Seventh Day of Christmas
Kestrel slept so late, she assumed she’d missed breakfast. But when she finally made it to the morning room, the three other ladies were only just serving themselves from the sideboard.
“Good morning, Miss Spinster!” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, looking rosy-cheeked and extra chipper. “Or should I say, good afternoon. I hope you slept well after your excursion. Unfortunately the chilly sleigh ride must have been too much for Sir Thomas. He caught a cold and will be resting today.”
“Poor Tom,” Charming said, vaguely stabbing her fork into the bits of bacon on her plate. “He’s too good-looking to be sickly.”
Kestrel felt Tom’s absence like a sore muscle.
He was a bright, distracting spot in any room—but especially a room with Hank in it.
There had been no “true love” gift on Kestrel’s tea tray, another indicator that her secret admirer was Tom.
She resolved to keep thinking about him all day and ignore Hank entirely.
“Morning, Gussie,” Kestrel greeted her archnemesis. “You poor dear, you don’t look like you slept a wink.”
Gussie took a slow sip of tea, glaring effectively over the rim.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook chatted on. “Even without Sir Thomas, we have such a lovely day planned for New Year’s Eve.”
New Year’s Eve? Already? Anxiety rose up into Kestrel’s throat, stinging like heartburn.
Her stay was half over. She had too much still to do—save Charming from Bobby, convince Andrews and Jerome to be her best friends, fall in pretend love (with apologies to Mr. Culpepper, it would definitely be Tom), not to mention experience the magic of Christmas to such an extreme level that it would atone for every other sad little holiday of her past and forever change her life.
Surely that wasn’t too much to ask from the next five days.
“How are you feeling, Charming?” asked Kestrel.
“Spit-spot, rather,” Charming said blankly.
Kestrel was hoping Bobby had an incapacitating hangover, but all too quickly he came in shouting, “Good mornin’” and filling up the room with his attention-needy presence. “And a special good mornin’ to a certain special lady.”
He leaned over to kiss Charming on the top of her head but held Kestrel’s gaze. She tried very hard to quell a shudder of disgust. He would be expecting a liaison in the library tonight.
Bobby whispered into Charming’s ear, “Don’t overdo it with the bacon, Bubba. You’ve already put on a hog’s weight.”
Kestrel found herself gripping her fork like a weapon again. To calm down, she counted to ten in pig latin. Unway, ootay, eethray, ourfay . . .
As soon as Bobby was occupied with eating, Kestrel dragged Charming to the drawing room to put together a jigsaw puzzle, keeping them both away from him till the Windy Nook party arrived.
When boisterous chatter drifted in from the front hall, Kestrel’s whole being strained for sounds of Hank.
Fears that he’d come again warred with treacherous longing for his presence.
He didn’t keep her wondering. Hank was the first into the drawing room, catching her eye and offering a polite bow.
Goddammit, but why did he have to look so good in breeches?
They played games and drank tea, and Kestrel spent time with everyone except a certain Wisconsin farm boy. Since most of the staff was off for the holiday, the party ate a dinner of cold sandwiches and crudités.
Once the sun had set, Andrews announced, “Don your cozy outerwear, my holiday pups! As the ancients did before us, in order to scare off bad spirits, we welcome in the new year with a good racket.” He passed out instruments from a basket—small drums and trumpets, cowbells and shakers, tools of noisemaking rather than music.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook held two lit candles and led the way around the house through the frigid night, Neville at her elbow with matches in case of flame-snuffing snowflakes.
The group followed her faint dancing lights, laughing as they tromped through the lying snow and the still-falling snow while banging and blowing their instruments.
They sounded like a very enthusiastic first-grade orchestra.
Kestrel shook a brass bell. Hank was playing on a penny whistle, which Kestrel only knew because she was ignoring him so successfully.
“May I confess something, Miss Spinster?” asked Mr. Culpepper, walking close beside her.
“Yes please,” she said. “I adore whispered confessions.”
“I am not the innocent man many presume. When I heard Sir Thomas had a cold . . .” He leaned closer to whisper. “I was elated.”
“Why, Mr. Culpepper! Taking joy in another’s misery? Shocking!”
“I am beyond forgiveness. But here you are, so open and inviting, giving me space to confess. When my dear young wife, Lily, departed this world, my heart seemed to stop. But you have started it again. I feel I could lay out my whole soul, and with you it would be safe.”
Kestrel smiled. Real or not, being the object of such poetic declarations felt amazing. She glanced toward Hank to see if he’d overheard, and then reminded herself that she didn’t care.
