Chapter One
Knasebrook Hall, Rutland, 1816
“It’s awful cold, m’dear. Are you sure you want to go out and risk a chill?” Aunt Clara asked.
What an utterly preposterous thought. Given this was the one night of the year when she was allowed her freedom, Viola Marsh intended to make the very most of it. Hence she had no intention of staying home and mouldering any longer within the confines of the old nursery. In the village, folks would be ambling from door to door, bringing songs and winter cheer. There’d be hot chestnuts and apple tarts to buy on the green, and loving cups full of spiced ale to pass around. Everyone would be full of joy and might even spare a nice word for her.
Excited by that prospect, she snatched up her muff and turned eagerly to the door.
She didn’t care if the worst blizzard in history struck Knasebrook; she intended to go a-wassailing all the same. She’d sing until she grew hoarse, and then she’d stand beneath the branches of the stately oak tree all hung with mistletoe and apples, close her eyes and perhaps this year a miracle would occur and her dearest wish would be granted.
“Viola, you do remember you’re to join the family tonight?”
“Heavens, Aunt Clara, as if I’m ever likely to forget it.” The imminent Marsh family Christmas ball had consumed her thoughts for weeks. It was the highlight of the season, and as the only social engagement on her calendar, her one chance to shine. Ever since an unfortunate incident during her one and only London season four years ago, she’d been barred from attending anything but the most intimate of family dinners. More often than not, she and Aunt Clara ate together in the old nursery wing. Tonight was to be different though; she had a new dress to wear, made of the finest white muslin and cut in the very latest style, with a rich gold fringe at the hem and beautiful embroidery on the sleeves, and she’d get to dance, even if it was only with her brothers. For a few hours she could be normal again.
“Don’t worry, Auntie; I’ll be home in plenty of time to make myself presentable. I promise.” She kissed Aunt Clara’s whiskery cheek.
“Be good now, and do as your brother, Tom says.”
“I will.”
“Are you finished with your goodbyes yet?” Tom muttered querulously. He already stood by the door muffled to his earholes. “Heavens, you’d think you were going to the moon. We’re only headed to the village and back.”
“I just have my bonnet to tie on.”
“Well do hurry.” He stamped his feet impatiently as she tied the ribbon.
Tom continued to grumble as they followed the bridle path toward the village. There was snow on the ground which made the going treacherous, so he was forced to offer her his support. Being chivalrous toward her didn’t come easily. Tom much preferred making her squeal with his horrid tricks.
“I suppose you mean to go and embarrass yourself standing beneath the kissing bough,” he remarked humourlessly, as they crossed the stile. “I do wish you wouldn’t. It’s a pointless activity. A future husband is hardly likely to float down like a snowflake and bless you with a kiss, and nor is anyone about to carve their initials into the pie you’ve spent hours baking either.”
Tom liked to believe he was a pragmatist. In truth, he merely lacked imagination.
“It’s traditional,” she replied waspishly. It did no one any harm for her to cook in silence or to stand beneath a decorative garland and make a wish. “Besides, as you’re always so ready to point out, I’m not likely to find a husband any other way.”
“And whose fault it that?”
Viola sniffed. Not hers, no matter what everybody thought .
“Vi, everybody knows what you did. No one reputable is ever going to offer for you, and none of the villagers would dare to give you a kiss. Father would skin them alive, and rightly so in my opinion.”
“I suppose you think I should content myself with sitting in the
Knasebrook Hall, Rutland, 1816
“It’s awful cold, m’dear. Are you sure you want to go out and risk a chill?” Aunt Clara asked.
What an utterly preposterous thought. Given this was the one night of the year when she was allowed her freedom, Viola Marsh intended to make the very most of it. Hence she had no intention of staying home and mouldering any longer within the confines of the old nursery. In the village, folks would be ambling from door to door, bringing songs and winter cheer. There’d be hot chestnuts and apple tarts to buy on the green, and loving cups full of spiced ale to pass around. Everyone would be full of joy and might even spare a nice word for her.
Excited by that prospect, she snatched up her muff and turned eagerly to the door.
She didn’t care if the worst blizzard in history struck Knasebrook; she intended to go a-wassailing all the same. She’d sing until she grew hoarse, and then she’d stand beneath the branches of the stately oak tree all hung with mistletoe and apples, close her eyes and perhaps this year a miracle would occur and her dearest wish would be granted.
“Viola, you do remember you’re to join the family tonight?”
“Heavens, Aunt Clara, as if I’m ever likely to forget it.” The imminent Marsh family Christmas ball had consumed her thoughts for weeks. It was the highlight of the season, and as the only social engagement on her calendar, her one chance to shine. Ever since an unfortunate incident during her one and only London season four years ago, she’d been barred from attending anything but the most intimate of family dinners. More often than not, she and Aunt Clara ate together in the old nursery wing. Tonight was to be different though; she had a new dress to wear, made of the finest white muslin and cut in the very latest style, with a rich gold fringe at the hem and beautiful embroidery on the sleeves, and she’d get to dance, even if it was only with her brothers. For a few hours she could be normal again.
“Don’t worry, Auntie; I’ll be home in plenty of time to make myself presentable. I promise.” She kissed Aunt Clara’s whiskery cheek.
“Be good now, and do as your brother, Tom says.”
“I will.”
“Are you finished with your goodbyes yet?” Tom muttered querulously. He already stood by the door muffled to his earholes. “Heavens, you’d think you were going to the moon. We’re only headed to the village and back.”
“I just have my bonnet to tie on.”
“Well do hurry.” He stamped his feet impatiently as she tied the ribbon.
Tom continued to grumble as they followed the bridle path toward the village. There was snow on the ground which made the going treacherous, so he was forced to offer her his support. Being chivalrous toward her didn’t come easily. Tom much preferred making her squeal with his horrid tricks.
“I suppose you mean to go and embarrass yourself standing beneath the kissing bough,” he remarked humourlessly, as they crossed the stile. “I do wish you wouldn’t. It’s a pointless activity. A future husband is hardly likely to float down like a snowflake and bless you with a kiss, and nor is anyone about to carve their initials into the pie you’ve spent hours baking either.”
Tom liked to believe he was a pragmatist. In truth, he merely lacked imagination.
“It’s traditional,” she replied waspishly. It did no one any harm for her to cook in silence or to stand beneath a decorative garland and make a wish. “Besides, as you’re always so ready to point out, I’m not likely to find a husband any other way.”
“And whose fault it that?”
Viola sniffed. Not hers, no matter what everybody thought .
“Vi, everybody knows what you did. No one reputable is ever going to offer for you, and none of the villagers would dare to give you a kiss. Father would skin them alive, and rightly so in my opinion.”
“I suppose you think I should content myself with sitting in the
Similar Books
