lived there, perhaps not wanting to know, lest they be unsuitable people. But as we make our way up the front walk, I’m grinning with delight.
“Mary’s family lives here?” I say.
“Haven’t I mentioned that?”
I tug my hand from the muff to sock him, and he yelps far louder than it deserves.
“That is not ladylike behavior, Lady Thorne. Yes, perhaps I ought to have mentioned it, but . . .” He glances at me. “I know homes are much larger in your world, and I feared it might . . . discomfit you.”
He has a point. I’ve often thought how adorable Freya and Del’s cottage is, perfect for two people. Yet it had once housed an entire family.
“I am a history professor,” I remind him. “I know this sort of living situation was much more common.” In the great cities, entire families live in places a quarter this size.
“Life is different here,” I continue. “It is not always what I’m accustomed to, but many would argue that people in the twenty-first century don’t need nearly the size of homes they buy. Although one could argue that here, too. No family requires a house the size of Courtenay Hall. And Thorne Manor is rather large for two people and their cats.”
“Don’t worry. It shall be full enough soon. I want at least six children. And a score of staff.”
“More like six cats and a score of horses.”
“Now that’s just ridiculous, Lady Thorne. Horses in the house? They’d trample the poor cats.”
“The point, Lord Thorne, is that I realize this size of house is the norm for a village family, and if they are healthy and happy, then I will not be discomfited.”
“If it bothered you overmuch, I suppose Mary could live in with us?” There’s a note of trepidation in his voice that makes me smile.
“No,” I say. “Despite your jest about the score of staff, I know you would not want that, and I could not abide live-in staff any more than you.”
He exhales in relief.
I continue, “I will ask that we ensure her earnings well compensate her for the lack of room and board, and if she wishes, she may take rooms elsewhere. That seems a suitable compromise.”
“Very suitable.”
We reach the front door. William knocks. There’s a flurry of commotion inside, and someone peeks out a window, sees our lantern and basket and shouts “Carolers!”
There’s a pause, a silent one, and I glance at William, my brows rising as I wonder whether he’s not the only one who isn’t particularly thrilled with this custom. Just when I think they’re going to pretend they aren’t at home, the door opens, and a middle-aged version of Mary stands there, beaming. Then she sees who it is.
“M-m’lord,” she says. “Is-is there a problem?”
“No problem at all,” he says. “We’ve come caroling. Is Mary home?”
Another pause. Then Mary’s mother invites us in, but the invitation is hesitant, and I get the sense she’d rather we stayed at the door. Having gentry unexpectedly come to call is the ultimate hostess nightmare. I assure her we’re very warm and comfortable and will not stay long. She backs inside and calls for Mary, and she returns with Mary, an older man, and an adolescent boy. Also a chair. The boy carries the chair outside for me to sit on. I thank him and say I will sit in a moment.
“First, we have come caroling,” I say, lifting my lantern. I also point to the basket in William’s hand. Normally, this would be empty—a hint for a modest recompense for our singing, perhaps an apple or a sweet. Ours, though, is full. “And a holiday gift, in thanks for the kindness you have shown, allowing Mary to tend to me.”
Mary murmurs something, trying very hard to sound appreciative and not at all disappointed that I’ve made no mention of her offer.
“Now for the carol.” I look at William. “Please tell me your singing voice is better than mine.”
“Er, perhaps we should have discussed this before we decided to go caroling.”
“I take it that’s a no.” I turn back to the perplexed family. “We apologize, in advance, for our inability to carry a proper tune.”
I take a deep breath. Then we sing our song to the tune of that Victorian caroling classic “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”
“We wish to hire Mary after Christmas, we wish to hire Mary after Christmas, we wish to hire Mary after Christmas . . . and John too, if he can be spared.”