Soon she was marching beside Andrews, and together they improvised a chant. “Clip-clap, bing-bang, the new year is back again!”
“It’s hardly poetry, is it, Andrews?” she said.
“We could do better,” said Andrews.
“Well, Mr. Culpepper could do better. What do you say, Mr. Culpepper? Offer us a better chant?”
He went thoughtful, and then with aplomb called out, “The snow falls light, the snow lies deep, the new year dawns in one more sleep!”
“Lovely! Well done!” said Kestrel.
The whole group joined the chant as they marched, even Hank. Kestrel knew because her disregard of him was so complete that even in a crowd she could pick up every word he spoke.
Hank marched in the rear, so when they reversed course, his position switched to the front, leaving Kestrel free to examine the man she was so effectively ignoring.
He turned to answer a query from Mrs. Martinez, and Kestrel noticed the healthy color in his cheeks and a smile around his mouth.
Back inside, when he removed his coat, she was forced to note with great clarity the broadness of his shoulders.
Kestrel’s body had a visceral reaction, remembering the strength of his arms and back under her fingers; his thighs, which were thick as tree trunks and just as hard; and the whole pleasant weight of him.
The party sipped hot wassail and sat near the Yule fire, and slowly warmth hummed back into Kestrel’s fingers.
She felt Hank’s energy somewhere to her right, and seeking a distraction, she was about to shout out a suggestion for a game.
She checked herself and instead whispered to Andrews, “I’m keen for whatever you have planned, but just nudge me if you want a Charades lieutenant. ”
“Yes indeed, Miss Spinster,” he declared generously. “We shall play Charades, and what a top-notch suggestion. Let us do teams, every other person to split us up all nicely.”
They were sitting in a circle staggered on sofas, chairs, and stools. Kestrel counted positions from her to Hank and—cripes and castration, he was on her team.
After a couple of rounds, most of the group proved too tired to really engage, so Andrews and Kestrel became the permanent actors for their respective teams, drawing papers from a bowl and miming the words to see who could guess the most in a minute.
At first Kestrel looked at Mr. Culpepper as she gestured, but time and again, it was Hank who got the answer right.
By round four, she’d given in and faced him directly, acting out for an audience of one.
kestrel: [Lifting her hands above her head.]
culpepper: “A crown! A pope!”
hank: “Cowboy.”
kestrel: “Yes, cowboy.” [Putting her hands out beside her in a wavy motion.]
culpepper: “A bird! Wings! Flying!”
hank: “A boat floating on the water.”
kestrel: “Yes, a boat.” [Lifting her arm in the air.]
hank: “Palm tree.”
kestrel: “Yes!”
gussie: “Oh come on! You must be cheating!”
They were so in sync, it would have been eerie if it hadn’t felt so amazing. Natural. Like old times.
Andrews plopped onto a sofa with a sigh. “Note to self—if you want to win Charades, don’t let Miss Spinster and Mr. Kern be on the same team.”
“Yeah, it’s not really fair,” said Charming. “Are you two reading each other’s minds, what-what?”
Kestrel passed Hank an amused smile before regretting it. Again, two contradictory emotions jostled inside her—the thrill of a game played fast and furious and the agony and confusion of having been completely in tune with the man who was no longer hers.
The mantel clock warned midnight was imminent, so they all stood up and counted aloud till the hand pointed at twelve.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” came the shout loud enough to spook all bad spirits, real or imaginary, followed energetically by New Year’s kisses.
Kestrel felt deeply disappointed that Tom wasn’t here.
She watched as Lady Heartwright gave a smooch to one of the Hardy Boys and was turning to bestow her lipsticked mouth on the other.
Bobby had backed Charming into a wall for a full make out.
Mr. Culpepper was exchanging cheek kisses with Mrs. Wattlesbrook, and Neville was standing nearby with a hopeful expression.
Tradition was to kiss the nearest person, but since romance here was arranged in twos, Neville’s hope wasn’t unwarranted.
Kestrel felt someone beside her and turned to face her New Year’s kiss.
That someone was Hank, and he was turning as well, noticing her just as she saw him.
His eyes went wide, and spots of red bloomed on his cheeks.
She’d never known a man to be such an easy blusher.
She would have teased him about it, if they’d still been friends.
He smiled ruefully and whispered, “Happy New Year, Kes.”
“Happy New Year, Mr. Kern,” she said.
They stood there awkwardly in the space the universe had created for a kiss. His eyes flicked to the carpet, not asking or expecting.