Chapter Twenty-three #2
I glanced at George, who wore a wide grin. He raised his hands. “We planned to speak with them, anyway.”
True, but not with the children in tow. Although, were we in any danger? Ada could hardly poison us all—which gave me an idea. “Is everyone ready for carol singing?”
Fiona was prepared to pose an argument—likely on the principle that naughty children should not get their way—but Gregory was first to speak up. “What shall we sing?”
Our choice of music wasn’t uppermost in my mind. “What is your favorite carol?” I asked him.
“‘We Three Kings.’” Gregory’s dark eyes, so like his father’s, were shining with excitement.
“Does everyone know that song?” I asked, now that we were all assembled and ready to walk up to the house. I received affirmative responses all around. “Very well.” With a step up the drive, I began, “We three kings of Orient …”
Not only was mine the lone voice, but I was also the only one moving. I turned to face my companions, all waiting beside the wagon. One of the horses nudged my back, as if to tell me that no one was following. “What is wrong? Are you not ready?”
“That’s not how this works, Frances,” Fiona said. “You don’t just begin singing and walk off, expecting us to join in. We’ll sound ghastly.”
“Someone must count us down, so we start together,” Lissette said.
“You could sing a note, so that we are all at the same pitch,” Hetty suggested.
I stared at them in astonishment. “Forgive me,” I said, placing a hand over my heart. “I was unaware that you were all professional carol singers. As the only amateur in this group, I suggest we simply start singing.”
“We shall start on three,” Fiona said, ignoring my glare. “One, two, three.”
I had to admit we did sound better when we all sang the same words and at the same speed. We walked up the drive and gathered around the front door while Isaac, Ada, Beatrice, and the vicar beamed at us from the threshold.
We ended the song rather abruptly at the third verse when several of us realized we had no idea what lyrics came next. Our audience kindly applauded us, anyway.
“You must join us inside for some refreshment,” Isaac Penhollow said with a wave of his arm. “You’ve come all this way, and we must reward you.” He turned to Ada. “I’m sure we have some ale on hand.”
Ada agreed with the suggestion and slipped off to fetch glasses and the ale.
We didn’t wait to be asked twice. As we all shuffled into the foyer, George held up the jug of nog he’d brought. “Perhaps instead of ale, we might have some Norfolk nog?”
“Indeed, that would be just the thing!” Isaac took the jug from George and directed us all into the small sitting room off the foyer, which used to be Dr. Penhollow’s office. Our group settled into the few chairs and gathered around the table, where Isaac was removing the cork from the jug.
Fiona and I stood next to Vicar Appleton. “It was very kind of you to call on us this evening,” he said. “Many people avoid families in mourning during the Christmas season, but it is never a bad time to celebrate the birth of our lord, regardless of one’s circumstances.”
“And what better way to celebrate than with carols?” Beatrice stepped up to Fiona’s other side.
Her face reflected a goodwill and cheer that I hadn’t seen on my previous visits.
“We shall have carols at the service tonight.” She lowered her voice and moved closer to Fiona.
“That’s really the only reason I attend. ”
“While we wait for glasses, why not sing another carol now?” I suggested. “Have you a favorite, Beatrice?”
“I’ve always loved ‘Away in a Manger,’” she said.
“We seem to get lost after the second verse,” I warned her, “but if you don’t mind a shortened version, why don’t you start us off?”
Beatrice was happy to oblige. Her beautiful voice was quickly joined by Dr. Bertram’s lovely baritone.
I almost hated to join in, for fear of ruining the song, but one by one we all did.
As our voices filled the room, Ada returned and placed a tray of glasses and a jug of ale on the table.
George stepped up and helped pass glasses around as Issac Penhollow filled them from the jug of nog.
By the time we had finished the second verse, everyone had a glass in hand.
I glanced around for Mrs. Penhollow and saw her step out from behind the taller, broader Isaac. “Ada, perhaps you should make the toast,” I said. “This is your husband’s nog, after all.”
The smile faded from her lips. She glanced at the glass in her hand, then back at the tray, where the bottle of ale remained unopened. “It can’t be Joshua’s nog. Lady Fiona was kind enough to return his to me earlier today.” She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “I have it put away.”
“Yes,” I said. “Lady Fiona told me about that, but there was a mistake. The jug you took home was actually nog made by her cook. We found Dr. Penhollow’s nog later. That’s part of why we’re here. We thought you would want it.”
“Even better,” Isaac said. Facing the group, he completely missed the confusion and fear on his sister-in-law’s face. “Let’s drink a toast to Joshua on this Christmas Eve with his own nog. It will be as if he were here.”
Beatrice raised her glass. “I’ll warn everyone now, he was the only one who thought his nog was any good, but it does seem fitting that we salute him with his favorite beverage.”
Ada’s face was red, and I doubted it was from being in the crowded room. “I don’t think we should—” she began, but her brother-in-law’s toast cut her off.
“To Joshua!” Once Isaac lifted his glass, we all formed a crooked circle and raised ours, echoing the toast.
“To Joshua!”
“No!” Ada pushed forward and swiped her arm at all the raised glasses to the right, dashing them to the floor. Before any of us could so much as step back from the splashing of nog, she did the same with those glasses to her left.
Isaac caught hold of her arm and pulled her out of our circle of merrymakers. “Have you gone mad? What are you doing?”
Ada’s actions had confirmed what I’d expected, and I eagerly awaited her response to those questions.
Beatrice, on the other hand, had no intention of waiting—and she still had a glass of nog. “It’s far from my favorite beverage, but someone must toast him. To Joshua!” With that, she took a big swig from the glass, then smacked her lips. “Oh, this is much better than I remembered.”
“Beatrice, no!” Ada shrieked.
As Ada struggled out of Isaac’s grasp, Beatrice drained the glass, then stared at it in surprise. “Why, it’s quite delicious.”
Ada looked as if she might faint. She pushed away from Isaac and steadied herself against the table, staring at Beatrice in horror.
“Now, Ada.” Isaac made as if to take her arm again, but she slapped his hand away. She glanced around the group of us before her gaze settled on Dr. Bertram. “Save her,” she called out to him.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Penhollow?” George asked. “Why does the doctor need to save Beatrice?”
“The nog,” she said. “It’s poison.”
Beatrice glanced at her mother, then at the glass in her hand with no little surprise.
Ada pounded her fist on the table, as if we weren’t listening. “Joshua drank the nog, and he died. I can’t lose Beatrice, too. I can’t!”
Isaac still held the bottle of nog in his hand. His horrified gaze traveled from the bottle to Ada. “Dear God!”
George rushed through the puddles of spilled nog to steady Beatrice, who looked ready to faint. “You will be fine, Mrs. Appleton,” he assured her.
“She is fine,” I echoed for Ada’s benefit. “This”—I gestured to the broken glasses and the puddles of cream, whiskey, and other sundry ingredients on the floor—“is not Dr. Penhollow’s nog.”
“It’s certainly not like any he’s made before,” Beatrice said, still smacking her lips.
“We did find a jug of your husband’s nog in Lady Fiona’s larder, but it is safely locked up,” I said. “We shall take it to Sergeant Hewitt tomorrow.”
“Why would you do that?” Beatrice asked. “This is all so confusing.”
“Because your mother is right,” George said. “The nog you gave to Rose is what killed your stepfather. It was poisoned.” He turned to Ada. “And I’m afraid you have some explaining to do, Mrs. Penhollow.”