Chapter 47: Debts Unforgiven
December had transformed the muddy streets of London into slicks of brown, rutted ice. Walking was hazardous: riding and driving no less so. Everyday there was a report of poor souls found frozen, huddled under bridges or in the corners of squalid courtyards. Penelope was hardly at home, so busy was she at the Magdalen and the Foundling Hospital, as the poor and neglected found refuge from the terrors of winter behind the brick walls of the great institutions.
The weather mirrored the mood of the city. News of the disaster in the Colonies continued to arrive, chilling everyone's spirits. Despite the cold, Tavington thought it was important to show himself at White's of an evening—and indeed, at any bastion of Crown support. John was attending the sessions in the Commons faithfully, and passing all the news on to his brother.
He appeared late at White's, eager for a drink and a sandwich, full of events.
"There was a further debate tonight on Sir James Lowther's motion to end the war. Lord North very plaintively declared that he wished he could end it, for it gave him more trouble than anyone else!"
Tavington snorted, unimpressed. While he supported the King's ministers in public, he thought it ridiculous and self-absorbed of Lord North to wail about his troubles. He had troubles? He seemed to little regard the troubles of the army and the dispossessed loyalists! To claim that his troubles were the worst! He said as much to his brother, who shrugged.
"Well, come along tomorrow and sit in the gallery. Don't wear your uniform, of course—it would be very improper. At least you can gauge the sentiment of the House. It's no better in the Lords'. Anyway, Lord North said there would be no more marching of invading forces through the colonies, but he does not want to let go of our control of the seaboard."
"There's some sense in that," Tavington observed hesitantly. "Yes. If we can hold Gibraltar throughout a siege, why not keep New York or Charlestown? They would be valuable naval bases, and deprive the rebels of their best harbors. It would not be too difficult to keep them supplied by sea."
"Ha! Well, you would know better than I. George Germain flew into a passion, and declared that he'd never put his hand to an instrument conceding independence to the Colonies."
"I'm no admirer of Lord George. His incompetence cost us early in the war. Anyway, what was the vote?"
"Lowther was defeated by forty-one."
"That's something, at least. Have another sandwich." "
Look!" whispered John, giving Tavington a nudge. "It's Strangways of the Billiard Table! He still owes us twelve hundred forty-five pounds!"
The little stack of unpaid notes was dwindling daily, but there were still some defiant debtors, who had ignored letters from Sir John and Caroline, and even the stately missives of Edward Protheroe, Esquire.
"He owes Mamma twelve hundred forty-five pounds," Tavington corrected his brother.
"It comes to the same thing! Let us lean upon him a little."
Tavington picked up his glass of wine, and followed his brother. John stood over the gaming table, smiling with genial menace.
"Hello, Strangways. You've been avoiding us! I saw you at the Commons, and you were at pains not to discuss the debate with me."
"Sir John! I have been busy, and have had no time—" He paused, seeing Tavington approaching. "And your brother the Colonel, too!"
"Yes, both of us. It seems you need a reminder of a certain debt—"
Another cardplayer interrupted impatiently. "Are you going to play or talk, Strangways?"
Tavington did not allow Strangways to answer. "I am surprised that you are so eager to play with him, sir. You must be very certain you will lose."
"How so?"
"Well," Sir John explained sweetly, "if you win, you may wait some time for the debt to be honored. Our mother, for example, Lady Cecily—"
"—an infirm elderly widow—" added Tavington.
"—holds a note for a considerable sum, and Strangways here has not seen fit to pay up like a gentleman."
"I have been distracted by public business," Strangways said, growing red.
"You have ignored our letters, Strangways," Sir John rumbled.
Tavington laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, "--Do not think to ignore us in person."
The other cardplayers began to back away. Even Strangways' friends were looking at him askance. Sir John folded his arms on his chest, and said loudly, "And that does not even touch on what he did to my billiard table. It is quite a story, and involves a—"
"How dare you!" Strangways leaped from the table. "How dare you compromise a lady!"
