The First Day of Christmas #2
“I have yet to see her take anything any other way,” Jerome whispered back.
“She’s a force of nature. I don’t know anyone else who could keep this place running with all its many challenges.
I believe she and Charming will make excellent partners, but they are still transitioning.
Wattlesbrook is trying to maintain her vision of Austenland while allowing for Charming’s perspective and ideas, so she’s . . . struggling.”
“Since the core staff is gathered,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “let’s take care of some business.”
Charming groaned. “Aw, it’s Christmas.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook continued without a blink. “I will start with Windy Nook. Our first guest this session is Amelia Heartwright. She is a repeat client and so devoted to immersion, so I trust her to keep things proper over there while I am headquartered here.”
“Heartwright is back, is she?” asked Jerome. “That’s a sure sign that she’s souring on her new husband. I thought this one might be rich enough to keep her happy.”
Andrews snorted, and Mrs. Wattlesbrook shot them both a disapproving look. “Gentlemen, please, no gossip about the guests’ real lives!”
Kestrel raised her hand. Something about Mrs. Wattlesbrook made her feel like a high school student. “Um, what’s Windy Nook?”
“That’s Pembrook Park’s sister estate, love,” said Andrews. “Half the guests live at Windy Nook, half here, and we’ll get them all together for parties and outings to make them feel even more festive.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was reading her file. “The second guest chose to keep her given name—Mrs. Gloria Martinez. She is a teacher of some sort. I doubt a teacher’s salary could afford us, so her partner must be rather well-off.
I think Mrs. Martinez shall do very well with Lady Heartwright at Windy Nook.
“Here at Pembrook Park, we will host our other two guests. Per your request, Miss Charming”—Mrs. Wattlesbrook shot her a disgruntled look—“each lady will be assigned two gentlemen suitors. Our Pembrook gentlemen will be Adani and Culpepper, along with the two of you.”
“Just let me know which lady is mine,” said Jerome. “There isn’t a body I can’t woo, in or out of Austenland.”
“Jerome, I have asked you not to call us that! We are not an amusement park.”
“But there are two estates,” complained Charming, “and it takes too long to say ‘Here at Pembrook Park and Windy Nook.’ ”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook shook her head disapprovingly and opened a new folder.
“Our first Pembrook lady has chosen the name Augusta Chen. Thirty-five, unmarried, a California native, currently resides in Atlanta, where she is the only female partner in a prominent law firm. She is a true Austen aficionado, and I think will do quite well. The second lady is not our traditional type of client—”
“By traditional she means wealthy,” Jerome whispered to Kestrel.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook frowned at her papers. “She is . . . most unusual. She won a contest Miss Charming devised—”
“Contest?” Kestrel said, raising her hand again. “Um, Mrs. Wattlesbrook?”
“Do not interrupt me, please! I have much to get through. She is unlikely to be a repeat client, so I do not think she will need as much attention. Andrews, I will assign you to her, since you will be busy with your Social and Entertainment Officer assignments and your other, er, matter—”
Kestrel raised her hand higher. “Um . . .” She began to wave it urgently.
“What is it?” snapped Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“I thought you should know,” said Kestrel, “that I won a contest to be here.”
The room went so quiet the lazy snapping of the firewood sounded deafening.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s eyes were slowly widening.
She looked at Kestrel, at the gents, at Charming’s bunny slippers.
She looked down at a paper in her hands, silently mouthing some words.
And then, Mrs. Wattlesbrook screamed. This time, a genuine, horrified scream.
Kestrel startled. Charming covered her ears.
Andrews was staring, completely mystified. “I say, missus, you are full-throated this morning.”
“Wait . . .” Charming said, her eyes narrowing. “Kestrel, you don’t mean my contest, do you?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s eyes were wide open as if staring at a ghost. Her voice shook. She held up her paper and pointed to some text. “Sarah Klein. Sarah Kestrel Klein. I did not recall hiring a maid by the name of Kestrel. Because she isn’t a maid. She is a guest.”
Andrews and Jerome bolted to their feet.
“A guest! I beg your pardon.”
“I do apologize, miss, we didn’t realize—”
“Look at us, standing before her in our loungewear, what a lot of—”
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook, you must believe that we had no inkling—”
“We mucked this up good—”
“Stop, stop!” Kestrel smiled, delighted and surprised by their effusions.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook briefly shut her eyes. And then she ran right out of the room.
“Oh!” said Charming, her face brightening. “You are my contest winner! I think I remember that you decided to come on Christmas Eve, but I’ve been running plumb ragged getting ready for the new session.”
