December 26th

"Ben, are you quite certain that—"

"Uh, uh, uh!" Ben scolded, adjusting the fit of the patch over his eye. "And where be yer accent?"

The dining room fell silent as the occupants waited for Matthew Wheeler to respond. Or explode. Not that the two were exclusive, Ben decided, hiding his nervousness with a cocky grin. A Matthew Wheeler explosion was definitely a response, and one that he expected to encounter sooner rather than later.

Mr. Wheeler's face reddened, but Ben realized that he looked more uncertain than angry. "Er…" he said.

"Arrr, Daddy," Honey suggested. "You mean 'Arrr'." She nodded encouragingly at him, her face glowing with anticipation. Her father stared at her, flummoxed.

"Arr," Ben interrupted, turning at his aunt. "This be a fine breakfast ye've given us."

Madeleine Wheeler hesitated, smoothing the linen napkin on her lap. "Arr," she politely responded, and Ben's smile became genuine.

"Oh, Ben!" Honey gushed, "this is wonderful! I love your idea of talking like pirates for a day!"

"Yes," Mr. Wheeler agreed, sounding notably less enthusiastic than his daughter, but not outright angry. Ben called it a victory. "It be a fine idea. Though," he said, eyeing Ben speculatively, "t'would be even more amusing if ye conscripted all us landlubbers, not just the more mature ones." He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Ben narrowed his own eyes and deliberated. He was the Lord of Misrule, and his word was law. If he took direction from an adult, it would undermine his authority for his entire tenure.

And Matthew Wheeler knew it.

Ben's stomach roiled. He hadn't expected this position, and he certainly hadn't wanted it, but now that he had it, he was determined to do it justice. And hadn't Miss Trask told him that the adults had agreed to this madness? What was his uncle playing at? Was this some sort of test? A way to make his suspension even more miserable? Did he want to humiliate him so that Honey and Jim wrote him off once and for all?

"Ye know full well that isn't how the game be played," Miss Trask scolded, looking sternly at her employer. Turning to Ben, she added, "Ye be within yer rights to levy a punishment on the mangy cur fer his impertinence."

Ben's eyes widened. Matthew Wheeler opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by his wife.

"Now, Matthew, ye knew the rules," she said, patting his hand before turning back to her bowl of fruit. "Take yer punishment like a good pirate."

Mr. Wheeler made a low, growling sound of disapproval.

"Now you've got it!" Honey complimented him. "That was very pirate-y of you!" She squeezed her father's arm as she beamed at him, and Ben watched in amusement and relief as Mr. Wheeler's irritation drained away.

His own father would have cleared his throat, shuffled the newspaper, and proceeded to ignore him.

"There be no need fer punishment," Ben decided, feeling strangely subdued. "He were only testing the waters, so to speak."

Mr. Wheeler glanced away from Honey long enough to meet Ben's eyes and nodded once, leaving Ben even more confused. Had this been some sort of test? And, if so, had he passed?

"It's not a bad idea, though," Honey said thoughtfully. "Miss Trask, I know you said that the pranks don't apply to the Bob-Whites, but what if we want to participate?"

"That be a valid question," Miss Trask responded. "I see no reason why ye mightn't participate, if ye choose to do so. Ben? What say you?"

He cleared his throat in an attempt to move along the scrambled eggs that he couldn't seem to swallow. "Yes," he decided, and was promptly drowned out by Honey's squeal of happiness. "This be wonderful!" she exclaimed.

"Not so fast, if ye please." Ben held up his hand to stop her before she could race to the phone to communicate the "good" news with the rest of the Bob-Whites. "Since ye're entering of yer own volition, there'll be more penalties should ye fall out of character."

Honey's eyes widened.

"Such as?" Miss Trask inquired.

Ben thought for a moment. "Swabbing the deck," he decided. "Every time a Bob-White fails to speak in the language of pirates, he or she be volunteerin' to complete a cleaning task."

Celia set a platter of sausage in front of Ben. "This be the best day ever," she sighed, and ruffled the Lord of Misrule's hair.

And, as Ben watched Mr. Wheeler open his mouth and then close it again without saying a word, he thought that it might not be the best day ever, but it also certainly wasn't going to be the worst.

After all, could any day involving a stuffed parrot be entirely bad?

December 27th

Ben woke slowly, enjoying the luxury of having a room to himself. He had his own room at home, of course, but since he spent the majority of his time at boarding school and camp, it almost didn't count. In fact, he was fairly certain that by the time he returned home, his mother would have it redecorated. Again. Not that it mattered, he thought, throwing off the covers and swinging his legs off the side of the bed. It was just a room, after all. Yawning, he pulled a robe on over his pyjamas and padded down to the kitchen. He'd missed breakfast probably, but he was certain he could talk Cook into letting him scrounge something. He wasn't much good in the kitchen, not other than hunter's stew, at least, but there had to be plenty of leftovers.

