Page 125 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
Jocelyn reveled in the openness of the scene cast before her. From the windows of her home in London and her boarding school in Bath, all she'd ever seen was a city of stone and brick layered in soot and perennial dirty fog. Here, though the day was cloudy, the landscape was mantled in a dull silver light—a presage to winter pewter when damp winds would pierce the thickest bundling. But there was a beauty to this scene that the city lacked. These late morning clouds resembled a thick down-filled tick, all warm and cozy.
For all of Bayneville's grandeur, it remained a working estate, not a rich man's toy. White curls of smoke rose from estate buildings, attesting to their usage and utility. She watched two maids carry between them a large wicker basket laden with soiled linens, a young lad in a leather apron sweeping the stone flag way leading to one of the outbuildings, a weather-beaten man in a slouch hat carrying a rake, and an old woman dressed in black carrying a covered basket. Grooms exercised horses, dogs raced across the open ground, and a cat stalked a fat winter wren resting on a low wall. There scarcely could have been more activity in the yard of the busiest London coaching inn.
The knock of the maid at her door roused her from her absorbed interest. "Come in!"
Emmie backed into the room bearing a large tray.
"What's this?"
"Breakfast, miss."
"Breakfast! All this!" Jocelyn exclaimed, waving her hand at the array of covered dishes and pots on the tray.
"Yes, miss. I didn't know what you'd like, so I brought a bit of everything, I did. And as soon as you've eaten, Miss Barnes will be up to dress you, she says."
"How is Lady Mary this morning?"
Emmie shook her head. "Poorly, she is. Up most o' the night, I hear, sneezin' and snifflin'. Wouldn't take no laudanum, nor the medicine the doctor left until my lord wur called. He made her take it, sure enough." She shook her head. "My lord, he wur that determined. Fearful lest he lose his sister as he done his wife. But my Lady Mary, she's sleepin' now, her maid says. And what would ya like, miss? Coffee or hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate," Jocelyn said slowly, her mind engaged in considering all the maid said. Then she recalled herself and smiled at the maid. "And thank you, Emmie. I promise I shall not inconvenience you again in this manner. All this food, and the size of that tray!"
"No bother, miss. 'Tis a blessed change it is to see visitors again at Bayneville, y'know. And my lord said to let ya sleep late after yur travels yesterday."
"What time is breakfast normally served, Emmie?"
"Nine, miss."
"Nine!" Jocelyn burst out, then laughed. "I see this is another difference with which I shall have to accustom myself between the city and country. At home, I seldom rise from my bed before nine. No one does."
"I've heard tales, miss."
Jocelyn laughed again. "I'm sure you have. Only don't believe half of it," she said, winking. "Mmm, this chocolate is delicious. I'd been noticing before you arrived how busy the estate is," she said, glancing back out the window.
Emmie laughed. "We're not busy, miss. 'Tis winter. Not like it be in summer—or at harvest! Lud, miss, it's an anthill, we are. But pardon, miss, I shouldn't be standin' jawin' with ya like this."
"Why not? I enjoy it. And with Lady Mary ill, I must take my enjoyment where I can. Or shall you be missed belowstairs?"
"No, miss, that I won't be. Until t'other guests arrive, I'm assigned to ya."
"Splendid! Can you tell me more about the estate? As I shall be left to my own devices until Lady Mary recovers, is there anything I should particularly see?"
"Oh, yes, miss!" Emmie said, her eyes gleaming. "The boxwood and yew garden. 'Tis most amazin' the shapes the gardeners cut everything. 'Tis artists they are to be sure as well as good gardeners. In their glass gardens—greenhouses they call 'em—they grow flowers and fruit in winter! And visit our chapel, beautiful it be with paintings and carvings—for all of us, my lord says. Reverend and Mrs. Stemple live in the whitewashed cottage just on the far side of the chapel. Happy they'd be to show it to ya, I'm thinking."
Jocelyn laughed. "I've met few men of the cloth who didn't want to share their church with guests. I think that is an excellent idea. Thank you, Emmie."
Emmie blushed scarlet, so she busied herself straightening the room in order to hide her pleasure.
Two hours passed before Jocelyn had an opportunity to leave her room. After Emmie removed the breakfast dishes, Miss Barnes descended upon Jocelyn like a boarding school headmistress upon a new midyear student whose parent was a wealthy, influential peer. Not even for London entertainments was Miss Barnes ever so exact and demanding of her mistress. When she learned of Jocelyn's plan to explore the estate, she outfitted her in a red-and-white striped moiré walking dress with a red pelisse trimmed in swans-down and insisted she wear her red kid half-boots and gloves.
Jocelyn's protests that the outfit was not conducive to brisk walking fell upon deaf ears. No lady should ever walk briskly, Miss Barnes told her. Jocelyn wondered why she'd never noticed Miss Barnes's managing manner before. She did not protest, for she was not sure the woman was wrong. Relaxation of standards between city and country could, Jocelyn supposed, have detrimental effects on the impressions of others. That would not do. And she had yet to meet Mrs. Bayne, Charles's mother. She did not know why, but she was not eager to meet Mrs. Bayne. No one ever spoke badly of the woman. Then again, no one ever spoke well, either. Charles's attitude confused Jocelyn. He rarely came to Bayneville to visit, and when he came, he kept his visits brief. And she knew he had no intention to remain at Bayneville long past Christmas Day while she was to stay another week. Was his reluctance aimed at his mother or his cousin? After meeting Tarkington she could not see how he could discommode Charles.
If she were to become engaged to Charles—as everyone supposed would be a result of her visit at Bayneville—then it was best she do nothing that might give her future mother-in-law, or Tarkington as head of the family, a distaste of her. She must remain worthy of Charles; after all, he was destined for great notice and deeds in government, and he was—as her mother mentioned—Tarkington's heir.
Now, why should that last thought depress her?
Sedately she descended the house's rear terrace steps to the courtyard that separated the Bayneville outbuildings from the main house. Asking a young groom to point her in the direction of the topiary garden, she strolled in that direction, her enthusiasm for exploring dimmed by etiquette and society rules. She felt hemmed in and constrained. While she realized her circumstances were no different than what she experienced in London, she felt ill at ease. She hoped the cold, brisk December air would blow through her beleaguered mind and bring respite.
How odd, she mused, her lips curving up into a gentle smile. Even before she arrived at Bayneville, she'd been looking for it to offer some medicine, some remedy for her jumbled thoughts.
