Chapter Six
DESPITE THE FAINT sorrow that had settled over him at supper—and the mortification of having voiced it in a moment of unguardedness, inspired by candlelit warmth—Gabe found himself in good spirits as the little group made their way from Crabb Hall down toward the village.
They went on foot, which had struck him as a ridiculous proposal at first, but now, with snow crunching beneath their boots and lanterns casting soft halos of gold to guide their way, he could not imagine travelling any other way.
Still, he was glad to know a carriage would collect them later—once the charm of the rudimentary travel arrangements had properly worn off.
He walked beside Miss Mifford. They spoke little, their silence companionable as their breaths rose as mist before them.
Gabe was glad for the distraction of watching his footing, for if his mind had been free to wander, it would surely have been filled by thoughts of her—her sweet smile, the angelic halo of her golden hair, her preference for Bordeaux…
Desire mingled with faint patriotism as he recalled the way she had determinedly set aside her Portuguese wine in favour of his beloved French vintage.
If she were his wife, he decided, she would drink only French wine.
Though, given that she had shown no sign of interest in him, he suspected it would take rather a lot of French wine to persuade her to accept the position.
“Oh look,” Miss Mifford exhaled, as they crested the brow of the hill and looked down on Plumpton.
Below them, the village glowed merrily; lanterns bobbed and flickered as scores of villagers made their way toward the church through the snow. Gabe closed his eyes against the charming scene; Plumpton truly did its best to beguile the jaded of heart.
“We’ll be late!” Mrs Mifford cried, as she reached their side and spotted the scene below.
“Whatever will the vicar think?” Mr Mifford queried dryly—though he quickened his step all the same.
By the time the little party reached the church—Mr Mifford vanishing at once through the door to the vestry—it was already full.
Every pew was packed with Plumptonians in their best attire, their faces pink from vigorous scrubbing.
The air was cold and sharp against Gabe’s cheeks, scented with candle wax, greenery, and—he sniffed—an unmistakable hint of alcohol.
“Angus must have called last orders just before we arrived,” Gabe heard Lord Crabb whisper to his wife, as he too caught the scent.
Gabe followed them to a pew near the front, far grander than the others and—mercifully—cushioned.
Mrs Mifford slipped in first, as though afraid she might end up beside Gabe, followed by the viscount and viscountess, then Miss Mifford, leaving Gabe to occupy the seat on the aisle.
It was a snug fit; though he wasn’t overly perturbed to find his thigh pressed against Miss Mifford’s—quite the opposite, in fact.
“There’s Mary and Northcott,” Mrs Mifford hissed leaning bodily across Lord and Lady Crabb to wave at the occupants of the pew across the aisle.
The movement sent Charlotte tipping sideways into Gabe, in the softest attack he had ever suffered. He shut his eyes at once. It had been a long time since he’d attended any kind of religious service, but he was fairly certain the thoughts now running through his mind were not at all appropriate.
“Forgive me,” Miss Mifford squeaked, her cheeks stained with a charming blush.
Unable to speak, Gabe merely inclined his head, his jaw tight as he valiantly suppressed the urge to pull her closer.
A stir at the front of the church announced the arrival of the vicar. Mr Mifford ascended the chancel steps, beaming down upon his flock with a benevolence that Gabe attributed to the fine wine at dinner.
“Let us all stand,” he announced, “For our opening hymn.”
Gabe glanced around for a hymn sheet and found none, though the lack of instructions did not deter the villagers, who launched at once into a brave but uneven rendition of While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.
Midnight service, he realised with a pang, was not something that required instruction when one belonged. It was a ritual the villagers carried within—performed the same way each Christmas Eve, and, he suspected, every Christmas Eve yet to come.
Once, long ago, he too had known such rhythms—midnight mass in a chapel overlooking the Gironde, kneeling beside his mother as Latin hymns rose and the scent of incense drifted from the thurible. Those rhythms of his life had been abruptly halted by La Terreur—and they had never returned.
“Excellent!” Mr Mifford’s clear voice, heartily congratulating his flock on their efforts, pulled Gabe from his reverie.
“A beautiful hymn to celebrate the birth of our Saviour—and, my dear Mr Marrowbone, I must say, I did not expect such a piercing falsetto from a gentleman with so impressive a moustache.”
