The Twelve Clues of Christmas

“Sir Oswald, I believe,” Lady Wormwood said. “Only a baronet. West Country people, aren’t they? Why, what have they done?”

“Nothing. I read the name in The Lady and I’d never heard of them. Just curious, that’s all. Interesting name, don’t you think?” I wandered out of the room again, trying not to let my excitement show. They were legit. Lady Wormwood had heard of them. West Country people. Now I just hoped that I wasn’t too late. Heaven knew how long our copy of The Lady had taken to reach us up in the wilds of Scotland. There were probably hundreds of applications from suitable young women winging their way to Gorzley Hall at this very moment. I decided I needed to act fast. I was about to make a dash to the telephone when I decided that wouldn’t be the right thing to do at all. It might fluster and embarrass her. The correct method would be to write to her on Castle Rannoch writing paper, crest and all, but it would be too slow. Drat and bother. Suddenly I brightened up. I could send her a telegram. I’d learned about the effectiveness of telegrams when I was in France, and all the best people sent them.

“I’m going into the village,” I said, popping my head around the breakfast room door. “Does anyone want anything?”

Fig peered at me over the Tatler. “How do you propose going to the village in this weather? You’re certainly not taking the motor and I don’t want MacTavish to have to drive you.”

“I suppose I could ride,” I said.

“I thought you said it would be criminal to take your horse out in this weather,” Lady Wormwood said with the smirk of someone who is scoring a point.

“I could walk if necessary. It’s only two miles.”

“Through snowdrifts? Dear me, it must be urgent.”

“It’s probably a letter to that Darcy person,” Fig commented. “Am I right?”

“Not at all,” I said. “If I can’t have the car I’d better start walking.”

“Dashed slippery out there. Who is going out walking?” Binky asked, appearing in the doorway.

“I am,” I said. “I have to go to the village and I’ve no other way of getting there.”

“I’m going in myself later,” Binky said. “If you don’t mind sticking around a bit, you can ride in with me.”

Fig glared at him as if he had let the side down by actually wanting to help me, but it was his car, after all.

“Thank you, Binky.” I beamed at him. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

I went upstairs and worked at composing my telegram. Would it make me seem too eager and pushy? I wondered. But then other girls in more southerly climes would have had a couple of days’ head start on me, and Christmas was rapidly approaching. I had to take the risk. I scribbled, crossed out, scribbled again and ended up with:

COPY OF THE LADY JUST REACHED ME. HOPE I’M NOT TOO LATE TO APPLY FOR POSITION. SENDING MY PARTICULARS BY POST. GEORGIANA RANNOCH.

Of course anyone who sends telegrams on a regular basis would know that this amount of verbiage would cost me a fortune. I blanched when Mrs. McDonald at the post office-cum-general store told me the amount, but Binky was hovering and my pride would not let me take it back for rewriting. Besides, I didn’t actually know what I could have left out. So I handed over the money, hoping that it would result in a paid position shortly. I realized there had been no mention of money in the advertisement. Perhaps the only recompense was to be the joys of a big house party. Ah, well, no matter. Anything would be better than a house full of Fig’s relatives.

I waited all that day and all the next, sinking further and further into gloom. I was too late. Some other young woman of impeccable background would be enjoying the delights of that big house party while I ate baked beans on toast and dodged Foggy’s grabbing hands. Then the next morning a miracle happened. Hamilton appeared with the post while we were at breakfast.

Fig took it. “Oh, something for you, Georgiana,” she said. “Who do you know in Devon?”

I snatched the letter and went out of the room to read it. “It will be a rejection,” I kept muttering as I opened the envelope. Instead I read:

My dear Lady Georgiana:

I was overwhelmed to receive your telegram. I had no idea that someone of your rank and status would ever consider gracing our small house party in the Devon countryside. We would be more than honored for you to join us. As mentioned in my advertisement, your duties would only be those of a young hostess, making sure that the younger guests have a good time. Could you be here by the twentieth and stay until after the New Year?

I hardly like to discuss remuneration, but of course we will cover your traveling expenses as well as the fee for your services. I think you’ll find us a jolly crowd and we’ll have a really gay Christmas.

Yours sincerely,

Camilla Hawse-Gorzley

I bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

“Queenie, I need my trunk again. We’re going away!” I shouted.

“Cor blimey, miss,” she muttered. “Now I suppose you want me to go back up all them stairs and get the ruddy trunk out of the attic again.”

Chapter 5

ON MY WAY TO TIDDLETON-UNDER-LOVEY

DECEMBER 20

I’m delighted to say that Fig was seriously miffed when I told her I had been invited to a house party for Christmas.

“But you don’t know anybody in Devon,” she said.

“I know all sorts of people,” I said. “I just don’t mention them to you.”

“Well, if that doesn’t take the cake,” she snapped. “And Maude was so looking forward to seeing you again, and having more French lessons too.”

I smiled sweetly. “I expect you’ll all survive without me. Do give my love to Foggy and Ducky.” Then I made a grand exit. I can’t tell you how good it felt.

* * *

I ALSO CAN’T tell you how excited I was when I got my first glimpse of Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Queenie and I had traveled on the night express to King’s Cross and then across London in a taxi to Paddington. I glanced out the taxi window as we inched our way through the London fog, wondering if Darcy was still somewhere close by and I had no way of contacting him. I had actually received a postcard on the day I left Scotland. It said, I gather you’re celebrating Christmas with the family. I’ve also been roped in for a family do. But I hope to see you in the new year. Happy Christmas. Love, D. It was so frustrating. He wrote Love, D, but did he mean it? And why hadn’t he telephoned me if he was back in Britain? Some of the time I felt hopeful about a future with him and then chance remarks like my mother’s dashed those hopes. If you loved somebody, didn’t you want to be with her? At least to telephone her to hear her voice? I tried to face the fact that Darcy really was not good husband material, even if I were allowed to marry him. He was one of those men who could not be tamed or made to want to settle down.

I was glad to board the Great Western Railway at Paddington Station and leave the depressing cold and grime of London behind. We had to change trains in Exeter and then take a branch line. The little train huffed and puffed its way beside a lively stream with snow-dusted hills on one side until it reached the small market town of Newton Abbott. The Hawse-Gorzley chauffeur was waiting with a splendid, if rather old, Bentley. As we set off through the country lanes the sun was sinking in a red ball behind the hills. Rooks were cawing as they flew home to their trees. On a great sweep of upland moor I saw a line of Dartmoor ponies silhouetted against the sunset.

We came around a bend and there it was, Tiddleton-under-Lovey, nestled under a snowcapped tor. Was that rocky crag the Lovey? I wondered. It didn’t look very loving to me. Or was it perhaps the noisy little stream that passed under the humpback bridge as we approached the first houses? On one side of the village street was a small row of shops and a pub called the Hag and Hounds—complete with a swinging pub sign depicting a witch on a broomstick with baying dogs below her. On the other side was a pond, on which glided several graceful swans, and