Sixth Day of Christmas
The box on her tea tray that morning was small and blue, and inside lay a cross pendant of transparent brown gems. Kestrel hooked the thread-thin gold chain around her neck, and the pendant lay coolly against the bare skin of her chest. It was a religious symbol, and Kestrel had never belonged to any religion, so unlike the others, this gift didn’t seem quite as perfect for her. But it was lovely.
She paired it with a deep holly-leaf-green wool dress with long, fitted sleeves and puffed shoulders, and dabbed jasmine on her neck.
When she rang for Juliette, her maid seemed thrilled to do her hair, pulling out “a cheeky electric hair curler,” and got to work, adding spirals and volume.
Kestrel felt quite pretty while also aware that very recently a daily updo had seemed extreme.
Ready to share her enthusiasm with the world, she opened her curtains to the English morning. And she gasped.
Snow had fallen, and celebratory winter had finally, firmly arrived in Austenland.
The world was bridal white and deliciously frosted.
The brown lawn and gravel drive were entirely submerged, and the top tips of evergreens looked dunked in whipped cream.
Magic crackled around the edge of everything.
A dim, cold feeling in her middle reminded her she had something to fret about. (HANK! ANDREWS! CHARMING! HANK!) Yesterday evening, she had managed to stay close to Tom and Mr. Culpepper and so keep avoiding Andrews, but that meant no progress with their Charming dilemma.
Still, a snowy morning felt rich with possibilities, and she stood looking out the window long enough that her very cells began to absorb the magic of a white Christmas, filling her with hope.
She dared to ask herself, hope for what?
Her window reflection, fabulous hair and all, gazed back with unflinching honesty.
Yes, she was angry at Hank, and annoyed, and confused.
But also, hopeful. In confirmation, her heart offered a splendid thud of joyful anticipation.
Newly eager to dive into whatever the snowy day might bring, she sprinted downstairs. The sound of arguing stopped her cold just outside the morning room. She recognized the voices of Tom and Mr. Culpepper.
“She prefers me, Culpepper.”
“We shall see, shan’t we? There are six days till the ball. Miss Spinster herself will decide who she allows to escort her, and that will be most telling—”
“And I am telling you, she prefers me. So give us some space. You should be careful—”
“Do not tell me to tread cautiously, not when the goal is as lofty as true love! I will not hide my fervor, Adani. My heart is an anchor, lying firmly in her ocean.”
They couldn’t know that she was here listening, could they? If not, then it had to be real.
“You nit, you don’t know when to back off.”
“I never shall! I adore her—”
“For once, Culpepper, think about what the lady wants. She and I are a perfect match.”
It sounded so real! Yet it had to be part of the play. No, not a play—an experience. And Kestrel was certainly experiencing a lot.
Their voices were rising to the point that she feared they would come to blows, so she entered and found the two men standing close, their posture stiff and angry, hands in fists.
“Good morning!” she said cheerily.
They both turned at her voice, stepping away from each other, and their expressions opened, softened, and seemed genuinely delighted to see her.
The mood calmed while she poured them tea and effused about the snow, but she couldn’t suss out if the argument had been staged for her benefit. When the two gents started to leave, Tom hung back. He met her eyes, smiling warmly, and then his gaze dropped to her chest.
“Lovely,” he said. “It suits you.”
“Thank you,” she said, fingering the pendant.
Again, she felt that warm energy emanating from him, so like her own, as if they’d known each other forever.
She understood Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s warning, how people could forget themselves and fall actually in love.
Even now, Tom’s gaze was on her lips, and she wondered if at last he would kiss her.
But Gussie entered, so Tom bowed and left.
“Good morning, Miss Spinster.” Gussie scowled at Kestrel’s necklace. “Oh. I see you have a topaz cross, a replica of Jane Austen’s own pendant.”
Kestrel smiled. “Oh! That makes more sense. I didn’t know what it was.”
Gussie sniffed. “Of course you didn’t.”
She turned to dish up her breakfast, so she couldn’t see the metaphorical steam rushing out of Kestrel’s ears. Or see how pretty Kestrel’s hair looked. Or both.
“You know, we could just be friends,” said Kestrel.
Gussie spoke with her back still turned. “Why? So you can use me as a pawn in your games? I’m not as easily swindled as some here, Miss Spinster.”
This was how it was going to be? Well, if Gussie was so desperate to have an archenemy, then Kestrel could play that part.
