Page 54 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

STAVE XII.

Twelfth Night

T WELVE L ORDS A L EAPING

So it is that a tale such as this did indeed finish with a wedding, and one that brought great joy to all, especially those who understood that the event was long overdue.

Wakely Church – though not as full as it had been twelve days afore, for the couple wished only a quiet and intimate ceremony – had still found within itself a very merry congregation, to witness the happy marriage of one Frances Partridge to that of Merrywake’s esteemed reverend, Witherington Soppe.

The lady was given away by Lord Charles Heysten and, at the insistence of his little sister, Faith (who had been given the honour of acting as the couple’s flower girl), the ring bearer was none other than the child’s favourite hen, Foi (much to the amusement of everybody in attendance, particularly Monsieur de Fortgibu who watched on with pride).

It was widely agreed at the reception held in Wakely Hall’s parlour earlier that morning that the newlyweds’ nuptials had been a triumph, and that there could have been no better way to begin the household’s annual Twelfth Night celebrations.

For Fernand Pépin, however, the happy occasion was marred by two things – first, that he would lose his dearest daughter Juliette to his native France on the morrow, together with a son-in-law of whom he had become extremely fond, as well as his oldest friend Beno?t who would escort them; second, by way of the unfortunate events of the day before, the knowledge that his wife felt unable to speak to him about what had been happening under his roof, and that – worse – Fernand had been so wrapt up in the festivities of the Christmas season, he had not even noticed that something was amiss.

Truly, it was something the viscount was thoroughly ashamed of. Fernand had always prided himself on being attentive to everyone under his care but somehow he had neglected his own family, those who were closest to him of all.

He had not meant to be so remiss in his attentions.

Fernand had troubled over the matter at the dinner table last evening, and should at least be admired for keeping his countenance when, later that night and in front of the whole company which had gathered together for charades in the drawing room, the Earl of Starling offered his hand in marriage to Miss Cordelia Sharpe, averting what would surely have been a terrible scandal (if, of course, the Busgroves could be prevailed upon not to wag their tongues).

But while such an event should have instilled in him a relief most profound it left the viscount feeling only a sense of disgrace, for the whole sorry business might have been prevented if he had only noticed the Duke of Morley’s behaviour towards his dear daughters.

To be sure, if Fernand had known, the duke would have been put out on his dastardly heels.

Nicolas had professed himself deeply apologetic for the part he had inadvertently played.

If he had been aware of his friend’s unscrupulous behaviour at Wakely he would never have kept silent about that man’s clandestine marriage, and while his son-in-law had been forgiven by all, the whole business for Fernand had rather put a dampener on the excitement that usually preluded his annual Twelfth Night Ball.

And he had nobody to blame for it but himself.

Had not Ambrosia tried to discuss her concerns with him? Fernand frowned as he attempted to remember her exact words and his response to them:

—Sir Robert is far too attentive, my dear. He is turning their heads!

—Now, now, whatever is wrong with a little bit of harmless flirting?

—But it is not harmless! You know how impressionable the girls can be. Especially our Rosalie.

—Oh, I am quite convinced the duke has no designs upon them. ’Tis all perfectly innocent, as I said, and nothing untoward will come of it.

—He is a cad, Fernand, I am sure of it. Why, in Bath I saw—

—Dearest, you imagine things. A man of Morley’s rank would not be so foolish as to behave in an inappropriate manner. Truly, there is nothing to worry about, and I would rather you did not upset Juliette and Nicolas about the matter, not so soon after the wedding.

At least, that is what Fernand remembered of the conversation.

What with it being the night of his eldest daughter’s marriage and Christmas Day to boot, he had perhaps imbibed too much of Mrs Denby’s good punch to pay much attention to a curtain lecture, but now Fernand was unhappily conscious of not taking his wife’s apprehensions to heart.

The fact of the matter was, he had not taken them seriously.

His daughters were young and flighty – especially dear Rosalie – and did not everyone become a little too excitable during the Christmas season?

But seeing his wife so overwrought yesterday, so very unlike herself, had made Fernand realise just how wrong he had been.

