Chapter 48: The Kissing Bough
Jane was expecting the Christmas guests to arrive sometime after noon on the twenty-fourth. She had ordered that refreshments were to be ready by one, and that all the beds in the house were to be made up. Unsure how many might be coming—masters, children, and servants—it was best to be completely prepared. She periodically prowled the house, anxiously looking for anything left undone. The Tapestry Room still smelled of paint, but it was otherwise ready and welcoming. The nurseries were furnished and waiting. Vases and urns were filled with holiday greenery. Holly garlanded the mantelpieces: balsam and juniper filled the rooms with their fresh scent. Mrs. Carter had created a wonderful decoration for the chandelier of the Great Hall.
"You cannot have a proper Christmas without a Kissing Bough," she declared. Jane watched, admiring, as the old woman wove together a great bundle of evergreen, decorated with clove-spiced apples and a rainbow of ribbons; and then suspended from the bottom of it a huge bunch of mistletoe, which young Joe had climbed into a great oak tree to retrieve.
"Some folk call it a Holy Bough," she related as she worked. "And some make it into a ball, and that's a pretty sight; but at Wargrave Hall, we've always used the chandelier in the Great Hall. 'Tis round, and it has candles, and so is just right for the Bough."
When every ornament was in place, and every ribbon pinched into pertness, the green-bedecked chandelier was hauled up into place. Jane was enchanted with it. She moved the big table out from under it, and put it against the wall. If Sir John took it into his head to play some Christmas games, the Great Hall would be just the place. Or perhaps we might have a dance…
A tenant had come, a few days before, hat in hand, to ask her if "Her Honor might permit them to wassail the trees this year."
Jane did not understand what he meant, and it was revealed that Mr. Porter had thought some old local tradition wasteful and heathenish. Very righteously, the tenant told her that "Doctor Crumby, bless his good soul, had never said a word agin it, for he liked to hear of the old ways."
"How does one 'wassail the trees?'" she asked, bewildered.
And then the tenant, and some servants, and Mrs. Carter joined in; telling her how it was a custom at this time of year for some of the 'lads' and indeed some of the 'lasses,' and in fact everyone who could spare the time, to go out to the orchards and shout rhymes at the fruit trees to assure the next year's harvest. "And sometimes to lay some bits of toast sopped in wassail at the tree roots as an offering." It did indeed sound suspiciously pagan to Jane, but harmless enough, and quaint, too. She could not imagine John objecting to it, and said so. From the excitement that ensued, she wondered if she had made a mistake.
The day before Christmas arrived, and no morning was ever longer. After telling the servants to keep Rambler away from the guests, Jane wandered forlornly through the halls, and finally appeared in the nursery. She fidgeted like a little girl, provoking a smile and a shake of the head from Moll, who sat her down and gave her some yarn to wind. Soon she was at the window again, but saw no one but Porter on the old nag that was left to him, riding out toward the highway, as he often did. The horse was loaded down with parcel and bundles. He must have Christmas visits of his own to make, she supposed. I hope the children like the sweets I shall bring them.
The clock struck one, and Jane began to feel very put upon. William Francis ate his porridge with great solemnity, and the clock struck half-past. Finally, there was a squeal from a maid at an upstairs window, and Jane rushed to see for herself.
A procession of three coaches was coming up the road. Jane saw that William's coach was in the lead. She recognized the Protheroe coach bringing up the rear. Between them was a coach she did not recognize at all, and that she supposed belonged to their mystery guests.
"A few more children!" she muttered indignantly. "Perhaps Penelope has sent the Foundling Hospital on an outing! Rose, finish feeding the baby, and try to put him down for his nap. You must be prepared for noisy intrusions, I fear. Come, Moll, let us see how many are in a few!"
Tom Young was the only manservant with proper livery, and made a dignified figure as a butler. He rallied the footmen, and quickly had them in position to receive company. Mrs. Carter bustled up, excusing herself for nearly being tardy.
"Poor Amos needed settling, ma'am. He's getting very feeble."
Jane spared her a brief, sympathetic word, and then three coaches and twelve horses were upon them. Jane groaned inwardly, thinking of Cobb and Joe dealing with such a crowd, considering the state the carriage house was in. The coachmen would have to help see to their own teams. She wondered if anyone was bringing a lady's maid. Pratt and Doggery had come along, riding up with the coachmen. Such a crowd! She was grateful that they had not overburdened her with footmen, at least. Doggery was riding on their own coach, and did the honors of the door.
Sir John leaped out, very excited. "My dear Mrs. Tavington! Such a surprise for you! No, I've been threatened with death if I blab. Will want to tell you himself—and here he is."
William stepped out, an unreadable expression on his face. Happiness—yes—he seemed happy to see her, but ill at ease, as if he was concerned that she might be upset—but then there was the happiness again.
"William!" she cried. "Tell me now what is going on! Your letter was a complete puzzle!"
"My dear Jane--" He looked at her, seeming at a loss, and blurted, "It is better to show you than to try to explain—"
Tavington walked back to the carriage, reached inside, and lifted out a small child. A boy not yet three years old, still in his infant dress, with a warm cloak wrapped around his little body. A very pretty, very blonde boy, with long pale hair in curls—
"Ash!" Jane screamed, and broke into a run. "Ash! Little Ash!"
She snatched the surprised toddler from her husband and pressed him to her heart. The little boy struggled.
"Down!"
