Fourth Day of Christmas
Kestrel woke to the sound of Juliette bringing in her tea tray—the soft ping of a teacup against a saucer and a crinkle of paper. A new gift.
“Juliette,” said Kestrel, rolling over in bed.
“Oh la vache!” said Juliette, hand to her heart. “I thought you were still asleep.”
“Who puts those gifts on my tray every morning?”
“I do, mademoiselle.”
Kestrel sat up on her elbow and raised an eyebrow. “Are you my secret admirer, Juliette?”
“Not so secret.” She winked emphatically and laughed. “No, not I. They are delivered to me wrapped.”
“Nice use of passive voice there, Juliette. Who delivers them to you?”
“Another employee. But who gives them to her, I don’t know, and if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.” She put a finger to her lips conspiratorially as she left, closing the door behind her.
Kestrel pulled off the ribbon, opened the small box, and spilled a heart-shaped lapis lazuli into her palm.
Kestrel usually carried a polished stone in her pocket to play with, and this was the perfect size and shape for rubbing between her fingertips, not to mention blue was her favorite color.
It seemed incredible that anyone here could have guessed that.
Unless the gift giver was someone who knew her very well. If the handwriting had been Hank’s, she would have recognized it. Then again, someone else could be the scribe.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love—
No. It was not Hank. He was not her true love, and she was not his.
Two years ago he’d made that completely, painfully clear.
Besides, it couldn’t be him for practical reasons.
She’d received the first gift early the day after Christmas, and Hank couldn’t have arrived by then.
There was zero chance a Kern boy would miss Christmas at the family farm.
At best, he might have departed later on Christmas Day, to arrive in England on the twenty-sixth.
So who was the secret admirer? And again . . . why had Hank come?
Kestrel felt irritated by all the unanswered questions and then added an extra helping of irritation at herself for being irritated in the first place. It was an all-around irritation fest. She scratched at her skin and wanted to scream.
“Forget this, I’m going to go play,” she said, throwing off her chemise to bathe. Hank was probably back in Wisconsin by now, and she would never see him again. That was some comfort, though still irritating in a niggling way, an itch she couldn’t reach to scratch.
When Kestrel finally went downstairs for breakfast, Mrs. Wattlesbrook and Gussie were serving themselves eggs, fruit, and toast from the sideboard, looking as sleepy-weary as Kestrel felt.
“Mr. Culpepper tells me the fourth day of Christmas is the Feast of the Holy Innocents,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, as if searching for a conversation topic. “Today we remember the infants slaughtered by King Herod in his attempt to murder baby Jesus.”
“How . . . interesting,” said Gussie.
“So holiday,” said Kestrel.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook with no apparent irony. “This evening our Windy Nook ladies and gentlemen are coming to dine again.”
Except one, thought Kestrel. Underneath her relief that Hank was surely gone twitched the annoying tension of regret. She needed a distraction.
“Kestrel, here you are!” Tom was standing in the morning room doorway, looking delightfully distracting in a cloak, hat, and gloves. “I have been hunting the house over for you. It’s a fine, clear morning, pleasantly nippy, and I would be most honored if you would join me on a ride.”
Kestrel’s body stood up before she’d made any decision, ready to follow him anywhere.
She planned to flirt freely, consider falling in love with Tom, and this evening thoroughly vet the non-Hank Windy Nook gents for Mrs. Martinez.
Oh, and she needed to grab a confab with Andrews about the Charming situation.
This fourth day of Christmas would be so busy, no one could possibly fit in mass infanticide.
In the front hall, Juliette helped Kestrel into a winter coat and fur-lined hat, gloves, and boots.
Pleasingly outfitted like an old-fashioned Christmas card, Kestrel stepped outside.
The sun was bright, the air was chilly, and the combination of warm light and cold air buzzed into her soul, sparking new life.
Spontaneously she wrapped her arms around one of Tom’s and squeezed.
“Thank you, Tom,” she said. “Somehow you knew exactly what I needed.”
“Capital,” said Tom. He smiled at her, and his eyes seemed to really see her, as if he did know her. Again she felt an instant comfort with him, a surety that she could say anything to him and he wouldn’t judge her.
His head dipped lower, and he whispered against the top of her head. “You smell of jasmine again. I am so thrilled that of all the perfumes, you chose that one. I cannot articulate what that aroma, mingled with the scent of your skin, does to me.”
Tom really made it difficult not to push him up against a wall and kiss him thoroughly.
