Second Day of Christmas #2
Right out of high school, Kestrel had found work at a horse ranch resort owned by Rob, a forty-year-old cowboy who took an immediate interest in Kestrel.
He’d praised her up, down, and right into his bed.
At first, it had felt loving and exciting.
She began to anticipate what he’d need and exactly how he’d want things done, working as hard as she knew how.
She could see herself belonging on that ranch with Rob for the rest of her life.
And then one day at the stables, Rob had been saddling a gentle mare when he said, “This horse came to me too wild to ride. She was stubborn, but in the end, I broke her.”
And something inside Kestrel had snapped. She’d been gone by Christmas.
At that age, she’d blamed herself for how it had ended, figuring she must be fundamentally flawed and unable to keep a job, let alone find a place to belong.
Perhaps the wildness inside her meant that she was too much of a fuss to love.
But deeper inside had lurked a fear—maybe some things were too wild to fit inside any home.
Maybe she would have to let herself be broken in order to earn a family.
“Mrs. Charming,” Bobby whispered right against her ear, “do you have a free half hour?”
“Sure!” Charming dropped the box she’d been filling. “But how about we skip the marital relations and just get naked.”
Left alone, Kestrel was grateful to have something for her hands to do. She sighed and kept at the bows, though she grew increasingly concerned that they looked tied by a toddler. A low voice cut through the silence.
“I beg your pardon.”
A gentleman in Regency attire was standing at the drawing room threshold, and he was the most beautiful man Kestrel had ever seen.
He was South Asian, his black hair wavy and falling past his ears in a rough-and-ready way that made her imagine he’d just come in from riding a horse. Her corset felt too tight.
Since Andrews and Jerome would be assigned to the other Pembrook Park lady guest, she supposed this man would be one of her gents. Chills flowed from her toes up through her entire body as if she were submerging herself in Austenland all over again.
He hesitated, looked behind him, and then half entered the room, speaking in a posh British accent. “I don’t mean to disturb you. I was looking for Mrs. Wattlesbrook.”
“She’s not here,” said Kestrel.
“Quite so.” He lifted his hands, palms up, and smiled effortlessly. “I never know what to do in these situations. Am I to wait until we are properly introduced? Or am I at liberty to address you thusly? It is a conundrum.”
“The rules of etiquette are strange,” she said, hoping to put him at ease. “I mean, what would be ruder, to talk to someone you meet in an otherwise-empty room even if you haven’t officially been introduced? Or to flat-out ignore them?”
“Precisely! Decorum picks the latter while common sense the former. Is that an Austen novel? Decorum and Common Sense?”
“It should be. Maybe we just wrote it. The entire story takes place in a drawing room on the second day of Christmas.”
“Don’t spoil the ending, but I do hope that common sense wins.” That smile again. A generous, inviting smile. “I’m Tom.”
He entered the room and extended his hand, so she shook it. Since he’d offered his first name, she felt comfortable doing the same. “Kestrel.”
“Like the bird of prey?”
“Exactly.”
Tom asked with a raised eyebrow, “What do kestrels prey upon?”
Gentlemen like you, she wanted to say, but she stopped herself, an attempt to stuff down her wildness. Instead, she just lifted a shoulder.
“Well, I hope we find out.” Tom examined her workstation and the few completed boxes she’d haphazardly tied with ribbons.
“I was putting them together with the two missuses—Wattlesbrook and Charming—but now one is having tea and the other is having marital relations.”
Tom coughed a surprised laugh. “You are a guest, and they have you doing household chores?”
“Why not?” She held up one of the boxes finished off with her best attempt at a bow. “Look how pretty! Or pretty-adjacent. I’m artistically impaired, but I still enjoy it.”
“Capital.”
He joined her, and they chatted while working side by side.
After the last box, they migrated to a sofa sitting side by side.
Their conversation spirited over dozens of topics like Christmas, favorite foods, embarrassing moments, and the weird satisfaction of ice baths.
Kestrel marveled at how naturally the dialogue flowed between them, as if they’d known each other for years.
“What is that scent? I can’t place it.” Gently he took her wrist and lifted it to his nose. His eyes closed as he inhaled the essential oil she’d dabbed there this morning. “Ah, jasmine.”
Kestrel felt tipsy, as if the sofa were tilting, gravity shifting, pushing her toward Tom.
She had to order her hands to stay still and not grab his shoulders to ground herself.
Once she touched him, it would be that much harder to resist straddling his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissing him.