“It’s only impressive tonight because he gave it its annual comb-through!” called a voice from the back of the church, prompting a ripple of laughter.
The exchange set the tone for the remainder of the service: some prayers, many hymns, and a few good-natured jokes shared among a congregation who had known one another all their lives.
Despite his better judgment, Gabe allowed himself to indulge in a brief daydream—that he, too, belonged among the congregation, and that one particular member of it belonged to him.
He smiled down at the top of Miss Mifford’s bonnet—dark green, trimmed with gold ribbon—as he imagined taking her hand once the service had ended and leading her home to their own hearth.
Lud. He exhaled sharply as longing tugged at his heart. The comfort of Plumpton truly did ensnare a lonely bachelor.
The service ended with a rousing rendition of Hark!
The Herald Angels Sing—a hymn so ubiquitous that even Gabe knew the words to every line, which he sang in his deep baritone.
Miss Mifford glanced up shyly at him as he rumbled the words, and when their eyes met, he feared for one alarming moment that he might outmatch Mr Marrowbone’s falsetto.
Mercifully he reached the end of the hymn with his pride intact and, after Mr Mifford bid his flock safe home, he joined the throngs of villagers streaming toward the doors.
In the crush, Miss Mifford was once again pushed against him.
Gabe gently took her elbow, guiding her to stand before him, so that she was protected from the crush by the bulk of his frame.
Outside, the sky was perfectly clear. Stars glittered against the vast expanse of black, but the North Star—Gabe’s old companion from his privateering days—shone brightest of all.
He had once used it to find his way home at sea.
How strange, he thought, that it had never seemed so bright as it did now, shining down upon Plumpton.
“Warm cider!” someone called, pressing a steaming cup into his hands.
Gabe accepted it in confusion, glancing down at Miss Mifford for guidance.
“Now the wassailing begins,” she explained, her eyes dancing.
She nodded toward the groups of young people—some of whom Gabe recognised as servants from Crabb Hall—wrapped in hats and scarves and brimming with exuberance.
One group burst spontaneously into a carol, while another ladled out cups of cider from a steaming pot.
“They call from door to door, singing, and are rewarded with a drink from the wassail bowl,” Miss Mifford continued, as they followed the surging crowd from the churchyard. “Every house has its own special recipe. My aunt is quite convinced that hers is the best.”
“Your aunt,” Gabe echoed, frowning. He had forgotten that Miss Mifford was not a daughter of the house. A few questions rose in his mind—chief among them, where was Miss Mifford’s family, and why had they left her in the care of a madwoman like Mrs Mifford?
“Where are your own family?” he continued, anger making him brusque.
“Oh—my mother is visiting my brother and his new wife,” Miss Mifford rushed to explain, though he could not fail to notice the blush that rose upon her cheeks. She stopped there, offering no further word on her father.
Gabe realised then that he must be dead—like his own—and felt an unexpected tenderness for her, a fellow traveller through the quiet melancholy the season could bring.
One person who was certainly not suffering from melancholy was Mr Postlethwaite. He wore a wide smile as he greeted Gabe and Miss Mifford, a steaming cup of cider in hand.
“I’m much recovered, as you can see, dear Comte,” the postmaster declared—in answer to a question that Gabe had not asked.
“I am glad to hear it,” Gabe said, inclining his head and keeping his reply short in the hope that Mr Postlethwaite would not intrude upon his precious few minutes alone with Miss Mifford.
Unfortunately, the postmaster’s presence seemed to act as a beacon for well-wishers, and within moments they were surrounded. A young man with ruddy cheeks insisted on shaking Mr Postlethwaite’s hand so vigorously that his cider spilled to the ground, melting the snow at his feet.
“I’ll fetch you another,” the lad declared.
“A remarkable feat—to both cause and solve a problem,” Mr Postlethwaite answered, a smile still fixed on his face but with a distinct edge to his tone. “Thank you, Tom.”
The boy rushed off, shamefaced, and was swiftly replaced by a young woman dressed in an excellently tailored, velvet green pelisse that, Gabe suspected, did little to ward off the cold.
“I prayed for your recovery all night, Mr Postlethwaite,” she said earnestly, searching his face for signs that her prayer had worked.
“Thank you, Miss Weaver,” Mr Postlethwaite replied with an indulgent nod. He was, Gabe could tell, relishing in the attention.
