As it transpired, when appealed to, Crimmins reported that Deacon Filbert always spent his Tuesdays visiting his mother in a nearby village and wouldn’t return to his cottage until late. Consequently, it was the following morning before Therese, with her grandchildren in tow, could call on the deacon.

His cottage was one of several the church owned along the village lane. Filbert’s home sat opposite the vicarage and the village green and was located between the Cockspur Arms and the manor’s drive, so the cottage was only a few minutes’ walk from Therese’s door.

She stepped onto the stone stoop of Filbert’s cottage at precisely ten-thirty, the earliest hour at which she would consent to call on any man—gentleman or otherwise, in town or country. Had the timing been left to Jamie, George, or Lottie to dictate, Filbert would have been disturbed over breakfast; now that the trio had a quest before them, they were eager to get on.

They crowded behind Therese as she raised the small brass knocker and beat a sharp tattoo.

As they waited for Filbert to answer, Therese glanced back at Melissa; Therese had wondered if Melissa would allow her curiosity to get the better of her and come—and she had. Therese had made no comment either way, judging that if she tried to push, Melissa would dig in her heels and resist. However, from all Therese had thus far observed, her older granddaughter possessed just as much native curiosity as her younger cousins; now that Melissa had learned of the need for the book to be found, participating in the search and helping to solve the riddle of where the book had gone was too tempting to step back from.

There was also precious little else she might do to entertain herself.

Regardless, she was there, and Therese was pleased. She suspected that with girls of Melissa’s age, change was a matter of one hurdle at a time.

Footsteps neared, then the door opened, and Filbert looked out. He was a neat, somewhat retiring individual, a confirmed bachelor in his forties, very precise in both movement and attire; according to Mrs. Colebatch, he had served the parish for more than a decade and lived alone. He blinked when he saw the small delegation about his front step. “Good morning, Lady Osbaldestone. What can I do for you, my lady?”

“We’re on another quest, Filbert—similar to our last year’s hunt for the geese.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. If we might come in, we would like to pick your brains over the missing book of carols.”

Filbert frowned. “Is it missing? I hadn’t heard.”

“Reverend Colebatch and Mr. Mortimer have searched the vestry, and the reverend has also searched his study, all to no avail. Reverend Colebatch can’t recall anyone mentioning borrowing the book to him, but thought whoever has it might have spoken about borrowing it to you.”

“Ah.” For a moment, Filbert’s expression grew distant, then he nodded and stepped back. “Please come in, and I’ll endeavor to remember those who mentioned needing to borrow it.”

He ushered them into a scrupulously neat, yet still cozy parlor. Therese paused and, once Filbert shut the door, waved at her grandchildren. “Mr. Filbert, I believe you are acquainted with Viscount Skelton, the Honorable George Skelton, and Lady Charlotte.” She paused while the boys made their bows and Lottie bobbed a wide-eyed curtsy. “And the last member of our group is another granddaughter, Miss North.”

Melissa inclined her head. “Mr. Filbert.”

Filbert gravely bowed in reply, then waved Therese to an armchair, the best one beside the hearth. She moved to claim it. There was only one other armchair, somewhat smaller, and a small, two-person sofa; without waiting for direction, Melissa moved to the sofa, drawing Lottie with her, and George followed. Jamie smiled sweetly and propped on the sofa’s padded arm.

Filbert inclined his head to the children in approval, then sat in the second armchair, facing them all. He looked at Therese. “Forgive me, your ladyship, but are you wanting to borrow the book of carols?”

“No, no—it’s for Mr. Mortimer.”

“Oh.” Filbert’s expression cleared. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought… Well, Mrs. Goodes knew every carol ever written by heart. But playing only from sheet music as he does, I expect Mortimer will need the book in order to play at the carol service.”

“According to Reverend Colebatch and Mr. Mortimer, in order to put on the carol service at all.”

Any suspicion Therese may have harbored that Filbert, who had been a close friend of the Goodeses, didn’t approve of Mortimer and wouldn’t care if he failed was slain by the horrified understanding that filled Filbert’s face.

