Page 47 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

They kept their courtship private. It had been a decision they had both come to; at seventeen and still only a scullery maid, Molly did not want to risk her position, and George already had aspirations to take the king’s shilling.

Only one person knew that Molly spent her days off in the company of George Jenkins, the toymaker’s son, for he had caught them once, kissing passionately behind Wakely Hall’s woodshed.

But instead of shooing Phillip Denby away as she might have done, George had been kind.

Offered him a tin whistle his father had made.

Taught him how to play. Two years later he went to war, taking Bess Denby’s boy with him, and three years after that, George was dead.

Molly never knew how or why. Nor could she mourn him or share her pain.

The letters she received from George were always presumed to be from her merchant sailor brother and therefore never questioned.

She grieved alone, and the loss of him – of the life that would have been hers if he had lived, the torture of it – changed her.

She felt her resentment grow, day after day, transforming her into someone George would not have recognised or loved.

But oh, how Molly wished to be loved! She craved it, wanted so desperately to feel again.

Why else did she flirt outrageously with Mr Hornby and any other man who took the trouble to flatter her?

Why else did she throw herself into the arms of the Duke of Morley?

But now … now she knew how George had died. And though it hurt, she felt a sort of peace come over her, and Molly did something then she had not done since that fateful night two years ago. She began to cry.

Phillip watched her, watched the way she clung to the lace with white knuckles as tears ran down her face, and did not know what to say.

George had been like a brother to him. He had worshipped him, looked up to him – the moment Phillip saw that bullet hit George clean in the chest, time seemed to stop, and as Molly began to wrap her arms about herself Phillip felt tears of his own warm his eyes.

No, he did not know what to say, but he did know what to do , and so Phillip took her in his arms. Molly pressed into him, and now being much taller than her he pressed his chin on the crown of her head.

She did not wear a bonnet – her dark curls tickled his skin, and suddenly Phillip realised she smelt of cooking, his mother’s cooking, and moved by this as much as by Molly’s sobs he held her closer, and let the tears come.

How long they stood thus, absorbed in their sorrow on the turnpike road that led to Merrywake, neither of them could be quite sure.

But at length they parted, shared a small smile of understanding, and began to walk the three remaining miles to Merrywake.

They spoke little – there was no need, it seemed – and soon they reached the turnpike, passed the rusting gates of Heysten Park, and found themselves in view of Wakely Church.

A small graveyard was situated a little way away from the Reverend Soppe’s orchard, and this was where Phillip slowed and gestured to the frosty lychgate.

‘I suppose they put up a marker for him?’

Molly hesitated. ‘They did. But I never go there. I … I cannot bear to.’

Phillip nodded. He could understand that.

‘Did they put a marker up for me?’

‘It was suggested to Mrs Denby,’ she replied after a moment. ‘Viscount Pépin even offered to pay for it, but she declined.’ Molly looked at him. ‘I suppose she hoped you would still come home …’

There was a question in her eyes. It was direct, no softening of it with either a smile or a touch, and Phillip realised that somewhere between his leaving and return she had grown hard, like him.

But Phillip did not want her to think badly of him, to have his honour doubted, and so as they resumed their walk deeper into the village, he told her the truth.

Molly listened, not with shock or horror, but a numb sort of acknowledgement.

The tears she shed for George had drained her, and hearing Phillip’s ordeal now, Molly found herself unable to voice a single coherent thought.

Yet she sensed in him a gratification for that – he needed not sympathy, nor her words, but simply someone to listen. To understand.

‘I’m sorry,’ was all she said once he was done, and Phillip gave one single nod.

They had reached the square. As it always was, the village was a bustle of activity, and Molly watched as Phillip took it all in – Merrywake alive and thriving, its shops all the same as they had been before he left: the baker, the basket weaver, the stationer, the …

She knew without needing to know where his gaze had caught.