The two Tavington brothers stared at each other in puzzled innocence.
"Who mentioned a lady?" asked Tavington, "However, if you wish—"
"I can have the money for you tomorrow!"
"That's –very nice." Sir John glanced back at his brother. "Isn't that nice, Will?"
"Very nice, indeed," Tavington agreed. "We shall call on you at ten tomorrow." He leaned into Strangways face, and purred, "Now, wasn't that simple?"
Strangways had grown white about the mouth. "You are no gentleman, Colonel! You have not used me—"
Tavington exploded. He grabbed Strangways by the collar and gave him a great shake. "Not used you as a gentleman! Were you going to say that? Were you?"
John caught him by the arm, "Come, Will. We have gained our point."
"No! This fellow objects to paying his debts of honor, and has the audacity to impugn me in public! Shall I send my friends to you, sir, or will you apologize? Right—now!"
The card room was silent. Strangways' jaw hung slack. Tavington could not know how terrible he looked at that moment. Not many men about town had seen such a face, not even the soldiers. Tavington's eyes were pale blue fires: his face was red with fighting rage.
Strangways shut his mouth with a snap and slunk back into his chair. He gasped for breath, and then choked out, "I beg your pardon, sir. The late hour—the wine—"
John had never seen his brother like this either. He took his arm again, and spoke soothingly.
"Come on, old fellow. It is late. We'll need our beauty sleep to call on Strangways tomorrow. At ten!" he shouted back over his shoulder, as he hustled his younger brother from the room.
"Call our carriage," he ordered a servant, who had been enjoyed the drama. The man scuttled from the room, not wanting to get too close to the terrible Colonel Tavington, either.
"By God, old fellow! You know how to put the fear of God into a card room! They'll walk softly by you in future. Shouldn't wonder if this shakes some more money out of the other delinquents."
Tavington was still trembling with fury. "How dare that little weasel? I would think that at White's I would not have to listen to those insults about my conduct in the war!"
"Will-- he didn't say anything about the war."
They walked outside. The carriage was pulling up. The cold air froze the sweat on Tavington's forehead. He gave his shoulders a shrug to release his tension.
"I—No. He didn't. I lost my temper."
"No harm done. He deserved it, and the twelve hundred will go to keeping up the house. Pen's been anxious about the servants' wages, and has been wanting to get that window repaired."
"It shouldn't all go to the house, John." Tavington felt lightheaded, as his rage dissipated. If only Jane were here. She would understand him. "Caro and Pen have been paying for all the housekeeping for years. Let's give them most of the money for themselves. They said something about wanting new clothing. They shouldn't have to wait until the end of the quarter. We must make them spend some of the money on themselves."
"Quite right, Will! You make me ashamed. After all, I've another three thousand due from Porter soon. They've had a sad time of it, poor girls. I'll find a way to make it up to them!"
He spent the entire carriage ride devising presents and amusements for his sisters. After a few minutes, Tavington was calm enough to join in.
It was thus well after midnight by the time they returned to the house in Mortimer Square. Tavington found a letter from Jane waiting for him. Hoping it would lift his spirits, he did not put off reading it, but bade John a good night and took it with him to his room. A fire in the hearth flickered warmly. Doggery helped his master out of his boots and outer garments, combed out his hair, and then was told to take himself off. Tavington threw himself on his bachelor's bed, broke the seal of the letter, and read it by the light of a single candle.
December 6, 1781
Wargrave Hall
My dear Husband,
All is well here. It is cold, of course: colder than any weather I have known, but we are quite snug in the Hall. I have actually essayed some rides on Midnight, who bears with me admirably. I rode all the way to Larrowhead to call on the Reverend Mr. Hindley and his wife. Jeffreys escorted me, of course. He said I did well, and I was so pleased with myself that I rode the next day to High Wargrave and called on the Spottiswoodes. The day was colder, however; and taught me a lesson about what I ought to attempt. Unless the cold moderates, I think I am done with journeys on horseback for the winter!
