By the time Therese and company—Jamie, George, Lottie, the village boys, Eugenia, Christian, and Henry and his friends—reached the stretch of path along which the feathers had been found, quite half the men of the village and several of the women had joined them.

Farmer Tooks, summoned by Johnny, came plodding along the footpath from the direction of his farm. “I knew this path existed—it skirts around the back of the Hall and the back of my fields and goes north all the way to the West Wellow lane—but even if they was driven mad with hunger, I can’t see why the birds would have come this way.”

“Regardless,” Therese said, “we now have a direction.” With her cane, she pointed southward along the path. “I suggest we follow and see where your vagrant birds have taken themselves off to.”

There was a rumble of assent from all those there.

“We should spread out as best we can,” Christian said, “and keep our eyes peeled for further signs. Just in case the flock veered off the path at some point.”

Those in boots duly spread out to either side of the path beneath the trees. With Therese, Eugenia, and Mrs. Colebatch keeping to the path, the company set off.

They advanced purposefully in a southwesterly direction, with the path paralleling the banks of the stream that fed the lake. Although the skies were gray and the temperature hovered only a little above freezing, under the trees, they were protected from the chilly breeze. Everyone was bundled up appropriately, and although the footpath was clearly not well frequented, the going was easy enough.

When the woods to her left thinned, Therese glanced in that direction and saw they’d drawn level with the meadows behind the Mountjoys’ property.

A little way ahead, the path swerved west and, via an old single-person bridge, crossed the stream, which was swollen and sullen and running only sluggishly, half choked with ice. From a liberal scattering of droppings and several more feathers, it was obvious the flock had congregated on the bank there. Tooks studied the area, then pointed to a patch where the winter grass had been flattened. “Looks like they spent that first night there.”

The rickety bridge spanning the stream was constructed from the sawn bole of one large tree trunk fitted with a timber handrail on one side. Henry’s friends had already crossed. Heads bent, they’d been studying the ground on the other bank.

“Yes!” Raising his head, Thomas Kilburn looked across the stream at the bulk of the company and pointed to the ground near his feet. “There are webbed prints in the softer ground here.”

“And bits of down!” George Carnaby triumphantly held up a few whitish-gray wisps he’d picked from some bushes along the next section of the path.

That was good enough for the rest of the group. The younger boys and Lottie scampered fearlessly across the ramshackle bridge, their steps light and sure. The others crossed more carefully, with Christian instructing that no more than two adults should be on the somewhat ancient structure at any one time. Reverend Colebatch assisted his wife across, Christian followed, leading Eugenia, and Rory Whitesheaf grinned, bowed, and offered Therese his hand, which she accepted with gracious thanks.

They crossed the stream without mishap and continued on. The path twisted and turned. Roughly one hundred yards farther on, they came out on the shore of the lake. They all halted and looked around, getting their bearings.

“This is the western side of the northern arm.” Christian looked right, then left. “I’d completely forgotten this path was here.” He glanced at Dagenham. “I take it you four didn’t come via this path yesterday?”

Dagenham flushed slightly, but shook his head. “We used the path on the eastern side of the woods, running along the edge of those meadows we passed.”

“I’d showed them that path,” Henry said. “It’s the one the Hall household always uses to get to the lake.” He glanced back along the path they’d followed. “I never knew this path was here.”

Tooks grunted. “Skirts your boundary, it does, so it’s not on Hall land, and the path’s not so easy to see unless you’re on it.”

Christian turned to look on along the path. “My memory of this path isn’t perfect, but as I do remember being on it as a child, then I suspect—I think—it must go on and at least come close to the Grange holdings.”

“More down!” Roger Milsom waved from farther along the path where it curved around, following the lake shore.

Therese gestured with her cane. “As it seems our feathered friends went that way, I suggest we continue on.”

They tramped steadily on, with the younger members of the company forging ahead to search for feathers, down, and droppings. And by all such signs, Farmer Tooks’s flock had, indeed, doggedly plodded on.

“Where the devil are these wretched birds going?” Tooks grumbled. “They must have been ready to eat twigs by the morning of the day after they left.”

Therese considered, then said, “Presumably they found sufficient fodder to sustain them along the way, but I take your point in that it seems they must have had some place—some destination—in mind. Which seems odd.”

“Devilish odd,” Tooks agreed. “Contrary, they are, geese. I can’t see them going off somewhere for any other reason than food, but how would they know?”

