Ninth Day of Christmas
Deep in the night, Kestrel woke enough to become conscious of Hank beside her in her Regency canopy bed before falling back asleep. She took that journey a few times, like a dolphin coursing through the sea, rising up to glimpse the sublimely starry sky before sinking again.
Finally she woke for good when soft daylight outlined the curtains.
Hank was stirring beside her. Her leg was barely touching his.
She pressed a hair closer, soaking in his warmth.
Her eyes weren’t ready to be open yet, so she reached out to him in her darkness, letting her fingertips brush his back and rest on his side.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook had warned that ladies and gentlemen must never touch apart from the necessary social graces, but when his hand touched her shoulder, the shiver in her core felt very necessary.
And so full of social grace. Her qualms from last night were still slumbering, and she felt sleepy and cozy and relaxed.
And then, his lips pressed against her forehead.
Yes, she thought. Yes.
His hesitation from last night was gone.
His hands were sure as they found her hips, her waist. He didn’t try to kiss her mouth.
He knew she couldn’t stand that in the pre-toothpaste early morning.
His mouth was on her neck now. Neck was okay.
Oh yes, neck was more than okay. His fingers moved her chemise aside so he could kiss her bare shoulder.
Goose bumps covered her arm, and he pricked even more as he kissed the tender spot in the fold of her elbow and the pulse in her wrist.
She was very aware of how naked she was under the thin chemise, how little separated them.
And even that felt like too much. She didn’t want anything between herself and his touch.
He was kissing her collarbone, following that path down to the hollow of her throat.
And then lower. He was kissing her everywhere.
And it felt so loving, as if every kiss were a word, and they all came together into a poem to declare: “I want you.” The song they’d sung last night rippled through her.
Hank was taking his time just to explore her.
And though Kestrel was sober, she felt high as a kite. His touch made her crave more and more.
He reached down to pull up the hem of her chemise, and she felt his hand on the soft place behind her knee.
She inhaled sharply, electricity buzzing through her limbs.
Her dream had taught her what to yearn for next as his hand slid up her thigh.
No, it wasn’t his hand, it was his mouth.
A zing of desire struck through her middle, her back arched, and she forgot to breathe.
There was a sound of the doorknob turning.
Kestrel gasped. “Someone is—”
The door opened. Hank rolled over her with the agility of a circus gymnast and dropped to the floor behind the bed. Thud.
Juliette stood in the threshold, shock frozen on her face. Kestrel stared back, mouth gaping.
“You’re back!” Kestrel pulled the hem of her chemise down over her knees and said, “Wow, hey, did you see that . . . squirrel?”
“Quoi . . . ?” said Juliette.
“Yep, a massive squirrel in here. I opened the window, you see, to get some fresh air. In the dead of winter. Fresh, dead winter air. And a squirrel got in. It was . . . running all over the place. All over my bed. It’s a shocking thing to be awakened by a squirrel, and that’s why I look so shocked.
It was a shock squirrel.” Kestrel made herself stop talking.
“So, first you opened the window to let in the dead winter air, and then you fell back asleep, and then the squirrel came in and rewoke you, but you also managed to reclose the window?”
Kestrel blinked. “Yep.”
“Oui, oui.” Juliette set down the tea tray. “Well, do you need my help . . . catching the squirrel?”
“No!” Kestrel said too loudly. “I mean, no. Squirrels aren’t so bad. I adore squirrels, really. I won’t have a word said against them.”
“So, I’ll leave you to it?” Juliette backed out.
“Sounds good! Have a nice morning! Thanks for being you!”
As soon as Juliette shut the door, Hank’s head popped up. “I’m hardly squirrel-sized.”
“What was I supposed to say? A bear broke in and reverse-Goldilocksed me?”
He smiled at her. And for a beat he looked longingly at her bed, considering. Kestrel held her breath. But with a sigh he tiptoed to her door. Standing behind, he opened it, the door blocking his view of the hall, and he whispered, “Is anyone out there?”
She got up to peek and felt profoundly disappointed by all that wide hallway emptiness enabling his departure. She shook her head.
Still behind the door, he reached out to hold a couple of her fingers. His thumb passed over the ridges of her fingerprint. “I hope I can see you again.”
And he darted through the doorway, closing it quietly behind him.
“Or you could just never leave again,” she whispered.
A strange thing was happening inside her, and she laid the blame squarely at the feet of Jane Austen and all her recklessly happy endings.
