Page 38 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

She had never heard her Papa speak of her mother in this way. “I did not know that,” she said softly. “We never seem to talk about her.”

Her papa sighed. “She was a marvelous woman, and I feel the lack of her, even now, even with your stepmother. Selina is an admirable mother to her children, but I fear you lack the warmth of your own mother’s comfort.”

Refusing to cry was the only way to conduct this conversation, Jemima reminded herself. She would not cry.

“I am glad I spoke of her with you,” said Arthur gently, placing his hand on hers. “We should do it more often.”

“Do what more often?”

Jemima and her father twisted their heads suddenly to see where the new voice had come from and saw Sophia standing in the doorway.

“Are you off for the day, child?” Arthur stood and went to embrace his youngest daughter, and the moment between him and Jemima was broken.

But Jemima thought more contentedly than she had done in a long time, it had happened. And it could happen again. As she took a sip of tea, she tried to find balance once more in her soul. Her papa did trust her; he was merely attempting to understand her. He considered Hugh a good match.

Mrs. Rotherham.

“Oh, and Jemima?”

Jemima looked up and saw that the rest of the family had entered the room again. The morning conversation had moved swiftly on to the matter of Stuart’s great-uncle—there seemed to be some sort of legal problem; Jemima had not been paying attention—but now her father called her name.

Jemima rested her cup of tea back onto the saucer. “Yes, Papa?”

Her father’s eyes twinkled. “Do not forget to invite your friend to dinner tonight, will you? I am anxious to meet them. I am sure that we all are.”

He cast a look at his wife who immediately said, “Yes, Jemima, we long to meet your friend. Do invite her for tonight, I shall easily be able to ask Mrs. Castle to lay on an extra setting at the table.”

Jemima caught her Papa’s eye and tried not to laugh. Her stepmother’s assumption that her friend would be wearing skirts and not breeches was not lost on either of them.

“Are you sure, Mama?” Jemima said respectfully. “It will be very near Christmas, after all. I would not want my friend to be an imposition.”

Selina waved her hand with a smile. “No imposition whatsoever.”

Suddenly Caroline burst out, “But what is to be done?”

Jemima looked wildly around the room, but it seemed as though everyone else had followed this perfectly. That showed her, she thought, for not paying attention this morning.

And the letter her father had given her was still in her hand. Unopened.

“I will go and see my friend and invite them for tonight,” she said quietly, quitting the table just as Caroline burst into tears.

It was unlike Caroline to cry, but Jemima had more pressing matters on her mind. She must find Hugh immediately. She must find him and tell him that…what to tell him? To all intents and purposes, they had received her father’s blessing, and surely that meant…

“Did you ever open that letter?”

Arabella’s question was innocently meant, but Jemima was in no mood to share the contents of anything personal that morning.

“No,” replied Jemima. “Not yet. And even when I have, I shall not be sharing its contents!”

With those words, and ignoring the disappointment from her family, she exited the room.

She saw with gladness that no one had followed her. The letter felt small in her hand, yet weighty with its potential import, and after gathering a large woolen shawl around her shoulders, she let herself out into the garden.

The air was cold, but the sun was battling on, attempting to shine as best it could against the December wind. Jemima shivered slightly but persevered. With five sisters, any time and space one could find for oneself ought to be treasured gladly.

Jemima had only one place in her mind that would be suitable for opening her letter. Stepping lightly, she walked up the steps to the garden terrace and leaned against the balcony. In the coolness of the day, if she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that she was with Hugh, imagining his arms around her once more.

But now was not the time to imagine. If she was correct, there was his handwriting already clutched in her hand.

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