“And what was it they knew,” Christian said, “given that none of us can guess?”

They might, finally, be on the trail of the geese, might at last be able to postulate that the flock had gone in search of food, yet the birds’ intended destination remained a confounding mystery.

They walked around the western shore of the lake all the way to the southwestern corner, and still the path led on, a narrow path barely one person wide plunging deeper into the woods. Encouraged by continuing discoveries of signs the flock had passed that way, they trudged on in a generally southerly direction, but gradually, the path swung to their left, toward the southeast, and climbed the low ridge that was the extension of the rise that separated the lake from the village green.

Of necessity, the company slowed as they toiled upward; Therese was glad to avail herself of Rory Whitesheaf’s assistance again. But once they reached the top of the ridge, the path continued along it, more or less flat, and the children raced ahead until Christian called to them to remain within sight.

Not long after, he said, “We’re nearing the rear boundary of the Grange estate.”

Tooks grunted. “If memory serves, the path passes by your rear boundary, just as it does with the Hall and my farm. Then it heads on past the back of Milsom Farm, and a while after, it splits—one arm runs down the east face of the ridge to our lane, and the other goes west and all the way down to the Salisbury road.”

His gaze distant, Christian continued walking. After a moment, he said. “Yes, I believe you’re right.” He refocused and glanced at the other village men. “I haven’t yet caught up with George Milsom. Are all his fields currently under the plow?”

“Aye,” Ned Foley replied. His brother John ran Crossley Farm, another of the outlying farms of the village. “George has two tenant farmers as work the fields closer to the ridge, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not much by way of anything to attract geese there, I’d’ve thought.”

“Exactly,” Christian said. “Which makes me wonder if this wayward flock was making for Allard’s End.”

“Old Allard’s farm at the back of the Grange?” Rory asked.

“Yes.” Seeing Therese’s mystification, Christian explained, “Allard was an old tenant farmer in my father’s day. He worked a small acreage tucked away against the woods at the rear of the Grange estate. Allard died…it must have been a few years before I joined the army. More than a decade ago. When I returned and took charge of the estate, I found that my father hadn’t got around to re-tenanting the land. I believe he intended to incorporate it into the Home Farm—it’s a small acreage by today’s standards—but he never actually started working the fields again.”

“As I recall,” Ned Foley said, “old Allard’s farmhouse was a wreck even while he was still living there.”

Christian nodded. “He was a crusty old beggar and used to chase us off whenever Cedric and I ventured that way. He had an old orchard with wonderful damson plums and the sweetest apples, which was what attracted us, of course.”

Tooks came to an abrupt halt, forcing those behind him to halt, too. They grumbled, but, oblivious, Tooks stared at Christian’s back. “Orchard? I didn’t know Allard had an orchard.”

Puzzled by his tone, Christian stopped and turned to look at Tooks. “I have to admit I have no idea if the orchard still exists, but…do geese eat fruit? Deadfall?”

“These geese would,” Tooks averred. “They love scraps—anything vegetable and soft, and the sweeter the better. It’s what we fatten them with—the vegetable scraps from all over the village. I’d say they’d gobble up old fruit fast as you could feed it them.”

“Well.” Christian turned and led the company on. “It sounds as if we might have identified one possible place the flock might have gone. Assuming the plum trees and apple trees are still there and still bearing.”

Not fifty yards on, they found further evidence that the flock was making for Allard’s End.

Jamie and the younger boys were scouting ahead, and as the path there was completely overhung by the woodland canopy, the surface was soft enough to carry occasional imprints of the webbed feet of their quarry, so the boys had no difficulty confirming the trail.

They noticed within yards that the geese had turned aside and left the footpath they’d been following to that point.

Everyone helped search through the surrounding bushes, then Henry called a halloo. “It’s this way.” He popped his head around a large tree and grinned. “Just come around this tree, and there’s another little path.” He glanced at Christian. “It leads toward the Grange, doesn’t it?”

Everyone followed Henry around the tree and onto a very narrow, poorly surfaced track that angled eastward out of the woods, with open fields glimmering ahead.

“Yes,” Christian said. “Our boundary’s the ridge line, so we’re now on the Grange estate. And it certainly seems the birds are heading for Allard’s End.”

It wasn’t far at all to the ruins of the farmhouse.

