The Mischief of the Mistletoe: A Pink Carnation Christmas by Lauren Willig

Author:Lauren Willig
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-09-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Good heavens,” said Arabella. “What is it doing here? Who on earth is going about dropping puddings all over the place?”

There was something a little macabre about it, the gaily wrapped Christmas pudding so purposefully perched in the cold, marble hands of the effigy. Cold marble hands, cold marble lips, and beneath it all, the bones of the woman who had been, eaten bare by worms and slow time.

It might be decorative, but it was still a grave.

Arabella shivered, and not from the cold. “Is it just me, or do you find this a little . . . incongruous?”

Mr. Fitzhugh tilted his head, taking in the scene from another angle. “Not so odd as all that, when you think of it. We leave flowers on graves, so why not a pudding?”

“I doubt this one was intended for . . . well, whatever her name is.”

“Lady Margaret Hungerford,” Mr. Fitzhugh provided promptly.

Arabella looked at the tomb and then back at Mr. Fitzhugh. There was no inscription, at least none readily apparent from where they were standing.

Mr. Fitzhugh developed a deep interest in the folds of his cravat. “I read up a bit before we came,” he mumbled. “Thought you and Miss Austen might want to know. Let’s take a look at the pudding, shall we?”

“Someone has very odd ideas about billet doux,” she managed to say, with a suitable approximation of sangfroid, as Mr. Fitzhugh leaned over the pudding.

Mr. Fitzhugh grinned up at her. “If you’re going to have sweet letters, why not put them in a sweet meat?”

“Because it’s rather sticky?” ventured Arabella. She looked over her shoulder, very much hoping that no one else would take it upon themselves to visit the chapel just now. She could just picture the expression on Jane’s face when she entered to find the two of them avidly dissecting a Christmas pudding in search of secret messages.

Arabella grimaced at herself. If there was anything worse than being caught in an assignation, it was being caught in one that wasn’t about assignating.

“The ribbons are the same shade as the last one,” Mr. Fitzhugh was saying, leaning in for a better look. “And there’s definitely writing on it—whoever it was wrote on the ribbons this time. Guess she didn’t like the pudding goo mucking up her message.”

“So we assume it is a she?”

Going back to his examination of the pudding, Mr. Fitzhugh said, with great authority, “Looks like a woman’s handwriting to me.”

Did he see a wide range of women’s handwriting?

Arabella strained to see over his shoulder. “What does it say?”

Her shoulder bumped against his. There was no padding there. She could feel the muscles flex beneath his tightly fitted coat as he leaned forward to flip over a ribbon. Arabella edged a little closer. He was so nicely warm, and she was cold even in her long pelisse.

Mr. Fitzhugh squinted at the minuscule writing that nearly blended with the fabric. “Whoever it was wrote in French again. Il faut que . . .”

It is necessary that .

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.