Kate Kingsbury - Mistletoe and Mayhem

“Yes, dear. That big round ball of greenery hanging in the foyer. Surely you must have seen it? It’s enormous!”

Baxter merely grunted. “Another of Madeline’s works of art, I presume.”

“You presume right, dear.” Cecily decided to ignore the hint of derision in her husband’s tone. Madeline Pengrath Prestwick was one of Cecily’s best friends.

Tall and slim, Madeline resembled a woodland nymph rather than a doctor’s wife. Her frocks were of the finest linen, but flowed to her bare feet without any of the confining tucks and seams that fashion demanded. With great disregard to protocol, she often left her black hair unbound, allowing it to fall to her waist. It pained Cecily that not one hint of gray appeared in the gleaming locks. In fact, Madeline had not seemed to age at all in the years Cecily had known her.

That her perpetual youth was due to her mysterious powers with herbs and wild flowers was never in question, and Cecily had often been tempted to ask for a bottle of whatever magical potion kept her friend looking twenty years younger than her age.

Only pride had kept her tongue still. Pride and the knowledge that if Baxter were to ever find out, she would never hear the last of it. Madeline was considered a witch and feared by many of the inhabitants of Badgers End. Baxter shared in that belief. He tolerated the woman solely because she was a beloved friend of his wife’s.

Cecily leaned forward and studied her face in the mirror. No matter how much cold cream she smeared on her skin at night, the little lines at the sides of her eyes seemed to grow deeper every day. Just a few short years now until her fiftieth birthday, and the closer she got, the less she liked it.

She glanced at her husband’s image again. Baxter looked no older than the day she’d met him. Drat the man. Why was it that men appeared better looking with age, while women just became old and decrepit?

“Isn’t that in questionable taste?”

Having forgotten the point of their discussion, Cecily blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The kissing ball thing. Do you really want people to put on a public exhibition in the foyer? Don’t you think that might give the Pennyfoot a somewhat unsavory image?”

Cecily swung around on her stool. “Bax! How terribly unromantic of you! The kissing bough has been an English Christmas tradition for hundreds of years. Besides, we’ve always had a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the foyer. You’ve never found that unsavory.”

Baxter shrugged. “Maybe because it wasn’t quite so obvious as a monstrous ball of the stuff. I have visions of our guests fighting to slobber all over each other in full view of the front door. I can’t imagine that would enhance our reputation.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Pennyfoot’s reputation has never been exactly pristine. It’s common knowledge that the aristocracy use our facilities for illicit relationships, and may I remind you that it’s only recently that we have had a license to conduct card games. Until then, if you remember, we were forced to keep our illegal card rooms underground. I hardly think a kissing bough compares to any of that.”

He must have heard the resentment in her voice, as he moved over to her and laid a warm hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, my dear. I’m being overly critical.”

“Yes, you are.” She peered up at him. “Are you, perhaps, not well?”

Shaking his head, Baxter walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. “I am disturbed, that is all. I happened to see a picture this morning of the Mayfair Murderer’s latest unfortunate victim.”

Cecily was surprised to see her husband visibly shudder. Baxter was usually complacent in the face of adversity, and it troubled her to see him so upset. “That must have been quite horrifying.”

“It was.” Pulling a black dress coat from the wardrobe, Baxter muttered, “Diabolical. I hope they catch the wretch before he butchers someone else.”

Cecily ignored her little flutter of apprehension. “Well, thank goodness we are far from the city. We have no such worries here.”

“Not that far. After all, most of our guests have traveled here from London.”

Cecily managed a nervous laugh. “Well, I’m sure we won’t be offering hospitality to a serial killer.”

“I sincerely hope not.” Baxter moved closer and reached for the white bow tie lying on the dresser. “I don’t know why you insist we join the guests for the welcome banquet. All those introductions, small talk, and hand shaking-not to mention that fussy little photographer getting in everyone’s way. By the time we’re done with it the food will have grown cold.”

Cecily rose from her seat to assist her husband with his tie. “Hush, dear. You know quite well that we always personally greet our guests at the welcome banquet and that you always enjoy conversing with the ladies. As for the photographer, just think of the memories we’ll have to look back on when we are too old to manage the country club anymore.”

Baxter grunted again and dropped a light kiss on his wife’s forehead. “If you say so, my dear.”

“You’ll enjoy meeting Sir Walter and Lady Hayesbury. He’s a baronet and such a charming man. He was most understanding when I explained about the roof.”

“The roof?”

“Yes, dear. Ellie, the new maid, noticed the bed in room four was quite damp. When Mrs. Chubb went up to inspect it she saw the roof had been leaking. She summoned the roofers, and they arrived this afternoon. I had to explain to Sir Walter that there might be some noise while the repairs are going on, and he was most accommodating. A very engaging man.”

“Hmmph. Not too engaging, I hope.”

Cecily smiled. “Never fear, my dear one. No one will ever take your place in my heart.”

“I’m happy to hear it.” He peered in the mirror to inspect her handiwork. “Who else do I have to worry might steal my wife’s affections?”

She laughed out loud. “Well, there is one particular gentleman. Mr. Mortimer. He will be spending Christmas here alone, so I feel rather sorry for him.”

Baxter straightened. “It always amazes me how some people can run away to a strange place to be alone, especially at Christmastime.”

“Sometimes it’s easier than being surrounded by the familiar.” Cecily frowned. “I can’t help feeling that this gentleman has suffered some kind of tragedy. He barely speaks and keeps his face hidden by one of those awful slouch hats that painters wear. He didn’t even sign his first name, just an initial, J. Mortimer. A very unhappy man, I would say.”

“I do hope you are not going to spend the entire Christmas season worrying over a complete stranger who might simply be suffering from a bilious stomach.”

“No, dear. Of course not. I shall be far too busy.” She held up the two ends of a string of pearls. “Would you be an angel and fasten these for me, please?”

His fingers fumbled at the back of her neck, sending delicious little tingles down her spine. “It sounds as if we have a mixed bag of guests as usual.”

“We also have two children staying with us. Lord and Lady Millshire have brought their son, Wilfred, and their daughter, Adelaide. Rather rambunctious, I’m afraid. “

His hands stilled. “There goes the peace and quiet. Young children?”

“About the same age as Gertie’s twins. It’s too bad the twins are in London until Christmas Eve. They could have played together.”

“I hardly think our guests would allow their children to associate with the offspring of a housemaid.”

“Chief housemaid.” Once more Cecily gave her husband a worried look. “Good heavens, Hugh, the twins are your godchildren. You didn’t have to sound so derisive. Gertie has been with us since she was a child herself. She’s part of our family, as is all our staff. You’re not usually so contemptuous. You really must be out of sorts.” She rarely called her husband by his first name, and usually did so when she was annoyed with him.