“My goodness, what a scene! Lazarus arisen on Christmas morning,” cried a young gentleman—the painter, Gabe recalled, from the bazaar. “I must capture it at once—English resilience at its finest!”
“That’s not necessary,” Mr Postlethwaite demurred, though he puffed out his chest and adopted a pose despite his protest.
“Come,” Gabe murmured, placing a hand on Miss Mifford’s elbow. “We should find the others before we’re forced to sit for a portrait—I don’t want you catching a cold standing about in the snow.”
The words left his lips without thought, his concern for her welfare so instinctive it startled him.
As she lowered her gaze, he wondered if he ought to feel abashed—but found he could not.
The thought of her uncomfortable or unwell displeased him more than he cared to admit.
If that made him overbearing, then so be it.
He would rather she be annoyed by him than suffering.
His hand hovered at the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd—not touching, but close enough to protect. They passed a gentleman leaning against the churchyard wall and scowling at the group surrounding Mr Postlethwaite.
“He’ll stretch this out till next Christmas,” the man grumbled to his wife beside him. “It would have been easier for us all if he’d just shuffled off this mortal coil, now we’re stuck listening to him.”
“Hush, Horace,” his wife admonished quickly—the phrase, Gabe noted, sounded well worn upon her lips.
“And who is that?” Gabe whispered to Miss Mifford as they stepped out of earshot.
“Mr Cleeve, the schoolmaster,” she replied, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know what happened to cause such bad blood between them.”
There was no time for speculation on the cause of the animosity between the two men, for they were spotted by Mrs Mifford, who called them over impatiently.
“There you both are! Hurry along—we’re going back to Primrose Cottage for some mince pies.”
Gabe and Miss Mifford joined the rest of their party, which now included the Duke and Duchess of Northcott, Lord and Lady Chambers, and Lord and Lady Delaney.
As they tumbled through the door of Primrose Cottage, Gabe wondered how they all might fit—but fit they did.
In the small, cosy parlour, the ladies squeezed onto the stuffed settees and Queen Anne chairs, while the gentlemen stood with their backs to the fire where the yule log burned merrily.
Outside came the faint sound of singing as villagers trooped up and down the lane in high spirits. Inside, there was the easy hum of conversation, the clink of crockery as plates of mince pies were passed round, and the gentle crackle of the roaring hearth.
As Mrs Mifford dutifully ladled out cups of wassail from a glass bowl, she paused and glanced at Gabe.
“Do you know,” she said, “I’ve a lovely bottle of brandy in the kitchen. I think it’s French. I’ll fetch it.”
She abandoned her post and bustled away.
“She must like you,” Mr Mifford called to Gabe. “This is the first I’ve heard of any French brandy in the house.”
“That’s because it would go the way of the mince pies,” the duchess retorted, frowning down at her empty plate. There had been no offer of second helpings—presumably because Mr Mifford had demolished the rest earlier.
“Here we are, my dear Comte!” Mrs Mifford cried as she returned, bearing a glass filled to the brim with amber liquid. “I’m told it’s the best of the best—a gift from an admirer.”
“Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t informed of it,” Mr Mifford murmured to his daughter.
Gabe stepped forward to accept the glass from Mrs Mifford, who smiled at him rather nervously. A peace offering, he wondered—or was she simply appeasing the beast in her drawing room?
He lifted the glass to his nose—for a Frenchman’s nose seldom erred—and paused. Then, gingerly, he dipped the tip of his little finger into the liquid and dabbed a drop upon his tongue.
“Are you trying to kill me, Mrs Mifford?” he enquired evenly, setting the glass aside.
“I beg your pardon?” she spluttered, as Lord Crabb moved forward to pick up the discarded drink.
“It’s been tampered with,” the viscount said in surprise, passing the glass to the duke for a sniff. “Mrs Mifford, who did you say gifted you this brandy?”
“Mr Postlethwaite—oh heavens!” she cried. “That’s the bottle I used on my brandy-soaked pudding!”
Gabe’s eyes flew to Miss Mifford, perched delicately on the edge of one of the settees. Her gaze met his and—for the first time in his life—Gabe experienced the unsettling phenomenon of knowing exactly what another person was thinking.
Mr Postlethwaite’s collapse had been no accident.
Though perhaps, Gabe thought with horrified amusement, the man had simply succeeded in poisoning himself with his own brandy.