Second Day of Christmas #3
“Ouf, I celebrated Christmas morning with my sister’s family. They have six children, and believe me, it was my choice to come back to work.”
Kestrel laughed as if she could relate to wanting to get away from family. “There sure are a lot of rules here. Since guests come to get romanced, I’m surprised there’s no touching allowed.” She ran her fingertip along the inside of her wrist, where Tom had held her.
Juliette was undoing her buttons in back. “I think Mrs. Wattlesbrook is tired of her actors falling in love with guests and quitting.”
“That happened?”
“Hazard of the job. Actors pretend to be in love with a guest and then they really fall in love and leave together.”
“Wait, it’s happened more than once?”
“At least twice so far.” Juliette lifted the dress over Kestrel’s head. “A guest carried off an actor with her. Now they’re married with a baby and live in New York City, where she’s a painter and he’s playing Mr. Darcy in a musical adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.”
“What the actual?”
“I know, right? And another gent fell in love with a wealthy guest and is living in a penthouse in London and teaching dance classes on the side. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.
For some of the actors, this place is a perfect fit.
I can’t imagine Andrews ever leaving. But for others, apparently it’s your program The Bachelorette. ”
So despite Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s warnings, guests and actors did sometimes form attachments, even ones that lasted. Kestrel found this very interesting and not a little tantalizing. She applied another dab of jasmine.
“Perhaps I should not say this but . . .” Juliette gave Kestrel a frank look. “Knowing both your gents . . . Well, there is a strong possibility that one of them would be very keen on a lady like you. Tread carefully if you don’t seek that affection.”
Juliette dressed her in a silver evening gown with a draped neckline and split sleeves that showed her shoulders. As it slid into place over her skin, Kestrel already felt different. Shined up. Interesting. A woman worth meeting.
“Wow,” she said, looking in the standing mirror. “I’m hot.”
Juliette gave a happy smile. “This is always my favorite part.”
“Making ladies hot?” Kestrel asked with a laugh.
“Witnessing the transformation. It brings out something that was always there but you just didn’t know it yet.”
Kestrel put a hand over her chest, the tops of her breasts pushed higher by the corset.
“I’m surprised at how low the neckline is,” said Kestrel.
“You know what’s funny?” Juliette said while hanging up the day dress. “At the time . . . at this time, showing your ankles is more scandalous than showing your breasts.”
“I love that,” said Kestrel. “I’m going to hide my ankles until I find just the right gent for a little lower-leg flashing.”
“Work it, you sexy-ankled slag.” Juliette slapped her own mouth. “Oups, pardon! There’s something about you, it makes me forget the part I’m playing. I mean, that I am your lady’s maid in 1816.”
Kestrel caught one of her hands to squeeze it and said sincerely, “Thank you, you wicked-fit trollop.”
When Kestrel entered the drawing room, it was full of similarly resplendent people.
The gents’ day jackets had been swapped for silk and velvet, and their riding boots for evening shoes.
Most importantly, Tom was there, his gaze locked onto Kestrel.
His white shirt enhanced his golden-brown skin and captivating smile.
He was definitely the most beautiful man she had ever met, besides Hank.
Wait, no, Hank wasn’t as objectively gorgeous as Tom. But she’d been in love, and her adoration of him had made him seem especially attractive.
“Miss Kestrel Spinster,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “may I present Sir Thomas Adani. Sir Thomas, Miss Spinster will be staying with us through the twelve days of Christmas.”
She was grateful he’d introduced himself as Tom. Sir Thomas was far too formal a name for daily use.
“Capital. That is a Christmas gift for us all,” Tom said, nodding his polite bow.
Kestrel had the pleasure of exchanging a secret smile with him as they both tacitly agreed to pretend this was their first encounter.
He held her gaze long enough to spark a flutter in her belly.
She recalled Juliette’s warning about one of her gents, and a small and hopeful part of her couldn’t help hoping she was right.
“And here is our second guest, the honorable Miss Augusta Chen, daughter of my old childhood friend and heiress to a vast . . .” Mrs. Wattlesbrook paused, as if trying to remember a prepared line. “A vast, fair-trade and sustainably-sourced tea fortune.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook indicated a lovely woman in her midthirties, who Kestrel supposed was “the only female partner in her law firm.” Augusta Chen’s features were East Asian, her glossy black hair done up in intricate twists, the ivory shade of her skin complemented by a purple gown embroidered with cream rosebuds along the waist, hem, and the short sleeves.
Her posture was at once rod straight and yet not stiff, as if she was already at home in a corset.
