Chapter 50: A Christmas at Wargrave
Jane opened her eyes to the dim light filtering through the heavy bed hangings. She groped for the opening, and peered out. Wisps of snow whitened the lower corners of the mullioned window. She blinked blearily, well-rested but not yet ready to get up. William was still asleep, his back to her. Curious about how much snow had fallen, she crept out of the bed and tiptoed over to see.
The world was white. Jane had never seen so much snow. It actually covered the ground completely, and adorned the drooping trees like sugar icing. She could not guess the actual depth, but there must be at least two inches. It was the strangest landscape she had ever looked upon. The sky, too, looked white. She threw on her shift and her powdering gown, and curled up on the window seat to admire the view.
She heard a sleepy grumble from behind the bed curtains, and smiled to herself. William had never before been so attentive as he had shown himself last night. He had known just how to comfort her when she was so bewildered with the events since his arrival. Those events would certainly change her life: perhaps for the better. Her gaze fell on the sealed letter to Letty lying on her writing table. That much was done. She must also write to Cousin Mary before William departed. He could take her letters back to London faster than the mail wagon.
She pictured the movements of those bits of paper. One would travel express to Bath, and would reach Letty within the week. The other's progress would be slower: perhaps a mailwagon to Portsmouth or Bristol, then a packet to Charlestown. At least the letter to Cousin Mary had a good chance of reaching her, thanks to the cessation of hostilities. It would be well to be certain, though. She would send a copy the next time William visited. Whatever the dangers of the sea, one of those letters should reach and reassure her cousin.
Papa is dead. The thought came to her like a lead weight dropped into a pool. She felt a hollowness within her, and wondered if she should be ashamed. She felt very little, really: there was little to feel. My brother is here—no, my two brothers are here. This thought stirred a response, but it was a complicated one. She had loved Little Ash very much—she still loved him, but she had said her goodbyes to him and had accepted that he was gone from her life. Now he was back, and back for good. She would have to raise him—and young Thomas as well. It would take time and attention, and inevitably would reduce the amount of care that she could lavish on her own precious William Francis. She was not entirely sure that would be a good thing.
I'm a fool. They are here, and that's all there is to it. William Francis will have companions and playmates. Ash and Thomas will have all sorts of opportunities. They will live their lives as Englishmen.
She snorted—a rather unladylike sound. Selina might well regret her sons someday. Perhaps even now she was writing to Mary Laurens in Charlestown to recover them. "Well, too bad!" Jane said aloud. Selina could whistle for the boys. She had abandoned them and would have to live with it. It would be quite impossible for her to claim them now, separated as they were by thousands of miles. Probably she would be very angry with Cousin Mary, but there would be nothing she could do. Cousin Mary could calmly point out that a British officer had taken them and that she had been unable to resist. If Selina ever wrote to England to seek legal redress, she would find it heavy going, after having deserted her children, to retrieve the boys from their sister and brother-in-law—whose brother was a Member of Parliament! There was a certain satisfaction in taking something precious from Selina.
She slipped into her dressing room to use the close-stool there, taking care to be very quiet. Pullen was still asleep, the curtain drawn tight to close in the small bed. There was no reason to awaken her. Jane did not feel like dressing yet. Instead, she ran back into the bedchamber, shutting the dressing room door behind her softly, and climbed back up onto the window seat. She could see distant figures in the landscape and wondered what they were doing. Blackbirds called out harshly, their soaring shapes silhouetted against the pale sky.
"Jane?" William had pushed the bed curtains aside, and lay there on his side, He looked very alluring: his scarred chest bare and his dark hair tumbling about his shoulders in elf locks.
She smiled at him. "It snowed. Everything is covered with it. I've never seen anything like it!"
"Really?" He looked concerned, rather than pleased. "I hope we are not snowbound. Bordon would find it inconvenient." He threw the sheet aside and came to the window. "My dear, it's hardly more than a dusting!"
"But look! Everything's covered with it. It's so pretty."
"Not much more than two inches. The carriages should be able to get about, with care. You look cold." He found his pocket-watch, laid out on the night table. "It is but six o'clock! Come back to bed."
He pulled the powdering gown from her shoulders, and tucked her in warmly. He did not immediately get in himself, however. Instead, he reached into a tall chest of drawers for a little red box, and brought it back with him, sliding in beside Jane.
