Given that, as far as he’d ever heard, the trio spent only the weeks before Christmas in the village, that they were so well-known and patently well-regarded was…just a touch intriguing.
Then the minister appeared at the end of the nave, and the congregation rose and quieted. The minister, smiling serenely, paced down the aisle, followed by the choir, and in short order, the service began.
Although Christopher rarely attended services in London, he usually did when in the country, while staying with relatives or friends; somehow, the activity seemed to fit more appropriately in a pastoral setting. Consequently, he followed the prayers, sang the hymns, and generally participated without stumbling. He even found the sermon, mild and in no way radical, engaging in a gentle way.
By the time the last prayer was uttered and the benediction bestowed, he felt he understood the attraction that had lured such a goodly crowd to the church that morning. Despite his rather dithery appearance, Reverend Colebatch—Christopher’s mother had whispered the minister’s name—was a sensible, benign, and quietly erudite man who was thoroughly in tune with the needs of his flock.
After the reverend had led the way up the aisle, Christopher offered his mother his arm, and they joined the rest of the congregation in filing out of the church. Along the way, his mother introduced him to Major and Mrs. Swindon, and they chatted as they shuffled toward Reverend Colebatch.
On reaching the good reverend, Christopher’s mother introduced him, and he shook Colebatch’s hand. “An entertaining sermon, Reverend. I look forward to hearing more.”
“Excellent!” Colebatch beamed. “I take it you plan to remain in the village for the nonce?”
“Most likely for a few weeks, at least,” Christopher confirmed.
“Well, you must make sure to attend the village Christmas celebrations.” Reverend Colebatch smiled at the three children, who had assumed the demeanor of angels. “But I’m sure these three will ensure you don’t forget, heh?”
The children beamed, and while her brothers nodded, Lottie slipped her small hand into Christopher’s and piped, “We’ll make sure Uncle Christopher comes along to everything.”
Laughing, his mother drew him on and, with the children following, directed him onto the lawn.
They’d taken only a few steps when, from behind, Jamie called, “Grandmama, we’re going to go and talk to the other children.”
His mother didn’t turn but raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Be sure to get back to the manor before lunchtime.”
“Yes, Grandmama” came in three-part chorus.
Christopher glanced over his shoulder and saw the three dodging through the crowd in the direction of the graveyard. He faced forward. “What other children were they speaking of?”
“The other village children, of course,” his mother serenely replied.
He glanced again toward the graveyard and saw the three being enthusiastically greeted by a bevy of other children, all of whom seemed to be farmers’ or shopkeepers’ offspring.
Intrigued, he slowed, captured by the sight of his high-born nephews and niece interacting freely with the village children. He saw no evidence of shyness or hesitation, not on any child’s part.
Realizing he’d almost come to a halt, he faced forward and stepped out and found his mother eyeing him with her customary understanding. He gestured toward the children. “They seem to fit in with the others remarkably well.”
She nodded. “Indeed. And yes, I’ve encouraged the association. I’ve always believed that exposure to those of lower rank, especially during one’s formative years, is invaluable in instilling an appropriate degree of understanding of others—of the feelings and concerns and anxieties felt by those of less power. That will stand all three of them in good stead in the future.”
“Hmm.” He couldn’t help observe, “I have to agree that having that sort of understanding of others is a very valuable skill.”
His mother cast him a smiling glance. “In our business, at least.”
He tipped his head her way. “Indeed.” Given the likely futures of Jamie, George, and Lottie, an ability to interact with others regardless of rank was a skill that would, indeed, be a definite advantage.
He and his mother continued across the lawn, and Christopher caught himself surveying the people, who were gathered in small groups, and scanning the shadows cast by the trees bordering the open expanse. He’d noticed that Drummond had left the church by another door and was now standing by one corner of the building, keeping watch over those assembled on the lawn.
In truth, he felt he and Drummond were overreacting. The scene before them was one of bucolic peace, and everyone he could see was readily identifiable as a villager—meaning that they were greeted by others and clearly belonged to the village community.
His mother steered him to a group standing not far from where Drummond lurked. Over the following fifteen minutes, he was introduced to and chatted with Lord and Lady Longfellow, of Dutton Grange, the house across the lane from the manor. They were a pleasant couple, easygoing and friendly. Longfellow was about Christopher’s age and had served under Paget in Spain; he limped and bore bad shrapnel scars that had disfigured one side of his face, but clearly, he and everyone else had learned to ignore them. Lady Longfellow told a tale of the latest addition to their family, making the ladies laugh and the gentlemen smile, while Longfellow beamed with paternal pride.
The Swindons came up, bringing with them two older ladies. One was Mrs. Colebatch, the reverend’s wife. A tall, plain-faced, but good-natured woman, she smiled at Christopher and gave him her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Osbaldestone. Her ladyship’s family are always welcome in Little Moseley.”
“Hear, hear,” Major Swindon echoed. “You’ll be kept busy with the three scamps, no doubt.” Turning to Christopher’s mother, he asked, “What quest have they undertaken this year?”
“I believe,” his mother replied in mock seriousness, “that they have yet to define what will be the object of their attentions this year.”
Mrs. Swindon laughed. “Geese, a book of carols, and a Roman hoard. I can’t wait to hear what this year’s effort will be.” Smiling, she turned to Christopher and gestured to the other older lady who had accompanied them across the lawn. “Pray allow me to present Mrs. Woolsey, sir. She lives at Fulsom Hall with her nephew, Sir Henry.”
Mrs. Woolsey was rather older than the other ladies, perhaps even older than Christopher’s mother. She cut a rather strange figure, well-wrapped in a warm winter coat, but with her head of fluffy white curls and her shoulders swathed in a plethora of colorful scarves. She smiled somewhat myopically at Christopher and held out a gnarled hand. “Such a pleasure, sir. Quite delightful to meet one of her dear ladyship’s sons.”
Christopher murmured the correct phrases and half bowed over her hand.
The instant he released her fingers, Mrs. Woolsey glanced around. “Have the children come this year as well?”
His mother smiled. “Indeed, they have. I’ve been assured that nothing would keep them away.”
Mrs. Woolsey sighed happily. “Such a delight, to have children all aglow with the promise of Christmas running about under one’s feet.”