Twelfth Day of Christmas #2
After a life-affirming, protein-rich breakfast that Kestrel’s abused digestive system eventually decided to keep down, she and Gussie went to check on Edwin’s outfit.
They found Mrs. Wattlesbrook in the wardrobe room, where a couple of seamstresses were making last-minute alterations on formal attire.
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook,” said Kestrel, examining Edwin’s broad jacket, “have you ever attended the ball accompanied by a gentleman?”
“Certainly. There were sessions when I attended on the arm of my then-husband.”
“And did he make you feel like a princess?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook rolled her eyes.
“Hm.” Kestrel pulled a jacket off the men’s rack. “This one looks just Neville’s size.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook sputtered. “Neville is the butler! Servants do not attend the ball.”
“Not usually, sure,” said Kestrel. “But Mr. Culpepper read to me about Twelfth Night customs—you know, the tradition of turning the house topsy-turvy? The servants are the masters, the masters are the servants. It would be Regency appropriate.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook seemed to take this idea in very deeply.
The staff was so busy preparing all day, Gussie and Kestrel were free from organized activities till the ball.
They delivered Edwin his costume and coached him on the plans for the evening and then holed up in Gussie’s room to stay out of the way.
After practicing the country dances, they took a break to lie on Gussie’s bed under the enormous purple canopy dripping with tassels and gold ribbons.
“Why did you come, Gussie? What did you want to get out of this?” Kestrel knew a paying guest must have forked over a small fortune for these twelve days.
“I already got it,” said Gussie, her head resting on her arms. “I needed to experience what it would feel like to be in Austen’s world. I’d wondered so often . . .”
“And what is it like?” asked Kestrel.
“Perfection,” said Gussie.
“Except when you’re paired with an obnoxious female guest.”
Gussie smiled. “You are part of Austen’s grand tradition of obnoxious characters—Mary Musgrove, Mrs. Elton, Mr. Collins . . .” She smiled to show she wasn’t being too serious. “Besides, as Austen said: ‘When pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.’”
“I helped supply the pain?”
“Absolutely. Even with you, I love it here.”
Kestrel felt that truth like a long, sharp needle into her heart. The pain was not for the friendly jab but in empathy for Gussie’s own pain, and it pinched and grew hot and felt almost too much to bear. After finding just the right place for herself, how could poor Gussie bear to leave it?
“I’m sorry, Gus, if tomorrow will be difficult for you,” Kestrel said softly.
Gussie shrugged and spoke in her natural, American accent. “Well, there’s not much to pack, is there? And I have a direct flight.”
“Oh. Well, I meant . . . leaving here, going back to the real world.”
“I’m sure my boyfriend is missing me, and the office is probably a disaster in my absence. Honestly”—Gussie cracked her knuckles—“a mess reminds them how much they need me. And I thrive when I’m thrust into chaos and empowered to set things right.”
Kestrel blinked. “So, you’re not heartbroken to leave?”
“Two weeks is a long vacation. I only managed to pull it off because the office is closed between Christmas and New Year’s.
It was enough for me to prove to myself that I could be successful in Austen’s world but that it really wouldn’t be better than what I have.
I want far more out of life than to marry landed gentry and be amazing at sugar-paste sculpture. ”
Gussie laughed. Kestrel pretended to, but she was busy realizing that the sharp pain in her heart had not been empathy for poor Gussie. Kestrel had been feeling her own wounded heart. Well, isn’t that a kick in the drawers.
There was no sit-down dinner on the ball night, so Gussie and Kestrel partook of a hearty teatime before Kestrel adjourned to her own room to get ready. Juliette was waiting. And so was the gown.
It began with a sleek and sleeveless pale peach slip that slid down Kestrel’s body like cool water.
And then on top, an all-lace off-white overdress.
Kestrel put it on reverently. She was already accustomed to beautiful dresses daily so she hadn’t been prepared for just how different her ballgown would feel.
Her neck was even lower than normal with a seductive swoop, gloves rising past her elbows, and a choker of pearls around her neck.
No drawers to muck up the line of her slip. She found she agreed with the laundry-minded Regency lot. Life was better sans drawers. They were itchy and got twisted.
Juliette spent an hour on her hair alone. When she nestled a tiara into Kestrel’s curls, the noble accessory didn’t feel like an exaggeration. She wasn’t just pretty. She was regal. Consequential.
“Who says I’m not a princess?” said Kestrel.
