Gradually, the other skaters came into view in the area of the ice near the warming bonfire. Grace was circling slowly, gaining more confidence bit by bit. Lucy, however, was having a more difficult time. Hugh, along with two of the Abbey’s footmen were struggling to keep her upright. Hugh skated backwards, encouraging her to follow his lead, whilst the two footmen stayed close to either side of her.
Duncan felt the tiniest bit of guilt at having left everyone to race free down the river, but on second thought, he realized Hugh was probably enjoying pulling Lucy up into his arms each time she fell. Johnny pulled up beside him and gave a short salute in acknowledgement of his win before joining the others huddled around the bonfire warming up before attempting another round of skating.
When he joined Grace, he grasped her mittened hands and pulled her across the ice in a circling sort of dance on skates. When they reached the darkened far side of the river, away from the bonfire, he pulled her close and claimed a kiss. He covered her lips with his and refused to back away, deepening the kiss and exploring her tongue and mouth. She pulled away suddenly. “Duncan—. Someone will see us.”
He leaned back just enough to cradle the back of her head and gaze into her eyes before claiming her mouth in another long kiss. Much later, he replied: “They’re not paying any attention to us, and even if they were trying to spy on us, they couldn’t see anything in the dark this far away from the fire.”
“What are we doing here?” Grace asked, a complaining tone creeping into her voice.
“We’re kissing and giving each other pleasure, Mrs. Phippen. You’re a widow, and I’m an old soldier. No one will be scandalized, let alone suspicious of what we’re doing out here on the river in the dark. Hasn’t anyone ever told you the true purpose of house parties is for romance and intrigue?”
“That’s whatyouthink. You’re not a single woman trying to run a respectable academy for young women.”
Lucy battedaway Hugh’s beckoning hands. “Why don’t you abandon me to my misery and go off to skate on your own? There’s no hope for me.”
Hugh could see the truth of what she said reflected in the faces of the two footmen staying by her side to pick her up after her frequent falls.
“Really, Hugh, I’ve had enough tumbles onto the cold ice. Let me go back to the bonfire so that you can enjoy yourself.” The expressive look of pleading in her eyes finally convinced him.
“We’ll both sit by the fire. I believe the footmen brought along a large jug of spiced hot wine. That should warm your fingers and toes before we head back on the sleighs.”
Later that nightat an informal supper prepared for the skaters, Hugh snugged close to Lucy and told himself he was only there to keep her warm. When four footmen carried in the heavy silver tray with an enormous pie balanced in the middle, both he and Lucy held their breath in anticipation. Even if the family and many of the guests had seen the nearly century-old traditional display before, the release of four live “Colly” birds out of a hollow pie crust elicited many cries of awe and delight.
Hugh watched her clap with glee and fairly vibrate with excitement at the annual Abbey tradition, passed down from earlier times. The contents of the pie shell were actually blackbirds trapped earlier that day on the estate, and no onewould have tried to bake them in the pastry shell. Truth to tell, the meat would probably be as tough as the clever scavengers themselves.
As a young man home for the school holidays, he’d been endlessly curious about the bizarre spectacle and so years ago had sat in the kitchen one full day watching Cook and her assistants create the illusion. The huge crust was baked early in the day with an extra-thick layer of dough,andthere was a large hole cut in the bottom after the pastry had cooled thoroughly.
The birds had been caught the day before by the estate gameskeeper and had been fed a mixture of grain mixed with a bit of rum to mellow their usual swift antics. At the last minute before serving, the blackbirds were settled onto the large carrying tray with a team of footmen and pot boys lowering the crust over the lot of them.
Cook stood by with spare slabs of pastry…just in case there were a last minute attempt by one or more of the birds to escape to freedom before they could be carried up the servants’ back staircase. The few minutes of the dramatic release for the benefit of all of the Abbey guests had taken a full day to accomplish.
Just knowing what went on in the kitchens below made Hugh somehow feel part of the spectacle that thrilled Lucy. His heart lurched as if trying to escape his chest just before he calmed in acceptance of what he was feeling and laid his hand over hers beneath the table, hoping to God no one would notice in the excitement of birds soaring frantically over their heads. The gameskeeper and a few of his beaters for the hunt came in and recaptured the lot of the screeching birds for release outside the Abbey.
10
December 29, 1843
Montcliffe Abbey
Essex, England
Grace followed Lucy toward the Abbey grounds’ eerie grotto memorial to a long-dead ship’s cat belonging to a similarly long-dead Royal Navy admiral. The tall column commemorating “Calypso,” was so massive, it could be seen from the side portico. Once at the site of the grotto, if one craned one’s head all the way back, one could see a cat curled atop an elaborate Greek-styled urn. Legend had it the famous feline’s ashes rested inside the urn.
The former owner of the Abbey had been an admiral in the Royal Navy at least a century before and had battled Spanish ships laden with riches on the far side of the world. His incredible wealth from prizes he’d taken was the basis for all of the improvements to the Abbey which had converted the old pile into a luxurious family home. Grace had always smiled to herselfabout a curious secret she’d discovered on one of her many long, rambling walks about the estate.
Although a famous oil painting of the man now hung in a portrait gallery in London, the long-ago admiral’s grave had only a small stone marker in the family cemetery whilst his beloved feline companion was memorialized in a huge grotto and sculpture. Since the day she’d found the small stone tablet, she’d cut away the grass obliterating the memorial whenever she was in residence at the Abbey. She couldn’t say exactly why, but she felt a bit of kinship with the lonely man of the sea now locked in the ground, many miles away from the raging seas from whence had come his fortune.
Lucy turned suddenly and in a low voice asked, “Do you see what a neat job Johnny’s made of a path through the snow so that we could take the ladies for an outing today?”
Grace looked around with a start. The path was neatly trod down with a wide area for Abbey guests to walk toward the grotto. Since the site was a good fifteen-minute walk from the Abbey portico, her son must have been working hard over the last few days, due in no small part to Duncan’s urging and tutelage.
She’d never seen her argumentative son take so quickly to an older man. His usual reaction to men in positions of power, or merely men who were senior to him, was mulishness. She feared that was the main reason Mr. Hallewell had dismissed him so suddenly without give a reason, or references so that her son could find another apprenticeship. Although she did find it interesting that, according to Johnny, the wheelwright had immediately replaced him with a Hallewell nephew.
It had warmed her heart to see her son immediately recognize the extent of Duncan’s hearing loss and adapt to making sure he spoke directly to him, so that he could read his lips. She hadn’t had to explain the situation. Johnny had seemedto understand instinctively from the beginning. Watching the two of them together was almost comical in that they rarely spoke, seeming to need only gestures and looks to communicate.
Lucy strodetoward the statue at the entrance to the grotto and turned to face the small group of women who’d elected to learn about the grotto and monument while their husbands and sons were being feted at a shooting party led by the Abbey gameskeeper. Their efforts hopefully would lead to the “Five Golden Rings” part of the Twelve Days of Christmas festivities. The beautiful ring-necked pheasants would be stewed in veal gravy with artichokes by the Cook and her army of extra kitchen workers brought in for the house party.
“I’m sure you’re all already to turn around and walk briskly back to the Abbey.” She swung around and pointed with her gloved hand toward the circle of stone benches which had also been cleared of snow. “I’m also fairly certain none of you is interested in sitting on those benches today to hear what I have to say.” The women indulged in a bit of brave laughter. All of them were bundled in layers of woolen shawls and scarves over top of heavy carriage dresses, but those layers were no match for the Essex countryside’s bone-thrumming winter cold. “So I’ll make the tale of the most famous Abbey cat brief.”
