pretence she had a headache, and taken to her bed where she cried herself to sleep.

They had met in the village square. She was on her way to hand in a letter to her brother at the Receiving House, and George was on his way back from collecting a loaf of bread from the baker.

Molly had dropped her letter, he had retrieved it, and when their eyes met he later claimed hers were the loveliest blue he ever did see.