The gentlemen were still standing, eyes panicked, limbs stiff, as if afraid to move or speak or make any more mistakes.
“So, I’m not a maid?” asked Kestrel.
“No, no, no,” everyone started to say at once.
“You’re a guest, my love,” said Andrews. “You are the belle of the ball, the queen of Sheba. You will be wined and dined and awed and wooed and . . . and adored.”
Andrews gave her a gentlemanly bow. Jerome took her hand and kissed the knuckle. Charming stared at her, eyes shining.
Kestrel laughed because she didn’t know what else to do.
A sensation was overwhelming her, something unexpected and unfamiliar.
She was like a cup filled past the brim and overflowing, unable to hold on to it all before it washed away.
She felt simultaneously unworthy of the attention, ashamed of herself for craving it, and downright delighted.
Andrews was still aghast. “Again, my deepest apologies for your ham-fisted reception. After all you paid to come here—Er, wait, you won a contest? What sort of a contest?”
Charming squealed. “A dance contest!”
“You’re a professional dancer!” said Andrews. “How splendid.”
“No, it was a dance-till-you-drop situation,” said Kestrel. “And I don’t drop easily.”
“I believe you,” said Jerome, his accent taking on even more of a Caribbean melody. His brow furrowed, and he turned to look at Charming. “Are we to understand that the contest you conceived to advertise Austenland was a dance marathon?”
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook complained that a dance marathon had nothing to do with Jane Austen,” said Charming.
“But I wanted whoever won to really want it, you know? And who would keep dancing for hours and hours except someone who was plumb dying to come here? Besides, it did earn us a buttload of publicity. Starting in March, we’re fully booked for the next eight months. ”
Jerome was looking at Kestrel with thoughtful admiration. “How long did you dance?”
“Twenty-two hours.”
Jerome gave a long whistle. “That’s quality.”
Kestrel began to do a two-step walk forward, then a two-step walk back, a sort of weak and tired Charleston. “This was the winning move. After about twelve hours, it was the only dance my body would let me do on repeat.”
“That is an interesting experiment,” said Andrews. “What dance would you all do?”
The other three began to dance around, working through different motions till they found their groove.
Charming enacted a sleepy shimmy, Jerome leisurely gyrated his hips, and Andrews fell into a slow-motion twist. And so it was that when Mrs. Wattlesbrook returned, she discovered the four of them moving in complete silence, like a zombie dance party. They all froze.
“I . . . apologize,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “I am not normally prone to vociferous public exclamations.”
Andrews smiled, took both Kestrel and a pale-faced Mrs. Wattlesbrook by the arm, and walked them out of the drawing room.
“Kestrel, duck, our esteemed proprietress Mrs. Wattlesbrook prefers to interview our guests and get them attired before they enter the house, so they can immediately immerse themselves in Austen’s world. Let us rewind as if the past day hadn’t happened, shall we?”
Kestrel nodded even though she didn’t want to lose a moment of it, clinging to the memory of Christmas Eve laughing on the kitchen floor and Christmas morning stuffing stockings with Charming.
The whole experience was reminding Kestrel of the summer she was fifteen.
Grandma had dropped her off at summer camp an entire week early—by mistake, one assumes, but you never knew with Grandma.
She had been a confused and reluctant guardian for a teenager from the start.
Grandma drove away before the camp counselors realized, and since the camp was at the top of a mountain and Grandma didn’t have a cell phone, the laidback staff shrugged and let Kestrel stay and help with the prep work.
When the other campers arrived, Kestrel was already besties with the counselors.
For an adrift and friendless extrovert, it had been heaven.
Andrews left them in a study with windows overlooking the brownish-green lawn and bare-limbed trees, the other three walls covered with tapestries in deep jewel tones. Kestrel sat quietly while Mrs. Wattlesbrook arranged herself behind a dark wooden desk as if steeling for battle.
“I am not normally a screamer,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook finally said.
“Hey, the holidays are hard on everybody.”
“Miss Charming had suggested beginning this session on Christmas Eve, but I understood that all the guests preferred to arrive on the twenty-sixth, as they had family engagements. Nothing is more important than family.”
Kestrel wholeheartedly agreed. She would have shouted it from the rooftops had some rooftops been handy. Everything would be better, easier, and more fun if she had a family.
“And Christmas is all about family,” said Kestrel.
“Quite. Family and tradition.”
“And games,” added Kestrel. “Oh, and pie!”