Tenth Day of Christmas #2
Andrews paused his kissing to ask, “What is four hundred twenty times six hundred ninety?”
“Two hundred eighty-nine thousand eight hundred,” said Charming.
Andrews squealed and kissed each one of her fingers, making Charming laugh so hard, her chocolate-covered raisins began to spill out of the bowl and rain onto the rug. Kestrel knelt down to pick them up.
“Now, don’t overdo it, mate,” Edwin grumbled at Andrews.
“Charming doesn’t mind being kissed, do you darling?”
Charming sighed, but it started happy and ended in a moan. “Look, you’ve upset her!” said Edwin.
“I’m fine,” said Charming. “It’s just, my heart is still all cattywumpus. Bobby was so nice to me at first, I forgot to notice that he’s still slicker than frog backs. Even when we were kids, he thought the sun came up just to smell him poop. But still, I can’t help feeling—”
Charming stopped talking. She’d noticed Kestrel on the rug beside her, and her look narrowed into a glare.
“Good morning?” Kestrel said hopefully.
“Nope,” said Charming.
Kestrel fled the room. Oh well, it had been worth a try, and of course death by snow was still an option. In fact, all bury-self-alive recourses remained wide-open. At least Edwin was with Charming, even if Andrews was the one kissing her.
The wall portraits in the hallway gallery eyed Kestrel languidly and without approval. Never mind that she had once again destroyed a friendship. She would cling to the tiny, bubbly hope that she still had a chance to do something magical for Charming.
Plus, somewhere out there, Hank existed. That was a chocolate-covered-cherry kind of a thought—sweet and secret and full of delight.
She found Gussie outside the morning room, peeking in at a lone Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
Kestrel gave her a thumbs-up and whispered, “You talked to her?”
“No!” Gussie whispered back. “I get panicky when I’m in the spotlight. I don’t know what to say.”
“What do you mean? You’re a fabulous conversationalist.”
“The panic strikes me with authority figures,” said Gussie. “If I’m the authority figure, then I’m fine.”
“Come on, we’ll go in together.”
And so as a team they stepped through the one-personsized doorway. Got caught in the frame. Pushed each other a bit. Turned sideways. And finally entered barely upright. They were not an entirely in-sync team, but a team nonetheless.
“Good morrow, Mrs. Wattlesbrook!” said Gussie.
“Good, er, morrow, Miss Chen,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, smiling up from the Christmas bough she had been adjusting on the mantelpiece. “What can I do for you, my dear?”
Gussie’s smile slowly took on a plastered, manic aspect, then she muttered, “Pardon me!” and fled.
“She . . . had an appointment,” said Kestrel. “Probably a chaste tryst in the conservatory.”
“Quite.”
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook,” said Kestrel, lowering her voice as if to keep their conversation private, “it occurred to me that, for the sake of consistency, you might recast the part of Mr. Charming.”
“Recast is not a word in this century, Miss Spinster.”
“Sure, sure. You’re right.” Kestrel was rapidly sorting through possible arguments that might appeal to the proprietress.
“It’s just that when there’s no Mr. Charming, Colonel Andrews is naturally more attentive to our Lizzie.
But if she had a Mr. Charming, Andrews would be free to keep wooing Gussie.
And, well . . . Edwin said Mr. Kern has been helping him so often that he has less work than usual.
Perhaps Edwin might show up at the ball, ask Charming to dance, and . . .”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was looking at her suspiciously.
Kestrel smiled and gave up, lifting her hands. “Edwin is such a nice man, and he might cheer her up. We all love to see a cheery Charming.”
The proprietress pursed her lips and returned her attention to adjusting the foam berries on the mantel bough.
“The first few sessions I hosted at Pembrook Park were not . . . successful. It was after Colonel Andrews and other gentlemen joined the house party that I hit upon the magic combination. Yes, the clothes and the house matter, but so does . . .” She trailed off, as if she still didn’t have a word for it.
“Love?” Kestrel guessed.
“Is it love?” asked Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “Austen’s novels are about a certain time and place, but they are also about finding those just-so relationships that make life feel enriched. Everyone deserves to feel . . . loved, as you say.”
“Seen. Appreciated. Adored.”
“Yes. Yes we do.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said it firmly, as if repeating to herself until she could believe it. “What am I saying? There is something sly about you, Miss Spinster, that makes me speak far too candidly.”
