“Right.”Rafe left the captain smiling and trudged home trying to imagine how to entertain a marquess in a medieval pub that barely hadbenches.Being a mess sergeant had been simpler.
But not as satisfying, he admitted, as he entered his kitchen to the rich aroma of mutton stew.He’d been planning on making shepherd pie but having food waiting was so unusual that he felt as if a ten-stone rucksack had dropped from his shoulders.
He felt even lighter when the children raced toward him, hugging his legs and chattering.Chattering.Daphne was talking again.Not well or sensibly, but enough to have everyone in the kitchen smiling for a change.
“Merry Christmas,” Verity murmured, taking his coat.“She hasn’t stopped talking since you hauled off herbad man.”
A child would not be allowed in court as a witness.What had she seen?
“Has she said anything useful?”It would be Christmas miracle if so.The child was currently questioning how the currants got into the bread.Apparently one of the ladies knew how to make soda bread over a fire.
“She cries if I ask anything about her mother and Beanblossom.So we’re talking about the fair and Christmas dinner and singing.”Verity shooed the children toward their room.“Let Mr.Rafe eat his dinner while we read a book, shall we?”
“She’ll be a wonderful mother,” Mrs.Hatter said as she set out a plate for him in the kitchen instead of the private dining room.
Rafe didn’t care where he ate as long as he had food.He’d gone without far too often.“Verity is a good teacher,” he agreed proudly.
Motherhood—might be problematic.
If Daniel was actuallyViscount Chatham, he’d be ushered off to some grand estate, surrounded by guardians and servants and a dozen tutors.
How the devil could he tell Verity that?She was the happiest he’d seen her in weeks.
CHRISTMAS EVE
December 24, 1815
Thirty-six
Minerva
“DoI sing for my supper with the village folk or stand as a representative of the manor?”Minerva asked, hanging on to Paul’s arm as they took the short path from the parsonage to the inn.It was already dark at this hour and starting to sleet.After Sunday services, she’d spent the afternoon nobly visiting the housebound.She’d left Patience decorating the chapel for tomorrow’s Christmas mass and hadn’t had time to nibble her way through whatever feast Elsa had prepared for tonight’s festivity.
“You have a lovely voice.Sing,” Paul ordered.“It will be good practice for tomorrow, where I trust you will sing prayers and notGod Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
Minerva laughed.“Patience’s pagan greenery might warn of local preferences.She even has mistletoe, if you look closely.”
To welcome his noble guests, Rafe had illuminated the inn yard with every lantern and candle he possessed.A barouche and curricle indicated the manor inhabitants had arrived.Minerva sighed her pleasure at the festive sight.“It feels so good believing we have the criminals locked up and may truly celebrate.Please do not tell me otherwise.”
“Hunt has Cooper in the crypt.The scoundrel is in a state, threatening to bring charges, demanding that he see a lawyer and Lord Chatham.Damien has explained there won’t be any trial until after Boxing Day.His legal services have been refused,” Paul added wryly.
“Brydie sent her first batch of hot-cross buns to the prisoners because she didn’t like the way they turned out.I assume that didn’t sweeten their dispositions.”Seeing Patience and Henri approaching, Minerva halted outside the inn door to greet them.
“I’ve asked our carolers to gather in the stable.Shall we join them?”Patience asked, clearly planning on singing for her supper, despite also being one of the manor owners.
Delighted to have company, Minerva sent Paul inside with Henri.Her brilliant husband sang like a croaking frog.
“Is Brydie coming?I brought Willa’s recipe book.She thinks it might have a better recipe for buns than she’s found.We really need to have it copied out and perhaps sent to a printer as a memorial to Willa and her bakery.”Minerva trailed behind the statuesque gardener, while fumbling in her cloak pocket for the tattered volume.
“Clare knows printers.Who has a fair hand for copying?”They halted in the stable doorway to admire the gathering crowd of eager revelers.
Even Verity and the orphans had joined them.The orphans clung to Verity while all the other young ones raced about in unbridled excitement.Fletch towered over the corridor leading to where the horses were stabled, blocking the valuable animals from mischief.
“Do you know anyone with a fair hand for copying Willa’s recipe book?”Patience was asking Verity.
“I have a fair hand, and Mr.Birdwhistle, but we don’t have much time with school starting in a week.If you want it soon and are willing to pay, Mrs.Mayfield has been copying out Rafe’s tattered notebook of recipes.She might like the extra coin.”
Minerva handed over the thick volume.“Talk to Mrs.Mayfield, please.This past week has been so busy, I haven’t had the time to even look for the recipe Brydie wants.The handwriting is execrable.”Minerva knew, as a librarian—not a cook—she was being uppish over a tattered and handwritten old recipe book.It held no value to her.
