Page 39 of Twelve Drummers Drumming

Her fingers were starting to become numb, so she concentrated on the matter at hand and gazed down at her name written in an unfamiliar hand.

“Could this be Hugh’s handwriting?” she whispered to herself. “Could he have written this to me?”

There was only one way to discover the truth.

Jemima pulled the letter apart and found to her disappointment there were only a few short lines inside—but as she read them, her heart began to flutter, and the smile which had disappeared from her lips appeared again.

Jemima,

I am desperate to meet with you, and hope you share my desire to speak more about our acquaintance…friendship…I know not what to call it.

I beg you to meet me, I implore you. You will see me at our bench at noon, where I will ever be,

your Hugh

“Your Hugh,” she said in a soft voice. “Your Hugh.”

No matter how many times she read those words, or whispered them in an undertone, they did not yield up their secrets.

If he was her Hugh, did that make her his Jemima? What did he mean by this—and what would he have to say to her at noon?

The thought of noon struck her forcefully. It had been five past the hour of eleven when they had sat down to breakfast together, and it was at least an hour after that. Rushing inside, Jemima glanced at the nearest clock and saw with a groan that the hands told her it was a quarter past noon already.

She was late. He was waiting for her—he may even believe she had decided not to arrive.

There was no time to change, no time to alter her appearance in any way. Jemima did not even exchange the woolen shawl from her shoulders for her much warmer pelisse.

Nothing could distract her. She must make it to Hyde Park.

But I am already late, she thought desperately, throwing shut the front door as she ran down the stairs to the street.How long will Hugh wait there for me: five minutes, maybe ten?

The Christmas bustle of London had not abated in the slightest, and there were times when Jemima considered calling a carriage to get her there more speedily.

She did not notice the rain at first, busy as she was with navigating through the London crowds. But after a few minutes, the woolen shawl around her shoulders started to grow heavy, and she could no longer ignore the wet hair starting to stick to her face.

If finding a hansom was difficult minutes before, it was impossible now. She was only a minute or two away. She was going to make it.

Jemima turned a corner and began to pray silently that if Hugh was leaving Hyde Park, he would leave by the same gate that she was entering so that she could catch him.

He must not be permitted to leave without her.

She was sure to see him. The park was almost empty, the vast majority of people leaving to escape the rain falling heavier now, though the warmth of the day was unusual, and the rain easily forgotten when seeking out one’s love.

Jemima started to run, unladylike as it was, desperate to ensure he did not leave without telling her…telling her whatever it was he had to say to her.

Running fast, breathing deeply, barely paying any attention to her surroundings as she went, Jemima was unfortunate enough to crash straight into someone as she turned a corner on the path.

Down she tumbled onto the wet grass, entangled with the gentleman who had been unlucky enough to be in her way.

Jemima did not heed him, hastily trying to scramble onto her feet to continue on to the park where Hugh and she had first talked, first connected, first started to learn about each other.

The gentleman she had brought to the ground said angrily, “In the name of God, what’s the hurry?”

Jemima froze, her attempt to untangle her legs from the stranger halting. Because he was no stranger.

It was Captain Hugh Rotherham.

Unable to help herself, Jemima began to laugh. She gave up her futile attempts to right herself and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

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