Miss Chen looked as if she’d be the diamond of any Regency season while Kestrel still felt like she was a kid playing dress-up.
“Two gifts!” declared Tom. “I am the luckiest lad in the world. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Chen.”
Augusta Chen curtsied to Tom and then took Kestrel’s hands. “I just know we shall get along amazingly,” she said in a flawless British accent. Kestrel remembered that this woman was from California and was doubly impressed. Here was someone who didn’t do half measures. “You must call me Gussie.”
“Okay!” said Kestrel, charmed to call anyone Gussie. “Call me Kestrel.”
“And here is our final addition to the Pembrook Park house party,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “Mr. Arthur Culpepper.”
“How do you do?” Mr. Culpepper said politely.
He was tall and lean, with pale skin and curly dark hair.
He barely smiled and seemed genuinely uncomfortable, repeatedly straightening his round-framed spectacles.
Mr. Culpepper must be her second gent, his character apparently shy and scholarly in juxtaposition to Tom’s easy confidence.
Gussie was taking in the drawing room environs. “I have long heard of the wonders of Pembrook Park and have been yearning to visit for years. It is especially dear to me to come at this season. What beautiful Christmas pageantry.”
“But is it Christmassy enough?” said Kestrel. “It must look CHRISTMASSY!”
Jerome covered his mouth and turned his back to keep from laughing, but Andrews didn’t even try to hold back his amused titters.
“Whatever do you mean?” Gussie asked, looking confused. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Oh no,” said Kestrel, waving a conciliatory hand. “I was just . . . repeating something from yesterday. It wouldn’t be funny to explain.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t.” Gussie pursed her lips. “So you were here yesterday?”
“I arrived on Christmas Eve,” said Kestrel. “Charming, Andrews, Jerome, and I are very old and dear friends.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Oh! Um, Mrs. Charming, Colonel Andrews, and Captain Relish.”
Gussie leaned closer, her eyes narrowed, and whispered, “Are you a guest? I mean, a guest like me?”
Kestrel nodded.
“And you’re already old friends with everyone?” Gussie frowned and said, “I am all astonishment.”
The dinner bell rang, and the group made a procession to the dining room in order of precedence: Mrs. Wattlesbrook led with Sir Thomas Adani, followed by Miss Augusta Chen with Captain Relish, Kestrel with Mr. Arthur Culpepper, and finally Colonel Andrews coming alone.
Kestrel suspected he would have partnered with Charming had the mister not joined their party.
As it was, the Charmings hadn’t shown up for dinner.
“This isn’t fair,” said Kestrel, looking behind at Andrews.
“Can’t we be a threesome?”
“I rather think Mrs. Wattlesbrook would disapprove,” said Mr. Culpepper nervously, straightening his spectacles.
“Pish-posh,” said Kestrel, not 100 percent sure what that meant but liking the sound of it. Charming’s fearless accent attempts reminded her that it was more fun to be ridiculous than boring. She held her hand back for Andrews, and he skipped forward, taking her other arm.
“Now this is a cozy party,” said Andrews. “Eh, Culpepper?” Mr. Culpepper frowned.
They entered the formal dining room, and Kestrel couldn’t help but gasp.
The walls were paneled in dark wood and adorned with landscape paintings.
A chandelier blazed glittering light over a long table set with china, crystal, and silver.
The fir bough centerpiece glittered with red ribbons and lit candles, wafting a Christmas tree scent.
Servants in black and white stood at attention at the doors, her companions looked like they’d walked right out of a historical drama, and, suddenly, Kestrel was floating.
Her slippered feet seemed to lift off the floor, her head tingled as if her hair was uncurling, her fingertips buzzed and her chest felt light and floaty, and she fell upward through an Austenland existential moment.
She was inside a novel. And it almost felt like home.
Dinner ensued with all the appropriate tasting and munching, banter and wordplay—and was charmingly bereft of sheep’s eyeballs.
Silent servants appeared at Kestrel’s elbow with urns and platters for self-serving—artichoke soup, crudités with dill cream, ham-wrapped chicken cutlets with mustard sauce.
Kestrel dug into the excellent fare but couldn’t quite dig into Mr. Culpepper.
She caught him more than once gazing at her, but he’d quickly look away, sawing with fork and knife on his Malibu chicken—or perhaps, Stratford-upon-Avon chicken.
So she spent most of the meal chatting easily with Tom and exchanging jokes with Jerome and Andrews.
After massive helpings of figgy pudding with rum sauce, they all returned to the drawing room for drinks and fireside chatting.