"Oooh!" She objected. "Your feet are cold! What is that?" she asked, eyeing the box with interest.
"You'll have to open it and find out."
Inside, brilliant against the red velvet, was a ring. A fiery opal glowed in the center set, and at each cardinal point a diamond sparkled. Jane removed the ring from the box, quite taken with it. She held it to the light, watching the hot streaks of orange-red and blue-green flickering in the stone's depths.
"This is marvelous!"
"Put it on," he urged her. "I want to make certain that it fits."
"It does! It fits perfectly." She admired it holding her hand out, "I take it that it's for me?"
"No, Jane, it's for Moll! Of course it's for you. Perhaps I should have waited to present it to you before the others, but I could not. I had promised myself to get you something lovely when we were in funds again. Do you like it?"
"Oh, yes! I've never owned an opal before. It's beautiful. It's not proper mourning jewelry, however."
"I don't give a fig for that. I want you to wear it. There's no reason to make yourself an eyesore with jet beads and such rubbish. No one expects a woman to put off her wedding ring because she is in mourning!"
"My wedding ring?"
He grimaced, feeling a little ashamed. "I would like you to consider it so."
She turned and kissed him, still looking at her beautiful ring. "Then I shall. And I must thank you properly for my lovely Christmas gift!"
But there was no time. No sooner had they wrapped their arms around each other and begun the pleasant preliminaries, than one wail and then another rose from the next room. Tavington threw himself back on the bed in frustration. Jane got up and quickly donned the powdering gown again . A pair of Turkish slippers later, she dashed into Moll's room to be welcomed by a pair of hungry baby boys, and another glass of small beer.
"I'm very glad I shan't have to do this for more than a few months," she confided in Moll. "Motherhood is very noble, and all that, but at the moment I feel like a cow!"
Moll snorted, much amused. She had rearranged the room the night before, and had sent a young servant out to borrow a second high chair. "They slept pretty sound, all in all, last night," she told Jane. "The new little fellow woke up early and looked about, but he seemed willing to make friends before he howled for his breakfast. Right nice little man."
"He has a strong jaw," Jane remarked wryly. She noticed that Tom was clutching a scrap of red felt. She thought that he had seized on Will's little soldier doll, until she spotted the old one still in her son's cot. "Moll, did you sit up all night making a toy for this baby?"
Moll's shrugged, her back to her, as she made up her bed. Her voice sounded oddly thick.
"Tweren't nothing. The poor little mite ain't got nothing at all. Didn't take two shakes of a lamb's tail to whip him up a little rag doll. I reckon 'twill keep him happier, and so be well worth the trouble."
"That was very kind of you. I can see he loves it."
He certainly seemed to. The soft soldier doll was pressed to his cheek with one hand as he nursed. With two boys in her lap, there was nothing else Jane could do. It was rather dull, actually, and she wished she could at least read. Rose came in soon, thankfully, and gave them intelligence from the nursery upstairs.
"If you please, ma'am, Betty and Martha are letting the little ones sleep themselves out. 'Twas a hard journey yesterday, Betty says, and the poor little creatures need rest. They wish to know if they may call for nursery breakfast around eight."
"I cannot see that that would be a problem. I already ordered the meals, Rose. Oh—I did not have a chance yet to examine the state of Master Ashbury's belongings. Are they as skimpy as his brother's?"
"I fear so, ma'am. Betty says that Mrs. Bordon says that Captain Bordon says that their cousin said that their mother left them with barely an extra clout apiece. All of their things at their home were gone when the Captain went to collect them. How wicked to rob little children!"
"Wicked indeed," agreed Jane. "I shall have to make some purchases very soon. At least we had the little cots for them!"
Half an hour later, she felt very grave as Pullen helped her into the black bombazine. Looking in the mirror, Jane was glad that she had let Pullen make her up a little. Her maid, when told of Mr. Rutledge's death in distant America, had been quietly sympathetic, but Jane had not missed the silent "I told you so," in her maid's eye. Pullen had said nothing aloud about that, however.
"You look very proper in the mourning dress, ma'am," her maid had remarked, "but there's no call for you to look sick and pale."
Thinking it over, Jane agreed, and decided that she would look the best she possibly could in black. To her surprise, the funereal dress was not unbecoming. Jane had not worn black in the past few years, and was surprised at how well she looked in it. Thank goodness. She felt it was only proper to wear mourning, but there was no reason to pretend anguish she did not feel, or ruin the holiday for her guests and family.
