“Great minds think alike,” he said as he opened the box to reveal the pixie.

“I wanted to give you something, and I thought you needed luck more than most people.”

“How true that is,” he said. “I could really do with a streak of luck right now. My father has become so difficult. One can’t even have a civilized conversation with him. He’s all set to sell off the last of the family treasures and won’t listen to me. I just feel so frustrated, watching everything my family stood for gradually disintegrate and not able to do a damned thing about it.” He stopped and managed an embarrassed smile. “I shouldn’t go piling my troubles on you, especially not on Christmas Day.”

“I feel the same way,” I said. “I’m no longer welcome at what was my home and frankly I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Two orphans in the storm,” he said. “Maybe we should do what you suggested in your moment of drunken wisdom—run off to a desert island together and to hell with the whole thing.”

“I don’t like coconuts very much,” I said. He wrapped me in his arms and laughed.

* * *

LADY HAWSE-GORZLEY SUMMONED us together again before the churchgoers set out and announced that we should make plans for the Boxing Day hunt in the next village of Widecombe. She hoped she’d be able to supply enough horses for all those who wanted to take part.

“Not us, thank you,” Mrs. Wexler said firmly. “Hunting is a barbaric sport, from what I’ve heard. Tearing poor little foxes to pieces.”

“They’ve probably never ridden a horse in their lives,” the countess said in a stage whisper.

“I think I’m a little old for that kind of thing,” Mrs. Rathbone said, “but I’m sure my husband won’t turn down a chance to hunt, will you, Reggie?”

“I should say not,” Colonel Rathbone said heartily. “Tallyho and view halloo and all that. It’s what England is made of, don’t you know.”

“I don’t think we’re up to hunting, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Upthorpe said, “but we’d certainly like to come along and watch you set off. I’ve never actually seen a hunt. I bet the young men look really handsome in their red coats.”

“Pink,” the countess said sharply.

“I thought the coats were red.” Mrs. Upthorpe looked puzzled.

“They are, but we call it pink.”

“Why call them pink when they’re not pink?” Mrs. Wexler asked.

“I’m sure the explanation is lost in the mists of antiquity,” Lady H-G intervened before this could go any further. “Oswald will run you over in the estate car. His leg is playing up again. Still recovering from an injury and the doctor has forbidden hunting.”

Sir Oswald nodded gloomily. “Blasted quack. What does he know?” he muttered.