Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Read online

  Lottie turned her big blue eyes on him. “Will you be there—at the skating party?”

  Callum glanced sidelong at Miss Webster. “I’ll try to come.” The professor wasn’t a fan of skating. Callum looked at the others. “We can meet and share our progress then.”

  Transparently re-enthused, the group broke up, and with a polite bow to Miss Webster—earning a definitely approving nod in reply—Callum turned and walked north along the lane. He felt quietly satisfied with his afternoon’s achievements—he’d met an intriguing lady and managed to impress her while claiming the reins of the search for the source of the three Roman coins and steering it onto the right track.

  Chapter 4

  Callum heard the shrieks—ones of joy and delight—long before he could see the frozen lake. With his gloved hands sunk in his greatcoat pockets and his breath misting in the icy air, he trudged up the rise of the village green. They hadn’t had any more snow, but the cold had turned intense. The white blanket covering the grass crunched with every step he took.

  His skates were hanging by their knotted laces about his neck; he’d packed them assuming that, from Oxford, he would have gone to his parents’ home in North Yorkshire for the usual family Christmas gathering and would be skating with his nephews and nieces on the village pond there. He would still go north; as long as he arrived at Guisborough Manor by Christmas Eve, all would be well.

  On gaining the crest of the rise, he paused to catch his breath and take stock of the scene before him. It was a bucolic winter picture. Viewed from where he stood, the lake was longest running left to right, with the solidly frozen ice reflecting the grays of the clouds massing in the sky above. The surrounding land—to either side and up the rising bank of the ridge behind the lake—was painted in a palette drawn from the browns of bare branches and the greens of firs and pines. Embraced as it was by dense woodlands, the expanse of the lake resembled a magical clearing in which a host of sprites were cavorting.

  Callum grinned at the fanciful thought. It seemed that most of the village children were already whizzing about on the ice, with a handful of their elders more restrainedly circling. Callum searched for the three children with whom he was familiar, only to realize they weren’t yet indulging, but together with the older members of his unexpected crew, the trio were wending their way among the adults gathered on the lakeshore, stopping at each group to speak—asking their questions and eliciting answers.

  “They’re dedicated and diligent,” Callum murmured.

  As Lottie had prophesized, most of the village appeared to be in attendance. Callum saw all those he’d already met as well as many he hadn’t, including quite a few older members of his own class. With any luck, he would be able to avoid them; one never knew when someone might recognize him, even if he had no idea who they were. Such was the nature of ton connections; one never knew when they might surface.

  Although he swept the gathering once more, just to be sure, he felt confident he needn’t fear coming face-to-face with the professor. Webster would have no use for such an unproductive activity; he would label it a frivolous waste of time.

  For his part, Callum believed there was a place in life for frivolous wastes of time.

  Without conscious direction, his gaze had settled on a figure in a bright-blue pelisse. Today, Miss Webster’s golden hair was tucked beneath a fur hat, and she carried a muff.

  “And,” Callum murmured, “she’s brought skates, too.”

  He grinned and started down the snowy slope. Trading amiable nods with those who recognized him, he made his way to where Miss Webster stood with the older girl, Mandy. He’d just reached the pair and had exchanged smiles and greetings when Mandy’s sister, Melissa, joined them, along with Viscount Dagenham.

  After exchanging nods with Callum and Miss Webster, Melissa and Dagenham reported that they’d asked all those they’d come across the three agreed questions—about visitors from outside the village, shopping beyond the village, and finding coins on the ground—to no avail.

  “Absolutely no one seems to know anything at all about any strange coins.” Melissa sounded thoroughly dispirited.

  Dagenham, his gaze on Melissa’s face, leaned closer, his shoulder lightly brushing hers. “The others might have had better luck.”

  Callum had noticed that the young viscount was particularly attentive toward Melissa, although she seemed too young to be, as the term went, fixing her interest. But what did Callum know?