Her maid was rather excited about the new little boys, and had peeked in on them a few times, tutting over the state of their baby linen.
"We must send to Chelmsford, ma'am, or p'raps even London, for a great deal of fine linen. Master Thomas can wear some of Master William's things, but his elder brother has barely a smock to his name! When I was in the Magdalen, the Matron took commissions for baby linen, and I loved working upon it. The feel of that delicate cloth is like a baby's skin—"
Pullen rattled on happily, clearly full of plans for little smocks and coats and caps. Jane was grateful that her maid was so willing to help. Another lady's maid might have sulked, feeling that it was beneath her to do sewing for the nursery. With two new children, there would be work for them all. At least Ashbury was not yet breeched, and simple infant's clothing would do for him.
She emerged from Pullen's room, and was pleased to see that William had donned his dark grey coat, and looked very handsome in it. She had not thought about it, when she had seen him in it yesterday, but of course he ought to acknowledge the death of a father-in-law. He examined her with approval. They had both agreed that while Jane need not make a show of grief, not wearing mourning would be shocking and wrong. There was no reason to cast the decencies of civilized society away.
William smiled at her briefly, taking her by her shoulders, and to her surprise and pleasure, kissed her lightly, ignoring the presence of the valet and maid. They were on their way to breakfast, when a burst of noise from upstairs distracted them. A deep, loud bark was followed by excited squeals.
"It's that dog!" Jane cried impatiently.
Tavington laughed, and the two of them ran up to the second-floor nursery to find the children playing with the big red gundog. Rambler saw them arrive, and sat up, with a happy and somewhat crazed look in his rolling eyes. Robin Bordon had tried to climb onto his back and slid to the floor, giggling. Rambler licked the child's pink face. Jane could almost feel the wind generated by the wagging tail. Susan Bordon was admiring the effect of her blue hair ribbon, which did indeed look jaunty tied around Rambler's left ear. "We match!" she pronounced, comparing her own red curls with Rambler's shiny coat. Ned Protheroe was considering the scene, and then threw himself on the floor, rolling on his back with his legs and arms up, in imitation of the dog.
The door to the little room adjoining burst open, and Ashbury Rutledge, Junior escaped, fresh from his bath.
"I'M NAKEEEEEEE!" he roared triumphantly, little arms pumping, grinning enormously as he flew towards the dog. Jane had to laugh, and nearly teared up at the same time. Ashbury's broad grin recalled the wide mouth of his father, which Jane had unfortunately inherited as well. It brought back a picture of her father in happier days. On Little Ash, the grin was enchanting. Even her husband seemed to think so. He swooped down on the child and caught him up.
"Ha, sirrah! You're caught!"
The little boy struggled, pink and round and bare-bottomed, as Tavington handed him back to the Bordon's nurse.
"Thank you sir! He was that dirty this morning. I had just got him clean and nothing would suit him but to be covered with dog slobber at once!"
Tavington eyed Rambler sympathetically. "I think, old boy, that was a hint. Off you go!"
The children wailed in disappointment, but Tavington was smilingly firm.
"No, Rambler can visit later, once you're all dressed and fed. Come along!" he commanded the dog, who padded obediently away, not without a wistful look back at his young admirers. Tavington reached down to flick off the blue ribbon, and flashed a smile at Jane.
He shut the door after the dog and took a chair watching the mistress and maids organize the children for their breakfast porridge at a little low table with benches on either side. He had had countless meals there himself, and felt quite pleasantly nostalgic as he watched the little people settling down, pushing a little to get the preferred place. In short order, young Ashbury joined them, now in a clean but shabby infant's smock. Jane tied a huge bib around his neck. The little boy seemed not to object to her presence today, more interested in the arrival of breakfast. Jane ran a small ivory comb through the cornsilk-fair curls.
"Where's Mamma?" Susan asked anxiously, and at that moment Harriet Bordon and Lucy Protheroe entered, followed by a nursery maid with a heavily-laden tray. A whine rose from a big red body hidden by the petticoats in the doorway.
"Stay at the table, children!" Harriet commanded the children in a cheerful voice, while Lucy called in an undertone to her brother, "The dog wants to come in. Shall I let him?"
"No," Tavington whispered back. "He'll get the children excited again. Perhaps after their breakfast."
