Never a Road Without a Turning (29 page)

The group dickered over specifics as they made their way through most of the whisky bottle. But by the end of the night, Pip felt better about the plan. And when they finally went to bed, Ash surprisingly didn’t chew Pip’s head off for making their private affairs the subject of the evening’s discourse.

The following day, Master Carey sent out letters of inquiry, and he and Mr. Carruthers invited Ash and Pip to stay at the farm at least through Christmas, while Ash sent out inquiries of his own after a new house—somewhere a good distance from both Penrith and Keswick, but perhaps not so far that visits couldn’t be made back and forth on occasion.

Ash wrote to Mrs. Applethwaite as well, informing her of his plans to stay in Penrith over the holiday and giving her leave to travel if she had family she wished to visit. But he didn’t mention any of the rest of their plan in the letter, preferring to wait until he had a new position for her and her husband. Pip felt guilty for putting the woman out of a job. They hadn’t exactly been on friendly terms, but she wasn’t all bad, and at her and her husband’s age, finding further employment might prove difficult for them. Ash assured him, however, that they’d be taken care of. He had an aunt he thought might rub along famously with the woman, and he sent a letter to her along with all the others.

While they waited for responses, Ash thrived in the warmth and comfort of the farm. They spent every night together, and Ash’s color came back. Maud’s wonderful cooking put a bit more meat on his bones. They ate dinner with the masters each night, which proved a bit uncomfortable for Pip since the masters grilled him on his speech and table manners to prepare him for his new role above stairs. But Pip endured it bravely, knowing that a life with Ash would be worth any hardship.

Part of Pip dearly wished they could just stay at the farm together forever, especially after he got Ash on one of the horses in the stables the first time, but he knew that wasn’t possible. A friend staying with the masters for a few weeks or months was one thing, but staying with them for years would definitely draw attention they didn’t want.

There were already a few whispers in the village regarding Mr. Carruthers’s unmarried state, and even though Mr. Carey avoided the same by playing up the grieving widower that he was, they couldn’t afford any more gossip if they wanted to remain where they were. And besides that, Ash was a solitary sort, and Pip couldn’t see him wanting so much company for long. The man would want his privacy, his quiet, and his books… and Pip, of course. Pip would be quite happy with that, as long as they were able to come back to the farm from time to time.

December 1826

T
WO
DAYS
before Christmas, all the servants and the children went out to gather evergreen boughs, holly, and hawthorn to decorate the hall. Ash and Pip rode out in a horse and cart to join in the hunt as they rooted about in the small copses between the hills around the farm. And when their baskets were laden with enough greenery to satisfy the children, Ash drove the children back while Pip and Maud and the other servants returned to the house on foot.

The following afternoon, Ash sat warming himself by the fire in the library, reading his letters, while Pip climbed up and down a ladder in the main hall, stringing up the garlands and wreaths the ladies put together the previous night. Pip was humming tunelessly to himself as he worked, happy to the heart of him and not afraid for anyone to know it. He’d spent every night in Ash’s bed and every day by his side, and even his lessons with Mr. Carey and renewed lessons with Mr. Pruitt, the children’s little mouse of a tutor, couldn’t ruin his good humor.

When he was finished in the hall, Pip stepped back to admire his handiwork. The polished wood banister gleamed beneath the red-ribboned garland he’d wrapped around it. Swags of pine boughs were draped above every door and wreaths on every wall. There would be no great ball for the neighborhood. But Pip eagerly anticipated that night just the same. He’d worked hard all day to make sure the decorations were perfect for the feast Maud prepared every year for everyone on the farm.

Christmas Eve was the one night that the servants were invited to dine with the masters. They would all put on their finest and crowd into the dining room. And then after dinner, they would open the doors to the rest of the rooms, and everyone would spill out into the hall and the front parlor and billiard room. Master Carey would play the pianoforte, and they would sing and dance and play games until late into the night. And even if Pip wouldn’t be able to dance with Ash, he couldn’t wait to share the occasion with him.

While Pip was admiring his work, Ash stepped into the hall and moved to his side. “It looks lovely, Phillip. I can’t remember the last time I had a true Christmas at home.”

Pip beamed at him, even more pleased that he’d put in the effort. “It’ll be the best Christmas yet. I’m sure of it.”

Ash smiled at him warmly and Pip’s heartbeat quickened as it always did when he looked at the man. Catching a glimpse of the large monstrosity constructed of evergreen, satin ribbons, and paper flowers—the kissing bough—hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, Pip dragged Ash beneath it and planted a loud wet kiss on his lips. Ash flushed bright red and cast wary eyes about them, making sure they were alone before giving Pip a peck in return and pushing away from him.

