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“I do prefer the villages though. I’d rather try a few other small towns first if we could.”
“I’d good with that,” Baird said, leading the way down the street and around the corner. They walked several blocks and then came to a clothing store, with another across the street. “They might have the men’s driving gloves in that one.” Baird gestured to the shop across the street. “I’ll see if they carry any and you check that shop and maybe one of us will get lucky.”
Baird found a pair of dark brown leather driving gloves, beautifully lined, and paid for them, assuring Ella that she could give him Cara’s money later.
Ella didn’t find the sweater or shawl Cara wanted, and with the gloves tucked into Baird’s coat pocket, they headed back to the car to try Chesterfield, which was only eleven miles away, and while not a big city, was bigger than the local villages and would offer more stores and shops.
Ella was immediately charmed by Chesterfield, another market town with a two-thousand-year-old history, dating back to its founding as a Roman fort. Thanks to the development of roads, Chesterfield became a prosperous market town during the Middle Ages and the city still boasted an impressive historic square with ancient churches and period buildings anchoring the sides. A towering Christmas tree dominated the center and shoppers and carolers filled the square.
It took almost an hour, but Ella found a shawl she thought Cara would approve of and a lovely soft cardigan in silver gray which would be a perfect foil for Dorothy’s silver white hair.
They had a break for a light snack to keep their energy up, but now with the shopping done, and twilight several hours away, Baird suggested they stop by Bolsover Castle to have a look, if Ella liked castles.
“How can one not like castles?” she asked, returning to Baird’s car with him.
“I don’t know, but you Americans are a strange lot.”
“Ha!”
He laughed. “I’m only teasing you. I was going to drag you to Bolsover whether you wanted to go or not.”
It was a fifteen-minute drive to Bolsover, and even though it was just a day before Christmas Eve, the parking lot was full, and there were dozens of families coming and going, their children adorably dressed in their holiday finest.
“I wonder if Father Christmas is here,” Baird said, parking.
“Or maybe a holiday concert?” she asked, charmed by a little girl in a cherry-red coat with matching ribbon in her hair.
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
But as they approached the ticket booth, they saw the sign that Festive Stories with Father Christmas had sold out, and Father Christmas would return next year.
“You were right,” Ella said. “Santa is here.”
The woman selling tickets said that admission was fourteen pounds each, and even though Father Christmas was booked for the day, the Victorian carolers were walking the castle grounds and would be performing for the next hour.
Ella took a pamphlet on the history of Bolsover, reading the castle’s history aloud to Baird, sharing that it dated back to 1068 but was abandoned in the 1300s. Three hundred years later a Sir Charles Cavendish rebuilt part of the ruins into a smaller castle, making it his principal seat, and for the next thousand years it went like that—construction, destruction, construction, disrepair. By the early 1920s, the castle was little more than romantic ruins, the massive limestone bedrock showing huge cracks which threatened the remaining castle’s stability. If it wasn’t for the British Ministry of Works stepping in at the end of WWII, the castle wouldn’t be open to the public today.
Ella closed the pamphlet. “That’s a lot of history. I always think the 1700s are old.”
“It is. Just not if you’re a castle or a Roman fort.”
She pocketed the pamphlet and kept her hands inside her coat, wanting to warm them. “I thought Alec looked good this morning. Better than I expected.”
“I’m glad he’s back home. It’s where he needs to be now.” Baird was about to add something when suddenly the Victorian carolers were upon them, singing “The Holly and the Ivy.”
The castle walls created outstanding acoustics. Other castle visitors circled around, everyone hushed and savoring the old English carol. The carolers sang two more songs before moving on, and Ella watched them go, moved. A lump filled her throat and her heart felt tender. “That was so beautiful.”
Baird glanced at her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
She blinked, smiling through a sheen of tears. “It feels like Christmas.”
“It’s almost here, isn’t it?”
She nodded and he gave her a hug. “Who knew you were such a sensitive little thing,” he said playfully, his tone kind and his hug was warm.
Baird’s unexpected thoughtfulness made the lump in her throat just grow. She didn’t even know she’d needed this—the outing, the carolers, the hug—but she did. “Thank you for bringing me here. This is my favorite day so far.”
“If you like this, you must come to Edinburgh for the Military Tattoo. I take my parents and Aunt Kate every August, and it never fails to make me proud of my country and my heritage.”