Nursery breakfast was laid out in short order. Cups and porringers and spoons were arranged, pots of cream and honey set on the table, and the covered dish of oat porridge served up.
"There's no milk, Mamma!" complained Ned Protheroe, frowning at his cup of weak cider.
Jane flushed with embarrassment. Their small supply of milk had gone entirely for cooking today. At least some cream had been set aside for breakfast. She had purchased butter in quantity, but had forgotten that some of their "few" children might be accustomed to drinking milk. She did not think cow's milk was safe for children, and had so far been unable to purchase a she-ass, which she thought would provide more digestible milk anyway.
Lucy expertly distracted her little boy from the deficiencies of this strange breakfast table. "Look, my love, there's cream for your porridge, and honey too! How delicious! That is cider, Ned. It is made from apples grown here at Wargrave. I always drank it when I was a little girl."
Harriet discreetly moved away and let Jane help Ash with his breakfast. He spooned up the porridge, and appeared to think the honey worth eating.
"Sweet!" He waved a dripping spoonful for Jane to see. "Sweet!"
"That's honey, Ash. The little bees make it. Do you like it?"
"Esshh!" he decided, licking the spoon thoroughly. He seemed to like the cider too and wanted more. Then he wanted Jane to drink some from his cup, which she did.
"He settled down in the evening very well, and then he said his prayers," Harriet assured her softly, "which now include, all unprompted, 'Sister Jane,' and—" she gave Tavington an arch of a brow "—the Big Man."
"The Big Man?" Tavington asked, amused, "and who might that be?'
"I asked him," laughed Harriet, "and was told 'Sister Jane's Big Man!' So you see."
"Where's Tom?" asked Susan. "Is he going to have breakfast?"
Ashbury looked up anxiously, appearing to have just realized his brother's absence.
Jane said quickly, "Tom is downstairs with my little Will. They are both babies, and had their breakfast together. Perhaps they can come upstairs and visit later."
"Oh, yes!" agreed Susan. "Tom is my little boy. I help take care of him. Is it Christmas today?"
"Kissmas!" shouted Ned Protheroe.
"Yes, today is Christmas Day," Lucy proclaimed. "We shall a special dinner here in the nursery, and tonight you children shall join us for pudding."
The ladies had agreed last night that a full Christmas dinner would be too long and tiring for the little ones. However, they could have naps in the afternoon, and then come down for pudding when the adults were finishing the feast. The door opened again, and John peered in, grinning.
"Look at the little blackguards. It's a jolly sight to see children at that table again! Have they finished breakfast?"
"Very nearly!" said Lucy. "Oh, come in! I can see you're as impatient as ever."
John was obviously plotting something. "Cobb Jeffreys thinks the snow is getting deep enough to take the sleigh out for a run on the Sunken Road."
"How wonderful!" cried Lucy. She told Harriet, "The Sunken Road lead to the Low Pasture and is very smooth. It's not a long drive. We could take turns, for the sleigh only holds two passengers with ease—or more, with children! Oh, John, do let's go sleighing! I must tell Edward!" She and John dashed from the room, already planning the outing.
"We still haven't had breakfast ourselves," Jane whispered to Tavington.
"Oh, go on!" laughed Harriet. "I'll stay with Betty and Martha. Just send me word if you are really going sleighing. I love it!"
"What's sleighing, Mamma?" Susan asked.
"Something I used to do when I was younger, darling—"
Tavington took Jane by the hand, and they left the room, nearly tripping over Rambler. "Come along. Surely John has left some breakfast for us!"
As they reached the first floor, they heard a familiar bark and an explosion of excited children's voices. Tavington observed, with professional demeanour, "It would appear that Rambler has successfully infiltrated the nursery!"
Jane had never ridden in a sleigh, either. Tavington made her eat a hearty breakfast in preparation. Once the two black ponies, Midnight and Jet, were harnessed to the little sleigh, a party of warmly dressed gentlemen and ladies straggled out the door, barely keeping four excited little children in check. There were bells affixed to the harness, which jingled musically when the ponies pawed and fidgeted. The children were particularly charmed by this accessory, and had to be restrained from coming too close.
"Why are there bells?" Jane asked her husband in an undertone. "Is it because it's Christmas?"
"No," he explained. "It's because a sleigh moves so silently that the bells give warning of its approach."