“Great heavens!” the deacon said. After a second, he went on, “I hadn’t realized…but of course, you’re quite right. Well, now—let me see.” He frowned, then cast her an apologetic look. “I have to admit to not paying strict attention to who borrows what music. Given Mrs. Goodes rarely if ever used any of the sheets, not once she’d memorized them, I long ago took the stance that people borrowing the sheets meant that at least the hymns were being played in various houses, and that was all to God’s good.”

“Indeed.” Therese inclined her head. “But do you recall anyone asking to borrow the book of carols recently?”

Jamie leaned forward and confided, “We need somewhere to begin our search.”

Filbert nodded. “I believe I can list for you all those who asked after the book over the last few months. That said, I can’t say when they actually took it, nor if they returned it, much less when. Our loaning of the music sheets has always operated on an honor system.”

“Naturally,” Therese responded. “So who do you recall asking after the book?”

“Mrs. Swindon—she often borrows sheets from the church. She likes to play. I know she mentioned borrowing the book of carols—I believe it was sometime last month.” Filbert paused, then went on, “Mrs. Woolsey also expressed an interest, although I’m not sure she ever actually borrowed the book. I gather she felt that with Eugenia now at Dutton Grange and Henry up at Oxford, she—Mrs. Woolsey—had time to polish her lapsed skill on the pianoforte. Many borrow the book of carols especially for that purpose, or when they’re learning, as the pieces are familiar and so easier to pick up. But speaking of Dutton Grange, the Longfellows asked to borrow the book, but not for the Christmas carols—they were interested in the other special hymns included in the back of the book. In their case, they were deciding on the hymns for young Cedric’s christening service.”

Filbert frowned, clearly racking his memory. “The only other person I recall asking specifically for the book of carols was the Rector of East Wellow. Their parish wished to copy several of the more unusual carols. At the time he approached me, as far as I knew, the Longfellows had the book. I don’t know if he spoke with them or waited and later borrowed it from the vestry…or indeed, if he has as yet borrowed the book at all.”

When Filbert lifted his gaze to her face, Therese said, “So you recall four people specifically asking after the book of carols. Did anyone else ask for music sheets in general?”

“Not to my knowledge—not over recent months.” Filbert paused, then grimaced and said, “Prior to that, the Goodes were still here. Any number of people might have spoken with Goodes, or Mrs. Goodes, or the reverend, or even Mrs. Colebatch about borrowing the book, but not acted on their intention until later—meaning more recently.”

George shifted on the sofa. “Reverend Colebatch said that all the music sheets and the book of carols are kept in the vestry. Are they in some cupboard? Is it locked?”

Filbert shook his head. “No, young sir. All the church’s music sheets, including the book of carols, are kept stacked on a shelf in the vestry. Anyone—well, any adult—could reach them.”

Therese was aware of Melissa trying to catch her eye, but avoided looking in her granddaughter’s direction.

Defeated, Melissa spoke up. “Mr. Filbert, if I could ask… The book of carols—can you tell us what it looks like?”

Filbert’s brows rose, and he paused, plainly consulting his memory. Then he offered, “It’s quite a collection, so the spine is more than one inch wide, and the sheets are the same size as the usual music sheets, so the book’s dimensions are the same as the sheets.”

“I assume the music is in the form of a piano-vocal score?” Melissa asked.

Filbert colored. “I really couldn’t say, miss. I’m not musically trained.”

Melissa smiled faintly. “I don’t suppose it matters, really—we just need to find the book. What is the title?”

“The Universal Book of Christmas Carols.” Filbert frowned. “I believe it was compiled by Holdsworth and Sons.”

“What color is the book?” Jamie asked.

“Red,” Filbert replied. “A dull red with black lettering and a black design on the cover.”

Therese regarded her brood and arched her brows, but that seemed to be the extent of their questions. She looked at Filbert and asked, “Is there anything more you can tell us, Mr. Filbert, that might assist us in locating the book?”