Jane was both overjoyed and bewildered. She tried to attract the child's gaze. "Don't you know me, Ash? I'm your sister Jane."
"Sissah—Jane!" he shouted, not connecting the words with the wild-eyed woman holding him tightly. "Down!"
A short, unknown nursemaid was at her elbow. "If you please, ma'am. I'll take him. It's time for his dinner, you see."
Jane, in a daze, handed her darling little brother—who seemed pale, but otherwise healthy—to the stranger.
Tavington only had time for a brief, apologetic smile, before John produced a basket which held another child. This was still a babe in arms, his small hand holding a much-gummed rusk of bread-- a tired, dark haired boy much like William Francis, but a few months older—
"That is Thomas, isn't he?" Jane asked, feeling numb. Tavington quietly nodded, and handed the basket off to a waiting footman.
The occupants of the second carriage had emerged, and a sturdy, red-haired man was heading her way, looking grave.
"Captain Bordon—you are here! I am astonished!"
"Yes, Mrs. Tavington, we arrived in London but a few days ago, and called directly on your husband with our news and our—charges."
"You received his letter, though?"
"No," Tavington interposed. "Bordon never received my letter, for he and his family had already left for England before it could arrive. Let me make Mrs. Bordon known to you, and then let us go in and Bordon can tell you all."
Lucy and Protheroe were bringing up the rear, smiling, with Little Ned and their own nursemaid. Jane, still in hopeless confusion, gave thanks to God that she had made the nurseries a first object. Moll would have two—new nursemaids and three—no, five new children to care for. The Bordons, it seemed, had two of their own, a girl of about four and a smaller boy. No wonder William had sent an express!
"Harriet, my dear, this is Mrs. Tavington. My wife, Mrs. Bordon."
Jane could hardly process what the man was saying, but Mrs. Bordon, a slender woman with lively black eyes, came to her rescue. Her two children followed in her train, looking about in wonder. Mrs. Bordon shook Jane's hand very kindly.
"No doubt you feel like this is the Sack of Rome, and we are the invading hordes! I am Harriet Bordon, Mrs. Tavington, and I will tell you all the compliments my husband has paid you after you have a chance to count the barbarians."
Arrangements had to be made, and quickly. Jane, still stunned, turned to Moll, and said stupidly, "I don't believe you have met my brothers, Ashbury and Thomas Rutledge."
Moll seemed unconcerned by the sudden invasion. "Why not put the Colonel's nephew and the Captain's little'uns in the old nursery upstairs? Plenty of room for them and the servants girls too. We can try taking in your little brothers downstairs. The older one might not take to be separated from the others, though."
"I'm not sure—I suppose. I don't know whose servants are whose. My brother Ash---oh, dear…"
Tom—or rather Young—to give him his due as a butler, reassured her. "We'll see to everything, ma'am. Don't worry. We'll get the little ones sorted out, and we've already prepared the rooms for the guests. The Tapestry Room for Mr. and Mrs. Protheroe, and Miss Gilpin's room—I mean, the Print Room-- for the Captain and his lady."
"Yes, thank you, Young," Jane answered, relieved that he was handling it all as a matter of course. Indeed why should he not? He had not just greeted a long-lost brother—a brother considered forever lost!
Harriet Bordon touched her arm. "If it is not an imposition, ma'am, I shall keep my two with me for a little while. It will give the servants more time to settle the babies."
Moll looked at her approvingly. Jane dithered, "Yes, of course. Let us go to the drawing room." She smiled down at a snub-nosed little red-haired girl. "Perhaps some cake…"
Tom and Moll organized the children and maids and led them upstairs. Jane called after them, "I shall up be up later to help, Mrs. Royston!"
"Don't worry yourself, ma'am!" It sounded a little like an order.
"Please, follow me. You are all very welcome."
Jane told Mrs. Carter to have the refreshments brought as soon as possible, and she led the chattering procession to the drawing room. The group moved slowly, admiring vocally as they went. Sir John gave a shout of delight at the sight of the Kissing Bough in the Great Hall.
"Ha! That brings back old times! Eh, Lucy?"
His sister laughed, and to the amusement of all, she spun the dignified Protheroe about for a quick kiss. She laughed at his pleased embarrassment, and said, "Reach up and pluck a berry from the mistletoe! As long as there are berries, you can have a kiss!"
Harriet raised a questioning brow at her husband. Bordon only smiled, and gave her a "later" look in reply.
To her surprise, Jane found herself kissed very tenderly by her husband. Tavington plucked a white berry from the bough, and touched her cheek. Jane smiled blankly, enjoying the kiss, but in a fever of impatience.
Tavington took her by the arm and whispered to her. "I wanted Bordon to tell you the news himself, instead of giving it to you second-hand. I know this is a shock. He has letters for you, too."
John apparently knew what was going on, and was properly playing the host. He seemed as happy to have his drawing room full of pleasant people as his own Uncle Colchester could ever be.
Tavington said to the room at large, "Please excuse us while Captain Bordon and I take Mrs. Tavington away from you. We shall not be long."
Jane was glad she had ordered fires lit in all the rooms downstairs, for she felt oddly cold. Her husband led her to a chair, and stood by her, holding her hand. The two men looked at each other, and Tavington gave his friend a nod.
"My dear Mrs. Tavington," Bordon began. "I bear heavy news. Your father, alas, is dead."
