Second Day of Christmas #4
Tom—it still felt delightfully naughty to call him that—was examining the nativity set on the credenza.
She joined him, admiring the little porcelain shepherds and kings she’d set up yesterday.
Lying in the manger was a piece of tissue paper folded origami style.
Tom picked it up, peering at it from different angles.
“I do not normally celebrate Christmas, so I am no expert, but something here doesn’t seem right.”
“That’s baby Jesus!” Kestrel said brightly. “He was missing from the nativity, so I made a new one.”
Tom turned the blob of paper over in his hands. “Miss Spinster, I hesitate to ask, but have you ever seen a human baby?”
“Those are the squeaky things that roll around and make messes?”
“I believe you are confusing them with pigs.”
“Oh, right, that’s the one.”
They smiled at each other, and Kestrel was certain he must feel it too—how their energies seemed to take to each other, flowing easily in a convivial loop. Again, she wanted so badly to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him, the restraint felt like an ache.
“Sir Thomas!” Gussie strolled up, standing directly between Kestrel and Tom so the back of her head was inches from Kestrel’s face. “I just learned that you knew my brother in town, a Mr. Edward Chen?”
“Oh yes, of course!” said Tom. “So the old boy is your brother, is he?”
“You must come and give your own account of Edward to Colonel Andrews. What is he like in town when none of his family are about?”
“I am your willing servant,” said Tom, “but prepare to be shocked!”
“And I am your rapt audience,” said Gussie as she put her arm through Tom’s and led him away. She turned briefly to shoot Kestrel a look—raised eyebrow, smug smile.
How odd. And frankly rude. Had Gussie invented a brother who was friends with Tom just to get him away from her? Kestrel was forming a plan to steal Tom back when she turned and bumped into Mr. Culpepper’s knees.
“Mr. Culpepper! I didn’t realize you were sitting there.”
“Oh? Were you wishing to be alone?” He put down the book he had been reading.
“No, it’s fine,” she said.
She arranged herself on the chaise opposite him and smiled. His eyes dropped to his hands.
“I am . . . quite out of my depth, I’m afraid,” Mr. Culpepper said, taking off his round spectacles to clean them with his cravat. “I am conscious that my lack of wit and charisma adds nothing to such an evening. But I am inordinately glad to be here tonight.”
“Do you prefer to sit safely back and observe the chaos?” she asked with a smile.
“Well, it is appealing to observe you, Miss Spinster.”
“Observe me?”
He shrugged. “I am a poet, Miss Spinster. I am drawn to that which teems with light, grace, and beauty.”
She didn’t mean to, but she kind of gaped.
“I apologize,” said Mr. Culpepper, standing. “I spoke too frankly and made mockery of my own heart. Forgive me.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said, but he was already moving away.
She knew this was pretend, but she was surprised at how authentic it all felt. She realized now that her secret Santa gifts must be from either Mr. Culpepper or Tom. But which of her assigned gents was her true love? Desiring to see their handwriting, she approached Andrews to suggest a game.
“Charades!” said Andrews, clapping his hands. “I had the same thought. How did you know? I say, Miss Spinster, have you been walking through my dreams and uncovering all my secret hopes and desires? Do say yes.”
“Yes,” said Kestrel.
Andrews giggled with delight. He passed out strips of paper and pencils, and Kestrel arranged herself near the piano, where she could observe the penmanship of her two gents. Tom was writing: horse, party, house. Mr. Culpepper was writing: William Shakespeare, Samuel Johnson, Aphrodite.
Hm. Neither matched the fancy script of her secret admirer. But then again, they could have asked someone else to write the love notes.
When all the papers were in a bowl, Andrews volunteered to go first. He picked one and immediately dropped on all fours, bleating.
“FROG!” screamed Gussie, pointing at him. “FROG! FROG!”
Andrews looked at her pointedly. “Bleat,” he repeated. “Bleat! Bleat!”
“Oh, I meant sheep.” Gussie looked around, anxious to be believed. “I said frog, but I was thinking sheep.”
Gussie picked a paper. She straightened, mimed broad shoulders, excellent posture, tied an imaginary cravat, and began to walk back and forth in a confident gait.
“A handsome man,” said Kestrel. “A charming man. Ooh, it’s Tom!”
“I say, Miss Spinster,” Tom said with a lift of his dark brows.
She felt her cheeks go hot with an honest-to-goodness blush.
Guilt made her look toward Mr. Culpepper, who was gazing at her forlornly.
Now her heart was even doing a pleasant and stirring pitter-pat.
Her brain knew this was all a game, but her body was taking it literally.
And as soon as she felt an emotional connection with a man, her body yearned to create a physical connection.
For all she hoped to accomplish here, two weeks hadn’t seemed like nearly enough, but for an affection hiatus, it had begun to feel like a very long time.
Kestrel picked a paper and mimed climbing out of a giant clamshell, but she was feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.
She wished Juliette hadn’t told her about the guests who’d left Pembrook Park matched up for real, because part of her had begun to hope.
Even so, she couldn’t imagine coming home to her tiny place in Idaho to find .
. . Who? Mr. Culpepper and/or Sir Thomas Adani, still in sideburns and cravats, wearing an apron and searing dinner steaks?
And yet, once the window to that possibility had been cracked, she couldn’t help but wonder: Could this actually be courtship for real? Maybe Austenland wasn’t just an immersive historical experience. Maybe it was a warped dating service.
Charming and Bobby entered the drawing room, holding hands and giggling.
“This is a crackin’ beanfest, right-o!” Charming announced happily, in a stiff voice attempting a British accent.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, “Mrs. Charming, shall I ring for a maid to bring you a plate of something?”
“No need, she already ate,” said Bobby. He met eyes with Andrews and waggled his eyebrows. He didn’t seem to notice that Andrews was not amused.
“Here, Charming,” said Kestrel, extending the bowl of papers to distract her from Bobby’s comment. “Why don’t you take a turn?”
“Jolly good, I frickin’ adore games, what-what.” Charming picked a paper, scowled at it, and then started to strut around the room.
“An ostrich!” Andrews said triumphantly, but Charming shook her head.
“A peacock?” guessed Gussie.
Charming’s pace picked up, and she laughed as she galloped joyfully in a circle.
“A horse! A horse!” shouted Gussie.
Bobby began to laugh in a nasty, loud way. “That’s right, Bubba’s a horse! She was made for riding!”
Charming stopped mid-gallop, her face stricken. If Kestrel hadn’t been so near, she wouldn’t have caught Charming’s whisper. “Nobody calls me that anymore, Bobby.”
Bobby barked a laugh, his voice projecting. “You’ve been Bubba since grade school. You’re not too good for Bubba now, are you?”
“No,” Charming said softly. “But it makes me feel like a chubby little boy. I told you that I never liked—”
“Don’t be so sensitive.” He put his hands on her cheeks and made her look into his eyes. “You’re my Bubba.”
Kestrel would very much like to believe in perfect Christmases and second chances at love, but her soul was covered in tire tracks. And the weary-but-wise part of her warned that sweet, silly, generous, kindhearted Charming was in jeopardy.