Linette's Love

Chapter 4

The weeks go by and more candles are lit on the advent wreath at St Richard's cathedral. Excitement builds inside of me - I love Christmas. This one especially. You never know, in a month, I could be married to Morel! Just the thought makes me silently squeal for joy. At night, all I can think about are Morel's arms enveloping me in a warm embrace and his lips planting a sweet kiss onto my own under the church roof. We meet often and sing songs to the crowds. My father isn't sure what to think about me earning my own money, but I can see that he is happy that more money is going into the pot each month.

Christmas Eve finally comes and I sit on the church pew next to my mother and father. The clergyman preaches on, but I don't take any notice of him, or his blathering. I am staring at Morel. He has seen me too, so we smile at each other across the church, avoiding the protective gaze of our parents.

After a while, the clergyman stops talking and we all stand to sing a hymn. Usually the hymns we sing every Sunday are dreary so I don't give them my full effort, but at Christmas, all the hymns are well known, so everyone can hear my voice, loudly singing them out. A few hymns later, the service finishes and we all file out of the church. Morel sneaks in behind me, secretly kissing me on the nape of my neck and I shiver at the touch of his lips on my skin. Luckily, no one sees as I quickly flash him a grin. We step outside and thank the priest. I look up and a wonderful sight befalls me. The sky is as black as a funeral horse and stars twinkle softly as I watch. One shoots across the sky and I make a wish. 'I wish Morel and I could be married.' I open my eyes and breath out. A cloud of cold air puffs out in front of me and I warm up my frozen nose with my mittened hands.

"Hurry up, Linette," my mother calls. 

"Coming!" I call back and hurry along, my boots crunching through the crisp snow. 

We walk home in silence, apart form the grind of our boots, air huffing out in front of our rosy faces. My father holds a candle-lit lantern to ligh our way through the dark streets until we reach our front door. Father opens it, we file in, I go upstairs and collapse on my bed, fully dressed, but exhausted.

I finally awake from my slumber as an icy wind shoots through the window. I shiver and groan. Why do I need to get up - I'm so tired! Then I remember. Morel is coming today. I sit bolt upright and remember I'm still fully dressed from last night. So I just trudge downstairs sleepily and spoon some breakfast down my throat. I realise I have nothing to do. I can't do sewing because Christmas Day is a day of rest (well, from official work; we can still cook!). I decide to help my mother prepare the meal. We bought a nice plump goose from the church, a sixpence raw, and it takes a while for it to cook so my mother put it over the fire just now. She is also baking her famous 'umble pie accompanied by some miniature mince pies which are my favourite. I just hope that Morel offers me my first one this Christmas (I have been holding them off just for him) so that I can accept it and make a wish. For dessert, we are having frumenty; a thick porridge with dried fruit, egg yolks and spices. Most of this was bought with the money I raised with Morel, singing. We didn't always raise as much as the first time, but it was usually just over a days wage of seven pence.The smell of cooking goose is wonderful and I savour it.

Later that evening, there is a knock at the door. I rush to open it, my mother behind me, still wearing her apron. The wooden door creaks open. Morel and his family greet us. They're all very friendly -  just like Morel - so we have no problem getting along.

We have borrowed an extra table from Blackfryer's down the road so that we can all fit around one bi table. My mother and I show them to the table, which is decorated with candles of deep reds an purples. They take their seats and my mother goes to call my father. He arrives at the bottom of the stairs a few minutes later. He looks around, then his eyes lay patronisingly on Morel. Morel, politely, stands up.

"What is your name, young man?" my father asks.

"Morel, sir. Morel Bakerson."

"And how old are you, Morel?" Again, Morel replies in his most courteous voice.

" Eighteen last summer, sir." My father considers this for a moment, then gestures for Morel to sit. He walks to the head of the table, pulls out his chair, but does not sit down. Instead, he raises his cup which is filled with a deep red wine that smells of spice and cloves.

"Merry Christmas," he gestures to the Bakers. " And may our families have good health and prosperity in the new year." He then gives them all a winning smile as we all toast to our health. My mother then disappears into the kitchen reappears with the crispy goose, and nips back for the pies.

The meal does not disappoint and everyone hungrily tucks into their plate of food. Compared to some, we are both quite rich. My father is a blacksmith and due to the amount of horses going back and forth to London through Chicester, he gets quite a lot of business in that sense. Morel and I exchange glances across the table throughout the meal. My father is continuously watching Morel for any wrong moves but luckily, Morel manages to keep a calm demeanour about him until the last drop of frumenty is scraped from a bowl. Just before he leaves into the dark night, Morel leans over and roots a gentle butterfly of a kiss on my hand, then departs without a word, longing in his eyes.

He did offer me a mince pie, and when I took my first bite into the salty, crisp pastry, I made a wish. That same wish I made on the shooting star last night. I just pray my father doesn't get in the way of the wishing magic, for Morel is the only thing missing in my life.

                                                                            *   *   *

It takes a while for my father to decide whether Morel is suitable or not. I anxiously await his decision, hoping that it will be the one a want.

Yet I don't have to wait long. A few days later, at the lunch table, my father stands up.

"I have made a decision," he declares to me and my mother. "A decision you may not like, Linette." I take a deep breath. Maybe he didn't sense the bond between me and Morel. Perhaps he thinks I don't like him. "You will be married in a few weeks. But not to Morel. He is too youngand would not be able to afford you."

"But he's of marital age!" I protest.

"Quiet, Linette. You will be married to Mr Cobbler, for he has enough money to care for you properly and start a family." There is a pause as I stare at my father in disbelief. Hasn't he learnt anything from the way I refused those other men? I am furious, obviously, and storm up to my room. I grab a bag and fling my clothes into it. The only thing I can do is run away. There is nothing left for me here anymore. Of course, I'll stop off at the baker's house to pick up Morel. Though I will have to leave Madra behind as she has a husband and daughter to look after. Maybe she can talk my father out of marrying me to the middle aged Mr Cobbler.