Jane let out a breath. She had suspected some disaster, and here is was. Her eye was caught by a slight movement, as the long tail of Nemesis withdrew further behind a drapery.
Bordon continued. "He died in September, of a sudden apoplectic stroke. He had suffered one before, I believe."
Jane nodded, unable to answer. Papa is dead!
"He had," the captain told her, "for some time been playing a double game, giving assistance to both the King and the rebels. He played that double game just a little too long. It was your cousin, the rebel governor John Rutledge, who found him out. The rebels declared his property forfeit as that of a traitor to their cause. The shock was too much for your father. He was struck down and died not two days later. I condole with your loss."
"Thank you," Jane muttered thickly. "But the boys—what of Selina, my stepmother? What of Mrs. Rutledge?" The name, strange in her mouth, troubled her. She had not thought or spoken of Selina in months.
Bordon paused. Tavington said sharply, "Tell her everything, Bordon. It's best she knows the truth."
"Very well. Mrs. Rutledge fled Charlestown immediately following your father's burial. She joined some relations on the rebel side, but not before obtaining what monies of your father's she could."
Jane's lips twitched in disgust, picturing Selina looting Papa's study. He always kept quite a bit of money there. "She did not take her children with her?"
"She feared, it seems, that they would slow her departure. She left them with a relation, Mrs. Laurens, from whom I bring a letter. I have letters from other relations of yours as well."
A quick, ugly laugh of surprise. "Cousin Mary? She cannot have liked that!"
"She did not. To do her justice, she did not feel equal to caring for two small boys. As you will see in her letter, she felt that, absent the children's parents, no one was fitter to take charge of them than their own sister. As I had resolved to leave the Colonies, she asked me to see to their safety. All in all, I decided it was better to do as she asked. I knew you were very fond of young Ashbury, and that you would be anxious if there were no secure provision for the children. As their father's poor judgement has deprived them of their inheritance, Mrs. Laurens and I decided that their best chance would be to salvage what remained of their father's resources, convert them to cash, and send the boys far away from the war. I hope I have not erred."
"Oh, no! No! I thank you from the bottom of my heart. This was very kind and generous of you, sir. I know it cannot have been easy, traveling with two little children who were no relation—"
He laughed slightly. "The voyage to New York had its difficulties. I hired a wet nurse to care for the boys and suckle the younger one, and no sooner were we in New York than the woman vanished with her wages. Once in New York, of course, I could shift the problem over to my dear wife and our own clever nursemaid. Luckily, there was a good woman who lived near our lodgings who could nurse Thomas, and during the voyage back there were army wives able to assist us. Fortunate, also, that young Master Thomas has been precocious in learning the use of a cup! The young woman I engaged for the journey here in England was not interested in a permanent position, as her home and family is in Bristol, where we disembarked. She has already returned home. We came on to Essex, hoping to find someone in the neighborhood who could suckle the poor little fellow."
"We can never thank you enough, not just for your expenditures—for which I have already reimbursed him--" Tavington assured Jane in an aside. "But the generosity of both you and Mrs. Bordon-- I can only imagine how hard it must have been—four children at sea in a cabin."
Bordon shrugged. "It was a good sized cabin, after all. As I said, a number of women helped us. We managed well enough. Crying children do not much disturb me."
"Papa is dead," Jane whispered. "I must go into mourning."
Tavington said kindly. "Do not concern yourself with that. Or better, after we have left, you can have something made up. Three months of deep mourning are already over, anyway."
"He was dead, all these months. And Selina simply abandoned her children! How abominable! How infamous!" Her voice rose in indignation. "And not satisfied with that, she stole from them as well!" Her anger dissipated. "Have the poor boys anything at all?"
"Yes," Bordon assured her. "Not much, but after everything, they have some six hundred pounds apiece."
Tavington shrugged. "Enough to educate them and buy their first commissions, if they choose the army as their profession. Indeed, if we get it invested immediately for them, we might be able to double it before they need it." He smiled at his wife. "It appears that our family is growing by leaps and bounds."
He was anxious about her feelings on the matter, once the first shock was over. He knew she loved her little brother, but he was asking her to take in the younger Rutledge boy as well, a boy whom they both knew was probably Tavington's own son with Selina. It was a hard thing to ask of Jane, but what else were they to do? The child had no one else in the world.
"And so you arrived in England without knowing about the living?" She clutched at the familiar in her confusion. "Has he told you about the vicarage? It is nearly ready! I must show you and Mrs. Bordon—"
"Later, Jane," Tavington reassured her. "I have told Bordon all about our plans. When he arrived, I thought he had made the quickest Atlantic passage in history!"
Both men laughed. Bordon, she noted, looked extremely pleased. And so he should. She then berated herself for her smug superiority. The captain had done her a very great service, at no doubt dreadful inconvenience to himself. She truly was in his debt, and was glad, glad that she had worked to make the vicarage fit to live in. She would show it to Mrs. Bordon with pride and gratitude. What good people they were!
"May I see Mrs. Laurens' letter?" Jane asked. Bordon drew it out of his coat pocket and handed it to her gravely, along with a few others. "Excuse me," she pleaded, "I must look at it briefly. I will read the others later, but I must at least glance at Cousin Mary's now."
"Of course, my dear," Tavington said.
He took Bordon to the window overlooking the rear lawn, and showed him the view. He was very proud of his wife. Jane was shocked, but was being so kind about everything. Above all, she was not refusing to take in little Thomas. He could never be grateful enough to her.