Therese halted with the others in front of the remains of an ancient farm cottage that must have been barely held together before the last occupant had died. A decade and more of weather had pummeled the structure until sections of three of the walls had collapsed and the roof had caved in. Weeds and field grasses had blown in and taken hold. From the brown stalks all around and the winter-bare tendrils crisscrossing the still-standing walls, in summer, the place would all but disappear beneath the engulfing greenery.

“Well,” Christian said, “clearly no person has been living here.” He started for the right end of the building. “If it still exists, the orchard’s at the back.”

Eagerly, the boys hurried to keep up with Christian’s long strides. Everyone else followed.

They tramped over the encroaching weeds and stepped over fallen branches, eventually rounding the rear corner of the tumbledown cottage to line up along the remains of a low stone wall and stare at the sight beyond.

Allard’s orchard was definitely still there, and if the thick carpet of leaves was any indication, then despite the broken and dead branches scattered here and there, the trees were still thriving. They stood well spaced, two by two stretching away from the cottage—a total of eight trees, all ancient, with gnarled trunks and twisted branches, many of which had dipped to the ground.

In this season, barely a leaf, even withered and brown, remained clinging to the twigs. It was therefore easy to spot the white-and-gray birds dotted throughout the orchard. Some were settled amid the leaves, contentedly snoozing. Others ambled, with their beaks tossing aside dead leaves, then greedily pouncing on the fallen fruit beneath.

As the company massed along the low wall, the geese came alert. Some issued the faint hissing sound that was the birds’ equivalent of a warning growl, but when all the members of the company halted at the wall and no one ventured into what the geese plainly considered their territory, feathers settled, and the flock returned to the twin occupations of contented contemplation and foraging.

Therese looked at Tooks. His fingers were flicking; he was plainly counting.

Then Tooks heaved a massive sigh. “Blow me down, but they’re all here. Every last one.”

Many of the company shook their head in wonder.

The younger boys were grinning and whispering about how, now, they would all have goose for their Christmas dinner.

Ned Foley voiced the question circling Therese’s brain. “How did they know? They’re birds. Hardly any of us in the village—only really his lordship here—knew about this place. Yet these blinking birds knew—they must have, to come here so…well, determinedly.”

Everyone looked at Tooks, who appeared as puzzled as they.

The boys had wandered off to explore the crumbling cottage.

Noticing, Christian called them back with a warning the place was dangerous and could collapse further—on their heads—at any time.

The boys returned, and Jamie announced, “The geese have been nesting in there.”

“There’s a spot where two walls are still standing, with a bit of roof angled over,” Johnny Tooks reported. He looked at his father. “The flock has been roosting in there.”

Tooks nodded absentmindedly, then his expression cleared. “That’s it! Gladys and Edna knew.”

Everyone looked at Tooks in bemusement.

All but laughing, he explained, “I haven’t always kept the village geese—I only took them over after old Johnson died. Before that, he kept the flock at the Grange. When he died, our Johnson, his son, had too much to do with learning all the ropes and keeping the Grange gardens and grounds right for his late lordship, so I took over the flock. That was…” Tooks screwed up his face, then pronounced, “Eleven years ago, it would be.” He smiled at his audience. “I knew—well, all the village knew—that old Johnson had some special way to fatten up the geese for Christmas. They always tasted special, but he never would say what he fed them. He promised to tell Johnson before he passed the flock on to him, but old Johnson died suddenly, so our Johnson never learned the secret.”

Tooks turned to the orchard and waved at the geese, fat and plump and looking almost drunk with their bellies full to bursting. “What odds old Johnson brought them up here? Allard occasionally brought fruit down for the Mountjoys to sell, but in his later years, he grew to be a cantankerous old beggar and often didn’t bother. Old Johnson would have known. Bet he offered Allard a few pennies to let him fatten the flock on the deadfall.”

“That sounds very likely,” Christian said. “But who are Gladys and Edna?”

“Ah, well,” Tooks said, a grin splitting his face. “That’s how those of us who keep geese run a flock. Naturally, we don’t kill all of the birds. We keep those who’ll be our breeders for the next season, and we also keep two or three of the older ladies, see. They help—well, I suppose you could say they anchor the flock. Keep it more settled, make the rules and run the roost, teach the young ones how things are done—that sort of thing.”

“What you mean, I think,” Therese said, “is that the older birds keep the collective memory and the accumulated wisdom of the flock.” She glanced at the birds settled in the orchard. “I take it Gladys and Edna are your old ladies.” With her cane, she pointed to two older-looking birds nestled together in the leaves in the middle of the orchard. “Those two, are they?”

