Page 123 of Oddity of the Ton
“What do you think, Harriet?” Eleanor asked. “Shall we make do here?”
“We’ll make do very well, miss,” the maid said. “You deserve to be happy. Perhaps, now, you can.”
Eleanor looked into Harriet’s eyes—her maid, companion, and friend. Then she glanced around her new home—a haven where she could, at last, be truly herself, without judgment.
Then the walls she’d erected around herself disintegrated, and she collapsed into her maid’s arms and burst into tears.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rosecombe Park, Hertfordshire, December 1815
Children’s laughter filledthe great hall, echoing off the walls and spiraling toward the ceiling. The very bones of the building seemed to vibrate with life. Most likely because Rosecombe had never experienced such a cacophony of unbridled, childish merriment.
At least not in Monty’s lifetime.
And the scent of spices and citrus—an aroma that always evoked the spirit of Christmas—was almost enough to lift the spirits.
Almost.
He glanced toward the fireplace, where the children had gathered around Jenkins, sitting cross-legged on the carpet under the watchful gaze of Olivia and a young girl from the village who now ran the school. The children stared, wide-eyed, at the butler while he related tales of folklore and faeries. One child sat apart from the rest, a notebook in his hand.
Who would have known that old fossil Jenkins, of whom Monty had been terrified as a boy, possessed a talent for entertaining children?
Jenkins finished his story, and was met with a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs.”
“What do we say, children?” Olivia asked.
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins!” the children chorused.
“And now—before you get your treats, can anybody tell me what’s special about today?”
Several hands shot up.
“Yes, Lottie?”
“It’s Christmas!” the little girl cried.
“Not yet,” Olivia replied, laughing, “though our host has treats for you all. Anybody else?”
The quiet little boy on his own shifted forward, his body tense, and Olivia kneeled beside him.
“Doyouknow what’s special about today, Joe?”
He scribbled in his notebook and showed her the page.
“Excellent, Joe—well done!” she said. “That’s right—it’s St. Nicholas’s Day. The duke has treats for you all. Isn’t that kind of him?”
A ripple of enthusiasm threaded through the children at the prospect of sweets, and Monty’s heart sank at the prospect of two dozen children enlivened by a dose of sugar.
Time for a brandy to numb the senses.
He approached the sideboard, unstoppered the decanter, and poured a measure of dark brown liquid into a glass.
“I take it you’re unused to children’s parties, brother?”
Olivia had followed him.
Monty tilted the decanter toward her and raised his eyebrows in question.