Moll wraps herself up quite thoroughly before venturing out on to shoot game. Tom—I should call our temporary butler Young--goes with her. He recently improved so much as to actually hit the quail at which he was aiming. Moll is very proud of him, and we all enjoy the game they bag for us very much.
Rambler, of course, goes out with them. The dog is very fond of Moll. I hope that does not displease you, but of course she is with him all the time. I was uneasy when the dog found his way to the nursery, but he seems to mean no harm, and is curious about William Francis in a very benign way. He and Nemesis have found a modus vivendi—or at least called a truce. He no longer chases her, and she no longer claws him.
I will say that Rambler is much more tolerant of William Francis when the wailing starts than is the cat. Nemesis simply runs away as fast as possible. On the other hand, Nemesis seems fond of music—of the instrumental kind, at least. When I play the harpsichord, she invariably comes and curls up on a nearby chair. Rambler is not so civilized, and comes in, listens for a minute or two, and then trots away to find less refined company.
I am forever indebted to him, though, and must tell you the whole story, which I know will divert you.
Your uncle, Lord Colchester, came to pay a farewell call, as he is going into Dorset to visit the Sattersbys. The Trumfleets came with him, and they all stayed and stayed, until there was nothing for but to invite them to dinner, which I did. The earl wanted to see Moll again and William Francis, and he talked and talked with Moll about the Three Farthing Wood and about quail and pigeon and partridge. Lord Trumfleet awakened for that, and then wanted to see Moll shoot. And so she did, and once again "amazed the welkin" and was well rewarded for it by both gentlemen.
I was not about to be left with Lady Trumfleet any longer than I could help, so I went out to see the marksmanship and thus Lady Trumfleet had to trip out to in her silly high-heels. I thought we would never go back indoors again, for the noble guests kept thinking of targets and ways of shooting, and they talked the more, and Lord Colchester wished he could hire Moll as gamekeeper. I told him I could not possibly part with her, and Moll said more or less the same, and Lord Colchester was even more pleased by our mutual loyalty.
So we had dinner, and no doubt they have had better, but it really was not too bad at all, though a little too heavily weighted with game for an elegant meal. Your uncle and Lord Trumfleet seemed to enjoy it heartily, though. They did not, thank Heaven! leave me long with Lady Trumfleet, who had little to say to me, and plied her needle assiduously on some useless piece of fancy-work.
I sat down to play and the gentlemen joined us. Nemesis was in the drawing room, but prudently examined the visitors from under the sofa. Rambler came in to pay his duty to his lordship, and was heartily welcomed. I was applauded, and then your Uncle asked Lady Trumfleet to sing. Her voice is quite good, I must admit, and she took my place at the instrument readily. She began the first bars of the accompaniment of an Italian air, and all was well, until she opened her mouth in song.
Instantly, Nemesis jumped away from beneath the sofa, directly between the dozing Lord Trumfleet's feet! "Heyday! What the devil!" cries his lordship, sliding off the sofa onto his bottom.
His lady was quite put out at the interruption, but this was only the overture to the main action, for Rambler, sitting by Lord Colchester's knee, began to study Lady Trumfleet in a puzzled way as she sang, his head turning this way and that. In a moment more, he uncertainly joined in with his own part to second hers: a low "Ooooooeeeeuuh! Ooooow! Uuuuuwooo! Huuuufff!" He was even in tune!
Their lordships burst out laughing. They both of them absolutely roared. Rambler jumped up, darting eagerly back and forth, obviously concerned for them, all innocent of the offense he had caused Lady Trumfleet. I could not quite keep my countenance myself, but jumped up myself, and hauled Rambler away, and gave him into Young's keeping (not without a discreet pat and "Good Rambler!" to send him off).
