Third Day of Christmas #2
Lady Heartwright was a tall, elegant woman, blond and thirties, with pale, flawless skin that likely had soaked up its share of red-light therapy. She seemed familiar with Pembrook Park, smiling at the room as if at an old friend. By her accent, she was British.
Mrs. Martinez was perhaps fifty and not quite five feet high.
She wore large square glasses that appeared to be real, unlike Mr. Culpepper’s antique-looking spectacles.
She had large eyes that looked around with open curiosity.
Her skin was a deep brown and her black hair was very short and styled with a flowered headband.
When she spoke, her consonants were crisp and vowels strong, like someone who might speak Spanish as a first language.
Jill had claimed that Kestrel’s father was from Costa Rica, a one-night stand, his name forgotten by the time Jill discovered she was pregnant.
Kestrel didn’t know for certain if that was true.
Nevertheless, meeting people fluent in Spanish always made her feel curious and wishful that she spoke Spanish herself.
The four mostly-strangers sat on formal sofas, consumed tea and biscuits, and exchanged fake backstories. Kestrel made it a game to guess their real stories.
Mrs. Gloria Martinez: “I am a widow of no significance. I care for my mother and sister in a small house my brother rents for us. How marvelous to be invited to a grand house like Windy Nook! Simply marvelous!”
Kestrel’s analysis: She’s definitely married, probably has at least one child, and teaches high school or college.
She’s good to her family and students but neglects herself.
Since she’s here, she probably experienced some kind of life event that deeply affected her—maybe a medical scare or a death—and now she’s determined to live life more fully. I will fight anyone who hurts her.
Augusta Chen: “I greatly enjoyed my first season this year. My dear elder brothers showed me around London, and I made so many cherished acquaintances. My mother hints she would love to see me form an attachment to a particular gentleman of excellent family, but it is my heart’s deepest desire to marry for love. ”
Kestrel’s analysis: She is very smart and hugely successful. She’s probably used to having men as both colleagues and friends. Perhaps she’s had some hard knocks that made it difficult for her to trust women.
Lady Amelia Heartwright: “I must say, it is so lovely to be here with you ladies. I inherited Heartfordshire House from my father, and as I am an only child and unmarried, I spend my days tending to the many needs of my grand estate—my lands, houses, and tenants. It can be lonely, and I relish a holiday in the company of what I hope will become dear friends.”
Kestrel’s analysis: Trophy wife.
“I just know we shall all become bosom friends,” Gussie said unconvincingly.
“Marvelous! Simply marvelous!” said Mrs. Martinez. “And tell us about you, Miss Spinster.” Mrs. Martinez leaned forward as if genuinely interested, her dark eyes intense inside her large glasses.
“Me? Well, I am visiting my dear friends Mrs. Charming, Colonel Andrews, and Captain Relish. Since I am an orphan, they have become very nearly my own family.” Kestrel said it lightly, but a desperate feeling of longing laced the words.
She cleared her throat and, scared of her own sentimentality, pivoted to something trivial.
“I am determined to never marry and instead plan to earn my own way by handcrafting baby Jesuses to replace all the missing ones.”
“The missing baby Jesuses?” Mrs. Martinez asked, confused.
“It’s an epidemic,” said Kestrel. “All over the country this Christmas Eve, innocent families were setting up their nativity sets only to discover—the horror!—their baby Jesus had been stolen!”
“Or perhaps,” Mrs. Martinez said with a twinkle in her eye, “he had been taken up to heaven to live with the Father?”
“With any Jesus, you have to allow for that possibility, even the baby ones.”
“Baby Jesuses suddenly disappearing on Christmas?” said Lady Heartwright. “I quite declare, it’s a sign of a miracle. A Christmas miracle.”
“That idea hadn’t even occurred to me,” Kestrel admitted. “And now I’m even more determined to open my Baby Jesus Shop. The more there are in existence, the more to be miracled up to heaven. I’m always on the side of more magic in this world.”
“Splendid, simply splendid!” said Mrs. Martinez. “Miss Spinster, you are a saint.”
“And you, Mrs. Martinez,” said Kestrel, “are a Christmas miracle.”
As Gussie and Lady Heartwright spoke about the misfortune of a thus-far-brown Christmas, Mrs. Martinez said softly, “I was especially wanting to meet you, Miss Spinster. I have heard much about you, and I must say, I am inclined to be on Team Kestrel.”
“Heard about me?” asked Kestrel. “From who?”
Mrs. Martinez shrugged innocently. Perhaps when Andrews and Jerome were missing in the mornings, they were visiting Windy Nook.