Filbert thought, but eventually shook his head. “Sadly, no—I have no further clues as to its whereabouts.” He said the last with a faintly smiling glance at the children.

“In that case, we’ll take our leave of you.” Therese used her cane to lever herself to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Filbert.”

Filbert saw them out, at the last wishing them luck with their search. “By God’s grace, you’ll find the book quickly. I’m sure the Almighty wouldn’t deny the villagers their traditional service in honor of His son’s birth.”

“So we shall hope, Filbert—so we shall hope.” Therese raised a hand in farewell, then started down the lane.

After hearing Filbert’s door close behind them, she slowed and eyed her four helpers as they kept pace, two on either side. “Well, then. It’s too close to lunchtime to call on anyone immediately. I suggest that, after luncheon, we should call at Swindon Hall and see what Mrs. Swindon can tell us.”

“Yes!” Lottie gave a little skip. “I like Mrs. Swindon.”

“And,” George, ever practical, added, “she’s the one most likely to be able to tell us something useful. Mrs. Woolsey will be vague and uncertain, and the Longfellows have a young baby—they probably won’t remember even borrowing the book.”

Apparently, George’s memories of his parents coping with his younger sisters’ births remained strong and clear.

Jamie nodded. “Swindon Hall feels like the right place to start.”

Therese slanted a glance at Melissa, but she was looking at the ground and evincing no overt interest in the hunt that had fired her cousins’ enthusiasm.

Yet Melissa had felt compelled to ask several critical questions of Filbert.

Suppressing a smile, Therese said, “It’s settled then. We’ll call at Swindon Hall this afternoon and see what we can learn.” Jamie, George, and Lottie cheered. Therese turned her head and regarded Melissa. “You should come along, too, Melissa—at the very least, I should introduce you to the other local landowners.”

Without raising her gaze, Melissa lifted a shoulder in a vague shrug. “If you wish, Grandmama.”

Therese managed not to narrow her eyes—or allow the smile that threatened to curve her lips. Melissa might not want to admit that she’d been infected with the same questing fervor as her cousins, but Therese felt confident that the essential seed of curiosity that would drive any of her descendants to pursue the lost book of carols had been successfully planted.

From her point of view, all she needed to do now was sit back and watch it bloom.

As if to prove Therese’s point, as they walked toward the manor and drew level with the church and, again, heard the most wonderful music—this time, a Haydn concerto—pouring forth through the open doors and they all halted to listen, after no more than a minute, Melissa turned to Therese and said, “There’s nearly an hour before luncheon—I thought I might go and check in the vestry, on the shelf, just to see if anyone has returned the book since Mr. Mortimer and the reverend looked. At least a day must have passed since they searched there.”

Jamie nodded. “And who knows? The book might have been there all along, jumbled in with all the other music sheets, and they just missed seeing it.”

George agreed. “We should check before searching further.”

Therese looked at the four—four—eager faces turned her way. Three were openly enthusiastic, while Melissa was still attempting to appear merely interested. “Very well,” Therese said. “By all means, go and confirm that the book isn’t in the church. Just be sure to return to the manor before the church clock tolls for twelve-thirty. Don’t be late, or Mrs. Haggerty will be cross.”

“And,” Jamie and George chorused, repeating a favorite saying of their father’s, “it’s never wise to make a cook cross.”

Therese tried to keep her lips straight. “Precisely.” She waved them across the lane. “Now go and be back in good time.”

They went, the three younger children all but scampering up the church path, while Melissa walked with a purposeful stride in their wake.

Watching her fourteen-year-old granddaughter climb the rise, Therese was visited by a sudden qualm. What was drawing Melissa to the church—the quest for the book of carols, the remarkable music, or was it infatuation of a different sort?

There was no doubt that Richard Mortimer was quietly handsome; he was, quite possibly, just the sort of reserved musical genius who might appeal to a girl of Melissa’s character and inclinations.

Therese narrowed her eyes on Melissa’s back. “Hmm.”

After a long moment, Therese turned and headed for the entrance to the manor’s drive. “I’ll have to keep an eye on that.”