Jane broke the letter's seal and saw Cousin Mary's familiar hand.
October 7, 1781
Charlestown
My dear Jane,
As Captain Bordon is carrying this letter to you, he must have already broken the news of your father's death to you. I am very sorry, dear Jane. You know I did not care for Ashbury, but such a sudden death—it is an awful reminder of the uncertainty of human existence. Cousin John Rutledge was so angry—he had been in correspondence with your father for some time, and then gained knowledge of some double-dealing on your father's part. The rebels have been dealing very harshly with those they think have betrayed them. I don't know what you have heard about the situation here—probably this is your first news—but things are very bad. The British do not hold much more than Charlestown itself. The rebels seized Cedar Hill and have auctioned it off to some relation of the Bulls. He is from Georgia, and nobody knows him. Your poor brothers are entirely disinherited.
The day after Ashbury's funeral, Selina called at my house. She came with her little boys and her aunt Alice Izard, and then said she was going to call on Ashbury's lawyer, and it was just too tiring to try to put them back in the carriage. With the shock and everything else considered, I did not like to object. She stepped into the carriage, dressed in elegant mourning, and that is the last I saw of her. Luckily, she had left Tom's wetnurse as well, who could care for the boys. I have no nursery, of course, but I cleared a spare room upstairs of everything valuable and put them there. Alice Izard and I sat waiting and waiting, wondering if she had had an accident to delay her. Night fell, and she still had not returned.
Late the following day, I was informed by your old butler that she came back to the house on Queen's Street, packed all her belongings, and drove away. She gave the British some excuse about a sick relation, and they let her through their lines. I have heard third hand that she sought the protection of her rebel Pinckney uncles. She took all the valuables she could find in the house--and her jewelry, of course. On the pretense of needing to pay for the funeral, she was able to put her hands on much of his money, some twelve thousand altogether, I believe. My latest intelligence states that she is engaged to be married to a colonel of the Maryland Continentals. Nay, she may already be married to him. She has sent me no word, and has shown no sign of wishing to be reunited with her children. I have never greatly desired children myself, but if had had them, I would like to think that I would not leave them on a cousin's doorstep like unwanted puppies. I am ashamed of her, and ashamed to be related to her.
I did not know what to do. I am nearly sixty years old, Jane, and I just couldn't see becoming a mother at this stage of my life. It is not simply that I don't care for children, though I confess that the thought of those two boys near my figurines made me shudder. I cannot claim that I think the rebels would physically harm them. I do not think that for a minute. If nothing else, I think that Cousin John would take the boys in and provide for them out of charity. However, there are ways to make a child miserable that do not involved beatings or starvation. I thought about what it would be like for the boys if they were brought up by relations who filled their ears with what a traitor their father was, and that they were poor relations and a burden to the family. That cannot be good or healthy or decent. Also, if the boys remained, and the British departed, they would lose even the small amount of money that Colonel Balfour helped me realize from the property Ashbury possessed in Charlestown.
The house on Queen's Street has been sold. The price was not good, but it was what we could get, and some money was left after your father's debts were paid. The slaves had fled, aside from old Davus, whom I have taken into my own service. It would have been cruel to put him on the auction block after his years of faithful service. The wetnurse too, ran away, apparently fearing that she would be sent to New York with Captain Bordon and would never see her family again.
Please do not laugh at me, my dear. The matter was of such anxiety to me that I got down on my knees and prayed about it. It came to me that you were the properest person to care for your own brothers. After Selina, who has forfeited any rights in the matter, you are their closest relation. I had heard that Captain Bordon, feeling his wounds too severe to continue his military service, was leaving Charlestown for New York, to be reunited with his family, and then to return to England. I begged him to call on me and disclosed my great trouble to him. Like the true gentleman he is, he thought the matter over, and then agreed to act for me. Poor Alice Izard is staying with me, and likely permanently. I find her good company, and very useful about the house. I pray that the boys arrive alive and safe.
Please write to me, dear Jane, as soon as you see them. I feel like I can never sleep soundly in my bed until I know they are in your good care. What a terrible world to find oneself in, at my time of life! You are younger and stronger, and must have the resilience to bend with the changing winds of fortune.
I am, most sincerely, you loving cousin,
Mary Laurens
Tears stung Jane's eyes: tears of pity for her cousin, and for those little boys, deserted by the woman who should have cared for them the most. It was inconceivable to her that any woman could be such an unnatural mother. She would never have deserted William Francis—not for anything!
"What a sad letter," she commented to the two men waiting quietly by the window. "I shall write to her tomorrow to assure her of the boys' safety. It is clear that it has weighed greatly upon her. She speaks so gratefully, Captain, of your kindness to her."
Bordon shook his head briskly. "There was nothing else to be done. The boys are here, with the remains of their fortunes, and quite safe. My dear Harriet grew quite fond of them."
"Well," Tavington smiled. "She shall not be forever separated from them. We shall all be visiting often enough. Your own vicarage, as I've told you, is but a quarter-mile away."
"Yes!" Jane cried. "We must go there. I long to show it to you. It is such a charming place, and I sincerely wish that you shall be happy there."
"I cannot tell you," Bordon told them, "how much this situation means to my family. Without having to beg for favors, without the least trouble—I have already called on the Bishop of London, and will be ordained shortly after Christmas, on my return from Essex. I plan then to come back here and set to work. I have had a number of months to prepare myself. This living is far beyond anything I ever hoped."
