The First Day of Christmas #4
Juliette finished with Kestrel’s buttons, brushed and pinned her hair into an updo, and then walked her to a full-length mirror.
“Oh là là!” said Juliette.
Kestrel couldn’t help laughing at herself, but the humor was tinged with awe.
She usually wore her long, black hair loose or in a ponytail or braids.
Now it was all expertly twisted and poofed on top of her head, somehow making her eyes look darker, her face rounder, and her whole self generally more Bridgerton friendly.
“Now it begins,” she said.
“What, Christmas?” asked Juliette.
“Yep,” said Kestrel.
But she really meant, Everything. Now, finally, everything begins.
By the time Kestrel emerged, dressed from slippers to curls, the rest of the party was back in the drawing room and dressed as well, the whole lot transforming from college dorm room to BBC historical drama in one fell swoop.
Charming wore a frilly pink dress with consequential puffed sleeves.
Andrews and Jerome were particularly noteworthy in knee-high black boots, tight brown breeches, white shirts, and cravats, with a purple and a deep green jacket respectively, their long sideburns completing the look.
These new duds brought out a different side of them that Kestrel hadn’t noticed before.
Both the gents looked a little stiffer, a little older, and, if it was possible, even more handsome.
When Juliette stepped to the threshold and said, “Presenting Miss Kestrel Spinster,” all eyes looked toward Kestrel.
She felt a physical shock, as if the actors in a movie had suddenly looked into the camera and called her by name.
As she entered the drawing room on slippered feet and curtsied, a cold, wonderful buzz whooshed from her toes through her bones to the top of her head, as if she had finally completely submerged. Her skin prickled with chills.
“Miss Charming, you have a visitor,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, entering from the front hall. “If you were expecting Christmas guests, I wish you had informed me.”
“Who is it?” asked Charming, adding, in a strained and unconvincing British accent, “Pish-posh, right-o.”
A voice called out, “Iiiiiiiiiit’s Bobby!”
A large man popped his head out from behind the doorway.
He was around Charming’s own age, with a full head of hair turning gray, his mid-length beard almost entirely white.
He had an appealing face—not necessarily handsome, but his eyes were bright, and his excited smile was so genuine, Kestrel couldn’t help returning it.
He put his arms out at his sides, presenting himself. He wore a brown three-piece suit and was carrying a massive bouquet of red roses.
“I came back for you, sweetheart,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
Charming had both her hands over her mouth and was staring wide-eyed, but Kestrel couldn’t tell if it was from horror or delight.
Bobby went down on one knee, his smile huge, confidence rolling off him like the scent of his musky cologne. “Aw, honey, I missed you so much. You look incredible. Knock-me-out-of-my-boots-and-brand-my-butt drop-dead gorgeous. You are my entire world, you know that. My entire world!”
Still Charming didn’t move. Her eyes were so filled with tears they glistened in the chandelier light. Bobby’s proffered roses began to dip. He laughed nervously.
“Don’t leave me hanging. I crossed half the globe for you.”
Her hands lowered from her face to press against her chest. “My heart is pounding so hard I’m gonna break my corset in two. Bobby, what—?”
He tossed the roses onto the carpet, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet.
“I’m doing what I should’ve done two years ago.” He dipped her backward and bent over her to kiss her. When he brought her back up, her cheeks were pink and her mouth was smiling.
“That’s my girl.” He looked her up and down. “Whoo-wee! What a getup! You’re finer than a frog’s hair split four ways. I’d like to smear you on a biscuit and eat you for breakfast.”
“Um, Bobby, this is everybody,” Charming said, slightly breathless. “Everybody, this is my . . . this is Bobby.”
“Howdy, y’all!” He waved. “Thanks for taking care of my girl for me. But I’m back now!”
She giggled, and he kissed her again. And everyone watched silently like the audience of a show.
Kestrel sidled up to Jerome to whisper, “Have we started? Is this part of the play?”
Jerome shook his head. “No, this is real.”
Andrews was tightening his fists and looked about ready to deck Bobby into tomorrow. Was he jealous that his best friend’s attention was elsewhere? Or did he have reasons to be concerned about Bobby?
Kestrel squinted at the canoodling pair, looking for the cracks, the fault lines, the signs that something was about to break open.
“Austenland isn’t a play, just so you know what to expect,” Jerome whispered. “You won’t be watching stories acted out. You will be part of them, creating them.”
“Right, it’s ‘an immersive Austen experience,’” Kestrel quoted from the brochure.
“‘No scripts, no written endings,’” Jerome quoted back. “The only thing for certain is no one ever knows what is going to happen.”