Chapter Five
“Eldridge, Lord Eldridge…” murmured Sir Rodney from the depths of his overstuffed chair. “Seems to ring a bell somewhere.”
“Yes, I recall hearing that name.” Lady Jocelyn frowned. “Quite a while ago, though. And only in passing. Damned if I can even recall the conversation.”
“Wait,” Reid’s father held up one finger. “If my memory serves me, I believe he was with the foreign office after that nastiness in Paris. Served under Grenville, I think. He must be quite ancient by now.”
“Not local, then?” inquired Reid.
“Not that I know of.” His mother shook her head. “And I’ve lived here for many years, as has your father. I don’t believe there was ever an Eldridge connection in this area. Certainly not a Lord Eldridge. Mary Southwick would be constantly mentioning him if there were.” She gave him a wicked grin.
“Where’d you hear the name, son?”
“A passing conversation this afternoon, Father. Someone who used to live near here mentioned his name.”
“Oh?” His mother looked curious. “Who was that, then? Perhaps I’d know them and be able to make the connection.”
Reid shook his head, keeping his expression as bland as he could. “Just a chance encounter. Not a lot of people riding in this weather, so stopping for a brief chat with anyone out and about is to be expected.”
There, that should do it.
But in case it didn’t… “Now what are we to do about the Mistletoe Ball? We’re all in agreement that marriage to that pea-brained…er…Emmeline Southwick is out of the question?”
His mother sighed as his father shrugged. “Never did think much of that match, to be honest. But you were dead set on it, Jocelyn.”
For once, his mother didn’t take offense at the accusation.
“I know, dear. I think I was deliberately overlooking her faults in favour of her attributes.
But today I realised there were too many of the former and too few of the latter.
And I love my son too much to condemn him to a life with either of ‘em.”
Puzzling his way through his wife’s thought processes was tiring, so Sir Rodney just nodded. “Indeed.”
“Will there be a fuss if I don’t announce a Marchioness?”
Lady Jocelyn gave him one of her best sarcastic glares. “Was the Battle of Hastings a fuss?”
He sighed. “Point taken.”
“So what are our options, then, Joss?” Sir Rodney crossed his legs, resting one ankle on the other knee. “Maybe we could use Whiskey as a proxy until Reid finds the real thing.”
His wife was not amused.
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Reid spoke the truth. “I understand that the Mistletoe Ball is a tradition that stretches back over two centuries, and God knows I don’t want to be the one to break it. But I cannot marry Emmeline to preserve that tradition. I cannot and will not make that sacrifice.”
“I know dear.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “Let me think about it. We still have a fortnight, which gives me chance to consider alternatives. I’ll talk to the ladies in the village and see if they have any bright ideas.”
“No village girls, mind.” Reid gazed soberly at his mother. “You’re the one who told me I couldn’t wed a milkmaid.”
“Good God, did you want to?” Sir Rodney blinked at him.
“No, sir.”
“Good thing too.” His father huffed. “Don’t mind new blood, but we do have the ale to think about.”
Since that was a non-sequitur that made no sense to either Reid or his mother, they let the comment pass unanswered.
Silence fell and after a little while, Reid stood. “Well, I’m going up. If either of you have an idea, I’d be willing to hear it. And I’ll do my best to think of a solution as well.”
“Thank you dear. That would be wonderful.” His mother gave him a wistful smile. “Perhaps the morning will bring some fresh suggestions.”
“I do hope so.”
And wasn’t that the truth.
The next morning, Reid was up and around earlier than his usual time, surprising Bunbury by arriving in the morning room along with the toast and scones.
“I do apologise, sir. The eggs will be in shortly.”
“Not to worry, Bunbury. Tea and toast will be fine. I’ve a busy day so I’ll be lunching in the brewery with m’father, I expect.”
“Very good, sir.”
Left to his own devices, Reid devoured the toast, hurried through his tea and was on his way out when he nearly ran over his mother.
“Ooops, sorry Mama.”
“You’re in a rush this morning?” She straightened her skirts.