Molly had always been careful to never look in its direction but she could always picture the toyshop in her mind, the faded sign that had stated once so proudly the words Jenkins & Son but was now an unhappy reminder of George’s absence.

She had no intention of looking at it now, except Phillip touched her hand gently and whispered, ‘ Look’ .

His face had upon it such a queer expression that Molly consented to turn, and when she did a lump formed in her chest, just where her heart was situated, for in the toyshop window there was a display: seven toy soldiers, standing upon an old bodhrán drum.

George’s drum. And the soldiers’ faces, Molly realised, were all the likeness of him.

The sight of them made her feel weak. She barely registered that Phillip was leading her forwards until they stood before the glass, where together they stared down at the display. There he was, George Jenkins in miniature. The man who meant so very much to them both.

‘You should buy one.’

It was Phillip who said it, and Molly took in a shuddering breath.

‘I couldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘I would have to speak to his parents, then, and I do not think I could bear it.’

‘Would speaking to them be so very bad? I must face them, at some point.’

‘’Tis different for you.’

‘Yes, it is. I saw their son die.’

Molly shook her head. ‘They knew you, Phillip. They’d be grateful to hear you speak of him. It might bring them peace. But they never even knew I existed. What could I possibly tell them?’

‘The truth,’ Phillip said simply.

‘But—’

‘Do you still have his letters?’

‘Of course I do,’ she whispered, and Phillip lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug as if that solved the matter. Which, Molly acknowledged, it rather did.

The church clocktower struck four then, and beside her Phillip sighed.

‘I’d best be getting on to the Crown.’

Molly turned to him. ‘You aren’t coming back to Wakely Hall?’

Phillip made a gesture indicating his attire. ‘Like this?’ he asked, and Molly did concede he had a point. ‘I shall freshen myself, have a nap. A meal, too, though it will be nothing to Mother’s. But I cannot present myself to her like this.’

‘I understand.’

He nodded. Then, shyly almost, he took her hand.

‘Don’t say anything to her,’ Phillip said. ‘I want it to be a surprise.’

Molly nodded, squeezed his cold fingers. ‘I shan’t say a word.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and released her hand.

‘What … what will you do, Phillip? If Sergeant Harrington does think you a deserter, then …’

She trailed off. Something like fear crossed his features, and Molly knew why.

At best, deserters were imprisoned. At worst, they were hanged.

‘I must speak with Viscount Pépin,’ Phillip said quietly. ‘Ask his advice. I know not what else to do.’

He left her then. She watched him cross the square. At the Crown’s threshold, Phillip turned to give her a small wave, and it was only when he had disappeared into the lodge’s bustling confines that Molly turned back to the toy soldiers.

One day, she thought, looking down into the eyes of the soldier nearest to her, the eyes of her dear George. One day I shall tell them who I am .

Phillip found himself in the grounds of Wakely Hall some hours later – finally clean and rested in a fresh set of clothes and shoes, with a hearty meal of venison in his stomach.

The sun had long set, and in the star-kissed dark the way to his childhood home would have been near impossible if he had not already known it blindfolded.

How often had he ventured back there after a Merrywake assembly, high in both spirits and liquor?

Of course, at such a young age Phillip should not have partaken of the punch, but George would sneak him a cupful every now and then.

Still, he always arrived back at Wakely unscathed, and so had Phillip done now, albeit in less high spirits than he had before.

He was frightened.

Walking the turnpike road with Molly and sharing their grief at George’s loss, Phillip had been able to quench his fears of what lay ahead.

Even in the square he had stamped it down, did not think of it once at the Crown, but as he stood now on the gravel drive looking up at Wakely Hall – lit from within in candlelit shades of gold – he felt fear.

What would his mother think of him? Would she be happy?

Or ashamed? Molly had not indicated either way, only that his mother found speaking of him painful, and so Phillip had no notion as to how he would be received.

And then, then , he would have to face the viscount. He would have to beg.

It was not a habit Phillip was accustomed to. Even when the French caught him, he had not begged.

He had too much pride.