Her shoulders rounded. It was for the best. She could barely breathe when his gaze was so intense. It made her think all kinds of inappropriate thoughts, considering her station in life.
She was a mere miss with a small dowry; he was a baron with a large estate, maybe two. It really would not do to keep entertaining such fanciful dreams. Perhaps she should turn over the mistletoe hanging to Pru. She was the one who’d mentioned it.
Grace took a few steps back, widening the distance between herself and Lord Gladsby. Her movement caught his attention.
“I wonder who won?” she asked, forcing a smile.
“The greater question should be, will this be the last of their contests, or will they spend the rest of the day exchanging wins?”
She started to chuckle, but a cold breeze stole her breath. Her laugh turned into a cough.
“Are you well?”
She nodded. “It is getting colder.”
He glanced up at the sky. “I believe it will snow again before the day is through. Come, let’s get you to the house.”
Chapter 6
The evening fire crackled in the hearth, and the smell of pine and cinnamon wafted in the air. Their dinner of white soup, partridge and turnips, and a nice bread pudding had left Alan full and content.
“Where should we place this piece?” Emma asked, holding up a holly branch.
The house was now festooned with pine boughs down the balustrades and across every mantel, red and green holly interspersed within. Every inch of the house seemed to be covered. Even so, they had more greenery needing a place for display.
“Have we made a wreath for the door?” Mrs. Lenning asked.
“No.” Grace tied a string about several branches meant to decorate the entrance to the drawing room. “Do any of you know how to make one? I am not very skilled at it. Our mother always does the one for Fallow Hall.”
Curious looks were passed between the room’s occupants.
Mrs. Gibbons spoke up from the doorway. “I can. I’ve made a wreath or two in my day. I’d be happy to help.”
Alan smiled at his housekeeper. She really was a gem. He didn’t know what he would do without her. His thoughts flitted to her husband. If he let Gibbons go on a pension, he’d be losing Mrs. Gibbons as well. The idea rankled him. They wouldn’t be going far; he’d make certain of that. He was too attached to the both of them.
Everyone again took up the subject of the last bits of decor, and Mrs. Gibbons silently made her way to his seat, quietly handing him a missive. His uncle’s bold script stared up at him. Why had Mr. Clayton written? The vicarage where he lived was a short ten-minute walk. Could he not just come to Engalworth for dinner if he’d had something to say? Then again, he was not as young as he’d once been, and the snow had started in earnest again.
Knowing Mr. Clayton would not have written if it was not urgent, he excused himself for a moment. Taking the letter to the court, he opened it.
Dear Alan,
I find myself unwell at present. Please forgive me, but I’m unsure I’ll be able to attend any of the dinners for which you have invited me. The doctor says my illness has been spreading among the village of late, and I would hate to get little George sick. Do not fret, though. It is only a cold of the head. Please give my regards to Emma and tell her I shall visit when I am well.
Alan refolded the square of paper. If his uncle was sick enough to call for the doctor, he must truly be suffering. He tapped the folded note on his leg. He could not leave the man completely on his own during the holidays, but he agreed that little George should be kept far away.
“Is everything alright?” Grace asked from behind him.
He whirled to see her brow lowered in concern.
“It is my uncle. He is unwell.”
“The vicar?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need to go to him?”
“Not this evening, but I should like to take him a basket in the morning. Perhaps some of Mrs. Gibbons’s herbal tea will help him.”