“Sun’s shining. I thought I might get in a ride before going to work on the ales.”
“What a lovely idea.” She smiled at him, giving him a calculating look that chilled his marrow. “And where were you thinking of riding?”
“Oh, you know. Here and there.”
“I see.” She smiled sweetly. “Well, you’re a grown man. Enjoy your ride. And do be careful of falling branches, won’t you?” She strolled away into the morning room.
Reid swallowed, wondering what all that had been about. His mother had always seemed a little omniscient about things and that still bothered him now and again. Scrumping pears was one thing. But as she’d mentioned, he was now a grown man. He needed his privacy.
“Oh, don’t forget…” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “The Little Chillendale children’s Christmas Fête is this evening. Dinner will be early.”
“Oh lord.”
“Reid.” His mother stalked back to stand in front of him.
“You will be there.” A finger poked his chest. Hard.
“No excuses, my lad. This is important to all the children in the village. They worship you and if it wasn’t for them, we probably wouldn’t be here.
Showing up on time, with the requisite amount of enthusiasm…
utterly crucial. Do I make myself clear? ”
“Yes Mama.” Reid nodded. “I will be there. I promise.”
And he meant it. He knew of old how much the children enjoyed their dressing up and how hard they worked to learn their lines for the traditional nativity play. There would be games, a tasty simple meal and plenty of sweetmeats, cakes, scones and pies – enough to satisfy everyone’s sweet tooth.
But there were things he wanted to do beforehand, and seeing Prudence was one of them. Which explained the fresh scones he’d tucked into a napkin on his way out of the morning room.
The repast was doomed to remain undelivered, though, crumbling in Reid’s pocket as he tapped on the door of the hideaway and called her name.
“Prudence, it’s Reid. Are you there? Are you all right?
” He slipped the lock and peered inside.
It was much as he’d left it, although he noticed the fire was out.
Also the large bag she’d had tucked to one side had gone.
The fur was still there, though, along with the tankards and teapot.
Also a pile of neatly folded blankets to one side of a large stack of wood.
Hard to tell if she’d left or was just out somewhere.
He went back outside and listened. There was nothing, just the silence of the winter morning broken by distant birdsong.
He frowned and looked around, noticing footprints in the snow, and backtracking to see hoof prints as well.
They came from a different direction, which was why he’d not seen them upon his arrival.
Although he’d been so excited about the prospect of meeting Prudence again, he’d scarce been paying much attention to the tracks in the snow.
Frustrated, and more than a little concerned, Reid tried to work out what to do.
Following the horse tracks seemed to be the most logical action, since there were no footprints leading away from the rock.
So he did just that but found himself swearing silently as they led to a lane where others had obviously travelled recently.
The tracks were lost in the muddy mess of many others, including what could easily have been a herd of cattle.
He sighed. There was no way he was going to be able to see Prudence this morning. But perhaps he could ride over this way after the evening’s Fête, which usually concluded at a reasonably early hour, given the age of the special guests.
Worried, but helpless, Reid returned to the brewery where he attempted to work but eventually gave up in disgust with himself. His notes were illegible, his conclusions vague. It was, he admitted, a total waste of a morning.
And he’d missed lunch, since his father had chosen this of all mornings to pay a few local calls, spreading the seasonal cheer amongst others in the county.
Prudence filled his mind and memories of their time together filled the rest of him with a craving that he found almost overwhelming.
He walked slowly past barrels of fermenting ale, and found himself at the end facing the stacked wood that would be used for the Christmas fires throughout the village.
It was a Little Chillendale tradition. Any wood that could not be used for barrel making was stored in the rear of the brewery.
Dry and ready to catch a flame, it would be distributed on the Sunday before Christmas to everyone who wanted a piece.
He stared at the pile, thinking of all the families who would be happy knowing that they were warming themselves with a piece of Chillendale.
It would reinforce their sense of belonging. Things like that mattered to a country community.
Reid wondered if Prudence had ever had that experience. She’d been shuttled from place to place, seldom having the chance to express her own wants or needs. And, from the little she had told him, never really belonging.