How nice of them to speak kindly of Kestrel.
She wished Mrs. Martinez were her housemate.
She had a genuine and kind vibe, while the strained hostility from Gussie just wasn’t a lot of fun.
But Kestrel quickly shut down any worries about Gussie.
Avoiding interpersonal conflict was a lifelong hobby.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was fidgeting around the room, adjusting cushions.
It was hard to imagine her practicing yoga or getting into adult coloring books or anything to relax.
Neville the butler entered, outfitted in black breeches and coat.
He was tall and lanky, and something about his thin, loose limbs and unruly pale hair reminded Kestrel of a scarecrow.
He bowed to Mrs. Wattlesbrook and whispered near her ear.
She nodded thanks, and as she turned away, his gaze lingered on her for a moment.
Oh, ho, ho, Kestrel thought happily. She would bet ten to one that she’d just caught a look of pure adoration in Neville’s eyes. Was the butler harboring a Remains of the Day–sized crush?
“Ladies,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “we are ready for you in the conservatory.”
The many-windowed room was lush with potted plants and a warm, humid air. Maids had prepared a table spread with cuttings of evergreen branches, spools of ribbon and twine, and a bowl of apples.
“I can guess what we are making,” said Mrs. Martinez. “Kissing boughs?”
“It is a Christmas tradition!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said defensively. “Kissing boughs are as appropriate as Yule logs and a necessary holiday accoutrement.” She looked at them all severely, daring them to find any pleasure beyond the clinical satisfaction of reenacting the holiday accurately.
“Custom demands ladies hang them above their bedroom doors,” said Mrs. Martinez. “And if a lady finds herself standing beneath one with a gentleman, she must kiss him.”
“Really?” Kestrel asked. “Any gentleman?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook weakly mumbled the word “Tradition . . .”
She had been very insistent that, in order to respect the customs of the Regency Era, the ladies and gentlemen must never touch apart from the necessary social graces.
But thanks and hallelujah that at Christmas time, social graces included making out beneath indoor boughs.
If Tom happened to be game, so was Kestrel, by George and by gum.
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook, surely you are making one too?” said Kestrel.
“Well, I suppose I could . . .” Mrs. Wattlesbrook delicately pushed up her long sleeves and got to work.
First they speared an apple through its center to dangle from a long ribbon, then cut and pinned greenery around the apple, decorated with ribbons and bows. Dressed in an empire-waist gown while crafting with other ladies, Kestrel had another existential moment. Her feet floated. Her heart soared.
She didn’t touch down for a while, enjoying the sensation of living in an idealized 1816. That was certainly the fun of Austenland. But she decided the game of Austenland was to try out different partners and, by the ball, pick her love match.
“How do you like your Windy Nook gentlemen?” Kestrel asked as she wrestled a loop into her bough.
Lady Heartwright smirked as she forced her boughs into a tense heart shape. “You shall see for yourself when they arrive. But be so kind as to remember that they belong to us.”
“I will disclose all the secrets of our gentlemen if you do the same,” said Gussie. “Colonel Andrews is blond and handsome, all attention and kindness and a great lover of games and merriment. Captain Relish is more . . . smoldering. They both adore me amazingly.”
Gussie’s glance flicked to Kestrel as if daring her to contradict it.
“Sir Thomas Adani and Mr. Culpepper couldn’t be more different,” said Kestrel. “Tom prefers the outdoors and action, Mr. Culpepper the library and poetry. And they both prefer me.”
Kestrel winked at Gussie, hoping they were on the same side of this game. Gussie scowled back. Ouch, went Kestrel’s heart.
“Our erudite Mr. Houlihan hails from Ireland and our gentle Mr. Kern from the Americas,” said Mrs. Martinez.
Kern? The name struck Kestrel like a dart, and she flinched at it.
Lady Heartwright jumped in. “And the Hardy brothers, of course! Samuel and Jonathan are from Yorkshire. The handsomest of men, and two halves of the same heart. But I do worry their brotherhood is threatened because both dote upon me with such earnest desire. How will I possibly choose between them?”
Lady Heartwright batted her extended eyelashes.
“I suppose it is our job over the next few days to take measure of the men and choose one,” said Kestrel. “Who makes our hearts beat faster? Who will claim our first two dances at the ball? By Twelfth Night, who might drop to a knee clutching our hand and declaring passionate love?”
Gussie giggled happily. “That is a fine prospect.”
“Choices, choices,” Lady Heartwright sang.
“Do you have a preference yet, Mrs. Martinez?” asked Kestrel. “Mr. Houlihan or Mr. Kern?”