“Aye, your ladyship.” Still grinning, Tooks nodded. “That’s them—at the center of everything, keeping their beady eyes on all the younger ones. And when the flock got over-hungry the other day, well, Gladys and Edna, they hail from the days old Johnson had the flock. Live to a ripe old age, geese do—well over twenty years.”

“So they remembered and came here!” Jamie looked out at the two old geese, then looked up at Therese and grinned.

Yes, indeed, she thought. She felt entirely at one with Gladys and Edna. Old ladies were excellent at keeping collective memory and accumulated wisdom and anchoring their flock. That, after all, was the role she’d claimed.

Christian looked at Tooks. “What do you want to do with them now? If it’s easier, you’re welcome to leave them here for as long as you want. And indeed, by all means use the orchard in the years to come.”

“Thank ye.” Tooks bowed his shaggy head. “I can see they’re happy here, and we’ve no foxes about this area at present, so it’d be best if I could leave them undisturbed until…well, it’s the day after tomorrow I’ll need to start preparing the ones for the village’s ovens.” He glanced at Johnny. “We can come up with the cart and the cages then and round them all up.”

“Do you need help?” Jamie promptly asked—backed by the keen and eager faces of the rest of the younger boys.

Tooks smiled. “Aye—that’d make it all go faster, but you’ll need to bring thick gloves. Those birds do peck, but I can teach you how to handle them.”

“So now we’ll all have goose for Christmas dinner!” The chorus welled from all the children’s throats.

Led by Gladys and Edna, the geese squawked loudly, more in censure than alarm.

The children snickered and quieted.

Christian glanced at Henry’s four friends and smiled. “You gentlemen have certainly redeemed yourselves in the eyes of Little Moseley. If you hadn’t thought to go hunting through the woods in that direction, we would likely not have found the flock, certainly not in time and possibly not at all.”

The four looked both relieved and pleased.

Henry did, too. Indeed, everyone was smiling.

Leaving the geese once more settled and content, the company re-formed and headed down the cart track that would take them to the stable of Dutton Grange and the village beyond.

Smiling at her three grandchildren boisterously skipping with the rest of the village youngsters, laughing and calling, all thoroughly thrilled over the successful conclusion of their quest to find the geese, Therese walked with the adults at a more sedate pace down from the ridge and on between the fallow fields. Along the way, she invited Henry, Eugenia, and Christian to join her, her grandchildren, and the couples she’d already asked to celebrate Christmas—the Swindons and the Colebatches. “And by all means, bring Mrs. Woolsey as well.”

“Thank you.” Eugenia smiled at Christian, then turned her smile on Henry. “We’ll be delighted. All of us.”

Therese smiled serenely. “Excellent. That’s settled, then.”

To her mind, everything had fallen into place, all was as it should be, and like Gladys and Edna, she was thoroughly content.

* * *

The seating about Therese’s Christmas table was almost the same as the dinner she’d hosted a week earlier, with the addition of Henry and of Jamie, George, and Lottie, who had been granted special dispensation to join the adults in celebrating the day and in toasting the village’s success in hunting down the geese appearing in pride of place on every table in the village.

As under her direction the company settled in their designated chairs, with Christian once more at the head of the table and Therese presiding from the foot, and the company oohed and aahed over the plethora of dishes Mrs. Haggerty had slaved for the past two days to prepare, with an inner serenity, Therese smiled upon them all.

She’d returned to the village ostensibly to stay, to make Hartington Manor her permanent home. That had always been her intention, yet in her heart she hadn’t been sure whether the village and the small pleasures of village life would prove absorbing enough, engaging enough, to satisfy her.

She was delighted to have had that niggling inner question decided in the affirmative. Those in the village and the farms around about might not be haut ton, might not belong to the sort of families and society she was accustomed to reigning over, however, they were still people—fine, upstanding, and interesting people—many of whom, like the gentleman at the head of the table, had difficulties to overcome.

Hurdles to clear, obstacles to surmount, fears to conquer.

And that, Therese knew, had always and forever been her calling. To understand and steer and guide those who needed her help in turning their lives around and making those lives the best they could be.

Crimmins, aided in this instance by Mrs. Crimmins, efficiently served the soup—a clear broth prepared from wild morels. They proceeded smoothly to the next course of roast spatchcocks and partridges in aspic.