“I’ve been told I create an accepting and nonjudgmental atmosphere.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook turned her back to Kestrel as if the bough required all her attention but said softly, “Edwin is too broad in the shoulders for the formal jackets I have on hand. I will ask my girls to create something new in time for the ball.”
Kestrel clapped her hands. “Mrs. Wattlesbrook, you are a saint! Hallelujah and happy Christmas!”
She found Gussie in the library and was about to share the excellent news, when Juliette entered.
“Miss Spinster?” Juliette twisted a corner of her apron. “Can you come with me? You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Kestrel assumed it must be Hank. “I’ll be right back, Gussie. We have so much plotting to do!”
Gussie gave a little cheer.
“I’m so sorry,” said Juliette, leading Kestrel down the hall.
“Why?” Kestrel guessed Hank had arrived early for the scheduled dinner with the Windy Nook folks because he couldn’t wait to see her. Just how long could they enjoy midnight snuggles and outdoor adventures while avoiding talking about the past? Kestrel was game to find out.
“She said it was a family emergency,” said Juliette.
She?
Juliette veered out of the main corridor and led her through a service door.
“I put her back here, because during a session, Mrs. Wattlesbrook is very strict about keeping anyone not in costume away from the guests. Oh dear, Miss Spinster, I hope everything is okay with your family.”
What family? Kestrel hadn’t spoken to her mother since she’d called her at Farm Home about Grandma’s death.
Jill had chosen not to attend the funeral.
So Kestrel had figuratively tucked her relationship with her mother into the coffin beside her grandmother’s body and buried them both at once.
It’d been a real BOGO funeral. You can’t beat the convenience, and the prices are to die for.
Juliette opened the door to a pantry, and Kestrel braced herself for the confusing and heart-ripping sight of her mother. Instead, in jeans and a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt, stood Hank’s sister.
“Anika?” Kestrel said, waiting for her brain to make sense of this.
“Kestrel!” Anika hugged her, then stood back to look her over. “Wow, don’t you look fancy?”
Kestrel smoothed the front of her empire waist. “This old thing? I only wear it when I don’t care how I look.” Making a joke was instinct. She was too stunned to think.
Juliette had closed the door behind her, so they were alone in this windowless, old fashioned storage room. Anika sat on a crate and ran her fingers through her curly blond hair.
“I tried calling first. I’ve been texting you since Christmas.”
It’s still Christmas, Kestrel thought defensively, but she said, “We don’t have access to our phones.”
“Really? That seems overly controlling.”
Kestrel didn’t have the energy to explain about Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s devoted allegiance to a historical era. “So, why were you trying to call?”
Anika took a deep breath and sighed. “I always liked you, Kestrel.”
Kestrel believed that. When Hank and Kestrel were dating, months before the disastrous Christmas, Anika and her husband, Greg, had come to Ann Arbor.
The four of them had gone out to dinner one night and enjoyed it so much, the next day they did lunch and bowling before Anika and Greg had to drive back to Wisconsin.
Kestrel had assumed her joy and appreciation had been reciprocated, leaving her even more unprepared for the later Kern Family Rejection.
“I warned Hank to be careful with you,” said Anika. “But he’s so tenderhearted, always the kid who collected broken things and tried to fix them. We all knew it was never going to work out between you two, but the longer he strung you along, the more painful it would be.”
Kestrel’s expression must have shown that pain now, because Anika looked at her sadly.
“Did Hank tell you why he came here?”
“For closure,” said Kestrel.
“Yes, closure,” said Anika, seeming relieved.
“He came here to make a sort of . . . grand gesture, so he doesn’t have to feel guilty anymore about how he let you get so attached to him when you didn’t have anyone else.
That tender heart! He wouldn’t let himself get married until he’d made it right with you. ”
Kestrel felt those words like a blow. She forced herself to keep very still and make no reaction besides a small, vague smile.
“You knew about Greta, right?” Anika opened her phone and showed her a photo of Hank standing next to a thin blond woman wearing jeans and a chunky white sweater.
It was the same girl Kestrel had spied in his siblings’ social media posts.
They were both smiling at the camera, as if everything was perfect in the world.
“Our whole family adores Greta,” said Anika. “She’s a good Wisconsin girl from a great family.”
Kestrel didn’t trust herself to make any kind of verbal acknowledgment. She was barely managing to stay vertical. Her legs felt made of ice, and if she moved, they might shatter.