Tenth Day of Christmas #4
She hurried to her bedroom and stood at the door, her hand resting on the knob, afraid to go inside and be alone but too full of fire to trust herself with company.
Do something, beat her pulse in an insistent thrum. Don’t think, do. Do, do, do . . .
“Kestrel, there you are!” Tom was sauntering down the corridor. His eyes took her in appreciatively, and then flicked upward.
“Don’t look now,” he whispered, “but I believe you are standing directly beneath a kissing bough.”
She gazed up into her horror story of a garland, crooked limbs reaching out like spider’s legs. Her lips curled up.
“So I am. But alas, I am alone.”
“Are you?” Tom smiled knowingly as he neared. She took a step back so there was room for him under the reach of her wretched decor.
“We are caught,” he said, lifting a finger to tap the tip of a bough. “There is naught for us to do but—”
She put her hand on the back of his head, her fingers deep in his hair. It would be so easy to kiss Tom. He was only a few inches taller than Kestrel. It was as if they were made just for each other. He was gazing back at her, their mouths so close.
“It’s a holiday tradition,” she whispered.
“Bad luck not to,” he countered.
And they kissed. His arms went around her waist; his hand reached up her back. Both her hands were in his hair. They kissed like they’d been kissing for years, fearless and passionate. He was a wonderful kisser. His mouth was on hers but the kiss seemed to envelop her entire body.
They withdrew enough to let a little air between them, but he was still so close. She kept her eyes closed.
“Is the custom fulfilled?” she asked. “The yuletide spirits appeased?”
“Probably,” he whispered. His finger lightly touched her lips, drawing a line from her upper lip down to her chin. “But it is such a large kissing bough. Just to be sure . . .”
His lips were on hers again.
She kissed him so hard, the pressure of it tugged at the knot of anguish in her chest. She kissed to blast the pain away.
They heard movement and both pulled back, but if someone had been in the hallway, they were gone now.
“We were nearly caught,” Tom said with a laugh. “I had better flee the dangerous shadows of your bough before I sully your impeccable reputation.”
“I have many faults, Sir Thomas, but an impeccable reputation isn’t one of them.”
He held her hands and looked deeply into her eyes. “Oh, Kestrel, you are divine. We tease and flirt, but you must know that my heart is entirely yours. At the ball, will you reserve for me the first two dances?”
“I’ll think about it.” She was in the mood to kiss with abandon but definitely not to make commitments.
He nodded. “I will ask you again. And in the meantime, hope is the stallion I ride.” He kissed her hands and quickly walked away on his own two feet, no noticeable stallion, real or metaphorical.
Had she really just kissed Tom? Or did it not count because he wasn’t really Tom, just an actor? Was Hank the way Anika believed or the way Kestrel hoped? What was real and what was fantasy? The kiss had temporarily doused her painful fury, but now she was left sitting in a puddle of sadness.
Kestrel dressed hurriedly for dinner, choosing a dark gray silk gown with short fluttering sleeves.
She left her hair and makeup alone and fled her too-silent room toward the noise that meant the Windy Nook folk had arrived.
She stood in the hallway to the drawing room, absorbing the vibrant conversation spilling out.
“Blimey, but isn’t that just the thing?”
“I say, Lady Heartwright, you look like Venus emerging from the clamshell.”
“I would die enraptured to play whist with you, Miss Chen.”
No sound of Hank. She peeked in. No sight of Hank.
“Did Mr. Kern come?” she asked Mrs. Martinez.
“I thought he did.” Mrs. Martinez resembled an owl as she looked from behind her large spectacles. “I don’t think I’ve seen him since we arrived.”
Maybe he’d gone to the stables. Hank was surely more at home there than trapped in her ridiculous drawing room role-play.
Dinner was boisterous, a gathering of friends who were easy with each other, punctuated by Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s tabletop spoon tap to remind them to keep the talk era appropriate.
Kestrel barely listened, floating above the noise, scarcely conscious of the swells beneath her. When she noticed that Gussie was less participatory than normal, Kestrel whispered to Jerome, “I was rude to Gussie earlier. She might need extra love?”
“No problem whatsoever,” he said.
Jerome engaged Gussie with robust conversation through the rest of dinner, and upon retiring to the drawing room, he said to Andrews, “I say, old chap, what diversion do you have up your sleeve tonight?”
“I was rather enchanted by the idea of Hide-and-Seek in this great old house.”
There were general murmurs of approval.
“In pairs,” Andrews emphasized.
The murmurs enlivened.
Jerome bowed to Gussie. “Miss Chen, would you be my partner?”
“I would be honored,” she said.
“Excellent!” He kissed her hand and murmured, “Perhaps we shall find a small hiding place, one that forces two people to stand very close together.”
“Why, Captain Relish!” she said as if scandalized, but her eyes lit up.
“And with your permission, may I hoist you upon my shoulder and carry you thither and anon?”
“I suppose . . .”
“Extinguish the lights!” said Jerome. “Find a partner, and then, find us if you can!”
He lifted Gussie over her his shoulder. She screeched and laughed as he carried her out of the room.
“Captain Relish!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said in admonishing tones.
“I will behave properly!” Jerome called back. “I am a navy man!”
Tom engaged Kestrel’s gaze hopefully, but Mr. Culpepper was quicker on the draw and claimed Kestrel for the game’s first round.
He held her hand as they ran through the ground-floor rooms, hunting their prey.
When it was their turn to hide, he suggested a closet, but she preferred more air.
They picked the dining room, ensconced behind a tall china cabinet, Kestrel standing on a footstool so they could whisper easily.
There was no good reason to press so close together, but they did anyway.
The sounds of running feet vibrated the stacks of china.
“Miss Spinster,” he whispered, “I fear you do not realize the ardor of my devotion. Will you give me leave to openly declare my love? Will you allow me to escort you to the Twelfth Night ball and reserve for me the first two dances?”
“Mr. Culpepper, you are so kind,” she said. “I do have to think about it first.”
“I would wait a thousand years for your approving look.”
She put a hand on his cheek. He was all shadow and warmth in the dark, the low light glinting off his glasses.
She felt a softness toward him, some tenderness for his story of a young dead wife and his thirst for a world made livable through poetry.
But as she touched his face, she could admit to herself that she wished she were standing here with Hank instead.
She yearned for that so badly, her insides twisted.
So when Mr. Culpepper moved even closer to her, she turned up her face to him and offered her mouth to kiss.
After all, she’d kissed Tom. It was only fair.
Though to be honest, equanimity of snogging was not her chief motivator.
She was desperate for more distractions from the internal wildfires of hopelessness and fury.
And a good make-out sesh usually did the trick.
So what if she would regret it later? Regret was already her constant companion.
They kissed until Lady Heartwright and the Hardy Boys caught them in the act, and they separated, laughing. The kissing had helped, but not nearly enough.
That night, Kestrel waited up till the wee small hours. She looked at her door. She looked at her window. She furiously wished for Hank to come and somehow fix everything with his steady, caring hands. His absence was as loud as a church bell tolling news of someone’s death.
Gong, gong, gong, pealed the bells. Where there was something, now there is nothing.
Gone. Gone. Gone.