“Not me,” said Juliette. “I’ve learned my lesson. One guest was so miffed Mrs. Wattlesbrook wouldn’t let her be Princess Such-and-Such, she spent her stay spreading rumors she was secret French royalty on the run from revolutionaries.”
“What an amazing idea! Did she speak French?”
“I mean, she tried,” said Juliette, adding, “Fous Américains.”
Kestrel laughed. But honestly, she would have liked to meet the secret princess. What fun Juliette must have, getting to know new and eccentric people week after week.
“I was asked to give this to you,” said Juliette, handing her a card composed in a different handwriting from the “true love” notes:
Meet me under the mistletoe
Kestrel rushed right out her door, but Hank wasn’t waiting under her splatterpunk kissing bough.
The only other people in the corridor were Mrs. Wattlesbrook and Gussie, just emerging from their rooms. Gussie’s skin looked like the finest porcelain against her cream-colored beaded gown with a daring V-neck.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was elegance incarnate in a long-sleeved black silk gown embroidered with silver thread.
“Miss Chen, you are flawless,” Mrs. Wattlebrook was saying.
“Indeed, when I think of the consummate lady, she who fits as perfectly in Pembrook Park as a key in a lock, I picture you—your poise, your knowledge, your artistic skills and graceful conversation. To my mind, you embody this ideal world.”
And then, upon noticing Kestrel, Mrs. Wattlesbrook added, “And you, Miss Spinster, are . . . unique.”
That was all. Kestrel barely held in a laugh, some air still managing to escape her lips with a pbbt, perhaps only further complementing her “unique” diagnosis.
Even though her body had found good reason to laugh, her mind still supplied her with this ready thought: You, Kestrel, are nobody’s idea of perfection. It was a familiar thought and yet still stung.
Kestrel tucked away the small wound to gnaw on later, feeling both too pretty and too wound up to allow herself another second of self-pity. Her fist tightened, and the note in her hand crinkled. Where was mistletoe?
The air in the house felt different—there was more vibration, more movement. As she neared the stairs, sounds of people rose up from the ground floor, and intertwining with the voices and laughter was a floating melody. Gussie ran to the top of the stairs and motioned to someone below.
Charming was plodding out of her room, accompanied by Andrews and Jerome, and mumbling, “I don’t know if I want to do this tonight.”
“Charming, you look like a goddess!” exclaimed Kestrel. Indeed, Charming lit up the corridor in white silk embroidered with dark pink designs, her blond hair heaped up in piles of curls decorated with white ostrich feathers.
“Yeah, but so what, right?” Charming said, arms dangling as she looked down at herself. “You know how many balls I’ve been to? A ball is supposed to change everything, but nothing really changes.”
“Please, not in front of the guests,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, her hands fluttering in agitation.
Andrews glanced toward Gussie, who was still at the stairs’ railing. “It’s all right. Miss Chen is out of earshot.”
“She means Kestrel, mate,” said Jerome.
Andrews slapped his forehead. “Dash it all, I keep forgetting Kes is a guest. Sorry, love.”
“I’m a wet blankie tonight,” said Charming. “And I’ve changed my mind. The evening will be just fine without me. I’m gonna go back to my—”
“One moment, if you please, Mrs. Charming,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“It’s Miss,” said Charming.
“Well, you see . . .” Mrs. Wattlesbrook glanced at Kestrel as if for support, took a breath, held her fluttering hands firmly to her middle, and declared, “I have recast the part of Mr. Charming.”
“You’ve what?”
Gussie came running over excitedly, shouting, “He’s here! He’s here!”
Their little group parted, and down the center strode Edwin.
The bright white shirt and cravat made his dark brown skin almost seem to glow—or perhaps the effect came from the delighted expression in his eyes.
He was a large man, but the cut of the black jacket somehow made him even larger, like a warrior of old—a fancy, ball-ready warrior.
Instead of a sword, he carried a bouquet of pink poinsettias.
“All right?” he said in greeting to the group, but then he caught sight of Charming. His posture became rigid, and his expression could be summed up as elated terror.
“Damn, you look fit.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, good evening, Miss Charming.”
He offered her the flowers. She took them automatically, her whole face gaping.
“Edwin?” she said, as if she barely recognized him.
“This kit is a bit swish, isn’t it?” he said, nervously smoothing down his waistcoat. “I can’t look as good as you, but still, I hope you’ll be my date.”
She was still gaping. “Edwin, you actually want to go to the ball with me?”
He visibly swallowed. “Of course I do.”
“As a friend, I suppose. A mercy date . . .”