“Viscount Dagenham and Melissa sang ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ as a duet.” Lottie’s eyes were wide. “It was really beautiful.”
Christopher noticed his mother trying to suppress a smile, then her obsidian gaze rose to his face, and even at that distance, he sensed her amusement. He returned his attention to the children. “So what else is there to know about the village?”
The upshot of that unwise request was the children insisting he accompany them on a village tour.
He wasn’t sure that was a good idea and looked at his mother, hoping for deliverance, only to see her glance out of the window at the pale winter sunshine bathing the manor’s gardens.
“As the weather is obliging, I suggest you make the most of it.” She smiled at the children. “In this season, one needs to take advantage of such days.”
“Yes!” they chorused.
They all looked at him expectantly, and Christopher discovered he really didn’t want to quash their enthusiasm—and perhaps it would be wise to use a Sunday afternoon, when most adults in the village would remain indoors, somnolent after their Sunday dinners, to get a better idea of the layout of the village and its immediate surrounds. Slowly, he nodded. “All right.”
The children cheered wildly and leapt from their seats. Gabbling farewells to their grandmother, they raced upstairs to fetch coats, gloves, mufflers, and hats.
Grinning—unable not to—Christopher rose and, after nodding to his mother, followed them from the room.
He’d left his gloves and hat in the hall, along with his greatcoat, which Crimmins helped him don. While Christopher waited for the children to return, he remembered Drummond and told Crimmins, “Please let Drummond know that I’m being taken by the children to see the village sights. He can follow if he wishes.”
Crimmins bowed slightly. “Of course, sir.”
The children came clattering down the stairs, eager to rush outside. Laughing, Christopher let them take his hands and tow him out of the door that Crimmins held wide.
“Come on!” Lottie tugged him down the step and onto the drive.
George and Jamie had been conferring. Now, Jamie said, “We’ll take you up one side of the lane, then down the other.”
“That way,” George explained, “you won’t miss anything.”
“Whatever you think best,” Christopher returned. “I place myself in your hands.”
That put wide grins on all three faces.
When they reached the lane, Christopher glanced over his shoulder and saw Drummond, his hands sunk in his coat pockets and his expression dour, plodding along behind them.
Facing forward, Christopher attempted to smother a grin of his own, but only partially succeeded.
The children steered him to the right, around the bend in the lane, past a small, neatly kept cottage and on to their first stop, the Cockspur Arms.
Halting in the small yard before the front door, Jamie informed him, “This is the only public house in the village, and it’s used by everyone around about, including from all the farms and cottages farther afield.”
“At this time on a Sunday, there’ll be a lot of farmhands and some of the farmers and their wives inside,” George said.
It was Lottie who gave him the most pertinent information. “The Whitesheafs own it. Mr. and Mrs. Whitesheaf are rather old now—we don’t often see them working there anymore. Their sons, Rory and Cam, are usually the ones behind the bar, and Ginger, their sister, is the waitress.”
The inn sat directly across the lane from the village green. Glancing in that direction, Christopher saw that Drummond had halted a few steps away, close enough to have overheard the children’s comments.
“Come on!” Lottie towed him on. “We’ve lots more to see yet.”
The three led him—and Drummond, who closed the distance to a respectful few yards—northward up the lane, past another small cottage to two freestanding shops—Butts Bakery and Bilson the Butcher.
“Mrs. Butts makes the best buns,” George said rather reverently.
“Ben Butts sometimes plays with us, but he’s a bit older, and Mrs. Butts tends to keep him busy these days,” Jamie reported.
“And this,” Lottie said, towing Christopher onward, “is the Bilsons’ shop where Mrs. Haggerty gets all her meats. Annie and Billie Bilson are twins. They’re a bit younger than me, but we let them play with us.”
Having apparently imparted all they considered noteworthy about the Bilsons, the children looked up the lane, then turned to Christopher.
“We could take you on to the end of the lane, where it meets the main lane that continues north, but other than a few cottages, there’s not much to see on this side of the lane.” Jamie indicated the right side of the lane. “And on the other side, all we’d see are the opening of the drives to Tooks Farm and Fulsom Hall.”
“Farmer Tooks and his wife run Tooks Farm,” Lottie said. “And Johnny and Georgie Tooks are great friends of ours.”
George nodded. “Johnny will be minding the village’s flock of geese up at Allard’s End at the moment.”
“We’ll show you that later,” Lottie assured Christopher.
“You’ve already met Mrs. Woolsey and Henry and the others who are staying at Fulsom Hall,” Jamie said. “And Grandmama said she was thinking of calling there tomorrow, so there’s no point going up there today.” He swung to face the other side of the lane. “So we might as well turn around here.”
Amused, Christopher allowed them to steer him around.
“This”—Jamie gestured to what appeared to be the largest shop in the village—“is Mountjoy’s Store.”
“Run by the Mountjoys,” George put in, “both old Mr. and Mrs. Mountjoy and their son and his wife.”
Christopher waited expectantly, then asked, “No children?”
“No,” Jamie said.
“Well,” Lottie amended, “there’s Gordon, the younger Mountjoys’ son, but he’s only three so doesn’t come out to play.”
Christopher looked at the shop front. “So what do they sell?”
“Most things,” George said. “All sorts of goods, as well as fruit and vegetables from the farms.”
“There’s also maps of the area pinned up on one wall,” Jamie said.
Christopher glanced at Drummond, hovering nearby, and received a slight nod in reply. Maps were always useful; Drummond would no doubt return when the shop was open and see what he could learn of the area.
“The Mountjoys also run the post office for the village,” Lottie said.
Christopher and Drummond took note of that as well.
They were turning away from the shop when a hail had them pausing and looking up the lane.
Henry and his four friends smiled as they strode up.
“Well met, young Skeltons!” Henry beamed at the children, then nodded to Christopher. “Osbaldestone. Are you being given the village tour?”
Christopher smiled. “I am.”
Kilburn waved down the lane. “We’re on our way to the Arms. Can we tempt you to join us?”
Seeing the looks of consternation that bloomed on the children’s faces, still smiling, Christopher said, “I rather suspect I have more village scenery to take in first. Perhaps another time.”