Tavington shook his head. "I'd say that we have done well for each other. We could sit here paying compliments all day, but by that time, the tea will have gotten cold. Let's go join the others!"
A Christmas carol thundered forth from the drawing room. Tavington opened the library door and listened. Even with all the shocking news about her father, it was all Jane could do not to laugh. "I did not know that Sir John could sing."
"--The Boar's head, as I understand, is the finest dish in all the land!--"
"Well," Tavington grinned. "That's certainly John, but I'm not sure one can describe it as singing!"
Tea had been brought in. Lucy had done the honors, pouring cups and serving the sandwiches, some with cream cheese and some with sliced smoked pheasant. Hearty slices of a fruit cake enriched with nuts and chopped apricots satisfied even the men's appetites. Mrs. Bordon was at the harpsichord, accompanying Sir John's efforts with great good humor. The little girl was sitting with Lucy, and the tiny boy was running about the room, falling down at every corner. Bordon caught him as he flew by. Jane was impressed by how quick he was with his good right arm, considering that the left still seemed maimed.
"What is this?" he demanded, "a perpetual motion machine? Slow down, Master Robin Goodfellow!"
He held up the boy for Jane to see, and wiped cake crumbs from the small rosy mouth. "My son Robert. We call him Robin within the family." He nodded at the little red-haired girl watching Sir John admiringly, a nibbled sandwich in her hand. "That is my daughter Susan."
He set his son down, and the little boy immediately began running around the room again, albeit a little more cautiously. John finished his song, and the little girl immediately piped up in applause.
"Sing another, if you please, Sir John! You have such a nice loud voice!"
John saw Lucy and his brother laughing. With mock dignity, he bowed, and consulted with Mrs. Bordon about his next selection.
"Wassail, wassail, all over the town— Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown—"
He broke off, calling out, "Do you sing, Bordon? What about you, Protheroe? Will there can sing, but thinks it's unmilitary!"
Jane sat down, feeling a little wistful. It was Christmas, and Papa was dead. I hardly know how to feel.
The amiable guests had joined Sir John by the harpsichord. Bordon and Protheroe took up the tune manfully.
"---In the Wassail bowl we'll drink unto thee!"
At the end of the carol Susan Bordon declared, "That's the most beautiful song I ever heard. You're very good singers!"
"I can sing!" shouted Robin, wildly excited. "I make up my own songs!
In a high little voice he shrilled,
"I'm the KING of England!
I'm the KING of England!
I'm the K---"
Harriet rose from the harpsichord, laughing. "My goodness! Naptime for you, my lad! You're entirely too noisy!"
Susan asked anxiously, "'Tisn't naptime for me, is it, Mamma? I'm a great girl of four and Robin is a baby—"
"Of course you're a great girl, and good helper too, my darling," Harriet assured her. "I need you come with me and help Robin fall asleep. He will never calm down without you."
Susan trotted after her mother, proud to show all the important grown-ups how indispensable she was.
"Isn't that a nice little girl?" John asked Jane. "What a fine little friend for Fanny!"
Jane smiled, reminded of her brother-in-law's planned nuptials. She was curious about the widow who had fixed his affections: a woman over thirty—pretty, but without fortune, and with a little daughter to provide for. No doubt the lady blessed a kind Providence that she had caught the eye of a comparatively wealthy baronet. No—Jane corrected herself. John was wealthy, or at least would be by this time next year if crop prices held and the house required no more major repairs. Jane thought it wonderfully kind of him to be so concerned with his prospective step-daughter, She was—what? Four years old. The little Bordon girl appeared to be about that age. Jane looked forward to having some time to get to know Mrs. Bordon better. She played very nicely.
Jane seated herself and played some quiet Christmas music, letting the others chat. She needed time to herself to come to terms with the news the day had brought her. The "Pastoral Symphony" from The Messiah gave everyone a respite. Just before she finished, Harriet returned to the drawing room. Seated comfortably in the old-fashioned drawing room, a fire in the hearth crackling brightly, the guests seemed inclined to doze off.
The sky was steel grey, and it looked as if it might snow at any moment. Nevertheless, in Mrs. Bordon's place, Jane would be wild to see her new home.
"After you all have had enough tea, perhaps you might be inclined to walk to the vicarage," she suggested. "I am sure you would like to see it, if your shoes are stout enough."
The Bordon looked smilingly at one another. "That is most kind," Harriet answered, "if it is not too great an imposition."
"Edward and I shall stay here," Lucy said, "so you can show it without interruption. We shall sit by the fire quite happily, and gobble the last of the pheasant sandwiches. They are so good."
Thus, the walking party consisted of the Bordons, the Tavingtons, and Sir John himself. Jane carried the keys, and looked forward to handing them over to Harriet Bordon. With the talk about the voyage and the trip to London, everyone was quite well entertained for the short time the walk lasted. They came in sight of the rambling vicarage, now considerably less raffish than it had appeared two months before. Harriet clutched her husband's arm, and their steps quickened.
"It is a little bare of furniture," Jane warned. "The prior incumbent's heirs removed all his own pieces. There is certainly enough to begin upon, however."
"It is an interesting house," Bordon remarked. "From the mid-seventeenth century, I would guess."