Melissa slipped into the church behind her cousins. To give them their due, the three weren’t silly; they quietly crept along the narrow aisle that ran down the opposite side of the church from where Mr. Mortimer sat before the organ. His attention was wholly focused on the music propped on the organ shelf before him. His fingers flowed smoothly over the keys, his touch confident and sure.

He didn’t see or sense the three children slipping past. They reached the door to the vestry and carefully pushed it open. It didn’t creak, and the three vanished into the vestry, carefully closing the door behind them.

Melissa didn’t immediately follow. Her feet had slowed, and she halted in the shadows, just inside the main doors.

The music swelled and surged like a tamed but powerful sea. She closed her eyes and could almost feel the waves reaching her, beckoning and engaging her senses.

She had always loved music, and as it was one of those skills suitable for a young lady of her station to excel in, her parents had indulged her with a succession of music tutors. She was more than competent on any keyboard instrument, and her voice had been trained to a degree that, her tutor had quietly informed her, would be more than sufficient for entry into the chorus of any of the great opera companies.

Not that she, Miss Melissa North, daughter of Lord North of North Oaks, Buckinghamshire, would ever be permitted to audition, not even for a highly regarded company. Still, it was comforting to know that she could do something right. And when she was, eventually, allowed to venture into the ton, she would have one accomplishment at which she would shine.

For now…she let the music wrap about her and draw her into its embrace. In music, she felt safe; she knew how to respond, how to feel within it.

She’d been so…not angry but upset and mortified over needing to be shuffled off to stay with her rather scarifying grandmama. But she hadn’t actually wanted to go with her mother and Mandy; it was Mandy who had been invited, not her, and tall and lanky as she was, she wasn’t yet ready to face the narrow-eyed assessing glances she knew would be leveled at all the girls who attended the Trevallayans’ house party.

She wasn’t ready yet. She’d known that deep inside, and she hadn’t wanted to go, but she couldn’t admit that she was afraid of showing her face—also too long and lanky in her opinion—at a social gathering, not to her mother and not even to Mandy. With no better option in sight, she’d supposed that spending a few weeks in Hampshire was better than staying at home with just the servants or going weeks early to her aunt at Winslow Abbey and rattling around there.

Now…as the most glorious music she’d ever heard wove about her soul, she felt her heart lift—just a little. Thus far, coming to stay with her grandmama had been nothing like the trial she’d feared. All those she’d met in Little Moseley—well, other than her grandmama—were unthreatening and undemanding; they didn’t care what she looked like, and on closer acquaintance, even her grandmama had been less scarifying than she’d imagined. In fact, the village was proving to be an inspired choice as a place to catch her breath before being plunged into the whirl of the family Christmas gathering.

Stealthy footsteps approached, and she felt a sharp tug on her sleeve. Melissa opened her eyes to see George peering up at her.

“You need to come and help,” he whispered, nevertheless managing to make the words insistent. “None of us are tall enough to reach the shelf where the music’s kept.”

Melissa blinked. It wasn’t often that her height was seen as an advantage. “All right,” she whispered back. After one last glance at Mortimer, still entirely engrossed at the organ, she followed George down the side aisle and through the vestry door.

The shelf in question was level with her chin. It was over ten feet long and littered with an untidy conglomeration of loose music sheets. “Multiple books could be hidden beneath this,” she murmured. Then she gathered a stack of sheets and handed them to Jamie.

He took them to a nearby sideboard. “We may as well sort these while we’re at it.”

As George followed him with the next stack Melissa had handed down, he muttered, “Or at least tidy them.”

By the time Melissa gathered the last of the loose sheets and carried them to the sideboard, Jamie, George, and Lottie were busy going through the sheets and setting them in neat piles.

“We’re sorting by hymn number,” George explained.

“Even I know my numbers,” Lottie said, putting another sheet on a pile.

Melissa sighed, set her stack down, and started shuffling through it. “But there’s no book of carols.”