This pull was so unexpected, she exhaled a little laugh.
Tom smiled at her questioningly, and she just shook her head.
She didn’t dare try to explain that Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s injunction not to take the romance seriously and keep her hands to herself already felt surprisingly unjust.
A gong sounded from the other room. Kestrel startled.
“It is just a reminder that dinner begins in one hour,” said Tom.
“Already?”
“Winter hours in the country. We dine at three. Time to go change.”
“I’m in the most formal getup I’ve ever owned, and yet it’s not formal enough. It’s like our dinner is a frightened beast, and at first sight of anything but the most expensive, least stain-resistant fabrics, it will bolt away like hunted prey.”
Tom laughed a genuine, delighted laugh. Kestrel couldn’t help but laugh in return. If she’d thought twice, she wouldn’t have spoken the idea aloud, usually trying to keep the weird parts of herself tucked away. That Tom found her uncensored thoughts amusing was immensely gratifying.
“See you later?” said Kestrel.
“Definitely,” said Tom. “And I do hope we actually meet at some point.”
His easy smile lit up his face. Twenty-two hours of dancing was already worth it.
On the way to her bedroom, Kestrel passed Charming’s partly open door and spotted the lady lying on her bed, head dangling upside down off the edge. Kestrel rapped twice.
“Hi-ho,” said Charming’s voice. “Come in, or . . . enter-vous, or something. I take five minutes of antigravity every day. It’s good for skin dangles and circulation. Probably.”
Kestrel almost plopped down beside her on the unmade bed, thought better of it given its likely recent uses, and sat on the floor, cushioned by a pile of laundry.
Charming clawed her way to sitting upright and groaned. “I’m gonna count that as a sit-up.”
“I keep meaning to thank you,” said Kestrel. “The scarf and the oils were both so perfectly chosen for me.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Charming as she sat at her makeup mirror.
“Didn’t you give me those gifts with the my-true-love-gave-to-me notes?”
“Oh! No, not me. But that would be a real value add for the Christmas session. When I used to run our mattress stores, I learned that a little gift can go a long way toward client retention. Maybe next year . . .” Charming reapplied mascara and sighed.
“If Mrs. Wattlesbrook agrees to do a holiday session again. The gal gets so stressed about Christmas. Why, Bobby asked her an innocent question, and she about bit his head off.”
“What was the question?” Kestrel asked.
Charming waved a powder puff around as if it wasn’t a big deal. “He just told her that he had some buddies who wanted to visit, and couldn’t some people double up so we’d have extra rooms?”
“Oh! And what did you say?”
“That we had guests who were promised a certain kind of experience that didn’t include his NASCAR fantasy league, who are noticeably gassy even from a distance. But maybe you and the other lady guest would enjoy having a few extra gentlemen?”
“Do you think they would fit in here?” asked Kestrel. “Or do you think they might make fun of everything and throw their own kind of house party?”
Charming’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I know. But it doesn’t amount to a sam hill of beans what I think.”
Warning bells were going off inside Kestrel. “It only matters what Bobby thinks?”
Charming shrugged. “He doesn’t get this place yet, but he will. Right now, Bobby could use some love and attention. He’s sensitive and needs to feel admired.”
“Charming—” Kestrel started to say.
But Charming cut her off. “Don’t worry, I already got him to agree to no big changes till after the ball. By then, he’ll see what Austenland is all about and fall in love with it like how he fell back in love with me.”
Got him to agree? This place belonged to the Charming-Wattlesbrook partnership. Bobby was Charming’s guest, not her boss. Kestrel was about to point that out, when the bathroom door opened and a fully naked Bobby emerged.
“Did somebody say Christmas? I’ve got a present for you.”
“Bobby!” Charming screamed. “Kestrel’s in here!”
“Kestrel is leaving!” said Kestrel, leaving.
Halfway down the hall, she was still buzzing with unsaid things and shouts of warning.
It was far easier to notice someone else being suckered by a smooth operator than it was to see the con when she herself was the target.
There had been Teacher at Farm Home. Rob the ranch owner.
Even Kestrel’s own mother. And she had to be honest with herself: If Hank had come back begging for forgiveness and second chances, wouldn’t she have folded like a camp chair?
Kestrel wouldn’t be fooled into ripping out her own heart again. If only she could protect Charming from that fate.
In Kestrel’s room, her maid was selecting a gown from the wardrobe.
“Still here, Juliette? Did you draw the short stick and have to work the holidays?”