Jane admired the little vehicle. It was low and light, and the seats were piled high with blankets and furs. Jane was beginning to feel some excitement at such a novel mode of transportation.
"And 'tis I shall be your coachman!" John declared, doffing his hat. "I have no lady to partner, so I'll just perch up here," he swung into the driver's seat, "And take you all in turn! Who's first? Our guests, Captain and Mrs. Bordon?"
The Tavingtons and Protheroes all thought that very proper. Bordon and Harriet settled into the little sleigh and Robin and Susan were held tightly on their laps. The ponies' hooves were muffled by the snow. The sleigh started up, gliding soundlessly save for the silvery bells. The snow was falling again: a few desultory flakes. The silence was broken somewhat by the happy cries of Susan and Robin, growing fainter by the second in the immense stillness. Ashbury began to look forlorn, seeing his "Mamma" and his best friends driving away.
"Are they comin' back?" he asked, his lip trembling.
"Of course they shall. Then Ned and his parents shall have their turn, and then you'll go with the Colonel and me," Jane reassured him.
He was still very worried, but did not start howling, so she gave thanks for that. Tavington took Ned and Ashbury aside, and distracted the boys by showing them how to make a snowball. The snow was a bit light and soft for it, but Ned and Ashbury were soon mashing lumps of snow in their hands, giggling as they tossed them at each other's heads with wild inaccuracy, squealing with fearful joy when one powdery missile hit Tavington in the eye. Lucy grinned at the sight. Protheroe crouched carefully by his son, and a very tentative snow fight, with each tiny boy coached by a tall, great-coated provocateur, ensued. Then the boys were shown how interesting footprints in the snow were, and how to tell which prints were made by whom, and how pretty snowflakes were. Tavington spotted some rabbit tracks, and told the excited little boys what they were.
The Bordons reappeared, gliding back, accompanied by the music of the bells. Jane was beginning to feel cold, but kept herself amused by the sight of the boys, little and big, messing about in the snow. When it was finally time for her own sleigh ride, she wrapped herself thankfully in the rugs and furs and saw that Ashbury was warm too, cuddled against her. Tavington put an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. Sleighing was a strange sensation.
"I can see why Lucy likes it so much!" she told Tavington. "It's so smooth! Do you like this, Ash?"
The little boy nodded vigorously. "But I'm cold," he complained, snuggling closer.
"You'll be warm soon. Isn't this fox fur tickly?"
He giggled, as she pulled it under his chin.
"Faster, you sluggard!" Tavington called to his brother
John laughed, and obliged with a snap of the whip. Jane looked up in wonder. The lane was low and white, and overhead, over-arching branches drooped. They glided along, without a bounce, without a rumble.
"I wish riding in a carriage could be like this!" she said, thinking of all the times she had been shaken sick by rough roads. Tavington smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze.
It was strangely peaceful: the white world, the silence broken only by the sleighbells, the smooth motion along the snow, the pleasant-scented warmth of his wife, nestled close. Her hood was speckled white with snowflakes. A few clung to his own lashes. He kissed her brow, and she smiled up at him.
"I have never had such a Christmas!" she told him.
He laughed at her."And this is just the beginning!"
Too soon, it was over, but Jane began to see what William meant. Once the sleigh rides were finished, John decided to visit the tenants. He and Jeffreys decided that there was just enough snow that he could use the sleigh for this, if he went immediately.
"Elsewise, the High Street will be all stirred up and muddy, and you'll never get along, sir. The snow ain't proper deep in places. P'raps if it's just you and me and the parcels we can manage well enough."
Harriet and Lucy herded the children away, to get warm in the nursery. Tavington invited Protheroe and Bordon to the library for mulled wine and good talk. Jane helped prepare John for his visits. She had made a list of the families and individuals to be visited, and had prepared baskets of drink and foodstuffs for each. The footmen loaded the sleigh to her specifications, and John stepped in, now a passenger, for Cobb Jeffreys took the coachman's place, and the two of them were off.
"Do give my best wishes to them all!" Jane called after John, giving him a parting wave, looking forward to sitting down.
"No fear!" John shouted back. "They'll know well enough that it's all your doing!"
