“Shall I call for the doctor?”
“No need. Though if someone could find the Epsom salts andperhaps buy some oil of wormwood from the apothecary? And goutweed, if he has any?”
“Of course. Straightaway.”
Sarah tasked Mr. Gwilt with the errand, then returned to her workroom, thoughts in a tangle. First Emily leaving and now their cook laid up? Was God trying to tell her something? She pushed the unhappy notion aside and began preparing the batch of wassail—spiced cider topped with roasted apple slices—as well as gingerbread and small mince pies. She knew some groups of men or lads went “wassailing” on St. Thomas Day, while others did so on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or even Twelfth Night. Either way, she wanted to be prepared.
Since moving to Sidmouth, Sarah had learned that in cider-producing counties like Devonshire and Somerset the old wassailing tradition also included blessing the apple trees in local orchards in hopes of an abundant harvest in the coming year.
Sure enough, at dusk, a group of young men and boys came up Sea View’s drive, their leader carrying a lantern. Sarah recognized the apprentice Billy Hook among them—the lad who shot through Woolbrook’s nursery window during the Duke and Duchess of Kent’s stay last year.
The group sang,
“Wassail! Wassail! All over the town!
Our toast it is white and our drink it is brown; Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree; With the wassailing bowl, we’ll sing to thee.”
And,
“Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green;
Here we come a-wand’ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too;
And God bless you and send you a Happy New Year.”
Drawn by their singing, more boisterous than melodious, people from around the house gathered at the door. Georgie opened it and stood there listening, arms crossed.
When they finished singing, they held out earthenware cups, which this group carried instead of one large bowl.
Georgiana said, “You’re a bit early, Billy Hook. Are you not?”
“Not a bit of it. It’s the day for charitable giving, after all.” He winked and held forth his cup.
Sarah brought out the gingerbread and mince pies, while Mr. Henshall carried the heavier pitcher of cider. Together they walked among the group, distributing their rewards. Mr. Henshall paused to clap one youth on the shoulder, saying, “Fine voice, lad.”
The ginger-haired boy flushed as red as his hair with equal parts pleasure and embarrassment.
The revelers wished them prosperity, drank to their health, and then moved on to another house.
Sarah watched them go, then turned to Mr. Henshall. “After that raucous music, I think we need something pleasanter to ease our ears. Will you oblige us?”
“Twice in one day?” he asked, brows high. “I don’t wish to weary ye with my simple songs.”
“Not at all,” Sarah encouraged him. “I for one should never tire of hearing you.”
He looked at her quickly at that, as did the others. Sarah’s ears heated.Ease our ears, indeed. She attempted an unaffected smile and gestured them all into the parlour.
NINE
No lace. No lace, Mrs. Bennett, I beg you!
