Eighth Day of Christmas #4
“Captain Relish it is. And maybe you could help me with something?” Kestrel felt uneasy bringing anyone else into her confidence, but she decided to take a risk and trust Gussie.
She whispered, “Charming is currently stuck to that human skin tag masquerading as her husband. But there is someone else who would be a much better fit. Edwin the groundskeeper. It’s like .
. .” Kestrel tried to speak Gussie’s language.
“It’s like in Mansfield Park, when Fanny Price starts to fall for the beguiling but immoral scoundrel Henry Crawford—”
“I see, I see! But Fanny is best suited for Edmund Bertram. So Mrs. Charming is Fanny and Edwin is Edmund . . .” Gussie gasped, her feet kicking in excitement, and when she spoke again, her British accent had returned. “Are you asking me to take part in Austenian matchmaking?”
“You know it.”
“I do know it. I know it by heart. ‘If one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another . . . We find comfort somewhere.’”
“What?”
Gussie smiled. “From Mansfield Park.”
“I knew you were the right lady for the job. Let’s do this.
” Kestrel helped her stand up, holding her by her uninjured arm.
“Also you should take some anti-inflammatory pain medication and rest your elbow today. Hank—uh, Mr. Kern went to check with Edwin to see if it is safe to drive you to the emergency room, just in case.”
“How do you know that?” asked Gussie.
“What do you mean? He told me.”
Gussie smirked. “I may have been hysterical, but I know you were just mumbling nonsensically at each other. What is it with you two? First the Charades—”
“I don’t know,” said Kestrel, turning away.
She had already been too open with Gussie.
She certainly wasn’t going to trust her with a glimpse of her mashed-up heart and the confusing secret of her former love returned for painful closure.
That was a lot for even an established friendship to handle.
“My choices are between Sir Tom Adani and Mr. Culpepper. I’ll leave Mr. Kern to the Windy Nook ladies. ”
“Oh, I see,” said Gussie. “You have a crush on Mr. Kern, but he’s not assigned to you.”
“No, I do not,” Kestrel said firmly, but Gussie had engaged a fully sarcastic smile.
“It would appear, Miss Spinster, that you are not as effortlessly charming as I was led to believe.”
Kestrel sighed. “You are the worst.”
They laughed, and Kestrel was relieved to see that they could keep insulting each other, only now it was funny.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook returned to say that they could call for an ambulance but that Edwin deemed the roads too dangerous for their own conveyance, her many apologies tapering off as she realized Gussie was just standing there smiling.
After popping a couple of ibuprofen, Gussie felt well enough, so Mrs. Wattlesbrook helped her tie a shawl around her shoulder to keep her arm resting in a sling.
When Gussie joined the party for another casual dinner in the drawing room, she was the glowing center of attention.
“Do tell us every detail, Miss Chen,” said Andrews. “Did your life flash before your eyes as you fell?”
“Speak not of potential death, I pray you,” said Jerome. “I saw far too much on the battlefields of the sea. I cannot bear to imagine our dear Augusta without that bewitching bloom in her cheeks.”
Andrews bantered with Jerome over who loved her best, taking it upon himself to sit beside her and offer different foods. When Gussie declined the cold ham slices, Andrews set the plate back. “I say, a wise choice, Miss Chen. Ham is abominable.”
“Oh, no, I’m just full,” said Gussie, “but usually I adore ham.”
“Quite right, darling,” said Andrews, reclaiming the plate and serving himself a generous helping. “It’s simply gorgeous, ham, and I won’t have a word said against it.”
Gussie laughed freely.
“Something at my side is simply gorgeous,” said Jerome, “but it is not the ham.” He turned that smoldering gaze on Gussie, a single eyebrow raised.
Gussie responded to all the attention with high spirits, but also kept a curious eye on Kestrel and Hank. Gussie’s notice increased Kestrel’s self-consciousness.
By the time the food was put away, Kestrel was so taxed by pretending Hank didn’t exist, she felt ready to implode. So when Mrs. Wattlesbrook mused, “It would be diverting to see the young people dance, if only we had a piano player,” Kestrel didn’t hesitate to volunteer Hank.
“Oh would you, Mr. Kern?” Gussie effused. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Kestrel knew he wouldn’t mind. In fact, he would be relieved to have an occupation to save him from the social parts of a social evening. Each of the Kern siblings played an instrument, and it was no mistake that Hank had chosen the large one that he could hide behind.