Lady Trumfleet pushed away from the instrument in anger, but both gentlemen begged her, with tears of laughter in their eyes, to continue. They would try to compose themselves and then start snickering again. I have never liked Lord Trumfleet so well as that evening!
Her ladyship was so angry as to accuse me of having taught the dog to mock her—she was quite enraged--but I pretended bewilderment, and pointed out that he had been trained in Lord Colchester's own kennels.
That made the gentlemen burst out laughing again, and they tried to get Lady Trumfleet to see the humor of it all, but with no success. Lord Colchester, indeed, wondered if all his dogs could do thus. If so, he would put them on the stage in London and live off the proceeds! I fear her ladyship will never forgive me, but the gentlemen told me they had never spent a pleasanter visit.
More seriously, my dear William, I was given to understand by Miss Gilpin that it is customary to give presents to one's servants on Boxing Day. I have enclosed a commission with measurements for quilted petticoats for Moll, Pullen, and Rose. You have seen the new gown that Letty sent Moll. I would like the petticoat to harmonize with that. I would like Pullen's to be of perhaps a dark red—something that would brighten up her grey clothing. Young Rose's can be a blue. At any rate, please show my note to your sisters and give them whatever money is needed. I know that they will see to it. Tom Young's measurements are also enclosed, and he should be given new livery and a new wig.
As to everyone else: I have enclosed a list of the other servants. Consider what you wish to do. I consider the aforementioned four our own servants, but the others are more Sir John's than ours. I suggest dress lengths for the maidservants, livery for the men (whose garments, you have seen, are currently very rough-and-ready), and something a little better for the Jeffreys and Carters, perhaps good coats and cloaks.
However, if you do not wish to trouble your brother, I still feel they must not be forgotten, even if we must pay for it. Everyone has worked very hard. I have no idea what the usual practice at Mortimer Square might be, but I must leave that with you and your brother and sisters.
I would like to give some trifles to the little Porters. Perhaps your sisters could find some sweets or toys for them—something that they can say was from London! I call on Mrs. Porter every Thursday morning. She is a very gentle creature, and her children are well behaved. Porter has been very diligent, and seems to react well to any courtesy shown his family. He agrees with me about the sheep. Unless Sir John wants to devote quite a bit of his resources to Merinos, he is better off with a small herd of black-faces simply to provide mutton.
Do not let those Whigs depress your spirits. Those that are high today are low tomorrow. Their day of reckoning will come, with their pandering to the French and rebels! It is all very well thousands of miles away, but I cannot imagine the great Whig lords feeling much satisfaction in the republicanism of the Continental Congress coming to roost on their own doorsteps! And the French! The hypocrisy of an absolute monarch sending forces to support democratic demagogues! He will regret it, I predict (not because of any great political acumen of my own for you know I'm a perfect fool about politics). However, it is simply plain sense that his soldiers will be infected with the radicalism of the rebels, and mighty King Louis might find himself hoist with his own petard!
Enough of those Jacks-in-office! I cannot wait to see you at Christmas. Please let me know as soon as possible who will be coming. We have worked very hard on the house, and the carpenters have turned their attention to the Tapestry Room (for so I plan to call it again).
Do not allow yourself to be lured into any duels, however provoked you are. I think dueling is a dreadful custom. If you were in a duel, you would win of course, but it would prove only your superior skill at arms, and would not change anybody's mind about party politics. And if you killed someone—God forbid!—you would have to flee the country, and your enemies would only say it proved them right about the horrid things they said about you before. Nothing can be gained by it, and a good deal lost!
And so, shake off their paltry taunts with the contempt they deserve. You said truly that final victory cannot be taken for granted. That is a lesson the Whigs have yet to learn.
Awaiting the holiday with impatience, I am
Your obedient wife,
Jane
Tavington smiled and snorted by turns throughout the letter, enjoying the wonderful picture of Anne's humiliation, and exasperated that Jane would presume to tell him not to duel. Of course dueling was illegal, but it was done anyway. He had nearly committed himself to a duel this very night. He could not and would not let a personal insult go unrevenged, but he hoped he would not be put in such an invidious position again anytime soon. Whether it could be avoided in the long run was questionable.