She had crept into his heart, he realised. One brief meeting and he was entranced. One afternoon of abandoned passion – and he was lost.
What he was going to do about it all, he hadn’t the faintest idea. So he wandered back over the flagstones of the Chillendale brewery and decided it was time for him to go back to the house and prepare for the Fête.
A solution would present itself in good time. It usually did.
For some reason though, that thought wasn’t as comforting as it should be.
He hadn’t been in the house for five minutes, before there was a loud knock on the door. Curious, he made his way to the front hall, only to hear a familiar voice berating his butler.
“Lord Rowdean. Welcome, sir.”
“Good God, Bunbury. You’re still alive. And I’ll wager if I were to pop down to the kitchens, I’d find Mrs. Clark making lemon tarts, eh? And you wouldn’t give me one, you mean butler.”
“You were six at the time, my Lord.” Bunbury was unmoved. “And you had neither the permission of your parents nor of Mrs. Clark.”
Brent shook his head. “Trust you to remember that.”
“I’ll be damned. Brent, you cawker.” Reid rushed to greet his old friend. “What on earth is a Viscount doing in this humble abode?”
They exchanged a manly sort of hug and a handshake, then punched each other on the shoulders and the welcome was over.
“I had to come down this way to find out how to get some of that magnificent ale of yours, old lad.”
“Ahh. Yes, it draws admirers like honey draws flies.” Reid chuckled.
“Consider me a fly, not a Viscount. Since I’ve no idea how to properly be one of those. And give me tea, will you? I’m ravenous. Lemon tarts would be definitely in order. I’m saving the ale for later.”
“Come on then.” He ushered Brent into the small parlour, trusting Bunbury to take care of the rest. “You’re here just in time for the Christmas Fête, you know.”
“Of course. That’s today, isn’t it? What luck.” Brent grinned. “Do you remember when we brought in a real sheep for the shepherds?”
The next half hour was spent reminiscing, and after tea – and lemon tarts – had been served and devoured, Brent leaned back and looked at his friend. “So, Reid. You’re the Mistletoe Marquess this year, then? Rumours abound, my friend.”
“You’re staying in the village, I take it?” sighed Reid.
“You know this place so well.”
“I do, and yes. I have the misfortune to be the unlucky sod with the mistletoe wreath this year.”
“Got a Marchioness?”
That comment earned Brent a glare. “There was a possible candidate. But no. She is no longer under consideration.”
“Ouch. What happened?”
Prudence.
“Nothing happened. It just turned out to not be a good match. And I refuse to leg-shackle myself to the wrong woman just for the sake of a tradition.”
“A centuries-old tradition, Reid.”
“I know. Don’t remind me.” He looked up. “How old are you now?”
“Too old. But nice try.”
“Damn.” Brent finished the last lemon tart. “Who was the unlucky miss?”
“Emmeline Southwick. And she’s quite lovely. But not my style, I’m afraid.”
“I remember her as small.”
“She’s grown up.” He shrugged. “As I said, some would consider her the ideal wife. I don’t.”
“Ah. Getting picky in our old age, are we?”
“Are you married, Brent?”
“Me? No.”
“Then shut up.” Reid stood. “And I’m about to throw you out because I have to go and transform myself into something markedly green in preparation for my appearance as the Mistletoe Marquess at the Fête.”
Brent stood as well. “Oh right. The presents. You get to hand them out.”
“Actually I don’t mind that part. The children are always a handful, but they’re genuinely thrilled to receive something from the Marquess. It’s fun.”
They reached the door, and Brent accepted his cloak from a servant.
“Well I’ll certainly be there. Wouldn’t miss it.
Oh…” he turned back to Reid. “D’you think it would be all right if I brought my cousin along?
First time and all that. We’re traveling together for convenience and since I needed to stop here, we both took rooms at the inn. ”
“Of course. The more the merrier. It is almost Christmas, after all.” Reid smiled and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’d love to meet your cousin. All are welcome.”
Brent’s smile was a thing of beauty. “We’ll see you there.”