Eleventh Day of Christmas
“I bet that was a big success,” said Kestrel, sitting down with her breakfast plate.
“Indeed,” Tom said, serving himself vegan hash from the sideboard. “Whenever I need to keep a low profile, I also opt to balance atop a pillar.”
Kestrel laughed again, testing the feeling of it, seeing if she could mean it this time. If at first you don’t succeed . . .
“What a perfect morning,” she said. “I am the luckiest girl to have the attentions of the two most handsome, clever, kind men in the world.”
“Would that I were the only one,” Tom mumbled.
“‘O Solitude,’” quoted Mr. Culpepper.
“Now, behave,” said Kestrel.
“I am trying,” said Tom. “But I am keenly aware that Culpepper is my rival in the quest for your heart.”
“We agreed to be civil toward each other, for your sake,” said Mr. Culpepper. “But, Miss Spinster, please know, the kiss we shared last night—”
Tom stood up. “You kissed her as well? You scoundrel!”
Mr. Culpepper was on his feet too. “As well? You mean, you sullied her lips with your oafish—”
“Gentlemen,” she said as she buttered her toast. “You promised civility.”
They didn’t argue further, but they kept glaring.
The emotion zipping around the room seemed sincerely real, but she couldn’t be sure.
She was so raw, her skin sensitive to every emotion, that she didn’t trust her judgment.
She didn’t trust herself at all, frankly. Or Hank. Or Anika. Or Santa Claus. Or—
“Miss Spinster!” Gussie came bounding into the room. “Look what I created.”
She proudly showed Kestrel an invitation to the ball, written on fine parchment with lovely inky cursive strokes. It was addressed to Edwin.
“This is really great, Gussie. I’m so excited!” She wasn’t. She wished she were. But she was straddling that bizarre place between complete numbness and painfully acute sensitivity.
“Miss Spinster, Miss Chen, here you are,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, bustling in.
She eyed the standing gentlemen and their steady glaring and gave them a warning finger shake.
They promptly sat down. “Ladies, today we are to pay a visit to Windy Nook and deliver an invitation to attend our Twelfth Night ball.”
Kestrel wanted to say, “Is Hank still there? Or did he leave with his sister? Is he really engaged to Greta Great-Family? Did I somehow mess up everything again?” But she managed to simply ask, “Is Miss Charming coming?”
“She is still feeling under the weather. Come, come, the carriage is waiting out front.”
Kestrel and Gussie put on outerwear and followed Mrs. Wattlesbrook to the front drive, where Edwin was waiting beside the “carriage.” It was a black automobile. Kestrel snorted.
“It’s a carriage,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with warning.
Kestrel schooled her expression and said nothing, settling into the backseat beside Gussie, with Mrs. Wattlesbrook on a facing bench. Curtains were drawn over all the windows, keeping them in the dark and partly muffling the noise of street traffic.
The entire ride, Mrs. Wattlesbrook made exclamations like “Isn’t this a unique carriage?” And “My, the horses have such a smooth gait, do they not?”
Kestrel suspected the car was Charming’s idea, Windy Nook being too far from Pembrook Park for a comfortable walk and not accessible by sleigh. The modern touch clearly bothered Mrs. Wattlesbrook, so Kestrel pretended not to notice. Her roiling stomach kept her too distracted for conversation.
Soon Edwin stopped and opened the passenger door, and Kestrel stepped onto a gravel drive.
Windy Nook was not as large or stately as Pembrook Park.
Instead of yellow stone it was built of gray.
With toothy battlements and a tower keeping watch over all, it felt quite Gothic and mysterious.
Kestrel peered up at the squinting eyes of the narrow windows, half expecting to catch a glimpse of a pale woman locked away in the attic for being a murderer. Or a feminist.
Gussie whispered something to Edwin and with a regal curtsy handed him the invitation to the ball. His eyes widened, and Gussie smiled, delighted. Kestrel could barely take this in, her attention forcefully pulled back to the house and who might be inside.
The door creaked appropriately when the short, wan housekeeper opened it.
The front hall was much smaller and dimmer than Pembrook Park’s bright Georgian style.
Kestrel imagined Hank strolling these halls, climbing those stairs, looking out these windows, and it struck her as so ridiculous she almost emitted that genuine laugh after all.
Kestrel could picture herself as delighted and cozy in this house as a bird in a tree, but surely Hank was more the lost kite, trapped in the branches and unable to fly.
Anika had been right. I never imagined you could fool yourself into believing that he belonged here with you.