What a bitch Anne is, he thought for the thousandth time. She simply had to gloat over poor Kitty. He would always wonder if the lost child were his. Poor little creature. He would never again be so careless. He ought to have learned his lesson from South Carolina.
Briefly, he wondered how his little son there was faring. Was he safe? Was he well? Was he well cared for? Had Selina already grown weary of playing the devoted mother? He shut his eyes, feeling rather sad about it. Perhaps he and Jane would have another child in a year or so. He quite liked being a father. William Francis should have a companion or two. He drifted off to sleep, picturing an unlikely number of pretty dark-haired children running riot in the nursery…
In the morning, he considered Jane's commissions, and decided Pen would have to be the one to undertake them, for that morning Caroline was in an utter vortex with her novel-writing. Mamma had taken a turn for the worse, and now when Caroline sat with her, she could openly write on her story, for Mamma rarely left her bed, coming out only to lie, half conscious, on the daybed for a few hours.
Tavington disliked going into Mamma's rooms. With the constant habitation, they were developing a shabby air, and a certain pervasive odor that was not entirely disguised by the perfumed pastilles that Fabienne tossed into the fire. It was a painfully slow decline, a few pebbles rolling down a hillside, wearing away the statue of a goddess. One longed for a bolt of lightning to end it all with dignity—not this ugly chipping away.
Staring at the ruin of his mother, a grim thought crossed his mind. If I ever fail like this, I hope my family will forgive me if I put a pistol to my head. He looked uneasily at Caroline, imagining for a moment that she might have guessed his thought. No: she was scribbling away, her face set in concentration.
When she finally set down her pen, Tavington asked, "Have you and Pen made up your minds about Christmas? I know Jane longs for you to see Wargrave. So do I."
"Oh, my dear Will," sighed his sister. She spoke to him in a soft, low whisper. "I so wish I could go. It's just not possible. Every sign points to it being Mamma's last Christmas."
"She doesn't know what day it is, Caro."
"I would know. I could never live with myself. It doesn't matter if Mamma has sometimes—been selfish. She is old and ill and I will not leave her now. No more will Pen. That does not mean," she added anxiously, "that I think it wrong for you and John to go. You ought to be with your wife and child, and John has duties to his estate and his tenants. Next year we will gladly go, and enjoy it the more knowing that we did right by our mother. We shall have no regrets to torment us."
"When Mamma is gone, Caro, everything will be different. You and Pen will be free to travel, free to come and go—"
"A lady is never completely free, William. I grant you that we shall be freer than we have been, but still—"
"Don't talk like that. Of course no one wants either of you to kick over the traces and run away with the Gypsies—" Caroline gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "—or start a prophetic cult, or anything absurd. However, we could travel—go to the sea side—go to Bath—go to see Uncle at Colneford. When the war is over, we could all go to Paris. You'd like Paris, all you accomplished ladies. Don't you have any dreams, Caro?"
"Once I did. Over the years, I've had to put by the most precious, and very few are left. Let us see: I would like to publish my novel; I would like a niece—or several nieces; I would like to invite Dr. Johnson to dinner—"
"What a splendid idea! We shall, when Jane comes to London in January. We are at least acquainted, and if the old doctor is up to it, invited he shall be. Jane and I read Rasselas when I last visited Wargrave, and we owe Doctor Johnson some pleasant hours."
"Pleasant? Rasselas seemed to me melancholy. Beautiful—yes—but melancholy. As much a meditation on the Vanity of Human Wishes, as his old poem of that name. Nonetheless, I should like to have the author at our table."
"I shall secure him, one way or another."
"Don't promise more than you can perform, dearest. Mamma—" she lowered her voice again. "We may have to go into mourning. It could happen at any time."
