Free Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas by Stephanie Barron

a little, and consume one or two sips of brandy; at which point, supported by her niece and nephew, she was led from the room. I observed Eliza’s gaze to follow them, a little frown of puzzlement between her eyebrows, and all hint of gaiety fled from her countenance.
    “Who among us,” she said as the Gambiers’ footsteps died away, “can have written that charade?”
    There was silence for an instant. “I did not,” I said.
    “I should be ashamed to own it,” my mother added. “To suggest that Eden and e’en rhyme—!”
    “Perhaps,” Raphael West broke in quietly, “it were as well to say nothing more of the matter, Mrs. Chute. Such a source of obvious discomfort cannot be too quickly forgotten.”
    Evensong was not broached again. I half-expected James to be jealous of his office, and of such a setting as The Vyne Chapel—which is renowned for its age and quiet beauty—but he refrainedfrom herding us all into attendance; and I confess I could not be sorry.
    We Austen ladies did not long succeed the Gambiers, but left the gentlemen to the enjoyment of the drawing-room and its fire. As I mounted the darkened stairs by the glow of my candle, the house wrapt in the quiet of falling snow, I thought I heard a muffled sob from somewhere in The Vyne. Perhaps it was merely the wind crying.

6
A MESSENGER FROM GHENT
    Monday, 26th December 1814

The Vyne, cont’d
.
    I closed the leaves of my journal, set down my drained teacup, and reached for my dressing gown. Cassandra still slumbered, but I had a duty to fulfill—the delivery of Caroline’s present for the second day of Christmas: one of Lady Jemima’s delicious costumes. It must be laid on the child’s coverlet in the nursery before she awoke, as an act of faerie mischief. Tho’ the doll had made her debut in ball dress, as befitted a lady at her first coming-out, she could not always be wearing silk. Mindful that the Feast of St. Stephen—in addition to being a day of gifts to the poor—was generally celebrated with a Hunt, Cassandra and I had fashioned a riding habit. It was deep rose (the very same stuff as my sister had worn last night, in fact), severe in its lines and closely fitted, with a sweeping train. Cassandra had employed a tiny crochet hook—intended for making lace—to create black silk braid for the trim, and twirled it into loops and frogs at throat and bodice. I had contrived the hat, a dashing black topper garlanded with tiny red cherries.
    All we needed was a horse.
    I drew the costume from the bandbox in which we had hidden all Caroline’s presents, and tiptoed to the door. But as I did, Cassandra sighed and turned in her sleep. Her eyelids drifted open.
    “Stay a moment, Jane, and I shall come with you.”
    I did as she bade, and perched at the foot of her bed whilst she drank a cup of my cooling tea. Trust Cass never to disturb a servant twice, while tea remained in the pot—she has a horror of imperious women, who live to be waited upon hand and foot.
    “You slept well, I trust?”
    “Not at all,” she replied. “See how heavy-eyed I am? I was restless all night. Miss Gambier figured heavily in my dreams.”
    “The matter of the charade,” I guessed. “I have been puzzling over it, too—for Eliza’s question is apt. Who can have composed it? And why? Was it done with the intent of embarrassing Miss Gambier—or was it a bow drawn at a venture?”
    “She certainly quit the drawing-room hard upon solving the riddle. Whether intended or not, the arrow went home. Virgin Birth—of a natural son? Grossly improper.”
    “You observed her aunt’s discomposure as well?”
    Cassandra nodded. “What can it mean?”
    “A family affair. Nothing we shall be privy to.”
    “Can it be possible that Miss Gambier … that at some unfortunate period in her past—”
    “She had a child out of wedlock? But why should a stranger—any one of ourselves—be aware of her history? Or use that private knowledge to Miss Gambier’s