Eighth Day of Christmas #2
Edwin smiled back. But then he remembered himself, squeezed his hat anxiously, and said, “Miss Charming, I’m afraid it’s still not safe to send the horses out. The snow is deep, and it continues falling. I had Hank come out to take a look—he’s good with the horses—and he agreed with me.”
“Who is Hank?” said Charming.
“He means Mr. Kern,” said Kestrel. “So, is he . . . um, are all the Windy Nook folk still here?”
“Yes, miss, and I think they’ll have to stay at least through tomorrow.”
Kestrel didn’t know how to feel about this. At least, she was feeling one very definite feeling but also felt that feeling was wrong. It was too much feeling all around.
Charming was still looking puzzled. “How in the dickens do you get Hank out of a name like Kern? Is this one of those weird British things? Like Peggie from Margaret, and Kit from Christopher, and sausage from blood?”
“I don’t think so, Miss—er, Mrs. Charming,” said Edwin, clearly reluctant to add the Mrs.
“I know Americans are rubbish,” said Charming, adding another lump of sugar to her tea, “but at least we know that sausage comes from meat.”
“Someday, Miss Charming,” Edwin said with a grin, “I’m going to make you a full English breakfast so moreish your heart will sing a different tune.”
“Is that the one where you eat canned beans on deep-fried toast? I have my doubts, Edwin.”
“You do now,” he said, “but I will win you over.”
Kestrel watched this all transpire. And sipped her tea. Her heavily honeyed half-milk tea. She too liked sweet things, and she was rooting for Edwin. After all, Hank seemed to approve of him, so he must be a good sort.
Wait, why was she taking stock by Hank’s opinions?
She excused herself and left, an attempt to leave her unwanted thoughts behind as well as give Charming and Edwin alone time in case proximity to an actually nice man would work where logic and empathy were failing.
She wished Tom were here. If she could spend the day with Tom, surely she wouldn’t let herself get so wrapped up in the Hank torture.
She entered the library aimlessly and was pleased to find Mr. Culpepper.
“Miss Spinster!” he said with delight. “I just now discovered a passage of Keats that puts me in mind of you.” And he read:
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
“Ripening breasts make you think of me, Mr. Culpepper?” said Kestrel. “Scandalous!”
He laughed self-consciously and read some more.
And she privately berated herself, because while Mr. Culpepper was waxing romantic with her, she was reminded of the fall and swell of Hank’s chest. How he’d been so aware of the change in her breath.
How he took hours to fall asleep beside her, but she hoped that unrest had been sweet.
Well, she had no intention of swooning to death, as fun as that sounded. And she didn’t want to linger in the library, where Bobby might come looking for her, so she made her way toward the drawing room and found Tom coming in the front door. Her heart swelled.
“Tom!” She went to greet the healthy-looking gentleman, thrilled to have this very 3D distraction from her Hank yearnings. It looked as if he’d walked through the snow from some distance, his breeches wet above the knee-high boots, his cloak covered in the soft snow. “We missed you yesterday!”
“I sincerely hope that ‘we’ means ‘you,’ Kestrel.” He took her hand and kissed her middle knuckle. “No fretting on my account. It was but a sniffle, a hazard of a cold night out, but I am safe as houses and right as rain.”
Safe as houses. She’d never heard that phrase before Hank.
They’d been on a hike, she’d wondered if that gray cloud would unload on them, and he’d guessed it was moving south and that they were “safe as houses.” She’d laughed, he’d sworn the saying was real, and they’d started making out on the mountaintop and didn’t notice the cloud was actually moving north.
But even soaked to their skin on the hike back down, they were together, and so still, somehow, as right as rain.
Ugh, here was the idea of Hank interfering with her intended Tom flirtations yet again.
And then Bobby had to stroll into the front hall. “Hello there, Miss, uh, whatever your name is. I was thinking of doing some reading in the library—”
“Mr. Culpepper is in the library right now. Perhaps he will read you some poetry,” she said hastily, her stomach sickening.
But Bobby didn’t leave, and Tom was busy removing coat and boots, so in agitation she looked around for any help.
Mrs. Martinez was sitting in the drawing room, so Kestrel rushed in, declaring, “Mrs. Martinez, I am so sorry to keep you waiting!”
Mrs. Martinez blinked, noticed Bobby behind her, and said, “Ah, you are here at last, Miss Spinster!”
The two ladies sat down for a convivial game of checkers, but internally Kestrel was a conflagration of shame. This mess with Bobby was her fault. How could Kestrel be so stupid? Hank would have warned her—
Stop thinking about Hank!
