The children beamed at him, and Lottie gripped his hand more tightly.
“Well, we’ll at least walk with you to the village green.” Henry waved onward, and the combined party ambled on, with Drummond, ignored by all, bringing up the rear.
Henry engaged the children, asking about the skating party and whether they’d heard anything about the songs chosen for the carol service.
Viscount Dagenham fell in beside Christopher, pacing easily by his side. “I hope you won’t mind if I pick your brains a trifle, Osbaldestone. The thing is, I’ve been with the Home Office for the past year—with Pritchard on the Irish desk—and I’ve been tossing up whether a move to the Foreign Office might better suit. I gather you’ve been with the FO for years.”
Christopher chuckled. “I’m an FO brat—my father was FO before me. You might say I was born and bred to sit behind a desk there.”
His hands sunk in his pockets, his gaze on the lane before his feet, Dagenham concluded, “So you know the firm inside and out.”
“I’m happy to answer any questions you have.” Christopher was often approached by younger men curious about what life in the service was like.
“I’m aware of the positions of Lords Castlereagh, Powell, and North,” Dagenham said, “but I’m not sure of the internal structures, so have no idea if I would be a suitable fit. Can you explain how things are set up?”
Christopher understood what he was asking and, given it wasn’t any great secret, readily outlined the hierarchy of the department. Then he paused and looked at Dagenham. “But having said all that, I believe you’re your father’s heir.” When Dagenham glanced at him and nodded, Christopher went on, “All the aristocrats in the FO are second or later sons. They might have higher titles bestowed on them during their careers, but none of them sit in the Lords by birthright, which, one day, you will.”
“Ah.” After a moment, Dagenham nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“The way things work,” Christopher said, “given that you are your father’s heir, were you to move to the FO, you would almost certainly find yourself tied to some desk in London—definitely not dispatched on exciting missions in foreign climes.”
His gaze on the lane ahead of them, Dagenham gave a short laugh. “As it happens, there’s talk of sending me to Ireland soon, and many would consider that a foreign land.”
Christopher chuckled. “True.”
The company had drawn level with the Cockspur Arms. They halted and, with good wishes all around, parted. The five younger men headed for the inn’s front door, while the children shepherded Christopher—and with a look, Drummond as well—onto the green.
“The lake is on the other side of the rise.” Jamie pointed down the green to the far end where the ground sloped upward, forming a low ridge that hid the land immediately beyond.
As they trudged over the grassy sward, George pointed to a stone wall to their left. “That’s the vicarage garden.”
Christopher looked and spotted the tiled roof of the vicarage and, in the distance, the top of the church tower.
They toiled up the rise, and when they reached the crest, they paused, and Christopher and Drummond swiftly took stock. Before them, the land sloped down to a dip filled by a decent-sized lake, presently frozen.
Beside Christopher, Lottie jigged. “The village skating party is held on the lake—provided Dick Mountjoy, Mr. Mountjoy’s son, says the ice is solid enough.”
“He’s already declared it is,” George added excitedly. “The skating party is to go ahead on Wednesday afternoon!”
“It’s great fun.” Lottie stared up into Christopher’s face. “You’ll have to come.”
Christopher smiled at her and didn’t reply. In his mind, he could hear Drummond muttering against any such public activity.
“That path over there”—Jamie pointed to their right—“leads along the back of the Mountjoys’ land and on, all the way to the Fulsom Hall shrubbery.”
“And that path”—not to be outdone, Lottie pointed to an opening to the left, a little way down the slope—“leads through the woods to the Grange.”
“You can also take the path that hugs the vicarage wall and leads to the rear of the church,” Jamie said. “From there, another path leads on to the Grange stable yard.”
Christopher took due note and noticed Drummond doing the same.
“And if you look hard,” George said, pointing across the lake and to the right, “there’s a path that runs all the way from the lane between West Wellow and Romsey, past the back of Tooks Farm and the Fulsom Hall gardens, down through the woods, and over the stream to the far side of the lake. And from there it goes on”—from right to left, he traced the line of the woods bordering the southern shore of the lake—“past the lake and on through the woods, past the back of the Grange and Allard’s End, and on past the back of Milsom Farm until it reaches the highway to Salisbury.”
Mentally slotting the information away, Christopher murmured, “You certainly know your way about the place.”
“Well, this is our fourth year visiting here,” Lottie said.
“Let’s go this way.” Jamie turned back to take the path that followed the rear wall of the vicarage garden. “We can show you Allard’s End if we hurry.” He glanced at the western sky. “It’ll start getting dark soon, and Grandmama likes us to be home before then.”
Christopher fell in with the children, and Drummond followed at their heels. Christopher saw the children take note of Drummond, but while they exchanged glances Christopher suspected were laden with meaning, they made no comment regarding the other man’s presence.
Quite what to make of that, Christopher wasn’t sure.
As he paced along, he scanned the woods ahead and thought of what else the children might know that could prove useful. “Are there many farms close to the village?”
“A few.” Jamie thought, then offered, “Tooks Farm is the closest, but if, from there, you follow the village lane around to the main lane that comes up from the highway and turn south along it, you’ll come to Swindon Hall, and there’s a farm attached to that. A little beyond that, on the opposite side of the road, is Witcherly Farm—one of the manor’s maids, Tilly, comes from there.”
“And across the lane from Witcherly Farm is Crossley Farm,” George said. “The manor’s gardener, Ned Foley, comes from there.”
“If you continue south,” Jamie went on, “past the other end of the village lane, you’ll eventually come to Milsom Farm, about halfway to the highway. Other than the fields attached to the Grange, that’s really all the farms around about.”
“Or at least the farms we think of as village farms,” Lottie clarified. “Some people who live in the cottages scattered about work on other farms farther away, but they’re still thought of as village people.”
They reached the end of the stone wall and emerged into the rear section of the graveyard. The children immediately spread out, dodging and skipping between the gravestones. Christopher grinned at the sight and murmured loud enough for Drummond, now by his shoulder, to hear, “I can remember doing the same. There’s something about graveyards that invites children to run and play in them.”