Yes, she saw. It was just the beginning. She had never had such a day of enjoyment, surrounded by friends, with a husband kind and affectionate. There was no sniping, no insults, no boredom. Everyone was interested in everyone else: no one was looking for opportunities to lord it over the others or make anyone else feel small. Jane had never imagined how good life could be among like-minded people. It was so entertaining that she actually welcomed the long quiet periods of nursing the babies, for it gave her rest from so much unaccustomed society.
Jane had yet another new experiences on this wonderful Christmas. After the children's dinner, everyone gathered in the drawing room, and the children were brought down to be given a gift in honor of the day. Susan Bordon received a lovely doll, much like Fanny Martingale's, only dressed in blue instead of pink (for Bordon had found that Sir John knew where such an item was to be had). Ned Protheroe squealed at the sight of a wooden Harlequin, gaily painted, whose hinged joints allowed him postures not commonly observed in Nature. For Robin Bordon, his parent's had found a large and brilliant top that the boy's father showed him how to spin at amazing length. The toy attracted the men, each of whom had his own, correct technique for the proper spinning of tops. In short order, there were stiff, civil disagreements in deep, earnest voices. Lucy laughed openly at her husband. Harriet patted Bordon's hand, and said she hoped his sermons were equally heart-felt.
Jane smiled, sitting by Ashbury, and was touched, in the midst of the excitement, to find that her husband had not forgotten her little brother. With shining eyes, he was soon examining a wonderful little wooden horse on wheels, which he found could be pulled after him wherever he liked by means of a sturdy string. He led his small, crimson-painted steed to a corner, and sat comfortably on the floor, pushing the toy back and forth, lifting it upside down to admire the rolling wheels.
The two babies, each in a nurse's arms, had little rattles, which added to the general pandemonium. Jane remembered all the charmless Christmases of her childhood: church in the morning and no gifts; dinner with Miss Gilpin; reading a book or stitching quietly with Letty. This was certainly different, and quite wonderful.
She could not know that Tavington, too, thought this the best Christmas of his life. He was observing the happy faces, and felt quite happy himself. Jane, even dressed in funereal black, looked so pleased with everything, and seemed to have made good friends with Harriet and Lucy. The two ladies were admiring the opal ring. All the family fellowship was a great joy, but of course no mortal happiness could be perfect. Underlying it all was the reality of the world outside this island of peace and cheer: a war lost, distant comrades suffering, a doubtful political forecast, his mother's dementia, guilt over Caroline and Penelope, concern for the future of his two new charges. He gave a deep sigh. Jane heard him.
"What is wrong?"
He laughed shortly. "Nothing here. I foolishly allowed myself to think of something other than the scene before us. It will pass."
Ashbury wanted him to look at his marvelous toy. Tavington smiled and sat down beside the boy, agreeing that Red Horse was a magnificent creature
Jane touched his shoulder. "Look."
Susan Bordon was gently kissing Thomas' cheek. "You're my nice baby boy," she told him. Then noticing William Francis in Rose's arms, she was surprised. She turned to her mother. "Two babies! They look alike!" She pointed to William Francis, and asked, "Is that Tom's brother, too?"
Tavington winced. Jane winced. John was instantly alert, as if suddenly seeing something in a new way. Harriet's smile became a little strained, and it was clear that she understood the situation. Bordon was not discomposed in the least, and pulled Susan up into his lap, and kindly explained to her the complicated relationships among the little boys, and that Thomas was little Will's uncle, and what that meant.
"But he looks just like him!" Susan insisted. "Are you sure they're not brothers?"
"Quite sure," Bordon said easily.
The Protheroes, thank God, had noticed nothing, as they laughed over Harlequin's remarkable acrobatics. Tavington caught the question in John's eyes, and gave him a look that said 'I don't want to talk about it.'
Young appeared at the doorway. "If you please, Sir John, there are some village folk at the door, come to 'wassail' you, as they say."
"Ha! Show them into the Great Hall!" John leaped from his seat.
Jane did not understand what was going on, but clearly her husband and Lucy did, for they rose, looking pleased. Everyone trailed out of the drawing room. The children were full of questions, and then paused at the sight of strangers bearing a great steaming pewter vessel that smelled of ale and apples and spices.
"The Wassail Bowl!" John bellowed. "Come, ladies! Bring the children, too! Here, my good fellows," he said to the wassailers, distributing money among them, "Here's for your trouble. Thank you for coming,"
Jane whispered to Lucy, "What does one do with it? Should I have the servants bring out some goblets?"