Instead she said, “Thank you, Tom,” because she was certain now that he was the true-love-gift giver.
He’d offered her six scents, and she’d chosen his favorite.
It felt fairy tale–ish, a kind of princess-and-pea test, and she’d passed. “Why do you love jasmine so much?”
“I suppose it puts me in mind of India, where I was born.” “Do you miss it?”
He smiled a sad, distant smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I do. My childhood was free and idyllic.”
“I can almost hear how much you love it in your tone. Why did you leave?”
“Ah,” he said. He looked for a moment as if he would deflect, but then he sighed and said, “My family—mother, father, two sisters—all were killed by the cholera.”
“Oh, Tom!” said Kestrel, squeezing his arm tighter. Was this playacting? Could it be true?
“It was a long time ago.” He turned to smile at her, as if to ease her concerns. “I was taken in by Lord and Lady Adani, a very fine English couple, and raised as their own son. Despite that early tragedy, my life has been wondrous. How could it not, when it has led me to know you?”
She patted his hand in thanks for the compliment but didn’t speak, giving space for his story to go on.
“Well,” he said, “who amongst us hasn’t been touched by tragedy?
If I had a wish, I would wish them alive, of course.
But since no genie has come calling, I accept the sorrow that remains and use it as soil to plant my future.
I very much hope one day to have a family of my own—a wife, a child, a home so full of love the doors pop off and the windows shatter. ”
She believed him. Even knowing he was an actor, she didn’t think he could fake that earnestness she could feel inside her own chest.
Near the stables, a man in servants’ clothes and boots under a warm jacket walked up holding the leads on two horses.
“Here’s our stable man now!” Tom said, taking the reins for one horse. “Thank you, good sir.”
The stable man nodded in welcome. He was tall and heavyset, his skin dark brown, with close-cut curls showing a good sprinkle of salt amid the pepper. He walked the other horse toward Kestrel.
“I’m Kestrel,” she said to the stable man. “Or, I mean, Miss Spinster.” She curtsied.
“Edwin,” he said.
“Edwin!” She shouted it.
He understandably startled. But Kestrel was excited. Charming had mentioned Edwin with fondness, and Kestrel very much wanted to audition him for the role of Charming suitor and Bobby replacement. In a very sly, non-shouty way.
“Sorry, that was too loud. Um, Edwin, have you worked here long?” she asked with forced nonchalance.
He only nodded in reply before offering her help up onto the horse. Kestrel found her placement in the sidesaddle and took the reins, feeling fairly unstable but very excited to try something new.
“And there you are!” said Tom. “A natural horsewoman. I say, I was right about you from the start. Is there nothing you cannot do, Miss Spinster? Well, besides sort out pigs from human babies?”
“Nope, that’s my one and only defect,” she said.
“Capital.”
Tom clicked his tongue, and his horse started a walk. Kestrel didn’t have to do anything for her horse to automatically follow. They took a slow pace past the stable and onto the dry winter paths between lawn and trees.
Even perched up on a sidesaddle and moving at a slug’s pace, Kestrel felt surprisingly invigorated just being outdoors.
Tom began to trot in circles around her plodding horse, merry and playful.
She felt floaty again, as if she were inside the novels she’d loved.
Still, a yearning accompanied the wonder, a fear that she couldn’t ever really belong.
Could a woman like Kestrel fit in a world of good girls?
“Your smile betrays you,” said Tom. “You are enjoying yourself, and I shall take full credit.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” said Kestrel. “I was amusing myself with a . . . uh, story I’m making up about a good Regency girl.”
“Do tell. All the details, if you please.”
“Well, she’s a dark-haired beauty. And plays pianoforte perfectly. And . . . she uses sex as a weapon to get what she wants.”
Tom blinked rapidly. “Is that so? And what does she want?” “Sex.”
Tom nearly choked in surprise. “So it works out for her then.”
“Yeah, she’s really streamlined the whole thing.”
Kestrel hadn’t meant to turn the conversation blue and immediately scolded herself for crossing a line.
But a glance at Tom’s surprised grin convinced her that he was willing to roll with it.
A new and equally fictional story started to play through her mind—Kestrel and Tom as a couple in the real world, allowing Kestrel to stay in England and keep new friends like Charming, Jerome, and Andrews in her life.
She’d find work somewhere local but join Tom at Austenland for balls and things.
Sure, it sounded like an impossible fantasy—but so did the entire concept of Christmas.