Page 53 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Chapter 9

Stacia set her skates back with the others, cast a look of yearning at the braziers and mountains of food under the big tent, but then forced herself to head back to Wych House.

She nodded at a trio of younger people heading toward the pond, their fine clothing proclaiming they were yet more of the visitors who’d been pouring into Wych House over the last few days, rather than the humbler village denizens.

Skating with Lord Shelton had been…fun. And fun was something she’d not had in longer than she wanted to admit. She felt a stab of resentment that he’d been so quick to leave her company, but she was not exactly surprised. The Lowery twins and their cousins—especially the divine Arabella—were exactly the sort of beautiful girls who’d attracted Shelton’s attention in the past.

Well, what had she expected? His taste in company would not have suddenly changed merely because he had apologized to her.

His apology—which had been unexpected—had blunted her anger toward him, but it had done nothing to soothe her injured pride. It would be a long time, if ever, before she forgot either his dismissive words to Lady Kathryn or the fact that he recalled Mr. Bunch-and-Stuff and not Stacia.

She made her way back to her chambers without encountering any of the guests. Thanks to Lady Needham, she had a full afternoon off and didn’t intend to waste the opportunity.

She took the smaller of her two valises from the dressing room. Inside it were the tools of her second, almost more lucrative, trade. When Lady Addiscombe had told her that they would be coming to a big house party Stacia had splurged some of her small savings to purchase more of the expensive gold leaf that she employed in her paintings. She had produced some additional fans, reasoning that if she did not sell them in the little village of Little Sissingdon then she could offer them to the modiste in Bath who usually bought her wares.

This close to Christmas—and with so many wealthy guests at Wych House—surely somebody would buy the fans. In any event, it was worth the effort.

After she’d paid a visit to the village dress shop, she could post notices about the little dog.

Stacia removed all the fans, hesitated, and then put two back, the one with the poem by Mary Chandler, To Mrs. Moor, A Poem on Friendship, and the other—the best thing she had ever done and could not bring herself to part with—which had a lovely illuminated ‘H’ and several lines from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29.

Last night in the drawing room Lord Needham had mentioned there was to be a secret gift giving once the rest of the houseguests had all arrived. Evidently there would be a name drawing and people would not know who their secret St. Nicholas was. Anyone—that included servants, amazingly—who wished to join only needed to drop a slip of paper with their name on it into the big crystal bowl in the drawing room and names would be chosen and distributed with enough time before Christmas that people could secure gifts.

Lady Addiscombe had said it was foolish and that the servants, whom she’d complained were already cheeky, would only become worse if Needham continued to treat them as if they were equals.

“They might be his equals,” she had proclaimed loudly to another of the guests—the sweet, rather vague, Baroness Mixon—“but they most certainly are not mine.”

Not for the first time had Stacia wanted to disappear into a crack at something the older woman had said.

She chewed her lip for a moment and then sat down at the small desk in her sitting room, took out a sheet of paper, and neatly tore off a corner before writing her name. Just because her employer did not wish to join the gift giving did not mean Stacia could not.

Of course she would not tell the countess that.

And so, before Stacia went to the village, she made a stop in the drawing room and dropped her name into the bowl.

***

Without Miss Martin to entertain him Andrew found the skating party rather flat.

He was going to return to Wych House when he realized his right glove—from his favorite pair—had a tear in. It wasn’t too bad now, but if he left it the glove would be irreparable.

Little Sissingdon was too small to have a glover, but he’d seen a clothing shop. Perhaps somebody there could repair it.

Rather than go back for Drake he decided to walk the short distance. He passed clusters of people heading toward the pond. Needham, true to form, appeared to have invited the entire town. Or county, even.

It would be very easy to envy Needham, and not just because he was wealthy. The man was also an excellent steward of Wych House and the surrounding area. It had been a fortunate day for the denizens of the area when he’d decided to put roots down here.

Unlike Andrew’s own people.

He grimaced at the thought, shame heating his face at how long he had pursued his revenge at the cost of his family estate.

Andrew knew he had no choice but to take a wife, and a wealthy one, at that. If he was serious about restoring Rosewood, he would need far more money than his stud farm or inheritance would provide.

But the thought of marrying a woman for her money was simply too depressing to think about right now. He would have plenty of time to contemplate it after Christmas, when he joined Chatham in London for yet another Season.

Yes, later. He could think about that later.

Little Sissingdon was bustling with pre-Christmas business, not just the shops, but there seemed to be some sort of activity on the village green that involved a great deal of hammering and shouting.