Even when Hank was not there, he was there.
He was everywhere, because she carried him with her.
Even being certain that he didn’t want her, she still didn’t know how to let him go.
And the truth of that hurt. No wonder the too-smart-for-their-own-good Greeks showed love as an arrow piercing the heart.
Who in their right mind walks willingly into that scenario? Love is something you flee.
The idea of Hank haunted her so thoroughly that she felt the exact moment when he was physically present. She was losing a third round of checkers when goose bumps flicked across her back.
“Mr. Kern,” she heard Lady Heartwright say, “you look rosy-cheeked as if you’ve been about some heroic labor. Sit and tell me all about it.”
Kestrel emphatically ignored Hank, turning to the next-nearest man.
“How do you find Pembrook Park, Mr. Houlihan?” she asked cordially.
“This house is a fine thing,” he said in his wonderful Irish brogue, “but I can’t help but feel a complete knob in this kit.” He gestured helplessly to cravat and waistcoat.
“We all do. But for me, it’s part of the fun, as long as I can relax into the silliness and not take myself seriously.”
“Relax into it, eh? You know, I will give it a go, see if I don’t.” He walked off looking more confident, and began making conversation with Colonel Andrews.
The house was full and kept Kestrel from time alone with Tom.
Still, the festive New Year’s mood was not unwelcome.
She felt quite the Austen lady, moving from morning room to drawing room, library to conservatory, and interacting with all the characters in Regency-appropriate ways.
With the Hardy Boys (and under Lady Heartwright’s jealous gaze), there was brief lighthearted flirting; with Tom and Mr. Culpepper, even more fine-tuned and frolicsome flirting; with Gussie, the exchange of impressive glares and pointed barbs; with Mrs. Martinez, the kindhearted chat of burgeoning friends; with Mr. Houlihan, a long conversation about the joys of travel; with Andrews and Jerome, stolen moments of levity; with Bobby, suggestive winking she pretended not to notice; and with Charming, a much needed sofa side-snuggle and a secret cookie split in two.
And with Hank. Her internal Hank switch had been flipped on.
If he was present to witness a conversation, she was thinking with surety what his opinion would be.
If he wasn’t present, she still anticipated what he would say.
She realized she had begun storing tidbits of gossip and clever observations as if she would share them with him later.
She reminded herself there would be no later.
And again she experienced that grief of no future with Hank, followed quickly by the anger that he was to blame, and eventually the weariness of being stuck in this cycle again.
When Kestrel seized a moment alone in the main floor WC, she paused to examine herself in the mirror, and the question rose unbidden: Who could ever love you?
This was the danger of quiet contemplation! If only she could just turn off her mind.
She startled to the sound of running feet. Nobody ran in Pembrook Park. She had just emerged into the hall when Jerome saw her and blurted, “Kes, Mr. Kern says you’re needed.”
Jerome’s manner was so altered from his usual polite patience, she instantly felt the urgency. Holding her skirts up to her knees, Kestrel booked after Jerome into the front hall. Most everyone was gathered at the foot of the stairs, and Gussie was lying on the ground.
Gussie screamed in Hank’s face, her expression pure anguish. Hank was kneeling beside her and calmly speaking, but the lift of his shoulder belied his composure.
“Miss Chen, are you injured? Please don’t be injured.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook held her trembling hands up, afraid to touch Gussie.
Gussie was cradling her elbow. “My arm! It must be broken. I can’t move my elbow. It hurts, it hurts so much.”
“What happened?” asked Mr. Culpepper.
“The railing! The railing is broken!” Gussie wailed in an American accent, her perfect British gone.
Andrews went up a few steps to investigate. “Yes, the railing is loose.”
“Get me a doctor NOW!” screamed Gussie.
“We could try to take you into town,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “but the roads—”
“You don’t have a doctor here?” said Gussie. “You brought me into a house that’s falling apart under my feet, sending me sprawling down the stairs, and you don’t even have a doctor?”
“I . . .” Mrs. Wattlesbrook looked ashen. “That is, I mean—”
“I’ll sue you!” Gussie was screaming. “I’ll sue you in England!”
“Where is Kestrel?” said Hank.
“Here.”
Hank saw her and his left shoulder relaxed. He stood to gently move Mrs. Wattlesbrook aside and make room for Kestrel, explaining, “She tripped down the stairs and held out her right arm to catch herself as she fell.”