  The rest of the crew wandered up, their expressions making Callum’s “No luck?” redundant.

  Every head shook in a negative.

  “No one’s gone shopping anywhere beyond the village since before harvesting,” Jamie reported.

  “And everyone seems very sure they haven’t picked up any coins lying about, either,” Thomas said.

  Henry huffed. “We’ve asked everyone about visitors, and on top of that, we asked all the shopowners and their assistants and all the grooms and ostlers at the Arms whether they’d sighted any stranger about, and the only ones mentioned were you and the Websters.”

  George Wiley looked at Callum. “That seems to make it certain that the coins were put in the jar by some local who didn’t realize they weren’t just silver pennies.”

  Callum digested that, then looked at Henry. “Is there anyone local—who you view as local—to whom you’ve yet to speak?”

  Henry opened his mouth, a “No” clearly on his tongue, but stopped before he uttered it. His brow gradually furrowed, and eventually, he said, “There are a few people—men who live alone, mostly in small cottages tucked away farther out from the village. They use the village shops for their necessities, but for various reasons, they only occasionally come into the village. They’re not exactly villagers as such—they won’t be here today—but every now and then, they’ll come into Mountjoy’s or to the bakery or the butcher or spend an evening at the Arms.” Henry glanced around at all the crew. “One can never tell when they’ll be around, and they’re not always at home, either. Quite a few travel for work, although they rarely move out of the county.”

  Dagenham straightened. “We could drive out tomorrow and see if they’re at home and ask our questions.”

  The suggestion was approved by the rest of the older members of the search crew and arrangements swiftly made for three curricles—Henry’s, Dagenham’s, and Kilburn’s—to ferry the five young gentlemen as well as Melissa and Mandy on a circuit of the countryside around the village, stopping in at the isolated cottages to ask their questions and see what they could learn.

  The prospect of action lifted the spirits of those involved, and they visibly brightened.

  Callum had been thinking. “While you lot take care of that, I’ll see what more I can glean about Roman settlements in the area.” He caught Henry’s eye. “Are there any old maps or books about the history of the village, or even of the locality more generally, available anywhere near?”

  “I know there are books on the history of the village in the Fulsom Hall library,” Henry replied. “You’re welcome to look through those. And there are sure to be more tomes in the library at Dutton Grange—they’ve a larger collection overall. M’sister’s married to Lord Longfellow, who owns the Grange. I can introduce you, and you’ll be able to search there as well.” Henry grinned. “Better you than me.”

  “The Swindons at Swindon Hall might have more books as well,” Jamie said. “Major Swindon is interested in history.”

  “I know Grandmama—at Hartington Manor—doesn’t have any,” Melissa said. “I asked last year, and Grandmama told me the Grange library would be the best place to look.”

  “Reverend Colebatch will have some history books, too,” the younger George said. “But I suspect they’ll mostly be churchy stuff, and the Romans weren’t Christians, were they?”

  Callum grinned and nodded at Henry. “I’ll start with your library and see how far it gets me.”

  “What are you looking for?” Miss Webs
ter asked.

  Callum had—almost—forgotten she was there, hovering beside him on the edge of the now-eager group. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, “Sometimes, there are references to Roman camps or the sort of clearings or old ruins that might indicate a Roman presence. If there’s any site noted within the village boundaries, that would be a reasonable place to attempt a ground search.” He looked at the others. “If I can find something—some reference pointing to a particular place—that will give us an avenue to explore directly, in case, despite all your questioning, we fail to pick up a clue as to where the coins came from.”

  That notion buoyed the group even more.

  “Right, then,” Henry declared, and positivity and determination rang in his voice. “Now we have our next steps settled, who’s for the ice?”

  “Me!”

  “Us!”

  They’d all been carrying their skates and quickly found logs to sit on; several had been placed close by the lakeshore specifically for that purpose. Once each member of the group had attached their skates, they hobbled the last foot to the frozen lake, and then they were off.

