Carola Dunn by Christmas in the Country Page A

berries.”
     “Can’t cut that lot, miss,” Samuel told her. “We have to leave the best berries, specially them closest to the house. Later on some of the nobs’ll come out, the young uns, and they won’t want to look far.”
     “If the ladies and gentlemen go gathering, why must you?”
     “They get bored afore there’s near enough picked. His lordship likes a good show.”
     “This arternoon,” put in one of his juniors, “they’ll stand about giving orders while we run up’n’down ladders, and then they’ll say they been putting up decorations.”
     “Anyways,” said a maid tolerantly, “it’s fun and we get to decorate the servants’ hall. We even hang mistletoe though her la’ship won’t allow it in the rest o’ the house.”
     “Who needs mistletoe?” Samuel leaned over to give her a smacking kiss, and everyone laughed.
     The wagon stopped in a clearing. Surrounding it, scattered among the leafless oaks and birches, grew holly, laurel, spruce, and fir.
     “Remember,” said Samuel, “don’t cut the berries on the bushes closest to the clearing. Leastways, only the ones growing round the back.”
     Laughing again, they spread out between the trees. Heaps of frosted leaves crunched beneath their feet as they filled sacks with greenery, calling to each other when they found a particularly good crop of berries. To Aimée’s delight, she was the first to find an oak with mistletoe growing on its branches. She granted a kiss to the gardener who climbed up to pick it. Prudence started singing “The Holly and the Ivy,” and they all joined in.
     It was when the carol ended that she heard childish voices back in the clearing. Her sack was as heavy as she could manage so she had an excuse better than mere curiosity to return to the cart.
     The man stood with his back to her, a tall figure in a caped greatcoat, bare-headed, dark-haired. She knew at once who he was. He had danced in her dreams.
     She stopped, ready to flee. After all, she had sneaked about Lord Rusholme’s home and insulted his family’s ballroom. He had every right to be affronted, though he had sounded more amused. Then a small girl ran up to him, grabbed his hand, and pointed at Prudence.
     “Look, Uncle Garth, there’s a wood elf.”
     Rusholme turned. The wood elf stood poised for flight, her spring-leaf green hood thrown back, revealing her autumn-leaf curls; revealing a faultless face: delicately arched brows, rosy cheeks, mouth made for kissing, chin slightly pointed as befitted an elf.
     “She’s not an elf,” said his ten-year-old nephew scornfully. “She’s a lady. And she’s got a pair of shears.” He dashed up to Miss Savage, skidded to a halt, removed his uncle’s beaver from his head and made his bow. “I’m William Braverton, ma’am. Please may we borrow your shears? We came to cut holly for the nursery but Uncle Garth forgot to bring shears or a knife or anything.”
     “Perhaps your uncle forgot on purpose, Mr. Braverton. They are very sharp. Ask him whether you may borrow them.”
     “May I, sir? I swear I’ll be careful.”
     “As long as you don’t let your sisters near them.”
     “Thank you!” The boy took the shears Miss Savage held out to him, then said off-handedly, “As a matter of fact, it’s Lord Braverton. Are you taking that sack to the cart, ma’am? I’ll carry it for you.”
     She smiled at William—but it was Rusholme’s heart that turned over. He moved towards her as if drawn by a magnet.
     Maria would have his blood for letting her children consort with an actress. He didn’t care. Yet Miss Savage could not possibly be as captivating as he had thought her yesterday, before he had seen her face.
     Now he was closer, even that was not perfect. Her nose was not quite long enough for classical beauty, her chin was definitely pointed, her mouth a trifle too wide, her brow too broad. And she was older than he’d expected, though he’d had no reason to