The Hardy Boys moved aside some furniture, and Andrews paired everyone and led them in a country dance.
Kestrel stood opposite Tom first, and she enjoyed the feel of his hand on her waist, spinning with him, releasing and reclaiming his hands, and laughing with him each time they bungled the steps.
She managed to enjoy it nearly as much as she might have pre–Mr. Kern.
Mr. Culpepper claimed her next dance, and then her next again, until Tom threatened to lock him in the pantry unless he shared. Kestrel laughed and danced and felt pretty and admired, but even when clasped in Tom’s swirling embrace, part of her was still tuned to true north at the piano.
When the dancers were danced out, Hank played on, moving from plucky dances into soothing, wistful tunes, one melody flowing into another with no need for applause or notice. Everyone gathered into small groups, drinking and chatting, accompanied by the crackle of the Yule log and Hank’s music.
Kestrel was aware of the sound of it in the same way she was aware of his presence. She laid her arms in her lap, and her thumb touched the spot on her hip where his finger had stroked her bare skin. It felt tender, like a recovering burn.
She was listening to Mr. Culpepper recount the plot of a play and didn’t realize she had begun to hum along till Mr. Culpepper asked, “You are familiar with this tune?”
She nodded.
Mr. Culpepper closed his eyes. “I don’t recognize it.”
“An American composer,” she said vaguely.
It was a song a musician friend had written for his fiancé, and Hank and Kestrel had performed it at their wedding.
The couple had been an odd match from the beginning, a recovering-drug-addict bowling-alley manager with a vibrant ICU nurse, and yet somehow they just made sense together.
It had given Kestrel hope for weirdos everywhere.
She had practiced this song so many times, it was stitched into her soul. When Hank wrapped the tune back around to the beginning, she started to sing along.
I barely remember the time before you;
I know I got by, got high, and felt fine.
Everything changed when you let me adore you;
Your touch is my drug, your voice is my wine.
She sang softly, but she knew Hank heard her because his playing picked up, settling into the speed she preferred.
So she stood and crossed to him, singing as he played.
The conversation hushed. Everyone was looking.
Kestrel didn’t mind the attention. Their focus didn’t feel pointed at her but rather on the song.
She sat on the bench beside Hank. His energy welcomed her, and his body relaxed. His gaze lifted from the keys to her face. And there was a single moment where they looked at each other as her words and his music intertwined, and all felt right as rain.
Give me another life just to explore you;
Sober three years, yet still high as a kite.
Because all I crave is just more and more you,
To wake by your side and then kiss you good night.
Later when Kestrel was disrobed to her chemise and lying in her bed, she keenly felt the lack of someone to kiss good night. As if pulled by pure energy, her attention turned to her bedroom door. Seconds later there came a soft rap.
“Come in,” she said, because of course it was Hank.
He closed the door behind him.
“I, uh, don’t know where to sleep,” he said. “Last night I was assigned Sir Thomas’s room, but he is back now, and I find myself . . . homeless.”
He shrugged, his strong shoulders rising and falling in a way that still thrilled her.
“That is a conundrum,” she said, while reminding herself, No, Kestrel, he’s not here for you. No, this isn’t what you hope.
“I thought . . . I wondered . . .” he said haltingly.
Last night, he had come because she needed him.
Tonight, she sensed that he needed her. As soon as she realized that, her whole shield melted.
She slipped her body away from the edge of the bed, making room.
His shoulders relaxed as he audibly exhaled.
Slowly he crossed the room and climbed in.
He was on his side, his head supported on the bend of his elbow, and he looked at her.
She looked back. The emptiness between them was a wall built from regret and mistakes and distrust.
“I’m so angry at you,” she whispered.
He nodded.
“I don’t know how to feel about you,” she said. “Except angry. That’s the only clear feeling.”
He nodded again.
She shrugged. “I’m getting so tired of angry.”
Her side of the bed was closer to the window, and she moved away from the chill of it and closer to him.
It was easy to fall into her place against his body.
Her own body remembered every part of him.
He pulled the blanket up, placing them on the same side of everything, the two of them against the night.
His loose shirt opened at his heart, and she put her hand there on his bare skin. Under her touch, his chest tensed, pectoral muscles hard. She pressed her palm there, and she could feel his heart begin to pound. In her ear, his breathing quickened.
“So angry,” she whispered. “But not tired at all.”
“Do you want me . . . to go?” His question was interrupted by his sudden inhale.