"Yes," Tavington answered. "The vicarage is more recent that the Hall itself. We believe the central portion was erected in 1632, and then the rest after the Restoration—perhaps in 1666 through 1667. The annex gives the roofs a curious look, but it greatly increases the space inside."
"It is charming," Harriet declared, without hesitation.
They passed through the front garden, which was now at least innocent of weeds. Jane unlocked the door, and stood back to allow Harriet to enter first. The Bordons wandered through the rooms, touching this and that, and whispering together, evidently pleased with what they found. Bordon smiled as glanced in at the study, with its empty bookcases waiting patiently for a new gentleman-scholar to fill them. Harriet agreed with Jane about the pretty shape of the drawing room.
"And the lovely windows! It wants only an instrument," she said, "to make it quite perfect. And perhaps a sofa—there. How comfortable we shall be! Are the chimneys in good order?" she asked Jane.
"They were swept thoroughly only three weeks ago. You should have no difficulties."
They went upstairs. Harriet examined the bedrooms minutely, approving of much of the furniture, considering which room should serve for her husband and herself, and which for a nursery. The others could be guest rooms, and would be refurbished some time in the future. Up another flight were the attics, with accommodations for the servants. Some of the bedsteads wobbled and squeaked at the slightest touch.
"We must engage extremely slender maids, Harriet," Bordon laughed.
Jane could see Harriet examining the place as she would herself, making mental notes as to what needed repair or replacement, what must be done immediately, and what could wait. She studied Bordon's wife surreptitiously. She did not think her very beautiful, but there was a pleasant liveliness about her that appealed. And then her eyes sparkled so: they were dark and large, with straight black brows. They were her best feature, and drew one's attention instantly. Her accent sounded strange in Jane's ears, but, after all, Jane's probably sounded equally strange to a New Yorker. Altogether she was feeling very happy to make this woman's acquaintance. She was even more respectful when Harriet asked to look at the kitchens and see the extent of the kitchen garden.
From the vicarage to the church was but a few steps, and they went over there to see the empty building. In his short time in London, Tavington had already given his friend a brief history of the church and its parish. Bordon looked about, was pleased with the style of the place, was glad that all of its most ancient features had not been 'improved' past recognition, and in half an hour, had formed an outline of the plan that would be executed over the next few years to the church's great advantage.
"Then you approve?" asked Sir John, who was thinking that Fortune had certainly smiled on him to throw this couple in his way. Bordon was a damned fine card player, and would be someone with whom he could hunt and shoot. Mrs. Bordon would be so kind to Emily. Nothing could be better.
"Very much—a fine place," the Bordons agreed, looking very content themselves.
By the time they left the church, large fluffy flakes of snow were floating down upon them, dotting their cloaks with miniature lace. Jane pulled her hood up over her hair, and trudged along silently, thinking about the meals that she would need to order for the next few days. William had said they would be staying only three nights—Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and then Boxing Day. They would then return to London, presumably to see to the ordination. Perhaps Mrs. Bordon would like to go a-shopping for her new home. Had Jane been in her place, however, she would have wanted to stay at Wargrave and work on the vicarage. Perhaps, if Mrs. Bordon were offered that option…
Harriet, at first, was unwilling to be separated from her husband, but Bordon thinking it over, thanked Jane.
"My dear, the ordination will be on Epiphany. Why don't you accept Mrs. Tavington's kind offer, instead of dragging the children back to town?"
"I really want to see you ordained, my darling," Harriet whispered, so low that Jane could barely overhear her.
"And I want you to be there. Here is a compromise: Come join me on Saturday the fifth. The ordination is on Sunday, and we will return to Essex the following day. Can you be separated from the children for two nights?"
"If I must, I must. We must ask Mrs. Tavington how she feels about that, however!"
Jane was close enough that she felt she could put in a word of reassurance at that point. She would be delighted to care for the little Bordons. They had their own nursemaid, and by the fifth they should be comfortable enough at Wargrave to bear their mother's brief absence. Hearing the discussions, Sir John and Tavington both weighed in on the advantages of Mrs. Bordon staying to keep Mrs. Tavington company, and of letting her children rest from their travels.
"Very well," agreed Harriet, smiling at them all. "You make me feel so welcome it would be ungrateful indeed to refuse you. Don't be surprised, Robert, if I present you with a very long shopping list on your departure!"
John fell into step with Tavington, talking about estate business. "Porter promised to pay me the rest of his debt by the end of the quarter, but he sent me a note asking me to wait until the sixth. Says he'll pay everything he owes me then."
"You're too soft on him, John," Tavington growled. "Here, Jane—what do you think of this waiting game Porter is playing?"
"I can ask when I visit Mrs. Porter on Boxing Day with the children's presents. I believe Mr. Porter was waiting to hear from some friend in Bristol to whom he had entrusted a part of the money."
She shrugged. Porter was distant and nervous with her, but so he had always been. She much preferred the mild Mrs. Porter, but it was impossible to strike up a real friendship with her, what with the bad feeling and suspicion between the Tavingtons and their erring steward. She put the matter from her mind, for she was becoming concerned about all their children, and Moll dealing with a crowd of unknown little ones. Ned Protheroe and the little Bordons had mothers and familiar nursemaids to look after them, but Ash and Tom had come on fortune's alms and had nobody—or at least, only leftovers from other children.
"I really must see how Mrs. Royston is faring. I ought to look in at Ash, and Thomas, too, of course."
