soon as I’ve changed. More guests coming tomorrow, too?”
“Yes,” said the hospitable marquis with deep gratification, “we’ll have a full house, as usual. Did I tell you I’ve hired a troupe of actors to entertain us? Old-fashioned mumming and carol singing on Christmas Day, and they’ll put on She Stoops to Conquer on Twelfth Night when the neighbours join us.”
“An excellent choice, sir.”
Rusholme went up to his chamber at last. He looked forward to seeing Miss Savage as Kate Hardcastle, a lively rôle to suit her lively nature.
He stopped with his greatcoat half off as a horrid notion struck him. He had never seen her face. Suppose she was not to play Kate but old Mrs. Hardcastle? Suppose she was buck-toothed, pudding-faced, or afflicted with a frightful squint?
It didn’t bear thinking of.
Chapter 2
“Miss! Miss!”
The urgent whisper in her ear drew Prudence from a dream in which she waltzed around a pale-blue ballroom in the arms of a tall man in a greatcoat. All she could see of his face was a pair of dark eyebrows, but she knew he was laughing at her. She had just time to wonder when she had learned to waltz before full awareness returned and she opened her eyes.
“Miss, you said to wake you.” By the light of a tallow candle, the kitchen maid looked down at her anxiously. “I brung you tea.”
“Thank you, Rosie. But it’s still dark out.”
“They goes out soon as it begins to get light, miss, acos ev’yone’s so busy once the nobs start to wake up. In about twenty minutes, Mr. Samuel said. I got to go. There’s scores o’ kettles to be filled.”
She scampered out. Prudence sat up, filled with a moment’s thankfulness. Her own life had not been easy but compared with that poor child... Somehow she’d spare a sixpence for Rosie when she left Easthaven.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she shivered and reached for her shawl. Behind her Aimée stirred.
“What the devil...?” came her sleepy voice.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m going out with the servants to gather holly, remember?” She pattered across to the washstand and doused her face in icy water.
“You’re dicked in the nob, Sera, you know? Still, since I’m awake I suppose I might as well go too.” Aimée sat up, stretched, and yawned.
“We have twenty minutes. Eighteen now. Rosie brought me tea. Do you mind sharing a cup?”
“Share a bed, share a cup, there’s... Eighteen minutes?” she shrieked. “Dammit, I can barely dress in eighteen minutes. What about my face?”
Prudence laughed. “You don’t need powder and paint to cut evergreens. Come on. Hurry.”
Half an hour later the two actresses perched beside the carter on a farm wagon pulled by a huge carthorse whose breath formed clouds in the chilly air. As they rolled across a misty park white with frost, Prudence was glad of her new cloak. Though made of cheap duffle, it was thick and warm, and a gay spring green quite unlike the drab browns, greys and navy-blues she had always worn before.
Behind them, on piles of sacks among ladders, pruning-hooks, and shears, sat Samuel, First Footman and director of the operation, two lesser footmen, and a pair of giggling maids. Several under-gardeners trudged alongside.
Aimée shivered in her elegant rose-pink velveteen pelisse. “I can’t think why I let you persuade me,” she grumbled. “I haven’t picked holly since I was a child.”
“I never have. My father said decorating with holly and evergreens was a pagan custom to be condemned by all good Christians. Oh, look!”
A blood-red sun rose through the mists ahead. The track curved to the left and started up a wooded hillside. On the very edge of the wood stood a luxuriant, glossy-leaved holly with masses of scarlet berries glowing in the ruddy light.
“Do stop,” said Prudence as the cart rumbled on. “We shall never find any better
“Yes,” said the hospitable marquis with deep gratification, “we’ll have a full house, as usual. Did I tell you I’ve hired a troupe of actors to entertain us? Old-fashioned mumming and carol singing on Christmas Day, and they’ll put on She Stoops to Conquer on Twelfth Night when the neighbours join us.”
“An excellent choice, sir.”
Rusholme went up to his chamber at last. He looked forward to seeing Miss Savage as Kate Hardcastle, a lively rôle to suit her lively nature.
He stopped with his greatcoat half off as a horrid notion struck him. He had never seen her face. Suppose she was not to play Kate but old Mrs. Hardcastle? Suppose she was buck-toothed, pudding-faced, or afflicted with a frightful squint?
It didn’t bear thinking of.
Chapter 2
“Miss! Miss!”
The urgent whisper in her ear drew Prudence from a dream in which she waltzed around a pale-blue ballroom in the arms of a tall man in a greatcoat. All she could see of his face was a pair of dark eyebrows, but she knew he was laughing at her. She had just time to wonder when she had learned to waltz before full awareness returned and she opened her eyes.
“Miss, you said to wake you.” By the light of a tallow candle, the kitchen maid looked down at her anxiously. “I brung you tea.”
“Thank you, Rosie. But it’s still dark out.”
“They goes out soon as it begins to get light, miss, acos ev’yone’s so busy once the nobs start to wake up. In about twenty minutes, Mr. Samuel said. I got to go. There’s scores o’ kettles to be filled.”
She scampered out. Prudence sat up, filled with a moment’s thankfulness. Her own life had not been easy but compared with that poor child... Somehow she’d spare a sixpence for Rosie when she left Easthaven.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she shivered and reached for her shawl. Behind her Aimée stirred.
“What the devil...?” came her sleepy voice.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m going out with the servants to gather holly, remember?” She pattered across to the washstand and doused her face in icy water.
“You’re dicked in the nob, Sera, you know? Still, since I’m awake I suppose I might as well go too.” Aimée sat up, stretched, and yawned.
“We have twenty minutes. Eighteen now. Rosie brought me tea. Do you mind sharing a cup?”
“Share a bed, share a cup, there’s... Eighteen minutes?” she shrieked. “Dammit, I can barely dress in eighteen minutes. What about my face?”
Prudence laughed. “You don’t need powder and paint to cut evergreens. Come on. Hurry.”
Half an hour later the two actresses perched beside the carter on a farm wagon pulled by a huge carthorse whose breath formed clouds in the chilly air. As they rolled across a misty park white with frost, Prudence was glad of her new cloak. Though made of cheap duffle, it was thick and warm, and a gay spring green quite unlike the drab browns, greys and navy-blues she had always worn before.
Behind them, on piles of sacks among ladders, pruning-hooks, and shears, sat Samuel, First Footman and director of the operation, two lesser footmen, and a pair of giggling maids. Several under-gardeners trudged alongside.
Aimée shivered in her elegant rose-pink velveteen pelisse. “I can’t think why I let you persuade me,” she grumbled. “I haven’t picked holly since I was a child.”
“I never have. My father said decorating with holly and evergreens was a pagan custom to be condemned by all good Christians. Oh, look!”
A blood-red sun rose through the mists ahead. The track curved to the left and started up a wooded hillside. On the very edge of the wood stood a luxuriant, glossy-leaved holly with masses of scarlet berries glowing in the ruddy light.
“Do stop,” said Prudence as the cart rumbled on. “We shall never find any better
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