Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Julian's letter lay on the small writing desk at Lavender Cottage for three days, unfolded but unread again, a constant reminder of decisions I wasn't ready to make.
Each time I passed it, I felt the familiar tug of conflicting emotions—hurt warring with understanding, anger battling against the treacherous warmth his words had kindled.
Rather than torment myself further with analysis, I chose to set the matter aside entirely and focus on work that felt both urgent and unambiguously good.
The children at the foundling home deserved a proper Christmas, and organizing such an undertaking would require every moment of attention I could spare.
I began with practical matters, making lists of what would be needed for celebrations that would span from Christmas Eve through Twelfth Night.
Food, of course—special meals and treats that would mark the season as different from ordinary days.
Gifts for each child, thoughtfully chosen rather than merely adequate.
Decorations that would transform the modest cottage into a place of wonder.
Activities and entertainments that would create lasting memories of belonging and joy.
But most importantly, I wanted to establish traditions that would continue long after this first Christmas, rituals that would help future children understand they were part of something larger than their individual circumstances.
By mid-morning, I was walking up the familiar drive to Wyndham Hall, my mind focused entirely on the logistics of feeding and entertaining seven children for twelve days of celebration.
The house appeared unchanged despite my three-day absence, though I noticed fresh flowers in the entrance hall and detected the scent of baking bread that suggested Mrs. Fletcher was busy with her usual efficiency.
"Mrs. Tynsdale!" The housekeeper appeared almost immediately, her face bright with obvious relief. "We've been hoping you might call. Is everything well at the cottage?"
"Very well, thank you. I've come to discuss Christmas preparations—not for the house, but for a special project that will require considerable coordination."
Mrs. Fletcher's eyes lit with immediate interest. "What sort of project?"
Over the next hour, I explained the foundling home situation and outlined my vision for giving seven orphaned children their first proper Christmas celebration.
Mrs. Fletcher listened with growing enthusiasm, occasionally interjecting with practical suggestions that demonstrated her natural understanding of both logistics and the importance of creating meaningful experiences.
"We'll need puddings, of course," she said, making notes on a paper she'd produced from her apron. "And mince pies, special breads, perhaps a proper roast for each of the twelve days. The children will remember the tastes as much as anything else."
"Can the Wyndham Hall kitchens manage such an undertaking?"
"Easily, ma'am. It would be a pleasure to cook for children who've likely never tasted proper holiday food.
" She paused, studying her growing list. "Though we'll need additional hands for serving and presentation.
Perhaps some of the village women would be willing to help, for proper wages, of course. "
"Whatever you think necessary. This isn't about economizing—it's about creating something special."
"And the other preparations? Decorations, entertainments?"
"I'm hoping to coordinate with the church and several local families. The widows have connections throughout the area, and I suspect my sisters would be willing to contribute their organizational skills."
Mrs. Fletcher's smile widened. "Your sisters were asking after you yesterday, wondering when you might return home."
"I'm not ready to return permanently yet. But perhaps they might visit the cottage to discuss Christmas planning."
After settling the preliminary arrangements with Mrs. Fletcher and ensuring she had adequate funds to begin purchasing supplies, I made my way to visit several tenant families.
Partly this was practical—I wanted to invite their participation in Christmas activities for the foundling home children.
They were also technically under my care even though Julian had already done so much for them.
But mostly it was personal. I had discovered that meaningful work, work that made a tangible difference in others' lives, provided the best antidote to dwelling on my own complicated feelings.
Mrs. Patterson, now comfortably settled in temporary housing while her cottage underwent repairs, welcomed me with genuine warmth and immediately volunteered to help with sewing projects.
"Simple toys for the little ones," she suggested. "Dolls, perhaps, or soft animals that children can hold close. I've got scraps of fabric that would work beautifully, and my oldest daughter is quite skilled with a needle."
"That would be wonderful. Are there other families who might be interested in contributing?"
"I'm certain of it. Many of us have been wondering how to repay your and Lord Avebury's kindness during the flooding. This might be exactly the sort of project that would allow proper gratitude."
The mention of Julian's name sent the familiar twist through my chest, but I pushed the feeling aside. "No need to repay, of course. It's about community, about ensuring that children without families understand they're not forgotten. And your help is greatly needed."
My next stop was the Henley cottage—or rather, the cottage where Mr. Henley was residing while his own home underwent restoration. I found the elderly man in much improved spirits, sitting by a warm fire and working on what appeared to be a wooden carving.