"We shall plan for the worst, and hope for the best, my dear." Tavington said, wanting to encourage her.
He kissed her pale brow, and then, feeling guilty, he went over to his mother and kissed her too. She did not respond immediately, but then looked up, with a sweet and dreamy smile of pleasure.
"My dearest," she murmured. Tavington could not know if she meant him or another.
-----
Penelope nearly snatched the list from his hand, glancing through it eagerly. "Oh, how I love to buy gifts for children! And those good, faithful servants! Dear Jane's lists are so precise. Here are measurements—here are ages for the children—so very methodical. It will be no trouble at all, William. Sweets for the little ones! How I wish I could see their happy faces. No, my dear—Caroline is right, you know. She and I must stay with Mamma. In another year William Francis will be older, and understand what Christmas is, and how happy we shall all be together. I hope there will be enough money for the servants here, too! Yes? Oh, I'm so relieved to hear it! My dear, would you consider giving a little yourself to the Foundlings? Even a guinea or two makes such a difference! Oh, thank you, William, we plan to give the poor children a treat—goose and plum pudding for them all. There will be a charity concert too—selections from the Messiah—and dear Mr. Bellini will sing the airs for the bass. I shall write to Jane and Lady Fanshawe and describe it all. I heard from Lady Fanshawe just last week. Did I not tell you? She is quite happy and becoming quite the blue-stocking. She has persuaded Lord Fanshawe to buy a telescope from a Mr. Herschel, and have it installed at Salton Park. They shall have "Star Parties" when the weather is more favorable. Such a marvelous idea."
"Pen! Slow down, I pray you," Tavington laughed.
With Mamma's debts in better order, Pen had become more cheerful, and was no longer ashamed to show her face in public. Tavington took his sister by shoulders, and kissed her cheek.
"I asked Caro this, but I want to ask you as well. When the time comes, and your attendance on Mamma—is no longer required, what would you like to do? I suggested that we all do some traveling—get away from the city—"
For a moment his sister looked concerned, "I don't know, my dear! I've never thought that far ahead… I cannot be gone long, William. Too many people depend on me—"
"My dear, all you do are things for others. What would you like for yourself?"
"I don't know," she faltered. "It's wrong, isn't it, to think of oneself?"
"Not wrong at all!" Tavington said testily. "Perhaps your clergymen friends would say it's wrong never to think of anything but oneself, but I am quite sure you are permitted a moment of self-regard. It would at least give me the great pleasure of doing something for you. You mustn't deny people the chance to be kind in their turn." He could see her considering his words.
She asked, "What does Caroline wish for?"
"To publish her novel, To have a niece—"
"A niece—" cried Penelope. "What a good idea!" She eyed her brother, looking hopeful. "Is there any possibility—?"
"Lucy is expecting another child in June. That is the only new addition I can promise. To go back to what you asked before, Caroline would like to invite Doctor Johnson to dinner."
Penelope looked more doubtful. "A worthy man—a great man, but with manners—I have heard—not the most refined at table. Still—if that is what would please Caro, it is very well. As for me, I should like to have regular tea parties for my fellow laborers in the field of charity—" She cast him an anxious look. "—but we shall have to see if that is possible."
"My dear Pen, you may invite whom you like. I have been meaning to tell you that it appears that I shall inherit the house. I have discussed it with Jane, and we both very much want you and Caro to live with us. And we shall not be taking your money for housekeeping. No—don't look like that, my dear. Think of the other things you can do—"
His sister's face glowed pink with pleasure. "I can assist poor scholars in their education-- or buy apprenticeships for those unhappy girls in the Magdalen!"
"Yes, yes, Pen!" her brother said impatiently, "but do keep a little for yourself!" He thought over what else needed doing. "There is something for Jane—"
"Oh, yes! Dear Jane must not be forgotten."
