Two trays were produced. The mince pies were wonderful—warm, flaky pastry and plenty of spicy filling. The elderberry wine was not unpleasant and I had a second glass. We drank a toast to their health and to their dear departed sister and went on our way.

Mr. Barclay welcomed us gushing and bowing and requested that we sing a couple of carols none of us knew, before settling on “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I hope the herald angels sang a little better than we did, but he seemed to appreciate the effort. He offered hot cheese straws and mulled wine. From him we went to the vicar, who invited us into his well-worn but comfortable sitting room where we gave him a rousing rendition of “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful.” He had more mince pies laid out for us and a traditional wassail bowl. I was beginning to feel the warmth of the food and alcohol as we left and made for Miss Prendergast’s cottage, singing “In the Bleak Midwinter.”

She met us at the door, looking flustered. I decided she was probably one of those spinsters who always looks flustered. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “I was doing a crossword puzzle and completely forgot the mince pies. I do so love my little puzzles and I was so engrossed that I only remembered the pies when I smelled something burning. And of course by then it was too late to go into town to buy more mincemeat. I feel like such a fool. My mince pies are usually so good too, aren’t they, Lady Hawse-Gorzley? So I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for biscuits and ginger wine.” She retrieved a tray she had put on a low table beside the front door. “Here we are. Ginger to keep out the cold. Nothing better,” she said, offering the tray around. “And I am so looking forward to joining you for the Christmas festivities, Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she twittered. “So good of you to invite me. So generous. I can’t tell you how much one appreciates company when one is all alone in the world like me.”

The ginger wine was so powerful that it took my breath away and made my eyes water. I stumbled along, half blind, as we headed for my mother’s cottage. I was interested to see whether they would pretend to not be at home, but lights shone out between heavy curtains and the door was opened by my grandfather. I wondered whether he would be playing the role of jolly butler, but instead he said, “I won’t ask you in, because they’ve been working hard all day and consequently have retired with headaches. But we do have a hot rum punch ready and Mrs. Huggins has made some lovely sausage rolls. So if you could possibly manage a quiet carol, it would be appreciated.”