Kestrel had been certain she would never put herself in such a vulnerable position again.
But now a very serious sensation was growing in her chest. She could no longer pretend not to notice the gentle, hushed creak of her heart opening toward Hank.
Her heart hoping for Hank. And her freaky, hopeful, opening heart had the gall to be pleased by the idea. Traitor!
She inhaled, and her breath trembled, overwhelmed by all the hope.
She was chemise-clad in a Regency bedroom, hoping not only for magical, enduring love but for him specifically.
And to somehow remain Miss Spinster. To hold on to who she was becoming in this place.
To change her life, to make a new life. Just how much cake could one both have and eat?
She hesitated for a long time before ringing her bell. When Juliette opened the door again, Kestrel was dressed in a bright yellow muslin gown and sitting primly on the edge of the bed. They both burst out laughing.
“Never you mind, Miss Spinster,” said Juliette. “When I say I’ve seen it all, believe you me, I have seen it all.”
“Including giant squirrels in guests’ bedrooms?”
“Squirrels and walruses and ninja assassins too. Ah bon, this place attracts them all, and who am I to judge?”
“Who are any of us?”
“Slap me if I know.”
After Juliette helped her with her hair, Kestrel waited outside the morning room, listening for Hank’s voice. She felt strangely nervous about seeing him again. It was hard to hear anything over the hammering of her heart, so she peeked in.
Only Jerome was present. His face lifted toward her, and she had the pleasure of witnessing his expression change from Captain Relish’s suave hospitality to Jerome’s genuine ease. “Good morning, mate.”
She had no qualms about sitting beside him on the sofa, wrapping her arm under his, and laying her head on his shoulder.
“You’re alone,” she said.
“Yes, Windy Nook has gone.”
So Hank was no longer in this house. A squeeze in her chest sparked an emotion she tried to name. A hopeful sort of loss, a painful optimism. But most definitely at the center of it was a pure yearning for Hank. A Hankering.
“Edwin has been taking them in rounds and just left with the last lot.” Jerome stretched out his arms wide. “It’s pleasant having one’s cozy cottage back to oneself, is it not?”
She laughed, knowing he meant it as a joke, but in truth the thought sparked another yearning, this one blooming in her stomach and stretching upward into her throat. If only this were her place. If only she did have it back.
Still, she could feel at ease. Even the What-comes-next?
with Hank felt pleasant, a thrill of anticipation.
Maybe it was for the best that she would have a few hours away from him to breathe and think—no, Kestrel avoided thinking too much about Hank, but feel things out maybe.
Or just to have space to be. To be the Kestrel who’d been kissed that morning. Kissed everywhere.
“Miss Chen has chosen you, by the way,” said Kestrel.
“How could she resist?” said Jerome. “I’m quality.”
The joy in Kestrel’s belly bubbled up till she found herself tittering out loud. He would find his way back to her tonight. The anticipation was so delicious, she could have eaten it with a spoon.
Jerome was squinting at her. “What put this glow in you?”
She shrugged coyly. Part of her very much wanted to confide in Jerome, but she wasn’t sure if her dalliance with Hank was so against Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s rules as to get them both booted from Austenland.
It would be unfair to burden an employee with information he must keep private from his employer.
Charming drifted into the morning room. She was wearing a somber shade of pink, washed out and somehow sad, and her blond hair hung limply down. She looked out the window, wringing her hands.
“Good morning, Charming,” said Jerome. “We missed you at dinner last night.”
Kestrel hadn’t noticed Charming’s absence, having been so busy not noticing Hank’s presence.
Charming shrugged. “Bobby wanted me to write some emails, check some balances, that sort of thing . . .”
Andrews entered the threshold and leaned provocatively against the doorjamb. “Greetings, my precious coquettish ducklings.”
“Where did you just come from?” asked Kestrel. “You have a certain . . . glow.”
Andrews waved his hand noncommittally. “And good morning to you, the first lady of my heart.” He gave Charming a kiss on the cheek. Despite their squabble, she allowed the affection, but her attention remained on the window.
“Is it sunny out?” Charming asked.
“Sunny as your smile, my snow bunny,” said Andrews.
“And melty maybe?”
“Melty as your touch, my summer princess,” said Andrews. “Does that mean the roads are drivable?”
Jerome looked down, brushing a crumb off his cravat, playing it very cool as he said, “Yes, the way is open for anyone who might have overstayed their welcome.”