A Christmas Kiss (22 page)

“Yes, I'm worried about that, Joseph. What will happen if you get stuck in a drift?”

“I'll dig myself out, don't you worry none about me. It's you what's got me concerned.”

“You're so kind to worry about me when I may have gotten you in a devil of a hobble.”

“Not me,” he assured her with a grin. “If I been missed, I'll tell 'em that I took the curricle to see my sick mum in Bridestowe. I ain't never seen you tonight, Miss Evalyn, and that's a fact.” He winked at her broadly and wrapped his muffler tightly around his neck. “Well, I best be off. You take good care o' yourself. Good luck to you, ma'am. I hope you get some good o' this night's work.”

Evalyn watched through the taproom window as Joseph drove off in the snow. Then she returned to the fire, sat down and sipped her tea slowly. The enormity of her predicament slowly overwhelmed her. Perhaps she had been foolish and hasty. The trip to London would be long and costly, even in the best weather. She had to get to Launceston to pick up the stage to Exeter, the last stop of the London-Exeter stage. Each change would require additional funds for tipping the ostlers who handled her luggage, for accommodations if a long wait was required between connections, and for goodness-knew-what other exigencies which might arise. She had no idea of the cost of a hack to Launceston, but her meagre funds would certainly not provide for more than one or two nights' lodging while waiting out the storm.

There was one consolation. The snow would surely prevent anyone at Gyllford from coming after her, if they were inclined to do so. Not that she expected anyone to follow her. She was a stranger to them, after all. Kind as they had been to her, they had known her for only a week and had no obligation to be concerned for her welfare, especially after they learned that she had chosen to run away from them. She sighed. Would Philip miss her? she wondered. What would he think of her foolish disappearance? She remembered the warm gleam in his eyes, his slight, teasing smile when he had taken the portrait from her bedroom wall. How amazingly close they had been at that moment, as if each one could read the other's thoughts. It was too painful now to think about. What would there be in his revealing blue eyes when he learned that she had gone? Would they be scornful of her foolishness? Angry at her thoughtlessness? Or would they be completely indifferent? Would he dismiss the news with a shrug and turn his eyes to the beautiful Miss Trevelyan?

She was shaken from these ruminations by a cough at her elbow. Mrs. Fern stood looking down at her. “Has your man gone?” the puzzled woman asked. “You ain't meaning to stay here tonight, are you?”

“I'm not sure. Is there a hack and a driver I could hire to take me to Launceston?”

“Tonight?” Mrs. Fern asked wide-eyed. “You couldn't expect man or beast to be abroad on a night like this! Besides, it's Christmas Eve!”

“Oh, dear. I had hoped—”

“Let me call Mr. Fern, dearie. He knows more about hiring out hacks than what I do. He's out in the kitchen, eating a piece of tomorrow's ham.”

The innkeeper, Mr. Fern, a burly man with a bald head and a great walrus moustache, came from the kitchen, a look of curiosity clearly discernible in his face. “I wouldn't ask a driver to take you out tonight,” he told her firmly. “Wouldn't be safe, ma'am.”

“Do you think you can get someone for me tomorrow?” Evalyn asked.

Mr. Fern turned to the solitary man in the corner. “Sam'l?” he asked, “would you be able to drive a hack to Launceston in the morning?”

The man looked up from his tankard and shook his head. “Doubt it,” he said shortly. “The snow ain't goin' to stop so soon. Not this'n.”

The landlord shrugged. “If old Sam'l thinks not, you can lay odds you won't get out o' here tomorrow morning neither.”

“Old Sam'l knows the weather, he does,” Mrs. Fern agreed.

Evalyn shook her head, crestfallen. “I hope he may be wrong, this time,” she said worriedly. “But in the meantime, do you have a room for me?”

“That we have, ma'am, with the house so empty. Don't you fret. We'll have you snug in no time,” Mr. Fern said kindly.

“That we will,” agreed his spouse. “The best bedroom for you tonight. Mr. Fern will bring you a bit of ham and some greens, while I go up and start a nice fire and warm your sheets. Some food and a warm bed'll get you out of the dismals, you'll see.”

Evalyn smiled weakly and resumed her seat. Mr. Fern filled a tankard, wordlessly placed it before old Sam'l, and went out to the kitchen. He returned a moment later with a platter heaped with several slices of ham, potatoes, and turnip greens, which he placed on a nearby table with a flourish. He held the chair for her, and Evalyn sat down gratefully. “It smells delicious,” she said. “I suddenly feel quite hungry.”