"No. That's not how we do it here. Go on, go up and stand by John. You're the lady of the house. Follow John's lead."
Tavington saw his wife looking uncertain, and took her by the hand, leading her to his side. John was already taking the wassail bowl in his two hands, lifting it up, and with a hearty, "Good health to you all!" took a deep, long draught of it. He turned to Jane, grinning, and held the bowl for her.
"I drink right out of the bowl?" Jane whispered anxiously to Tavington.
"That's right. A long drink, too, or you'll wound their sensibilities. Go on!"
Jane smiled shyly, and drank. Roasted apples bobbed on the foamy surface of the spiced ale. One of them bumped against Jane's nose, but she took a good swallow, and smiled again. "It's very good," she told everyone.
They all drank from the bowl in turn. Even the children were given a sip—the babies a drop on their tongues, which made them open their blue eyes wide and smack small mouths with surprise and appreciation. The nursemaids, too, were called forth. Rose took a timid sip, and Moll a deep quaff. Young, their new butler, was last, and he drained the bowl.
The village blacksmith told them, "We've got a full kettle on the fire for to wassail the trees now. Would it please Your Honors to come?"
"Start with the little orchard by the North Entrance," John commanded. "It is not too far for the ladies to walk, if they wish to see this."
Jane could see that Moll was as curious as herself, and so she arranged her for her to come along, carrying the children with the other nursemaids. Cloaks and coats were donned again, and the party left through the door between the library and drawing room, down a path past the little low wall, past a garden walk, and into a stand of apple trees. The wassailers, now grown to nearly the entire population of the village came around by the front.
Two strong men carried a big steaming cauldron slung between them on stout poles. Young women carried loaves of bread. They entered the orchard, and in the center found the oldest tree. John was offered a hunk of bread, which he good-naturedly dipped in the wassail, and then laid on the roots of the tree. Jane started at the sudden shout from the village men, more chant than song:
"Stand fast root, bear well top!
Pray the god send us a howling good crop.
Every twig, apples big.
Every bough, apples now."
The women called out in their turn:
"And the very health of each other tree.
Well may ye blow, well may ye bear
Blossom and fruit both apple and pear.
So that every bough and every twig
May bend with a burden both fair and big.
May ye bear us and yield us fruit such a store
That the bags and chambers and house run o'er."
And then, together:
"Here's to thee, old apple-tree,
Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow!
And whence thou mayst bear apples enow!
Hats full!
Caps full!
Bushel-bushel-sacks full,
And my pockets full too!
Huzzah!"
John joined in the "Huzzah!" and clapped his hands loudly. Tavington, beside him, cocked an ear down to old Mrs. Carter, who was offering him a piece of bread and whispering in his ear, looking at Jane. He laughed, but obediently dipped the bread in the wassail.
"Here, Jane! I am told you should eat this."
Mrs. Carter added earnestly, "'Twill help you conceive before apple harvest. Or, if you are already with child, 'twill make the little one red and white and sound as an apple."
Jane glanced behind her, and saw Moll eagerly dipping a piece of bread in the fragrant, steaming wassail. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other.
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The celebration could be seen from an upstairs window of the steward's house. Porter and his guest peered out, watching Sir John, with his family and friends, laughing and talking with the villagers, parading through the trees with the great pot of wassail.
"That's her, ain't it?" queried the visitor, pointing a dirty finger at a small figure in a fine grey cloak."Hard to tell at this distance."
"Yes." Porter cleared his throat. "That is Mrs. Tavington."
"Visits here every Thursday like clockwork, you said."
"That's right. Around noon or so. The company will be departing on the twenty-seventh and she will be quite alone. She sent a note saying that she will call on Boxing Day, and not on her usual Thursday. She'll come the next week though, as usual."
"Good enough." He flopped back on the bed, looking at the ceiling as he considered matters. "I'll just have to be ailing for another week. Have that maid of yours bring me up a bit of dinner. Wouldn't want your long-lost 'cousin' wasting away."
Porter gave a nod, as he left. "Thursday then. The Third of January."
His visitor grinned. "The day we both get a bit of our own back."
Note: "Breeching" a boy happened about age four, when he was absolutely, positively toilet-trained, and was put in boy's clothes for the first time. Up until then, infants of both sexes were clothed alike in little dresses, which made changing the little ones easier.
Next—Chapter 51: The Third of January