  Callum held back, letting the youthful crew launch themselves onto the ice with gay abandon. All were confident and accomplished; they skated off in groups, chatting and exclaiming, and laughter soon bubbled forth as they encountered other villagers enjoying the communal celebration.

  He glanced at Miss Webster, who’d remained beside him. “This—having a village celebration on the ice—is a novel yet obviously excellent idea. I must mention it to my parents—there’s a good-sized pond in their village.”

  “Oh?” Bright hazel eyes signaled interest. “Where do your parents live?”

  There was no harm he could see in sharing that. “In Guisborough. It’s in North Yorkshire, not that far from the coast. It’s usually very cold at this time of year.”

  She looked out at the skaters. “Are you going to be heading north for Christmas?”

  That rather depends on what happens in Little Moseley. “I hope to.” He glanced at her face; her expression appeared faintly wistful as she gazed out at the other skaters.

  It hadn’t escaped his notice that she was holding a well-worn pair of skates by her side.

  He summoned his most charming smile. “Miss Webster?” When she glanced his way, he gestured to the lake. “Can I tempt you out?”

  She studied him for a second, then her lips curved, and she inclined her head. “I might be a trifle rusty,” she warned him as she moved with him to a nearby log.

  He sat beside her, lifted his skates from about his neck, and untied the laces. “It’ll come back to you once you’re on the ice. Never fear.” And he’d be there to catch her if it didn’t; this was shaping up better than he’d hoped.

  Sadly, his words of encouragement proved well founded; the instant they stepped onto the ice, she found her balance, and with a look of wonder gradually dawning and, ultimately, lighting her face, she proceeded to lead him a merry dance through whirls and swirls and elegant loops.

  After catching up to her in the center of the lake, he grasped her outstretched hands and swung her around; they looked into each other’s faces, and he laughed. “You’re an accomplished skater, Miss Webster.”

  “I was,” she admitted as she slipped her gloved hands free and whirled away. “And it appears I still am!”

  Laughing, she turned and streaked away from him, and he grinned broadly and shot off in pursuit.

  They circled, they raced, then they weaved and whirled. Others passed them and called delightedly, enjoying their impromptu exhibition. She blushed, but didn’t falter, sweeping into another complex turn.

  He found it difficult to drag his eyes from her; indeed, he didn’t try. And if her focus rarely shifted from him, that seemed only fair.

  Elsewhere on the ice, Melissa vacillated between, on the one hand, wanting to turn aside with Dagenham while the others skated on in a rowdy group and, on the other, pushing to keep up, clinging to the company of Mandy and the others and denying herself and him the chance to enjoy what amounted to moments of privacy while in full view of the entire village. In the end, she compromised and dropped back a yard or so, but no more; by unstated accord, she and Dagenham remained within easy hailing distance of the others—a separation that had become habitual over recent days.

  The distance wasn’t so great that they could be said to have stepped apart, as a courting couple might, yet the separation was sufficient to allow them to exchange private comments, to share smiles and looks weighted with meaning far beyond their easy words.

  And throughout, they skated, moving gracefully and easily in the wake of the others. With her gloved hand firmly clasped in his long fingers, Dagenham led her in a series of loops and swirls…as if they were dancing.

  She wasn’t yet allowed to waltz, yet to her mind, this was just a waltz in a different setting—their eyes still lingered, their hands touched and brushed, and as he drew her in to skate close beside him, her heavy skirts flared over his legs.

  It was a magical time—an hour during which they were part of their world, yet not, where being on the ice set them free, even though the constraints of society lingered in their minds.

  Then Annie Bilson and her twin brother, Billy, came racing up, Annie chortling and waving Billy’s knitted hat, and Billy in hot and determined pursuit. As the pair whizzed past Melissa and Dagenham, Billy grabbed his sister’s flying hair and tugged.