“We thought you might be, Mrs. Fern and me.”

The innkeeper went off to the kitchen, and Evalyn began to eat. The ham was surprisingly well prepared. She had just begun her third slice when there came a sound of a carriage in the yard. An angry voice shouted, “Ostler! Ostler! Where the deuce is everybody?”

Mr. Fern hurried from the kitchen and out the door. “Everyone's gone home,” she heard him explain. “It is Christmas Eve, you know.”

A confusion of footsteps and noise in the entryway made Evalyn aware that a number of people had arrived. There were several children's voices and the sound of a baby crying. “Merciful heavens! Ye'll not bring us in there!” said a woman's voice, distinctive for its Irish brogue. “I won't have my wee ones in a taproom. A private parlor, if ye please.”

“The parlor's closed, ma'am. I ain't got no fire going in there tonight.”

“Well, then, don't stand there gawkin'! Start one! And when ye've done that, bring some more candles. Dark as a tomb in there, it is. And, Charlie boy, stop that! Take Mary into the parlor and sit her down. You, Sean, stop kicking the wall—the snow'll melt off y'r boots soon enough. Meggie, let Cathy help ye off with y'r cloak. Well, come along, then. The sooner we finish, the sooner we'll be home.” The slam of a door stilled any further sounds.

Evalyn watched in amusement as the innkeeper hurried back and forth from the kitchen to the parlor bearing trays of loaded dishes. Mrs. Fern, returning from upstairs, was quickly impressed to assist. The two of them were too busy to do more than throw Evalyn a harried glance as they ran by. “Don't know what such a family's doing out on Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Fern whispered to Evalyn as she returned from her third trip to the parlor. “Those children should be home waiting for Father Christmas.” And she ran off to the kitchen.

“Eating our whole Christmas dinner, too,” grumbled her husband as he followed hastily behind her.

Evalyn, patiently waiting to be shown up to her bedroom, was surprised by the sound of sniffling coming from the doorway to the taproom. She looked round to see a little girl peeping in at her from the passageway. The child couldn't have been more than three or four years old, for she was still in short petticoats. Her red, curly hair was dishevelled, and her eyes and nose were running. A white tucker had been tied around her neck, and she wore only one shoe. Evalyn smiled at her. “Good evening,” she said. The child sniffed forlornly but didn't move. “If you come here,” Evalyn said invitingly, “I'll give you a bit of my biscuit. Would you like that?”

The child advanced toward her cautiously, her hands hidden behind her back. A few feet away, she stopped and eyed Evalyn with suspicion. Evalyn got up from her chair and held out her hand. The child backed away. Evalyn pulled out a handkerchief, knelt down and beckoned. The little girl advanced shyly. “There, now,” Evalyn said soothingly, “no need to be afraid of me, you know. May I wipe your face with my nice handkerchief?”

The child nodded and toddled across the few feet still separating them. Evalyn wiped her eyes and nose. “You've been crying, haven't you?” she asked sympathetically. “Is it because you're hungry?”

The child shook her head. “No, ma'am,” she said timidly, and brought her hands from behind her back. In one was a grimy doll whose elegant gown had been torn, revealing a missing leg underneath. In the other hand she clutched the severed limb. “Charlie did it,” the child said with a quivering lip.

“Oh, that was too bad of Charlie, I'm sure,” Evalyn said, taking the doll and the leg and looking them over carefully. “But we can make her well again.”

“Can we?” the child asked dubiously.

Evalyn took her hand and led her to the table. She seated herself and lifted the child to her lap. She placed the wounded doll on the table, and the two of them examined it carefully. “If you ask your Mama to put some glue here and here,” Evalyn explained, “this lovely lady will be good as new.”

“Not her dress,” the girl said knowingly.

“Yes, of course, you're right. The dress must be mended with a needle and thread.”

