Not Again

I was just finishing up the ledgers for the week, and feeling quite pleased with goings on. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting warm, golden light over the ribbons and cedar boughs that adorned my drawing room. Outside, snow fell gently over the garden, blanketing my sleeping hydrangeas with a sparkling mantle of white. All was calm. All was well.

Despite the chaos that had ensued at the end of the last year, I had managed to work everything out. It had been easy enough to send off the lords and ladies. They had only been in it for a lark in the first place, and really wanted to be back at their own estates with nothing and no one to worry about but themselves. Every so often I received a letter from one lady or another, complimenting my composure and lamenting the audaciousness of my suitor.

For the most part, the musicians had been polite enough to leave when I informed them I had no desire of their services. Though some had put up a ridiculous fuss, insisting that their contracts had been paid out in full for the year, and that they were obligated to remain and play their drums and pipes for me despite me every objection. In the end, it had taken two lawyers and six months of court dates to remove the last of them. I reveled in the silence.

Employment had been secured for the maids, either on my own estate or elsewhere. There was plenty of work to go around with all the geese and hens to mind, after all. We had never kept a working dairy on the estate before, but since the maids had so much experience I had purchased few cows, and we were making a tidy living selling milk and butter in the village. Some of the maids had even talked about making cheese next year. It would involve building an extension to the dairy house, but looking at the ledgers that seemed a worthy investment.

The trees were planted in the orchard, and growing strong. My groundskeeper had informed me at the turn of the season that he expected they might produce fruit next autumn. I have always had a fondness for pears, although it would have been a bit more rational to make a gift of the fruit instead of the tree. It is the thought that counts?

Yes, it had taken the whole year, but everything was running smoothly again, and just in time for the festive season. It would be so lovely to relax for a bit, enjoy the feasts, and not have to worry about managing a small army of musicians and snapping waterfowl.

The doorbell rang, and one of the maids answered it. There was a horrified squeak from the hall, and a moment later the maid appeared at the drawing room door, clutching at her apron.

“Miss…” she began, wringing her hands and shifting nervously. “You’ve a delivery.”

“Yes?” I rose from my writing desk, curious as to the maid’s anxiousness. “Bring it in.”

Giving a quick curtsy, the maid dashed out of the room. A moment passed, and she returned, leading a man carrying a young tree in his arms. The roots were encased in earth and wrapped in rough burlap, and I could hear the telltale cooing of a bird hidden amongst the branches.

I stared in stunned horror as the delivery man set the tree on the tiled floor, made his bow, and left. The maid, likewise, hurried from the room as I stood and slowly approached the pear tree.

He wouldn’t dare.

But there was the evidence, standing in my drawing room, the leaves fluttering with the movement of what I could only assume was a partridge.

It was happening again.