In the sitting room, Kestrel encountered dark wood-paneled walls, ancient-looking furniture, and the Windy Nook ladies standing in greeting. Mrs. Martinez was dressed in daffodil yellow and Lady Heartwright in hyacinth periwinkle, both bright as flowers growing in a graveyard.
The four guests and Mrs. Wattlesbrook sat and exchanged pleasantries.
Lady Heartwright looked around with a pained smile. “This house has a certain vibe, does it not?”
Kestrel agreed, if vibe equaled eerie.
“It’s marvelous,” said Mrs. Martinez. “It has so much character. When it creaks and groans in the night, I fancy it’s speaking to me.”
“Indeed?” said Lady Heartwright. “And what pray tell is it saying?”
Mrs. Martinez whispered, “That this year, the Cavs will go all the way.”
They all paused as the house groaned.
Kestrel said, “I heard it say that Christmas should last another month at least.”
“I heard the name of who I should accompany to the ball,” said Gussie.
“I heard that too, Gussie,” said Kestrel. “But I think Mrs. Wattlesbrook will be otherwise engaged.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed. “Stuff and nonsense. We have come all this way with a purpose. And so—”
She formally invited the ladies to the ball, which was no surprise to them, so they accepted and soon the conversation turned back to familiar topics that failed to distract Kestrel from the incessant firing of her neurons.
Thus, her eyes kept focusing on the door of the sitting room.
Thus, when Hank passed by, she saw him, and saw him see her.
He paused. Their eyes met. His face frowned.
As if he judged her for coming between him and his family.
As if he would resent her for the rest of his life.
And thus and thus, he turned his back and walked away.
Kestrel stared at the empty space where he’d been. Her throat felt tight, and she rubbed it, making sure she hadn’t forgotten to take off her scarf.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she said, and exited the sitting room. Hank had walked to the far end of the hall, but she called out, “You didn’t come see me last night.”
Hank appeared to take a deep breath before turning to face her “I meant to but . . .” He shook his head.
“I’d thought that things were changing, but I should have known better.
You came to England for a specific reason, and I am interfering.
I came to England to make sure you were all right.
And you are—better than I could have hoped.
I came to apologize and hopefully receive your forgiveness, which you kindly gave me.
Closure. And now I will do what I meant to do from the beginning and stay out of your way. ”
Kestrel opened her mouth to ask him about Anika, but he was already leaving, and she heard a sad little chirp behind her. She turned to see Gussie standing in the sitting room doorway, her face ashen.
“I’m sorry,” Gussie whispered. “I hoped I might I might spy you in a happy scenario, a perfect moment from a story, such as when Edmund Bertram declares love for Fanny Price.”
Kestrel’s legs felt wobbly, and she leaned against the wall. “My life is not Mansfield Park, Gussie.”
“What happened? Between you and Mr. Kern?”
Kestrel’s instinct was to protect herself, but at this point, what did it matter? So she said, “We knew each other before. For two years, he was my . . .” What was he? Boyfriend? Lover, partner, best friend, companion? “My soulmate.”
Gussie inhaled sharply, her hands going to her heart.
Kestrel shrugged. “He broke it off. We hadn’t spoken in two years when he showed up out of the blue. I hoped he’d followed me here to rekindle our love affair. But I was wrong.”
“I am all astonishment.” Gussie folded her hands in front of her waist and looked up gravely, and Kestrel could spot the scholar and lawyer who had been made the only female partner in her firm, someone who had to be twice as smart and work twice as hard as everyone else.
“I find the best ways to solve any of life’s personal issues is to put them in context of an Austen story.
You’re no Fanny Price of Mansfield Park.
Your story is more Persuasion. But no, Persuasion isn’t quite right either, because you’re nothing like the heroine Anne Elliot. ”
“Of course not,” said Kestrel. “I’m no heroine. I’m one of those girls. The cautionary tales.”
“No—” Gussie started, but Kestrel had completely overdrawn on her allotment of interpersonal conflict for the day and walked swiftly back into the sitting room. Her mind was clicking and whirling like a roulette ball, and she was terrified of every single thought it might land on.
Lady Heartwright was saying, “And so I assured both Jonathan and Samuel that they are dear lads, and of course I would be honored to accompany either one of them, but I simply cannot choose—”
“You know what?” Kestrel announced, striding into the center of the group. “We should play a game or something. Right? A nice distracting game?”
The women stared at her.
“Er, Miss Spinster, we were about to have tea,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“Or a prank?” said Kestrel. “Pull a prank on one of the gentlemen? Let’s do something outrageous!”