Page 48 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

With a deep breath he rounded the back of Wakely Hall to seek the tradesmen’s entrance, but in the yard he lingered for some time, listening to the bustle of the servants’ hall, smelling the scent of cooked meat and sugared spices on the cold night-time air.

Phillip closed his eyes, pretended he was a youth again where he had nothing to concern himself over except helping the stable boy muck out the horses and what wonderful meal his mother would prepare for that evening.

He might have lingered thus for some time had it not been for the kitchen door swinging open, and a great gush of steaming water being thrown out upon the icy step.

Phillip could not make her out at first. He saw the person was a woman for she wore skirts, but her features were obscured by the light behind her. It was only when she stepped back to spread the water about the step with a broom, that he realised to his relief that it was Molly.

‘Mol,’ he whispered.

She did not hear. The scritch of the broom was too loud. Phillip sucked in his breath, and moved into the beam of light that shone from the doorway onto the cobbles.

‘ Mol! ’

Molly paused, looked up. Then, quickly turning her head to ascertain if anyone was watching, she brought the door to behind her.

‘I wondered when you’d come,’ she whispered, and Phillip realised she looked tired.

‘Are you all right?’

She looked surprised at this, as if nobody had asked her such a question before. ‘Yes, ’tis just … Mrs Wilson was not best pleased I’d abandoned my work. But at least it is done now. I’ve not long finished.’

He winced – Phillip remembered well what the housekeeper could be like, though her sharp tongue had never been directed at him. His mother had not allowed it.

‘Did she punish you?’

‘No,’ Molly said, though the word was drawn out. ‘She seems to have mellowed these past few days. ’Tis Christmas, after all. But she had been worried. Thought I might have absconded.’

‘Absconded?’

‘Deserted, I suppose. In my own fashion.’

Phillip reeled slightly, but then he saw she was smiling and had, it seemed, attempted a jest. It was not amusing, but it served somehow to relax him, and so Phillip said:

‘Is my mother still busy?’

She shook her head. ‘Not now. We were just clearing up.’ Molly paused. ‘How long have you been out here in the cold?’

‘A while.’

Molly sighed. ‘Come in. No good will come from delaying this further.’

It was just as she was gently taking Phillip’s arm that the kitchen door opened wide once more, and a tall woman was silhouetted on the threshold. Both Molly and Phillip were flooded with golden light, and both had to shield their eyes from it.

‘Molly Hart! What are you about?’

‘Mrs Wilson, I …’

The housekeeper folded her bony arms, and though neither one of them could see her expression, it could well be imagined.

‘I have tried to be accommodating these past couple of days,’ the housekeeper said in weary tones, ‘but this is too much.’

‘Mrs Wilson—’

‘Skulking about the yard with another man! It is not to be borne! For shame, have you not learnt your lesson? I—’

‘Mrs Wilson?’

Phillip stepped forwards then. He had no notion what it was the housekeeper spoke of, what ill Molly had done to warrant such words, nor did he wish to know their implications, but here at least she was wrong, and he could not let Mrs Wilson say such things when they were not deserved.

The moment he spoke, the housekeeper brought herself up short. Her eyes widened, she stepped closer – unsteady, almost – and as she did her expression could finally be seen. It was not one of anger but wonderment, and Phillip knew she knew him then, and felt a lump form in his throat.

‘Phillip Denby,’ she breathed. ‘Is that really you?’

He could only nod. Mrs Wilson looked between him and Molly.

‘By heaven, come inside. Come inside, for pity’s sake, before you both catch cold!’

Whatever doubts he had about his return, they could not now be entertained, for Mrs Wilson was steering him across the flagstones, and through the door into the servants’ hall.

It was bright. Warm. Just as Phillip remembered it, though there were some faces he did not recognise, all who looked at him with unabashed curiosity.

But he did recognise Nash and Kate (whose hand had flown to her mouth), and the valet, Ralph.

And, of course, he recognised his own dear mother, who stood with a tray of mince pies in her hands and was staring at him now just as Molly had earlier that day in the lane.

Phillip could barely contain himself, and nor could the cook. The tray of mince pies began to wobble precariously, and like a gull a maid with a round face and dimpled chin swooped in to rescue them, just in time for Mrs Denby’s face to collapse into a great and almighty sob.

‘Oh! Oh! ’

She rushed to him, a bundle of aprons and skirts, and Phillip fell into her arms as if he were not a grown man of one-and-twenty, but a boy of barely sixteen once again.

His mother’s embrace was everything he had dreamt of those long months in his prison cell – it enveloped him like a blanket, strong yet tender. She smelt of goose fat and cinnamon, and Phillip cried hard into the cushion of her shoulder.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked him over and over again, though there was no opportunity for him to answer; she kissed his hair (how relieved Phillip was that he was clean), his cheeks, his forehead, his hands.

‘Look at you! Look how you’ve grown! Oh,’ she exclaimed again, joyful now, her red face jolly and wet.

‘You’re alive! My darling boy, I knew you were, deep down. I knew it!’

‘I didn’t desert,’ Phillip said, muffled still in the cambric of her dress. ‘I swear I didn’t.’

At this the cook stilled. Phillip became conscious once again of the other servants, some watching on with tears in their eyes but all of them smiling. Molly and Mrs Wilson stood side by side, arms about each other’s waists, smiling widest of all.

‘I never, ever ,’ said his mother, looking at him fiercely, ‘thought for one moment that you did. Not my boy. Not my Phillip.’

Phillip let out a breath, and upon doing so realised just how much he had feared her answer. To know she did not believe him an enemy of the king, to know she did not feel shame at his disappearance, was a great balm to his conscience.

Aside from George, hers had been the only opinion that ever mattered to him.

‘Oh, Mother,’ he said now, meeting her gaze. ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear you say those words. To know you do not think the worst of me. But …’

‘But what?’ Mrs Denby asked gently.

‘But you might be the only one who believes it. Sergeant Harrington … The viscount … If they think I deserted, I’m done for. And what of you and your position at Wakely? You would lose it. I don’t think I could bear—’

His mother pressed a finger to his lips to silence him. Then, without a care of their audience, she drew out a chair from the table and beckoned Phillip to sit. When he had, she joined him.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she said. ‘Tell me it all.’

And so he did. For the second time that day Phillip explained what happened at the Battle of Toulouse and its aftermath; how he came to wake up amid a mass of bodies, that the only choice open to him was to simply walk; how he was captured by the French and found himself at the prison in Brest; how long he had stayed there, how he survived upon his release.

All this Mrs Denby listened to with a quiet, comforting acceptance, and Phillip felt the years of guilt and fear slip from him like warm melted butter.

When Phillip had finished, Mrs Denby drew him to her and simply held him.

They stayed thus for some minutes, in which Phillip became vaguely conscious that the servants’ hall was busying itself again, that Mrs Wilson had orchestrated a measure of privacy.

Phillip closed his eyes, found himself awash with the familiarity of it – the cordial chatterings of the housemaids and the footman amid the clatter of dishes, the sweep of brooms, the wiping of tables.

The sounds of his childhood that had, always, though Phillip had not known it then, given him such contentment.

‘Come, my boy,’ said Mrs Denby after a while, and she pushed him away to firmly clasp his shoulders. ‘Let us seek out the viscount. He shall see you right, mark my words.’

And though it was clear his mother believed this assurance, Phillip still could not.

He had lived with the fear of it too long.

But in that moment, as Mrs Denby led him from the room, Phillip realised he must face whatever might come and took strength in knowing that no matter what happened now, his mother knew the truth. And that was enough.