“Needle and thread,” the child repeated, nodding wisely. She leaned back against Evalyn, gave a shivering sigh to indicate that her crying was over, put her thumb in her mouth and sucked contentedly. Evalyn was about to distract her with the offer of a piece of biscuit, when she looked up and saw that she was being regarded by a woman in the doorway. The woman was full-formed, her buxom figure emphasized by the high-necked swansdown gown she wore. It fit her a bit too tightly and was badly rumpled and stained. Her head was swathed in a rose-colored turban which clashed with the ringlets of bright red hair that escaped from beneath it in youthful disarray. Her complexion was ruddy and marked with fine lines about the eyes and mouth, but despite the rather tasteless clothing and general untidiness, her eyes were merry and the smile that brightened her face gave Evalyn a distinct impression of beauty. “You must be thinking I've kidnapped your daughter, ma'am,” Evalyn said.

“Not at all,” the lady said in her soft Irish burr. “I was thinkin' that ye must have a gift of magic to have persuaded our little Meggie to go to ye like that. 'Tis a shy one, our Meggie. I've never seen her go to a stranger in all her born days.”

“There was no magic, I assure you, ma'am. Just a little bit of biscuit and some sympathy,” Evalyn said with a smile. She shifted the child to her shoulder, rose from her chair and brought the little girl to her mother. The lady put out her arms, but Meggie clung to Evalyn's neck.

“Will ye look at that, now!” exclaimed the lady. “She's taken a real fancy to ye, that's certain. Come here to me, Meggie. 'Tis enough time ye've disturbed this kind lady. Come to y'r mother, like the good girl ye are.”

But Meggie still clung to Evalyn. She took her thumb from her mouth and whispered, “Tell Mama about Dolly.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Meggie,” Evalyn said. “I'll tell her as soon as you go to her, and my hands are free to show her what to do.”

Meggie held her arms to her mother, and Evalyn picked up the doll from the table. “There seems to have been an accident,” she said, smiling at the red-headed Irishwoman. “Dolly needs a little glue here at the joint.”

The woman thanked her and turned to go. At the door, she looked back. “I suppose ye have children of y'r own, to have such a way with 'em,” she remarked.

“No, but children are my profession. I'm a governess.”

“Are ye now? Well, ye must be a mighty good one. I wish I—”

At that moment, the parlor door slammed and a grey-haired gentleman appeared in the passageway, bearing a crying infant. He was tall and quite thin except for a rounded stomach which made a surprising protrusion in his otherwise lanky frame. “Oh, there you are, Mavis,” he said irritably. “Why do you stand there dawdling, while I'm left alone to contend with the baby and the rest of this disreputable brood? Oh, I beg your pardon, ma'am. I didn't see you there.” And he nodded embarrassedly to Evalyn.

“This lady was mindin' our Meggie. She's a governess, and a good one, too, if I'm a judge. Only thankin' her I was. Is the wee one still cryin'?” Mavis exchanged children with the gentleman and looked at the baby in concern. “He feels feverish to me, my dear,” she said worriedly. “I'm thinkin' we'd best be on our way. The sooner I get him home, the better.”

“It's folly to be setting out in this snow, Mavis. Let's put up here for the night and have done. We never should have left my mother's, as I warned you.”

“Have done y'rself! 'Tis enough I've heard on that score. I'll not rest content until we're in our own home with our own nurse to tend to this sick babe. There's no one in y'r mother's house knows a thing about babies.”

“But what if we're stuck in the ditch? Do you want to spend the night in a drafty coach?”

“Stuck in a ditch?” Mavis exclaimed. “Never've I known ye to do such a thing. Ye'll not let that happen.” She smiled up at her husband with a flirtatious glimmer. “Not such a skillful, artful, talented driver as y'rself.”

Evalyn could see the warmth of his eyes, though he pretended to be angry. “Serves me right,” he growled, “for marrying a red-headed, stubborn, willful Irish puss! All right then, let's get the children dressed again.”

“If you wish,” ventured Evalyn, “I'd be happy to help you get them ready.”

“I must say, that's deuced kind of you, ma'am,” said the gentleman with enthusiasm. “With six spoiled brats plaguing us, a bit of help would be much appreciated.”

“Six? That's an impressive number,” Evalyn said smiling.

“Impressive is not a word I'd use,” Mavis laughed.

“We must seem utterly without manners,” said the gentleman. “I am Hugh Caldwell, and this is my wife, Mavis.”

“How do you do? I'm Evalyn Pennington. And I think we should get the children ready without further ado. The wind seems to have come up stronger than ever, so, if you are determined to set out tonight, you had better waste no more time.”