Page 128 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
"Of course, my dear! And I shall see you have refreshments sent in to you."
Two hours later, Jocelyn came out of the music room, tired but exhilarated. She met Lady Tarkington in the Great Hall. The dowager marchioness wore an expression of chagrin as she stood indecisively, gnawing on one fingertip.
"Is there anything the matter, Lady Tarkington? May I help?"
"No, I don't think so, my dear. It's that blasted woman. . . . Oh, dear, I did not mean that, of course. Only . . ."
"Yes?" Jocelyn prodded, intrigued. Guiltily she looked about for her mother. Lady Maybrey would frown and scold if she heard her curiosity.
"Clarice Bayne sent round a note saying she'd join us for dinner at five, only I've ordered Cook to set back dinner to seven, more in keeping with London hours, and I told Tarkington he would not be required until six-thirty. I completely forgot, what with Mary's illness and plans for our coming guests, that she would, of course, want to meet you! It only wants three now, so I suppose I can tell Cook of the new arrangements and still enjoy a passable dinner, but it is Tarkington I am concerned with. If he is not present, she shall take it personally, you know."
"No, I'm afraid I don't."
Lady Tarkington blushed and looked guiltier yet. She grabbed Jocelyn's wrist. "Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear. That was ill done of me. I swear Mary's illness has made a dreadful shatterbrain of me. Pay no attention to my rambling."
"No, please, Lady Tarkington. Don't you think it is only fair that I be forewarned if forewarning is needed?"
"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know. It is sometimes so dreadfully difficult to avoid offense. Clarice Bayne is—well, different. She can be a difficult woman," Lady Tarkington said slowly, carefully watching Jocelyn's face for her reaction. "She has not been pleased we are having a house party here for the holidays. Unseemly, she calls it. Christmas, she believes, is for pious, solemn observance. A time for meditation and prayer. Sometimes I do believe she would be happier in a convent," she finished morosely with a sigh. "She and Tarkington do not get along. Not that they argue, mind you. He tries as best he may to ignore her. That includes avoiding her company. Well, her son does that," she said righteously.
"Even as he encouraged me to come early, I thought Mr. Bayne's excuses to delay his arrival were spurious," Jocelyn said wryly.
Lady Tarkington nodded, the tight curls that framed her face bouncing with the movement.
"And, if I understand you correctly, it would be best for peace withal for Tarkington to be here," Jocelyn said.
"That's it exactly."
"Where is he? Is he at the carpenter's?"
Lady Tarkington looked up at her in surprise. "How did you know that?"
Jocelyn grinned. "Servant gossip, of course."
Lady Tarkington clucked her tongue.
"Why don't you go handle the cook to see that dinner is ready on time, or at least by five-thirty. I require some exercise after sitting for two hours, so I will endeavor to tell the marquess of the change in dinner plans," Jocelyn offered.
"Oh, would you, my dear? I would be ever so grateful. Under the circumstances, knowing what his reaction is liable to be, I am loath to send a footman, as you said, servant gossip. Clarice Bayne is particularly attuned to it. I swear she has spies in this household."
Jocelyn laughed and winked. "Don't worry. We shall thwart her this time."
CHAPTER3
Jocelyn tried to peer through the diamond-shaped panes of grimy, slightly green glass set in the old oak door of the carpenter's workshop. From inside she heard an odd rhythmic sound, something like clip-clatter, clip-clatter, clip-clatter. She knocked on the door and waited, but there was no response, no cessation of the strange noise. She pushed down on the latch, and the door opened smoothly with nary a squeal or screech from its old hinges. Tentatively she poked her head in the doorway.
"My lord? My lord Tarkington?"
Across the room, she could see the marquess standing before a strange-looking device. His foot worked a treadle on the floor connected by belts and wheels to two iron pins that held a piece of wood between each tip. The wood spun around. Beside him stood a squat man with large square hands. Dust obscured the glasses on his red nose, so he looked over them to observe the marquess' progress.
"Easy, my lord. Not too much pressure. . . . Let it slide easily. . . . Yes, that's it, my lord. Very good!"
A gust of wind came in through the open door, swirling sawdust into the air. Tarkington's eyes flickered upward. "Kindly close the door, Miss Maybrey. I am creating enough of this confounded dust without your stirring up more."
Jocelyn blushed bright red but hurried to do as he requested. Then she came farther into the workshop to see what the marquess was doing, her eyes darting about, taking in the unpainted carved horse lacking a tail, mane, rockers, and handle. It leaned against a wall, out of the way, a small rug tossed over its back to protect it, Jocelyn presumed. Two rockers, shaped and sanded, were also propped against the wall. A pile of multicolored horse hair—likely culled from the tails and manes of estate horses—lay on a nearby table. Hanging from a peg on the wall was a small leather harness and two small stirrups with leather straps attached.
To her amazement, Jocelyn realized the truth. The marquess was making a rocking horse for his daughter—and doing the work himself, not overseeing it. Somehow, though she'd been told he was doing the work, the idea of his total involvement had never penetrated her understanding. She'd never known any nobleman to labor in this manner.
She stood agog. She was delighted!