"No—and I shan't forget her, but since you deal with the servants—could you see if they have had smallpox? If not, I would like you to make arrangements for their inoculation. Lucy's servants are all proof against the disease, and Jane is more like to return with William Francis if she feels safe."
"That is an excellent idea. The Matron at the Magdalen knows a skillful inoculator—"
"Yes—and by the way, We are about to collect on one of Mamma's more substantial debts. Perhaps you could have a fellow in to repair the damages to the upholstery? I am hoping to persuade Jane back to town in January, and I would like the house looking as it ought by them."
Penelope laughed. "If it is enough, I shall even have the billiard table repaired. Somehow that was damaged too, and John has never stopped buzzing about it!"
-----
The business of Strangways' debt was handled summarily. They appeared at the man's door at ten punctually. They were shown in, and a parcel of banknotes was handed them by Strangways' younger brother, who looked at the younger Tavington brother as he would a wild beast.
It was rude, but John took revenge by slowly counting out the money in a loud voice that echoed off the ceiling. He then returned Strangways' promissory note as paid, and the two Tavingtons were out the door and back in their carriage before a quarter-hour had passed.
Now that there was some cash in hand, Tavington told his brother about his letter. John took Jane's reminder about presents for the servants seriously.
"What a mean dog I've been! Of course I'll pay for the servants' presents. I'll give Pen the money and she can get the gewgaws for the women. I'll order liveries for the menservants, of course—a good idea to smarten them up a bit. Nice of you to offer to pay for Young's things—I really ought to. He's been doing a fine job as butler out there, and I've a mind to make it a permanent situation."
At this point, Tavington interposed, telling John about Tom and Moll's wish to marry. Jane would certainly want Moll to stay with her in London.
Very wisely, John remarked, "I've no doubt that Mrs. Royston is fond of your wife, but all things being equal, I'll bet serious money that she would rather have a cottage of her own on the estate, and the right in perpetuity to shoot birds. And Young could not do better than remain. I'll not push the matter, but someday your Jane will see it as I do."
"She would miss her sorely, John. She is still not quite over the shock of her sister's marriage."
"Who could be?" John laughed, and then shuddered. "Time, however, changes everything, and Love conquers all, as they say. I daresay your Mrs. Royston would like to have a child of her own someday."
"She had one. The little boy died."
"All the more reason! Anyway, back to planning. Father opened the house to the tenants on Christmas Day, but I'm not sure that would work out well, with all the time that's passed. They might not know what to do, anymore than I. Instead, I'll go about in the morning, and give everyone some meat and ale for their holiday cheer--and perhaps a pudding or some fruit. Ha! They'll take me for Old Father Christmas, come back after a long absence!"
-----
Tavington had thought his holiday plans well in hand. Events conspired, however, to throw them into confusion. Only three days before Christmas, Jane received an express from her husband.
December 22, 1781
My dear Jane,
I am well, and still coming on Monday. We have received news of a startling nature that has caused us to amend our arrangements somewhat. John and I are coming, as are Edward, Lucy, and their son. There will be another couple, another maidservant, and a few more children. I cannot write longer, for fear that this will not be sent in time. Do not be alarmed.
Yours in haste,
William
"'A few more children!'" Jane exclaimed, waving the letter at Moll.
Some of the new footmen, carrying in holly and pine boughs to decorate the Great Hall, thought she was impatient with them, and began hurrying about their work.
"What does he mean—two, three—a dozen? What does he mean, 'Don't be alarmed?' What does he mean by sending me such a message? This is just like a man!"
"Well, the Colonel is a man, so I reckon it's only natural he's like one," Moll pointed out pragmatically. "I'll plan for three more, and hope they're not old enough to be trouble. I was figuring on putting the Colonel's nephew in the nursery with Little Will. The men are bringing down a bed from the servant's quarters for the Protheroe's nursemaid and the little boy. Let's plan on spreading out to the nursery upstairs. It'll do for another batch of young'uns."
"A few more children! Really!"
Next—Chapter 48: The Kissing Bough