"Mrs. Tynsdale," he said, rising to greet me. "Kind of you to call. I was just working on some small toys—seemed like useful occupation while I wait for my own place to be ready."
"Toys?"
"Aye, little horses and such. My grandfather taught me woodworking when I was a lad, and these old hands remember the skill." He held up a charming wooden horse that showed considerable craftsmanship. "Thought they might be useful for Christmas gifts, perhaps for children who haven't much."
I explained the foundling home project, and Mr. Henley's face brightened with obvious pleasure at having something meaningful to contribute.
"I could make toys for each child," he said eagerly. "Different ones, mind you, so each has something special that belongs just to them."
By afternoon, I had visited six families and received promises of help that ranged from cooking assistance to handmade gifts to offers of entertainment and storytelling.
The response was overwhelming in the best possible way—these people, many of whom had recently experienced hardship themselves, were eager to create joy for children who had even less.
I was walking back toward Lavender Cottage, my mind full of plans and my heart lighter than it had been in days, when Lucy appeared on the path with obvious urgency.
"Mrs. Tynsdale, thank goodness. This came by express post, and the messenger said it required immediate attention."
The letter she handed me bore the London postmark and formal script that I recognized with sinking heart. The Tynsdale family solicitors, no doubt writing on behalf of Edward's relatives about some matter they considered pressing.
I had hoped to avoid such complications indefinitely.
Mrs. Edward Tynsdale,
We write on behalf of Mrs. George Tynsdale and Mr. Charles Tynsdale regarding matters concerning your late husband's estate that require immediate attention and resolution.
Recent discoveries have necessitated a complete review of the settlement arrangements, and your presence in London is urgently required.
We have scheduled meetings with all relevant parties for December 15th and request that you make arrangements to travel to London no later than December 12th. The matters to be discussed cannot be delayed without significant legal and financial consequences.
Your immediate response confirming your attendance is expected.
Yours in service, Burtons, Grimsby & Associates
I read the letter twice, my earlier contentment evaporating into familiar dread.
Edward's family had never accepted me warmly—they had considered him too young for marriage and me insufficiently dowered for their ambitions.
After his death, their coldness had become more pronounced, though they had maintained a veneer of proper courtesy during the immediate mourning period.
What "recent discoveries" could possibly require my urgent attention? And why were they demanding I abandon my current obligations to travel to London at their convenience?
"Bad news, ma'am?" Lucy asked gently, clearly reading my expression.
"Potentially. Edward's family wants me in London for meetings about his estate."
"Will you go?"
I considered the question seriously. The timing was terrible—Christmas preparations for the foundling home required constant attention, and I was finally beginning to find equilibrium in my new life.
More than that, I suspected whatever Edward's family wanted to discuss would involve attempts to limit my independence or claim portions of whatever inheritance I might have received.
"No," I said firmly. "I won't go."
"Even if there are legal matters that require attention?"
"Then they can be handled through correspondence. I'm not abandoning work that matters to children who need help simply because my in-laws have decided to create some crisis that requires my immediate presence."
"And if they insist?"
"Then they'll discover that I'm not as easily managed as they might have hoped."
As we reached Lavender Cottage, I found myself thinking about the choice between obligation and autonomy, between maintaining peace with family and protecting my own interests. For too much of my life, I had chosen peace, had allowed others to make decisions about my welfare and priorities.
The foundling home children needed someone who would put their interests first, not someone who would abandon them at the first sign of family pressure.
Whatever Edward's relatives wanted to discuss could wait until I had given those children the Christmas they deserved.
That evening, I wrote a brief response to the solicitors:
Gentlemen—I regret that I cannot travel to London at the time you have specified.
I am engaged in charitable work that cannot be postponed.
If there are matters requiring my attention, they may be conducted through correspondence.
I will be available for meetings after January 7th, should that prove acceptable. Mrs. E. Tynsdale
As I sealed the letter, I felt a familiar sense of taking control of my own life rather than allowing others to dictate my choices.
Whatever consequences might follow from my refusal to be summoned, they would be consequences of my own making rather than compliance with demands I found unreasonable.
It was, I reflected, exactly the sort of decision that Julian would approve of—putting meaningful work above social obligation, choosing substance over appearance.
Then I caught myself thinking of Julian's opinion and firmly pushed such considerations aside. I was making this choice for myself and for the children who needed my help, not because I hoped to impress anyone else with my independence.
If I ever decided to trust him enough to have such conversations again.