"Your upstairs nursery is delightful," Harriet told her. "Here you were preparing it for your own child, and now it will hardly be pristine after the incursions of our family."
"We are so happy to have you as guests—both you and your children. How exhausting it must have been with four!"
"We had plenty of assistance most of the time," Harriet assured her. "Ashbury is a dear little boy, though very curious. It was Thomas I was most concerned for. He has had so much upheaval, and is still suckling. I suspect," she whispered to Jane, "that some of the milk he ingested might have been laced with spirits from time to time. Hired wet nurses vary so greatly in quality and character. The crossing, too, was very rough, and the children were sick a great deal."
"Poor little creatures," sighed Jane. "Children love regularity, and they have had little enough of it. I hope their time at Wargrave is comforting."
Once back at the house, the men returned to the drawing room, and Jane and Harriet went upstairs, chatting amicably about the vicarage. As they reached the first floor, screams echoed down the hall. The two women lifted their skirts slightly, skimming the floor, as they instinctively hurried to the sounds. Moll was cuddling Little Ash, trying to calm him.
"He was fine until he heard your voice, ma'am. That set him off."
The little boy's face was red with crying. "Mamma!" he howled. "Mamma!" He saw Harriet behind Jane, and reached out desperately for her, kicking at Moll to escape. "Mamma!"
"Oh, my!" said the compassionate Harriet, taking him from Moll, who now had a more softly sobbing baby Thomas to comfort. William Francis was crying himself, frightened by all the noise, and Rose had him in her arms. Jane stared in confusion, and Harriet told her, "He has gotten into the trick of calling me that in the past month. I did not wish to argue with him, for it took him long enough to accept me. There, there, my boy!" she soothed the wailing child. To Jane, she said, "I shall never forget how thunderstruck I was when Robert arrived with them. Thomas was quiet enough until he was hungry, but I sat down Ashbury with my own Robin for some porridge, and I shall never forget how sad he looked. Different food—different bowls, even, I suppose. I don't know how Robert dealt with it. I've often wondered if that nurse who ran away drugged the boys. Anyway, Ashbury has become fond of me and the children, and fond of Betty, our nursemaid." She gave Ash another cuddle, and murmured, "Why don't you go to your sister Jane?" She moved to offer the boy to Jane, but he turned away his head and clung fearfully to Harriet.
"Perhaps not at the moment," sighed Jane. "It is all very new." Ashbury was very unhappy indeed, and caught at Harriet, trying to whisper in her ear.
Jane heard, "Wobbin? Wobbin gone?"
"No, Ashbury," Harriet reassured him, "Robin is upstairs taking his nap like a good boy. You should lie down, too."
"Want Wobbin. I s'eep with him."
"Maybe that what he needs to feel safe here, ma'am, right now," Moll told Jane.
"I suppose," Jane said, feeling a little disappointed, and then scolding herself for it. Of course Ash did not remember her, and all this was strange. Naturally he wanted to be with his little friend and with the women who had cared for him for the past few months. She smiled, to show she was not jealous. "We will have plenty of time to become reacquainted." She ruffled the blonde head gently, and the boy, at least, did not push her away, now that he was safe in Harriet's arms.
He was carried away, much calmer, and Jane was left to deal with her son and only one new little "brother." No, Jane rejected that qualification. Thomas Rutledge is my brother. That is how the world will know him. Only Selina could say otherwise, and she would certainly…No. He is Thomas Rutledge, and I must treat him no differently than I treat my dear Little Ash.
William Francis wanted her, and Jane took him from Rose, sitting down to suckle him. Nursing always calmed him, and she put him to the breast, needing to be a little calmer himself. Moll sat down , playing quietly with little Thomas. Rose tidied the room, and gathered Ash's things to take upstairs to the other nursery. While Jane nursed her own child, she took some time to study the other little boy, who was only three months older than her own, but very different. She had not paid much attention to little Tom, and decided that must change immediately. He looked curiously sad, but was letting Moll hold him without complaint. Jane thought he was thinner than a baby not yet a year old ought to be, but no doubt the stress of travel and change of milk had not helped. He's had a hard life since my father died, Jane thought, pitying the forsaken little boy. He was a long baby, with huge blue eyes and a cap of thick dark hair. A sweet-looking little boy, Jane admitted to herself. He'll probably be a very handsome man someday.
He was looking over at her, very wistfully. A tear trickled down his pale little face, and Moll wiped it away, cooing to him affectionately.
"Reckon he's hungry, too, poor little mite. We'd best start looking for a nurse for him. That nursery girl of the Bordons says he'll drink from a cup, but all we've got is cow's milk, and it might not agree with him. Guess I could send down for some more porridge. Looks like he could use some feeding up!"
Terribly sorry for the baby, Jane muttered, "I'm probably going to regret this…" More loudly she said, "Oh, Moll, bring him over here. If you help me, perhaps I can get him situated on my lap. I have another breast, after all. He looks so miserable."
With some careful rearranging, and some pillows for support, they managed to get young Thomas Rutledge to her right breast. She nearly jumped, feeling how desperately he fastened onto her, sucking hungrily. William Francis had only needed a snack. Baby Tom needed a few lost meals.
"He'll suck you dry, if you don't watch out," Moll sagely observed. As soon as Rose returned, Moll said, "Go down to the kitchen, Rose, and get Mrs. Tavington a tall glass of small beer. She needs lots to drink if she's going to feed two babies!"
"Small beer?" laughed Jane. She was rather thirsty.
