Page 61 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
Kate puffed out in annoyance. Her dreams of a lazy afternoon popped like the champagne cork in the old movie.
On my way, she texted back, and reluctantly heaved herself out of the armchair.
•••••
Laura called just as Kate was pulling her coat and boots on. She was on her lunch break and from the way she was talking—a mile a minute and slightly high-pitched—Kate guessed she was busy at the manor too. She wanted to know what she was wearing to her date with Richard.
“I haven’t thought about it yet,” said Kate. “I’m going to be pushed for time, though; now I’ve got to help Matt.”
“Huh!” said Laura. “Sucker! At least I’m getting paid to be stressed.”
“Eurgh,” moaned Kate. “What’s wrong with me? I hate that I can’t just say no whenever he’s in trouble.”
“Funny,” said Laura. “That’s exactly what he said to me about you!”
•••••
There was no point taking the car; if it was as busy up there as she anticipated, it would be a nightmare to park and if the snow kept up, she’d get a lift back with Matt in the van.
The cold air invigorated her and she felt her energy rising again after her afternoon slump. A humming snake of cars wound the lanes to the manor. Kate kept close in to the hedgerows.
Bronze-and-maroon-feathered pheasants bobbed up above the long grass of the fields, their claret heads bright against the snow. They flew like heavy cushions being thrown and landed just as ungracefully. Every now and again one would flap too close to the road and Kate winced. They didn’t seem to be the cleverest of birds.
Snippets of Christmas music from car stereos whipped past her and Kate smiled to herself. She loved Christmas. Of all the holidays, Christmas was the one that replenished her soul and made her feel the most hopeful.
She saw smoke curl out of the tall chimneys above the tree line, long before the manor itself came into view. Round the next bend the path became gravel, forking off left and right for visitor parking and coach parties. From there, signposted paths led to the back of the manor, with its gardens and fountains and, for the next two days, the Christmas market.
Straight ahead was the long walk that led to the front of Blexford Manor. It was quieter here; only a few brave souls had chosen to walk in the snow. The path was wide enough for three cars, though it was only open to pedestrians most days. On either side were neatly cut lawns that ran to the edges of a pine forest. On quiet days wild deer meandered out from the trees to catch the sun on the lawn. But not today.
An ornate fountain—a later addition—with five scantily clad stonemaidens holding a wide rimmed bowl above their heads stood before the manor, acting as both an opulent first impression and a sort of high-class roundabout.
The manor itself was an imposing building. The glass of the many leaded windows looked black against the pale stone and brick walls—the brickwork being the height of modernity for the time. One large gabled wing protruded from the center of the building, with another two at either end. And between these, several smaller coped gablets gave the impression of many long thin buildings having been squeezed together to form one big one.
Blexford Manor lent itself to every Jane Austen–esque fantasy Kate could imagine. The sheer romance of the architecture never failed to take her breath away, especially today with the gray clouds as moody backdrop and the snowflakes sticking to the slate roofs. Kate took out her camera and snapped some shots before heading round to the gardens.
She found Matt warming his hands by an electric fire in his allotted wooden hut, between serving customers. The coffee machine, which was usually housed in a closed trailer in the café garden—a throwback to when Matt used to work the festival scene before the café became so busy—was steaming happily on a heavy-duty butcher block.
“How on earth did you get that machine in here?” asked Kate.
“Sheer bloody-mindedness!” grinned Matt. “I may have sacrificed a couple of vertebrae in the process.”
“Never mind,” said Kate. “You’ve got more. I’m just going to have a quick look round and I’ll be with you.”
“Right you are,” said Matt. He nodded and waved as a man in a green tweed jacket bent over the counter and inspected a bag of Carla’s festive fudge.
The courtyard had been transformed overnight into a winter grotto, with rows of fairy-lit wooden huts standing side by side, sellingeverything from mulled wine and roasted chestnuts to stone-carved garden ornaments and Fair Isle jumpers.
Last year there had been a snow machine churning out snowflakes to help with the ambience; this year it wasn’t necessary. The hut roofs were thickly white and though health and safety decreed that the courtyard be salted, the snow lay everywhere else it could; ceramic geese with blue bow ties wore snowy caps, as did the clay frogs and the laughing animatronic Santa, whose mirth shook the flakes from his shoulders, only for them to resettle a moment later. The branches of the conifers in beribboned pots drooped under the weight of their white blanketing.
Kate wandered the narrow lanes between the huts and soaked in the noises and smells. A Christmas market wasn’t like a mall, where people went on a determined mission to attack their Christmas shopping, ticking off lists and snarling in queues. A Christmas market was a meandering affair, a gentle seeking of gift possibilities, melding pleasure with purchase.
The spicy Christmas aromas intoxicated Kate’s senses and before she knew what had happened, she had purchased two cups of nonalcoholic mulled wine and a steaming bag of honey-roasted nuts and put dibs on a pair of Christmas embroidered cushions.
There was a queue outside Matt’s hut and Kate could see that his stocks were depleted. She let herself into his hut through a door at the side and put her spoils down on one of the stools.
“Thank yousomuch for coming!” said Matt. “I really appreciate this.”
He turned briefly to Kate and smiled as he handed change and a bulging paper bag with the Pear Tree Café logo over to a woman in a striped hat and scarf.