“You need to be more careful, Phillip… even here,” Ash admonished, but his tone held no real censure.

“I’ll be good,” Pip replied with a wink.

Footsteps sounded on the stone and Ash put more distance between them as Maud carried a tray with their tea past them and into the library. When she had passed, Ash cleared his throat and said gruffly, “I received a letter from my aunt. She is very interested in meeting Mr. and Mrs. Applethwaite. It will mean a journey back to the cottage soon, but you don’t have to come with me if you don’t wish. As long as the weather and roads remain clear, I should only be gone a day or two.”

“I won’t make ye—
you
—
travel on your own, Ash. I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to, Phillip. I know you were unhappy there.”

“I were—
was
—happy sometimes too. I don’t have any real love for the place and too many people know me there as I am for us to stay there, but it weren’t—
wasn’t
all bad.”

“If you wish to come, I won’t tell you otherwise, but we’ll have to be careful with Mrs. Applethwaite. She may not be pleased with what I have to tell her at the start. Although, I truly believe she’ll be happier with my aunt than she ever was with me. They are more of a kind, I think.”

That night proved to be as grand and merry a time as Pip had hoped, with the goose cooked to perfection and the ale and cider plentiful. Ash kept himself to the outskirts most of the night. But whenever Pip sought him out, he found the man smiling fondly in his direction, seeming happy to simply watch Pip enjoy himself. Pip, Stubbs, and Mr. Carruthers danced with all the girls so that none felt left out, and even the shy tutor, Mr. Pruitt, took a turn or two, though the man flushed scarlet to his hair and tripped over his own feet in his nerves, to the vast amusement of the downstairs maids.

Pip was having a grand time. But when Ash excused himself for the night, Pip was more than happy to follow him.

“Phillip, you don’t have to leave. You’re obviously enjoying yourself. Stay. I’ll be fine,” Ash said when he reached the base of the stairs.

Pip moved close to him and whispered, “I’d rather be with you.”

Ash met his gaze then, and heat flared in his eyes, mirroring the fire in Pip’s. Without further comment, Ash led the way up the stairs and to their bedchamber, where Pip spent the next couple of hours showing him just how pleased he was with the evening and how much he preferred being exactly where he was.

Pip was dropping off to sleep when Ash propped himself on an elbow and said, “I don’t have a present for you to open, Phillip, but I do have a bit of news, which I hope will suffice. I’ve had a letter from the land agent in Kendal. He’s found a house for us.”

Even though he felt a tiny pang of sadness at leaving the farm, Pip’s smile was genuine as he said, “That’s wonderful, Ash. When do we leave?”

Ash seemed to ponder the question with an inordinate amount of gravity before he said, “We’ll have to see the place before I finalize anything. But, I suppose in a month or two… or three, we could be ready.”

“So long?” Pip frowned at him in confusion. The roads were difficult in winter to be sure. But Kendal was not so far that it should take months to move Ash’s few belongings there.

Ash smiled at him tenderly and leaned in for a kiss. “I thought, perhaps, you might not mind staying on here for a little, while the worst of the winter passes. Carey and I had a talk, and he intimated that we had not overstayed our welcome as yet, so I thought—”

Pip didn’t give Ash the chance to finish his sentence. He threw his arms around Ash’s neck and kissed him senseless, whispering breathless thank-yous and I love yous each time they pulled apart to catch their breaths. Pip ended up showing his happiness and gratitude in a number of other ways before they both collapsed into an exhausted and happy slumber.

T
HEY
HADN
’
T
found a new housekeeper yet. They hadn’t quite chosen a house. And they both still had wounds that needed healing—oh, and the horse
still
didn’t have a name. But the truly important parts were settled. They had each other. They had love. They had time. And they didn’t have to face the road ahead alone if they didn’t want to, no matter how many twists and turns there might be in it.

R
OWAN
M
C
A
LLISTER
is a woman who doesn’t so much create as recreate, taking things ignored and overlooked and hopefully making them into something magical and mortal. She believes it’s all in how you look at it. In addition to a continuing love affair with words, she creates art out of fabric, metal, wood, stone, and any other interesting scraps of life she can get her hands on. Everything is simply one perspective change and a little bit of effort away from becoming a work of art that is both beautiful and functional. She lives in the woods, on the very edge of suburbia—where civilization drops off and nature takes over—sharing her home with her patient, loving, and grounded husband, her super sweet hairball of cat, and a mythological beast masquerading as a dog. Her chosen family is made up of a madcap collection of people from many different walks of life, all of whom act as her muses in so many ways, and she would be lost without them.

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C
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