“No,” Jamie said. “But I suppose we should look on the bright side. If the book had been here, we wouldn’t have anything to keep searching for.”

“At least this way, we still have a quest.” George neatened one of the larger piles.

They worked steadily through the mass of sheets, sorting, then dividing them into neat piles and ferrying them back for Melissa to arrange on the shelf.

When the task was complete, they all stood back and surveyed the now well-organized shelf.

“That’s better!” Lottie grinned up at Melissa. “Grandmama says we should always try to leave things better than we found them.”

Melissa arched her brows and found herself smiling.

She led the way back into the nave.

Mortimer was still playing; he’d moved on to some quite complicated piece and was concentrating ferociously on the sheets propped on the organ’s music shelf. Melissa wondered where the sheets had come from; such pieces wouldn’t have been in the vestry hoard—those had all been hymns, processionals, and the like. Mortimer must have brought the music sheets himself—all the sheets for all the pieces she’d heard him play.

Music sheets were expensive, yet clearly Mortimer had an extensive collection.

The music swirled and tugged at her; she was sure the clock hadn’t yet tolled the half hour. She was aware the other three had, like her, lingered, listening; they were all well educated, and music was an important part of their curricula. Without glancing their way, she silently walked to the nearest pew and sank onto the seat.

After a moment, the trio joined her, and in silence, they listened to Mortimer play.

Eventually, in a series of rippling chords, he reached the end of the piece, and his hands came to rest on the keys.

Melissa glanced swiftly at Lottie, George, and Jamie and was relieved to see that, this time, they weren’t about to burst into spontaneous applause. Not that the performance didn’t deserve it, but as Mortimer returned the sheets he’d been following to a stack on a chair beside the organ, it was obvious that he hadn’t yet realized he had an audience, and Melissa hoped that, if they remained as quiet as the proverbial mice, he might play more pieces.

Presumably, the other three were thinking along similar lines, for they barely breathed as they all watched Mortimer flick through the stack of sheets. He selected several more from the pile, arranged them on the music shelf, then set his fingers to the keys and played.

He’d chosen a light country air, one with words they all knew. Melissa felt the ephemeral tug as the introduction drew to a close, leading into the first phrase—

Unable to resist, Lottie started singing, her pure and delicate soprano rising to float like a silk thread weaving its way into the tapestry of sound the organ laid on the air.

Mortimer heard; his shoulders tensed.

Lottie realized what she’d done and wildly looked up at Melissa.

Melissa met her young cousin’s eyes, read the wordless plea therein—and smiled reassuringly and joined in, her much stronger alto lifting and supporting Lottie’s young voice.

Mortimer’s fingers didn’t falter, but he shot a glance over his shoulder. He saw them—then had to turn back to his music.

On the next phrase, Jamie and George raised their voices and seamlessly joined the swelling chorus.

Melissa filled her lungs and sang more strongly, instinctively balancing the three sopranos.

The next time Mortimer glanced at them, he stared for a second, then smiled and nodded encouragingly before his need of the music sheets forced him to look away.

They reached the end of the piece. Mortimer played the final chords, reached out and flicked to another sheet of music, and the introduction to “Greensleeves” rang out.

He glanced swiftly their way. “Do you know the parts?”

Melissa looked at her cousins; all three nodded, and she called back, “Yes.”

Mortimer nodded and played on, allowing the organ to swell more powerfully, then fade as the choral section approached.

Melissa rose to her feet and filled her lungs; beside her, the others did the same.

Then they sang, well-nigh flawlessly fitting their voices to the interweaving harmonies.

All four had been trained to sing; it was a talent deemed necessary to the social positions they would one day fill.

And Mortimer joined them, his voice a pleasing baritone, lending depth and weight to the rendering.

It was a delight—a joy—to sing in such company, with a virtuoso accompaniment evoking their very best efforts. They stood in a line, let their voices free, and sang and rejoiced in their creation.

They reached the end of the song. Drawing deep, satisfied breaths, they listened to the closing chords from the organ, then Mortimer’s fingers stilled, and silence—a profound and peaceful silence in the wake of glorious sound—fell.

