Sixth Day of Christmas #5
For the rest of the evening, whenever Kestrel caught sight of Bobby, Jerome was at his elbow, offering him another drink, prodding him to dance, daring him to climb atop a table and perform an Irish jig. And by nightfall, the older man already looked half used up.
Trusting that the Bobby problem was handled at least for the evening meant Kestrel had fewer distractions, and her double-crossing thoughts just couldn’t keep away from Hank.
He danced with Mrs. Martinez twice and Lady Heartwright three times.
He went back for a second meat pie. But mostly he sat on a bench slowly nursing a mug of ale and, from Kestrel’s point-of-view, quietly taking up most of the space in the universe.
So she stayed close to Tom and stayed on her feet, stomping and swinging and jiving to the old-timey music.
Tom held her hand in the dances, sometimes grabbing her by the waist to spin her around. She threw back her head and laughed.
He used the loud music as an excuse to lean closer to her, and she felt a thrill as his lips touched her ear. He whispered, “You have been distant tonight. But you are all right now?”
She nodded, because she wanted it to be true. She very much wanted to be all right, especially with Tom. So she pretended to ignore Hank and danced with Tom. When he went to fetch them drinks, Kestrel remained on the dance floor, spinning alone.
“There she is,” said Jerome, “always the last one standing.”
She picked up her skirts and performed her exhausted-dance-marathon Charleston, making Andrews, Jerome, and Charming laugh.
“What’s funny?” Gussie asked.
“Oh, nothing, you had to be there,” said Kestrel. She sat on the bench beside her. Gussie promptly got up and changed seats.
That slight revved Kestrel back up, and she threw herself into the party with even more fervor.
She bobbed for apples with Tom and learned a country dance opposite Mr. Culpepper.
She laughed far louder than any joke required.
Anything to numb that tightening sensation around her middle and the way every hair on her body felt like a compass needle raised upright in goose bumps and pointed toward him, as if he were true north.
Her mind very well knew that he was nothing to her, but her body still hadn’t received the memo.
It must have been near midnight when they all shambled into their coats and pelisses, hats and caps. Kestrel put on the soft red scarf her “true love” had gifted her on Christmas Day. Somehow it smelled like a Christmas tree, and she wrapped it around her neck and inhaled deeply.
Outside, the sleighs wore lanterns dangling from their fronts like glowing pendants.
They would make two trips to return the revelers home, and Kestrel meant to wait for the second round, but she found herself walking to one of the sleighs anyway.
She sat back gratefully on its bench and sighed.
Only when she noticed Mrs. Martinez beside the sleigh staring at her did Kestrel turn and realize that she was sitting beside Hank.
His eyebrows rose a little, as if he was confused but welcoming the sight of her. It was Christmastime in Austen’s England, and Kestrel was sitting in a one-horse open sleigh beside the one person she’d loved most. Her inhale was shaky, her belly was full of marvel.
Yes, said her body.
Yes, she wanted to ride home in the dark with Hank.
She wanted to pull a blanket over their legs, feel his arm go around her, and lean against him, sharing warmth.
Yes, she wanted to talk to him and only him, and share everything weird and funny and alarming that her odd little brain thought up, and have him laugh and wonder and appreciate it anyway, as he used to do.
Yes, she wanted him to take her home and help her out of her clothes, touch her bare skin and kiss her not only because he was attracted to her but because he adored her.
He knew her, better than anyone had ever known her, and he still adored her.
Yes, she wanted all of it. And, knowing that, her body had led her into his sleigh.
Unfortunately, her body and brain were not communicating. And while her body was yearning for connection, love, belonging, acceptance, and romance, Hank wanted chickenshit closure.
“Miss Spinster,” said Mrs. Martinez, “are you coming with—”
“No!” said Kestrel. “Wrong vehicle.”
Adrenaline spiked her more awake, and she leaped out of the sleigh.
“I say, Miss Spinster,” Mr. Culpepper called from the inn’s threshold. “We almost lost you there.”
“Sorry, I must be really tired,” she said.
She felt laid flat by this question: Had the instinct been her gut feelings guiding her to what was best for her, or had the instinct been a conditioned and dangerous automatic thought that would dump her back into unrelenting heartache?
Kestrel was left with—I don’t know. I’ve never been able to trust my gut. I don’t know what’s real. I only know I hate how I’m feeling right now and I will do anything to make it stop.
At least the outing ended on a high note. By the time the Pembrook party returned, Bobby was slumped on the bench of his sleigh, loudly snoring.