way to the kitchen. What about you? Aunt Marta doesn’t sound like one to take her turn after the potboy.”
“She thinks it’s all pagan superstition,” she said regretfully, then added, “but I used to sneak down and have my turn anyway. Cook would call for me last, just before it was done.”
“And would she put in the ring and the key and the penny? I cannot remember the other charms that were supposed to bring luck or wealth or whatever.”
“No, Cook never dared to put the lucky pieces in the pudding she made for the family. I think she made another just for the staff.”
“It was rigged in my household anyway. Aunt Florrie always got the little silver horse. She would cry otherwise. Aunt Florrie is not quite right,” he explained, wondering if he should also mention his vaporish mother, wayward cousin, devious uncle, blind grandmother. No, he decided. Why chance giving the chit nightmares? And that was without reference to the ghost. He pictured Juneclaire crying out in the night, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, throwing herself into his arms in the straw. He shook his head. Unworthy, St. Cloud. “Oh yes, and once she was permitted at the table, Cousin Elsbeth always managed to receive the piece of pudding with the ring in it. It never helped, for she is twenty and still unwed.”
“Then she must not have wished hard enough.”
“I suspect it has more to do with her ambitious expectations and her shrewish nature. But I am certain you must have made a wish, fairy child that you are. What did you wish for?” He thought she’d confess to seeking a visit to London, fancy clothes and balls, like Elsbeth.
Suddenly shy, Juneclaire answered, “Just the usual schoolgirl fancies, I suppose.” She was not about to tell him that her wish was going to be for a handsome cavalier to rescue her from the corpulent captain or the smelly squire. That had already come true, without her even making the wish! “I know,” she declared, changing the subject, “let’s make our Christmas wishes anyway. No, not for a hot meal or anything silly like that, but something special, something important. It’s supposed to come true by Twelfth Night if you are deserving, so your wish must be for something worth being good.”
“Do you mean only the righteous can have their wishes answered? I thought those were prayers,” he teased.
Juneclaire considered. “Being good never hurts.”
Oh, doesn’t it? he wondered, pondering the ache in his loins to think of the dark-haired beauty not two feet away from him and two lifetimes apart. “You go first.”
“I suppose I should wish for an end to the war and peace for everyone.”
“No, no. That’s being too good. Take it as a given and wish for something personal. After all, it’s your one and only Christmas wish, practically in a manger. It’s bound to come true, little bird.” He reached over and found her hand.
“Do you know what I wish, then? I wish for a place of my very own, where I am wanted and welcome and no one can send me away or make me ashamed to be there.”
He squeezed her hand, there in the dark. “I think . . . Yes, I think I wish for fewer people dependent on me, fewer responsibilities, and not having to listen to them tell me what’s right for me. Then I mightn’t feel so inclined to do the opposite.”
They were quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Then Juneclaire started to hum a Christmas carol, and Merry joined in. They went through all the old songs they knew, English and French. His fine baritone held the tune better than her uncertain soprano, but she knew more of the words. They might have done better the other way around, but the horses and the pig did not complain.
Despite Juneclaire’s determination to stay awake, her eyelids were too heavy to hold open when they ran out of songs. She had put in two long, hard days, even for a country girl used to physical exertion and fresh air. They drifted into sleep nestled in
“She thinks it’s all pagan superstition,” she said regretfully, then added, “but I used to sneak down and have my turn anyway. Cook would call for me last, just before it was done.”
“And would she put in the ring and the key and the penny? I cannot remember the other charms that were supposed to bring luck or wealth or whatever.”
“No, Cook never dared to put the lucky pieces in the pudding she made for the family. I think she made another just for the staff.”
“It was rigged in my household anyway. Aunt Florrie always got the little silver horse. She would cry otherwise. Aunt Florrie is not quite right,” he explained, wondering if he should also mention his vaporish mother, wayward cousin, devious uncle, blind grandmother. No, he decided. Why chance giving the chit nightmares? And that was without reference to the ghost. He pictured Juneclaire crying out in the night, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, throwing herself into his arms in the straw. He shook his head. Unworthy, St. Cloud. “Oh yes, and once she was permitted at the table, Cousin Elsbeth always managed to receive the piece of pudding with the ring in it. It never helped, for she is twenty and still unwed.”
“Then she must not have wished hard enough.”
“I suspect it has more to do with her ambitious expectations and her shrewish nature. But I am certain you must have made a wish, fairy child that you are. What did you wish for?” He thought she’d confess to seeking a visit to London, fancy clothes and balls, like Elsbeth.
Suddenly shy, Juneclaire answered, “Just the usual schoolgirl fancies, I suppose.” She was not about to tell him that her wish was going to be for a handsome cavalier to rescue her from the corpulent captain or the smelly squire. That had already come true, without her even making the wish! “I know,” she declared, changing the subject, “let’s make our Christmas wishes anyway. No, not for a hot meal or anything silly like that, but something special, something important. It’s supposed to come true by Twelfth Night if you are deserving, so your wish must be for something worth being good.”
“Do you mean only the righteous can have their wishes answered? I thought those were prayers,” he teased.
Juneclaire considered. “Being good never hurts.”
Oh, doesn’t it? he wondered, pondering the ache in his loins to think of the dark-haired beauty not two feet away from him and two lifetimes apart. “You go first.”
“I suppose I should wish for an end to the war and peace for everyone.”
“No, no. That’s being too good. Take it as a given and wish for something personal. After all, it’s your one and only Christmas wish, practically in a manger. It’s bound to come true, little bird.” He reached over and found her hand.
“Do you know what I wish, then? I wish for a place of my very own, where I am wanted and welcome and no one can send me away or make me ashamed to be there.”
He squeezed her hand, there in the dark. “I think . . . Yes, I think I wish for fewer people dependent on me, fewer responsibilities, and not having to listen to them tell me what’s right for me. Then I mightn’t feel so inclined to do the opposite.”
They were quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Then Juneclaire started to hum a Christmas carol, and Merry joined in. They went through all the old songs they knew, English and French. His fine baritone held the tune better than her uncertain soprano, but she knew more of the words. They might have done better the other way around, but the horses and the pig did not complain.
Despite Juneclaire’s determination to stay awake, her eyelids were too heavy to hold open when they ran out of songs. She had put in two long, hard days, even for a country girl used to physical exertion and fresh air. They drifted into sleep nestled in
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