Richard lifted his hands from the keys and turned on the bench to face his unexpected choristers. For a moment, he regarded them, then asked, “How long will you be staying in the village?”

The older girl blinked and didn’t immediately answer.

The older boy shot her a glance, then replied, “We’ll be here until the twenty-second. Then we leave for our home—well, mine, George’s, and Lottie’s—but Melissa and Grandmama will be going there, too.”

“I see.” A novel idea was taking shape in Richard’s brain. “So you’ll be here for the carol service.”

“Yes.” The younger boy—George—nodded emphatically. “We’re helping to search for the book of carols.”

“Ah.” Richard hesitated, yet their voices were among the best he’d heard in a very long while—and as their grandmother had intimated, letting such talent go to waste, especially when he had a carol service to perform, might not be just a travesty but possibly an idiocy. He surveyed them, then said, “In that case, assuming the book of carols is found in time…and possibly even if it isn’t, I wonder if you four would be interested in forming a special guest choir for the occasion?”

The younger three would have leapt at the chance—their eagerness shone in their faces—but the older girl, Melissa, asked, “Isn’t there a village choir?”

“There used to be, but Mr. Goodes—the previous choirmaster—had been ill for some time, and the choir disbanded. I haven’t yet had time to reform it.” And he doubted he would remain in the village long enough to make a go of it. That was, in part, one of the spurs pricking him to make the carol service and the church’s Christmas celebrations the very best he could—the most joyous and uplifting—to repay the village and the congregation that had, however unwittingly, provided him safe harbor, safe refuge in his time of need.

Of course, when he’d answered the advertisement for an organist in a country village, he hadn’t imagined that one of the arch-grandes dames of the ton would have her dower property there. He’d done his best to avoid her, afraid she would take one look at him and know who he was, but apparently, he’d been spared that fate; she’d been puzzled, but she hadn’t made the connection—she’d thought he was a Mortimer. Given that, presumably spending time with her grandchildren wouldn’t expose him to any further threat.

“So we won’t put anyone’s nose out of joint by forming a special guest choir for the carol service,” Melissa said.

He had to give her credit for thinking of that. “No. You won’t be usurping anyone.”

She thought for a moment more, her dark gaze weighing him and his proposition, then she glanced at her three…cousins, was it?

Regardless, the younger three, siblings on appearance alone, nodded enthusiastically.

Melissa looked at him. “What would forming a special guest choir entail? What would we need to do?”

Despite her youth, she was definitely not just a pretty face atop a willowy figure.

Richard arched his brows in thought, then offered, “You’ve all been trained, haven’t you?”

Melissa and her cousins nodded.

“I thought as much,” he said. “You all have strong, clear voices. If we work together, we could lead the congregation and provide the solos no one else in the village can perform. But of course, that will mean practice. From the sound of things, none of you have sung in a choir before. You’ll need to get your ears in, and that means practicing scales and harmonies.” He paused, steadily regarding them, then said, “Given the carol service is scheduled for Friday week, I believe daily practice is called for. For one hour every day except Sunday—ten until eleven.” He arched his brows at them. “Can you commit to that?”

Melissa looked at her cousins, meeting their eyes one after another. Unstated between them hung the words: It’s only for one hour a day. They would have plenty of time left to hunt for the book of carols.

And there was precious little else to do—at least for Melissa—in such a small village.

Added to such considerations was the lure of actually doing something—accomplishing something. Something that, of all in the village, they with their vocal training were especially qualified to do. Melissa hadn’t met that many of the villagers, but she sensed the other three would be glad of the chance to do something special for the community they’d insisted on returning to in this Christmas season.

As things were, she stood in lieu of the adult in charge of their band of four; she tried to catalog the drawbacks to Mortimer’s suggestion, but could see nothing beyond the loss of their time.

She raised her gaze and, across the intervening space, met his eyes. “Yes. We can do that—one hour of practice every day except Sunday.” Then she bethought herself of their situation and added the caveat, “If Grandmama permits, of course.”