Harriet caught Lydia’s eye. It was twinkling, starlike, and her beloved’s expression was so full of unspoken hope and pleading that it made Harriet want to laugh or cry, she wasn’t sure which. Harriet was helpless before that unasked question.
“Fine,” she said for Lydia’s ears alone—then raised her voice and pitched it to carry over the entirety of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen and chicken fanciers all—may I invite you to Christmas Eve dinner while we wait until nightfall?”
Mr. Finglass and Mr. Kaur took the first watch, so the chickens would not be left alone to wander further. Everyone else followed Harriet and Lydia down one hill and around another to the door of Thornycroft Hall. Lydia led them into the ballroom—the only room big enough for such a crowd—while Harriet went to find Lizzie Crangle and see what they could do for a dinner.
Mrs. Crangle was ecstatic, and did not disappoint. She sent up a dozen cold meat and pigeon pies at once, then rolled her sleeves to the elbow and raided the larder and got the undercooks scampering. Harriet went to the cellar to select wine and brandy and punch, and between that and the pies the chicken fanciers were having a grand feast even before Mrs. Crangle began laying out dishes on the long table the footmen Sam and Stephen had hastily erected on the short side of the ballroom. Mr. Dixit and Mrs. Goodfellow joined the party, eyes wide and delighted at the sudden influx of visitors. Mrs. Marwood even poked her head in, drawn by the sounds of merriment; she stole the last pigeon pie before Harriet could claim it and vanished back upstairs before Harriet had even stopped laughing.
Mrs. Outerbridge pulled the dust cloth from the piano and began playing carols with a surprising amount of verve, while Miss Inch turned the pages and Miss Rushcliff sang a rather good alto.
It was loud and busy and warm and the best time Harriet had ever had.
Everywhere she looked, the same rivals who’d been glaring daggers at one another this morning were arm in arm singing harmony, or laughing at someone’s story, or dancing an impromptu waltz to Mrs. Outerbridge’s accompaniment.
And maybe this was a temporary truce only, and wouldn’t last—but she hoped not. She wanted this to be the start of something better for the whole village. They all deserved that much, and more.
Eventually Mr. Brome and Mr. Campbell-Cole went to relieve Mr. Kaur and Mr. Finglass—the pair returned escorting the baffled Birmingham judges, whose train had been delayed by the storm. But they were happy enough to leave chicken points for another day and take part in the general merriment. One judge, a Mr. Upperton, whose eye was apparently very fierce on the finer points of a Brahma bird, had so much brandy and roast goose that he tried to award the great silver cup to Harriet as a champion hostess.
“Just wait until next year,” Lydia said, as Harriet laughingly declined the honor. “You’ll win that cup in earnest, I’ll make sure of it.”
Harriet squeezed her hand, face aching from too much smiling. “Oh will you?”
“Of course—after all, we’ve got a whole breed of birds to revive. That’s going to take some doing!” She grinned, eyes sparkling at the thought of what the future held. “We’re going to have so many chicks this spring. We might have to expand the chicken run a bit.”
Harriet smiled slyly. “Would you say there’s enough work that it would make sense for you to move in here, with us?” Lydia froze. Harriet pressed onward. “After all, we’ll need someone with experience to oversee any expansion of the yard, and none of us know anything about crossbreeding. It’s sure to save time if you don’t have to walk back and forth every day.” She lowered her voice. “And there are other benefits, of course…”
“Do you mean it?” Lydia asked. Her voice was quiet, but Harriet could her her hope and fear so clearly despite all the background cacophony. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Harriet laughed and hugged her close. There, in the circle of her arms, where only the two of them could hear, she whispered, “My love, I would be delighted.”
Lydia trembled, and Harriet wanted nothing more than to kiss her silly—but that would have to wait until later.
Eventually nightfall came, and the feast came to an end. Harriet brought out Thornycroft Hall’s supply of lanterns—ancient and a little rusted in places, but still useful—and as many carts and wheelbarrows and wagons as the Hall could supply. They repurposed wooden feed crates into makeshift chicken cages for the journey home, and soon everyone was trekking back to the abbey, whispering and giggling softly and trying to be quiet as they crunched over the snow. Lanterns bobbed across the landscape as the fanciers spread out, until the hill was covered with points of light like a mirror of the stars above. The chickens were a sleeping, snoring pile by this time, and one by one the fanciers carefully seized their sleeping birds. Farewells were whispered, and good-nights, and after an hour it was only Lydia and Harriet and their seven chickens, crated in the last wheelbarrow, trundling back to the Hall.
Harriet was pushing the wheelbarrow; Lydia was looking up at the night sky. “I think this was the best poultry fair yet,” she said.
Harriet smiled, and her heart burned like the sun. “Wait until next year.”