Unusually for him, he was avoiding company – instead of joining the reception of the newlyweds where the guests were currently involved in a spirited game of snap-dragon (he could hear the whoops!

and huzzahs! that resounded from three rooms down the corridor quite clearly), the viscount had removed to the privacy of his study, where he was at that moment writing out a character for Mrs Denby’s son by means of a distraction.

He had already written to Sergeant Harrington inviting him to Wakely Hall that evening, for what with Phillip Denby’s predicament being such a delicate one, the viscount felt a discussion face to face might be best. But since the snow had begun again in earnest Fernand had doubts as to whether the sergeant would arrive from London in time.

As it was, the services of a scraper had been secured to clear Wakely Hall’s drive, and he was only thankful many of his guests had already arrived and settled themselves at the Crown Lodge in the village, so their own journey that evening would not be too perilous.

In any case, in the event that Sergeant Harrington should not arrive, Fernand had determined to put into place certain measures; he had already tasked the boy to write a deposition outlining all that occurred after he woke upon the battlefield at Toulouse, and sent a letter across to the French prison at Brest to see if they might provide a record of Mr Denby’s confinement.

The only matter remaining was Fernand’s character reference, but being so very low of spirits …

Viscount Pépin sighed heavily and laid his swan-feather quill upon the leather-topped desk. Oh, whatever could he do to make up for his negligence!

There came then a knock upon the door to which he bade entry, and Fernand managed a weary smile when his third daughter, Charlotte, entered the room.

‘ Père ,’ said she, closing the study door behind her. ‘Might I ask something of you?’

‘ Bien s?r, ma chère .’

Charlotte sat at the seat across from his desk. She looked most chagrined, and with concern her father asked what the matter was.

‘I am vexed to ask you at all,’ said she, a scowl upon her handsome face.

‘Whyever so?’

‘Because,’ his daughter replied stoutly, ‘I am dependent on your saying yes.’

‘To?’

Charlotte pressed her lips. ‘Lord Heysten has finally – after some days of teasing, I might add – consented to allow me to teach Faith.’

‘Why, that is splendid!’ And the viscount, despite his melancholy, was pleased, for he often bemoaned his daughter’s lack of diversions.

Juliette had always happily given her time in assisting the viscountess with the running of the household whilst Maria, when she was not enjoying (perhaps a little too much) the delights of the Bath and London seasons, might be found at her needle.

Louisa and Rosalie were too young (and lacking any particular talent) to engage in entertainments beyond those of reading novels and attending the odd ball, but Charlotte – having no interest in any of these things – had always found herself somewhat at a loss.

Fernand recognised her frustration; there were, after all, only so many books one could read about abolition and women’s rights, and whilst his wife was quite correct in stating that the daughter of a viscount could not become a governess, Fernand knew that denying his daughter the pleasure of being useful would do more harm than good.

It would not be for ever, after all. Viscount Pépin felt sure of it.

‘Splendid, yes,’ said Charlotte now with a roll of her dark eyes, ‘but having spoken to Mrs Thorpe, she has made me aware that I will be in need of a few more items other than the books already at my disposal.’

She then proceeded to provide a list of items conducive to the teaching of a seven-year-old girl, and when she was done, she tossed her head.

‘If you gave me my dowry, Père , I would not have to ask you, but as it is …’

Fernand did not commit to an answer. He knew, of course, how she felt, for Charlotte lamented the matter all too often.

However, the viscount was a man of tradition, and he could not possibly allow his headstrong daughter full rein of her finances.

Why, she would likely attempt some reformative enterprise and bankrupt herself in the process.

‘I shall send for the items you require,’ her father advised, making a note of each one.

‘If we allow for the snow –’ and here both Fernand and Charlotte looked out the window onto Wakely’s white-covered lawns, where fresh flakes fell softly past the panes – ‘you can expect them to arrive next week.’

Charlotte thanked him and moved to stand, but then, upon looking more intently at his face, sank back into the seat.

‘Are you quite all right, Père ? You look aggrieved, and that is not like you – especially not on the day of a Twelfth Night Ball.’

Fernand hesitated, touched that she should have noticed, and because she had noticed, the viscount felt obliged to be honest.

‘In truth, I am not.’

Charlotte took her father’s hand. The viscount sighed.