As with much exclaiming and compliments being dispatched to Mrs. Haggerty, the company ate, Therese looked at her grandchildren, took in their bright faces, their eager chatter as without the slightest shyness they interacted with the adults around them, and approved; village life had proved to be an arena in which the three could expand their horizons, stretch their wings, and develop the experience they would need when they graduated to their destined places in society—and just look at the strides Jamie had made during his short stay in Little Moseley.

When the trio had arrived sixteen days ago, she had had no real inkling of their abilities. What she’d seen over the past days had left her impressed. All three had the strength to forge their own places in society, their own lives; all they would need was encouragement and perhaps a helpful hand here and there.

She glanced around again and felt her heart swell—with happiness, with joy, and something more…anchoring.

Smiling to herself, she inwardly acknowledged that she was as deeply content as Gladys and Edna.

“So exciting”—Mrs. Swindon leant forward, her face alight with that emotion—“that you’ve decided to marry tomorrow!”

Eugenia, seated at Christian’s right, smiled brilliantly, then shared a more personal look with her fiancé.

“So useful,” Henrietta Colebatch said, “that dear Christian is distantly related to the Bishop of Salisbury.”

After Christian and Eugenia had decided that now they had made up their minds they saw no reason to waste further time, Christian had ridden to Salisbury Cathedral and returned with a special license in his pocket.

“The whole village is cock-a-hoop!” Reverend Colebatch smiled beatifically. “Mr. Filbert has had the bell-ringers practicing a special peal, and Mr. Goodes and the choir are delighted to be able to present those hymns they so rarely get to sing.”

“And”—Major Swindon fixed Jamie, Lottie, and George, seated on the opposite side of the table, with an interested eye—“I hear that you three young people have been recruited into the wedding party.”

Jamie nodded solemnly. “I’m to carry the ring into the church. On a small velvet pillow.” He glanced at Eugenia and wrinkled his nose. “I hope the ring doesn’t roll off.”

Everyone knew he was teasing; even Mrs. Woolsey saw it and laughingly assured him that the ring would behave and all would go smoothly.

“I’m to be flower girl.” Lottie beamed.

Looking at her granddaughter’s face, Therese felt she owed Eugenia and Christian a special favor. True, she had been instrumental in bringing the pair together, but it was the goodness of their hearts that had seen them both go out of their way to make one little girl’s Christmas so very extra special.

“And I,” George proudly said, glancing at Therese, “will escort Grandmama to the front pew.”

Christian looked down the table, met Therese’s gaze, and smiled, his eyes twinkling. He had insisted she sit in place of his departed parents. She suspected he, for one, had been awake to her machinations all along.

Not that she had forced anything on him—quite the opposite. As she took in the softening of Christian’s gaze as he looked at Eugenia, Therese was more than delighted with the results of her most-recent manipulations.

Since the aborted skating party, Christian appeared to have lost all consciousness of his injuries. He rarely used a cane anymore, and Therese was certain he wouldn’t when he walked down the aisle, but most importantly, he no longer ducked his head and had, it seemed, accepted that all those in the village knew him so well they literally saw past his scars.

That, more than anything else, was, she felt, her principal triumph of this festive season.

Then the double doors behind her were flung wide, and she turned and, with everyone else, saw Crimmins, with Mrs. Crimmins and Mrs. Haggerty assisting, bearing in a large platter on which reposed their Christmas goose.

With all due ceremony, his face wreathed in a beaming smile, Crimmins carried the platter down the table and placed it triumphantly before Christian. Mrs. Haggerty set down the boat of her special apple-and-brandy sauce, and Mrs. Crimmins handed Christian the carving set.

Christian took the implements. He glanced down the table, and, at Therese’s encouraging nod, rose to his feet the better to attack the bird.

Therese reached for her wine glass; the others saw and did the same.

As Christian made the first cut and the scent of roast goose set their mouths watering, Therese raised her glass and declared, “To our Christmas goose and the friendships and understandings our quest to reclaim it has brought us.”

There were cheers all around the table.

Christian picked up his glass and joined with the others in echoing loudly, “To our Christmas goose!”

Then Christian carved, and the Crimminses and Mrs. Haggerty proudly passed the plates and platters, then Reverend Colebatch said grace.

After uttering “Amen,” the company looked around the table, meeting each other’s gazes, all thoroughly pleased with their present and looking forward to their future.

Then cutlery rattled as they all claimed their knives and forks and settled to the serious business of doing justice to this year’s Christmas goose.

* * *

* * *