  Annie shrieked, flung the hat high, and flailed to keep her balance.

  Billy released his sister’s hair, dived for the hat, scooped it up, and cheering, raced away.

  Instinctively, Melissa lunged to catch Annie, and the little girl’s desperately waving hands clutched Melissa’s coat.

  “Oh!” Melissa tipped sideways—only to feel Dagenham, his long frame steely and strong, beside her. His arm clamped about her waist, and he steadied her against him, and Annie caught her balance, flashed Melissa a gap-toothed smile, and pushed off again in pursuit of her brother.

  Leaving Melissa in Dagenham’s arms.

  She turned to him and met his gaze as her senses rioted.

  His gray eyes seemed darker, more turbulent, but that might have been a reflection of the clouds.

  She breathed in—and so did he.

  Then, slowly, as if he were having to direct each muscle to move, he released her.

  They stared at each other; they were standing near the middle of the lake, surrounded by others, yet in that moment, they seemed alone. Just him and her and…whatever lay between them.

  “Melissa! Dags! Come on!”

  They turned their heads and saw Henry beckoning; the group were skating on down the lake.

  Melissa looked at Dagenham, and he looked at her, then a faint, almost-mocking smile lifted the ends of his lips, and with a graceful gesture, he waved her on.

  He fell in beside her, and they glided toward the others.

  Together with Harris, Honor had taken possession of the center of the lake. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so exhilarated—so free. She’d always loved skating, but skating with a partner as accomplished as Harris was a pleasure she hadn’t previously enjoyed.

  She was enjoying this—to the top of her bent. She felt as if sheer happiness was filling her up and bubbling free—lighting her eyes and her smiles and infecting her laughter.

  His grip on her hands was rock-steady, his judgment of speed and turn perfectly aligned with hers. Sometimes, he led, and at other times, he stepped back and followed. As the minutes passed, and they grew more accustomed to each other’s foibles, entirely attuned to each other, she felt as if they were approaching that state where, instead of being two separate entities, their bodies moved as one.

  It was a heady feeling, one she’d never before experienced.

  Put simply, skating with Harris was a joy. They glided in concert; they experimented and explored—and through every moment, they gloried.

  She could see
his enjoyment in his face, in his sparkling blue eyes, and it mirrored her delight. Setting aside all reservations, she gave herself up to the magic.

  Callum found his senses locked on his partner, his mind a willing captive to the moments, to the sensuous movements as they circled and swirled, then came together to pace and power along.

  There was something about skating that had always drawn him, but skating with Miss Webster transformed the activity into a consuming pleasure. When, greatly daring, he gripped her waist, lifted her high, swung her in a perfect arc, and brought her down into a smooth glide, he could barely breathe for the emotion that locked about his heart.

  For uncounted seconds, he couldn’t drag his eyes from hers.

  The applause from those on the shore seemed to come from a great distance.

  How long they danced—for that was what it was—on the shushing ice, he honestly couldn’t have said, but eventually, the crowd about them thinned, and the air grew more chill as the gray day faded into shadows.

  They were among the last to skate back to the shore. When they halted at the edge of the ice, they were both breathing rapidly. Most of the villagers had already toiled up the slope and vanished from sight. Only a few stragglers remained.

  Callum grasped his partner’s gloved hand, bowed extravagantly over it, then, straightening, raised her knuckles to his lips. He captured her arrested gaze and, still a touch breathless after the prolonged exertion, simply said, “Thank you for your company, Miss Webster. This was a truly delightful interlude.”

  That was a massive understatement; her bright eyes confirmed she thought so, too.

  Despite balancing on her skates, using his grip on her hand for balance, she managed a creditable curtsy. “And I most sincerely thank you, Mr. Harris. This afternoon transformed into an unexpected pleasure.”

  For an instant, Callum was lost in the brilliance of her hazel eyes. Without any real thought, he said, “My given name is Callum. I would be honored if you would use it.”