"Well, you can't drink plain water," Moll pointed out. "'Tain't safe. You could have more tea, I suppose, but there's no strength in it. Small beer's safe and made from barley. You try it and see."
"I don't want to get the babies drunk!"
"Pshaw! You'd have to drink a keg of the stuff. 'Tain't ale or stout or anything with a kick to it. Just small beer."
"I'll try it, just once."
William Francis was finished, and Moll picked him up, patting his back until he burped contentedly, and put him down to finish his interrupted nap. Baby Tom was not anything like satisfied, and Jane hoped he was getting enough.
"Well, Moll. It looks like our family just got much larger. I hope you don't have second thoughts now that we'll end up with three little boys in the nursery at once!"
"Mighty partial to the little critters," Moll said. "Don't you worry about the oldest—you just spend a little time with him each day, and he'll get to know you again. How long is Captain Bordon staying?"
"He's leaving the morning after Boxing Day with the Protheroes, but Mrs. Bordon will stay until the fifth of January. She'll go to London to see him ordained, and then the two of them will return on Monday the seventh, and take up residence in the vicarage. Surely by then Ash will be more resigned to living with us."
They talked it over at length, discussing possible arrangements, and what would need to be done if they went back to London for a time. Moll was still thinking over the children's diet.
"Little Tom's a bit older than our Will. When Rose comes back, I'll tell her to have Mrs. Jeffreys mash up some soft-cooked turnips or carrot. He's old enough to eat that. Maybe even some ham or chicken, if it's minced up fine. They were all too stirred up and worn out when they first arrived to eat their porridge. Ashbury, now—he can eat what the older ones eat, but this one can't. He can manage more than plain rice porridge though, and the more the better. We'll need another high chair. When one gets fed t'other's likely to get hungry watching. I don't rightly like the look of those thin little limbs."
"I don't either. He'll be better soon, I hope. My stepmother," she confided to Moll, "deserted them. Abandoned them! She took what money she could—the rebels confiscated the land."
"Ran off?" Moll asked, confused. She had not been able to get a straight story from Betty, the Bordon's nursemaid, with all the bustle of their arrival. "What about your Pa?"
Jane stopped, staring at her, and then remembered. "My father—is dead, Moll. He died in September, perhaps when we were still at sea, or just after we arrived. He's been dead all that time, and I did not know."
She did not think she was about to shed tears, but her eyes burned. In a lower voice she said, "We parted so badly. And now we shall never make amends to one another."
"I'm right sorry, ma'am. I reckon all you can do is look after your little brothers the best you can."
"Oh, I will!" Another thought struck her. "Pullen! I must tell her to get out that mourning dress she made for me. I shall wear that. I must show my father some respect."
"Good idea, ma'am," Moll said soothingly. She put Will down in his little baby cot, and smoothed his blanket. "There's one taken care of," she muttered. She sat down by Jane, watching little Thomas Rutledge.
"He's a fine looking baby. Handsome. 'Tis a good deed to take him in."
The baby's suckling had slowed to a drowsy rhythm. The blue eyes were closed, and he appeared replete at last. Jane gently detached him from her breast and gave him to Moll. She tugged at the bodice of her gown, and then saw her husband standing in the shadows just inside the door.
"Shh!" she cautioned, finger to her lips. "We have just now got him quiet."
She looked at him again. William's eyes were on her, the blue of them intense and piercing, and he was looking at her with such emotion that she wondered briefly if he was angry with her. Apparently not. He strode over quietly, and dropped to his knees before her, taking her by the hand. He kissed it passionately, and pressed it to his cheek.
"My dear Jane," he croaked. If he had been another man, Jane would have thought him near tears. Surely not--
Tactfully, Moll turned her back to them, and sorted through the small box that held all of little Thomas Rutledge's worldly possessions.
"My dear Jane," Tavington repeated, painfully moved by an act of what seemed to him superhuman generosity. "No one but you—my dear Jane—thank God I married you!"
Notes: Christmas in 18th century England was very different from the holiday we know now. Not a lot of gift giving, really—that was not the point of the holiday. Children were sometimes given small gifts—and not always at Christmas. Sometimes gifts were given on New Year's day. Generally, depending on local custom, Christmas was a day to go to church, Boxing Day for remembering one's employees and servants, New Year's Day for parties, and Twelfth Night for the biggest parties of all-including customs such as naming the Lord of Misrule. Christmas Trees were just beginning their trek over from Germany. The Kissing Bough was an older English tradition, dating back to the Celts, and its descendant today is the kiss under the mistletoe. Once Sir John gets more settled in his role at Wargrave (beyond the scope of this story), expect much more holiday cheer: A ball either just before Christmas, or on New Year's Eve, or Twelfth Night; a traveling Punch and Judy puppet show to entertain his dear little stepdaughter and her friends; charades in costume; and visits from village mummers (complete with a visit from--"In comes I, Old Father Christmas! Be I welcome or be I not - I hope that Old Christmas will never be forgot!")
I was originally thinking of wrapping up the story within a few chapters, but it seems to me I have a great deal more material to explore: Jane's return to London, Tavington's memoirs and portrait, John's marriage, Letty's presentatiion at court and her relations with her new in-laws, political storms and possible duels. The fighting may be over, but the war isn't. Let me know what you think. I consider reviews when constructing my chapters!
Next—Chapter 49: A Christmas in Bath