Kestrel stalked out of the morning room, her righteous indignation about Gussie’s random animosity only slightly tempered by the fear that it might not be random.
Even if she couldn’t imagine what she’d done to Gussie, she was painfully aware that she was a massively flawed scrap of a human and this was probably cosmic justice yet again.
You are unlovable. It was discouraging how often she had to rediscover that truth. Kestrel didn’t fit in anywhere. And even when she was trying so hard not to, she still managed to hurt people she cared about.
Kestrel gripped her topaz cross, trying to forge some fantastical connection to Jane Austen.
More than anything else, Kestrel loved how Austen’s characters were all right in the end.
Kestrel would very much like to be all right in the end.
Because right now, she wasn’t all right, and she hadn’t been for a long time.
She was a door on a loose hinge. She was furiously pretending not to notice her own creaky squeaking.
“Miss Spinster!”
Drat, it was Andrews. She pivoted and started to scurry down the corridor.
“Kes, wait!”
At hearing her pet name, she stopped short, though her muscles were vibrating, warning her to Flee, flee for your life!
He caught up to her at the library threshold, she on the inside, he on the outside, the two of them looking at each other as if staring into a mirror framed by the doorway.
She could only take in that his droopy posture and sorrowful expression perfectly reflected her own before she looked down at her feet to avoid them.
“Kestrel, I’m sorry.”
“No! Don’t be sorry! Please, let’s just pretend nothing happened . . .” And that we never met, and that I never existed—oh great Zeus, just lightning-strike me dead already.
Silence. She peeked at Andrews. He was squinting at her thoughtfully.
“I see how it is, my love. You relish confrontation about personal disputes as much as I do.”
She clasped her hands to her bosom. “Adore them.”
“My favorite thing in the world, really.”
“They land somewhere between third-degree burns and week-long migraines.”
“In that case, it’s settled then?”
“Nothing is settled because nothing happened and I don’t know what you’re talking about and wow, would you look at the foliage on that tree?” Kestrel pointed out the library window at the nearest large plant.
“Er, the one that’s leafless and entirely barren?”
“That’s the one. Fascinating, isn’t it? So treelike. Much winter. Welp, I better be on my way. So, you good?”
He shrugged, his eyes down.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said.
He shrugged again and his chin quivered. Instinct kicked her with spurs, and she went in for a hug. His arms welcomed her, and that walnut-tight part of her chest softened a little. They hugged so hard, they lost their balance and had to lean against the doorjamb for support.
“I’m worried about Charming,” he mumbled into her shoulder.
“Yeah, me too.”
“That’s why I was more snippety than usual. I was feeling rotten after I failed so spectacularly with her. But it’s no excuse for how I spoke to you.”
This was starting to get too close to personal-confrontation territory. Kestrel pulled out of the hug to look at him. “What did you mean when you told Charming that Bobby was like Mr. Wattlesbrook?”
“Oh, that.” Andrews’s blue eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s ex used to play the gentleman of the house.
He was a lecherous old wanker, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook didn’t toss him out till after he aggressively propositioned a guest—as I recall, the guest was forced to knee him in the naughty bits.
And then in revenge for his ousting, he tried to ruin Austenland.
The Wattlesbrooks used to own three houses.
He sold one and nearly lost her Windy Nook too. Hateful man.”
“So, how can we get Charming to see Bobby the way Mrs. Wattlesbrook finally saw her mister?”
“What would Jane do?” Andrews said, tapping his chin. “Or I might ask, what would Kestrel do?”
Kestrel felt a twinkle light her eyes. “Hijinks. Shenanigans.”
“Capers?”
“That’s the stuff. We failed to tell her what Bobby is, but what if we showed her? We could manufacture a Mr. Wattlesbrook scenario . . .”
Andrews winced. “This just got dangerous.”
“I would throw myself in front of a bus to save a friend from a toxic ex. And I think you would too.”
He nodded.
Kestrel looked around the library, seeking ideas, and her body shivered as it remembered the dream she’d had about Hank. She blamed Bridgerton for implanting that scenario in her brain, but surely real Regency ladies had also fantasized about sexy times in a library.
“I have a feeling,” Kestrel said slowly as an idea began to solidify, “that Bobby is the type who can’t resist an offered tryst.”
Andrews looked at her with pursed lips. “You want to play a game of catch the predator?”
“Exactly,” said Kestrel. “But I don’t have . . . modern technologies? Mrs. Wattlesbrook confiscated my phone, so . . .”