I am home, and here I will stay.
William sets the tray on the side table.
“You cooked breakfast?” I say.
“Cooked is a strong word. More like ‘warmed up.’ But I did put eggs in boiling water.”
“Impressive.”
“I knew you’d want to rest after your journey.”
I sigh in deepest contentment. “Thank you.”
As I dig into breakfast, he disappears and then returns with clothing heaped over one arm.
“I bought a few winter frocks for you,” he says. “I hope they’ll fit. Mary estimated for me, and she’ll adjust as needed.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
He sets the pile on a chair and lifts the pieces, one at a time. The first is a full rich burgundy skirt, floor length, with pleats for light crinolines. Then a blouse that’s obviously been tailored for my belly, simple and white with burgundy buttons. There’s also a long fitted jacket in hunter green and a matching winter bonnet. Together, they’ll form a simple but stunning holiday outfit.
“Gorgeous,” I say.
“I thought they’d be suitable for our day’s adventure.”
“We’re . . . going out?”
He’s lifting the gown and can’t see my expression.
“We are,” he says as he lowers it. “The Festival of the Penitent Rapscallions. I thought you were going to miss it. But you are not.”
“The Festival of the . . . what?”
He waves off my confusion. “I’ll explain later. We’ve time for you to eat breakfast and dress, but then we really do need to be on our way. There are rapscallions in need of pardons, whether they are penitent or not.”
“Uh . . .”
“Eat. Dress. Your festival awaits, my lady.”
Within an hour, I’m bundled into a sleigh. A proper Victorian one-horse open sleigh, complete with jingle bells. I’m nestled in a pile of furs, and then my husband is beside me, and soon we’re whipping down the hill to High Thornesbury.
I struggle to keep my eyes open. I swear I’m more tired now than when I arrived. Which, I suppose, may have something to do with the fact that I didn’t get much sleep last night. Entirely my own fault. William had been endlessly solicitous of my “condition,” and I’d waved off all his concern, avowing that I was only six-months pregnant and there’d come a point where sex would become unwieldy, and damned if I wasn’t getting my full share before that happened.
If I’d been more energetic than William expected, then he can be forgiven for not realizing exactly how tired I am post-journey. I could say something. I could even just yawn and lean onto his shoulder, and that would be enough to have him turning the sleigh around and bustling me back to bed.
Two things stop me from doing that. Two things that have me sitting upright in the sleigh, bright-eyed and beatific, smiling and tipping my chin to everyone as we enter the village.
One, I am Lady Thorne now, at a time when that really means something. William may employ minimal house staff, but he understands that it is his hereditary duty to oversee the well-being of “his” town. Many of these villagers farm on his land or tend sheep in his flocks or run shops in buildings he owns. There’s something uncomfortable about that for a twenty-first century dweller, but I still remember William’s shock when, as a child, I told him we did our own cooking and cleaning. He wasn’t aghast at the thought of hard work; he was alarmed about the disappearance of a major source of employment for the working class.
While there are certainly cruel and overbearing—or just plain thoughtless—landowners in Victorian England, the Thornes have always been an example of the way the system was supposed to work. It’s still imperfect from a modern viewpoint, but despite my discomfort with being “lady of the manor,” it’s exactly what I am.
If I must be a lady, then I want to be the best one possible. That means joining William in village life. Playing my role. There’s a cringeworthy old saying about the wife being a reflection of her husband, but there’s truth of that here. I want to rise to William’s example. This festival is important to the village, and our role in it is important, and I’m not going to force him to make my excuses, even if he’d happily do so. How would it look if Lady Thorne only returned yesterday evening and she’s already too tired to join the “common folk”?
The second thing that keeps me from bowing out? I’m about to participate in an archaic Victorian holiday tradition, one unique to this village. The historian in me is salivating, and the little girl who loved all things Victorian is bubbling with excitement.
William steers the sleigh down the snow-packed roads. The sides are thronged with villagers, snaking their way toward the village hall. When a preschool-age boy darts from the crowd, shrieking at the sight of the sleigh, William pulls the horse to a stop lightning fast.
The boy’s father runs out, calling apologies.
“No trouble,” William calls back. “He only wanted to see if he could outrun my sleigh.” William leans over the side and waves a shiny copper coin. “Do you want to try, lad?”
The boy nods furiously.
“Then here is the wager. You must stick to the side of the road there. If you come out into the street, you lose the bet. We race to the village hall.”
William shades his eyes. “Anyone else up for the challenge? Boys and girls are welcome to try their luck, but no one over the age of ten. We mustn’t make it too difficult on my horse.”
People laugh, and a few children come out from the crowd. William asks someone to do the countdown, and then we’re off. William keeps the gelding going at a trot, leaving the children struggling. A few give up. When he nears the hall, though, he reins the horse in, and any of the children who kept at it win themselves a farthing.
We leave the sleigh outside the hall, and we’re met by Mrs. Shaw’s sons and son-in-law who help me down and then escort us in. The hall is already packed with people, more streaming in. There’s a small stage erected at the front. On it are two rough-hewn wooden thrones, festooned with holly and ivy. We’re led in the back and to the thrones, where we’re given holly crowns and scepters.
Once everyone’s in, the vicar says a few words, welcoming the villagers to the festival. Then he summons a little girl from a seat near the front. She’s about six years old and missing her front teeth. She wears a green dress adorned with enough bows and lace for two gowns. As she draws closer, I can see the dress is a hand-me-down, faded and repaired, but in it, she walks like a princess, her face glowing.
The girl stops before us and curtseys.
“Agatha, isn’t it?” William says.
“Yes, m’lord,” she lisps.
“Have you committed a misdeed this year, Agatha?”
“Yes, m’lord,” she says, barely able to contain a grin.
“Are you ready to make a full accounting of that offense?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Please proceed.”
She straightens. “Last fall, I climbed a fence and stole an apple that had fallen on the ground.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I ate it, sir.”
William frowns. “You didn’t try to put it back in the tree where it belonged?”