"Good morning!" a friendly voice greeted him as he pushed open the door.

Ben glanced behind him quickly. Had someone followed him without him realizing it? But no. The kitchen was empty except for him.

"I can't thank you enough for the wonderful present you have Celia and me yesterday," she went on, and Ben glanced behind him a second time. A present? She couldn't possibly be talking to him…

"I don't think Celia or I have ever been finished all of our work so early," she explained, hauling out a small skillet and expertly cracking two eggs into it. Stomach rumbling, Ben took a seat at the island in the middle of the room after she pointed her spatula at it.

Without breaking stride, Cook slid two slices of bread in the toaster and popped a caddy of jams and spreads in front of him. In a well choreographed dance, she slid the just slightly jiggly eggs onto the plate, added two sausages, and plucked the toast from the toaster as she walked past it to place the plate in front of him. No wonder Honey didn't want Cook getting mad and quitting; she was obviously a queen of cuisine.

"Yes," she said, watching in approval as he spread homemade strawberry jam on his toast, "those young folk kept coming to Celia and me when they tripped up in those pirate accents, asking for things to clean." She nodded toward the heavy cast iron skillet she'd just used to fry his eggs. "I can't even get that skillet that clean. Now, don't let your eggs get cold," she scolded. She bustled around the expansive kitchen, gathering what Ben considered to be an odd assortment of ingredients.

"Brussels sprouts casserole," she explained with a sigh. "It's a Wheeler tradition, apparently, and Mr. Wheeler insisters that it be served once a year. We finally managed to convince him that it needn't be served on Christmas Day—after all, it's not as if anyone actually likes it." She scowled at the collection of ingredients, obviously reluctant to begin preparing them. "Not that I should have said anything," she said. "It's not my place, after all."

Ben finished his last bite of sausage and carried his plate to the sink, thoroughly washing it in the tub of soapy water and then placing it on the rack to dry.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "the Harts have their own Brussels sprouts casserole. I've never had it, but my mother used to tell stories about how much she and Aunt Maddie enjoyed it as children."

"That's odd," Cook said. "She's never mentioned it to me."

"I'm not surprised," Ben replied, and really, he wasn't. "I don't think anyone has made it since Aunt Maddie and my mom were kids. And if Mr. Wheeler already had a Brussels sprouts casserole tradition…" He shrugged, letting Cook infer that Mrs. Wheeler had been too polite to override her husband's tradition.

"It might be a pleasant surprise for Aunt Maddie if we made her family casserole this year, don't you think?" he asked, eyes widened for maximum innocence factor. When Cook hesitated he added, "After all, it's not as if anyone likes the casserole, right? And you know that Uncle Matthew would do anything to please Aunt Maddie. Don't you think this would be a fun surprise?"

Cook glanced at the ingredients again, and Ben knew he'd won. "You know the recipe for this casserole?" she asked, and Ben nodded vehemently.

"I'm positive we have everything we need right here in the pantry." In fact, he could guarantee it. "And if it's awful or Uncle Matthew is unhappy, we can always serve his recipe tomorrow, right?"

Cook nodded, obviously relieved to have a backup plan should Mr. Wheeler be unhappy. "Well?" she asked, tapping her spatula against the island counter top. "Are you going to gather the ingredients or not?"

    

"Celia, the table looks lovely," Mrs. Wheeler complimented, taking her seat at one end of the long table.

"Thank you, ma'am," she replied, her cheeks colouring at the praise. "We thought it might be fun to extend the festivities with table decorations. At least while the Lord of Misrule is reigning, that is." She beamed at Ben, obviously still thrilled with the help he'd sent her way the day before, and he smiled back nervously. Celia would be serving the Brussels sprouts casserole any minute, and though it had seemed like a brilliant idea that morning, he wasn't nearly so certain now that it would be as funny as he'd hoped. He glanced nervously at the door, wondering if he could get away with unobtrusively tripping Celia when she entered with the casserole.

Too late. While he'd been sweating and scheming, Celia had placed the special dish in front of Mrs. Wheeler and appeared to be waiting for a response. His aunt stared at the dish, a look of consternation on her face. Ben opened his mouth to explain, but all that came out was a rush of air. When Cook swept into the room, he couldn't decide if he should be relieved or not. When she served a generous portion to Mrs. Wheeler and waited expectantly for a response, he realized that relief wasn't going to be on the menu any time soon.

Ever polite, Mrs. Wheeler took a careful bite of the casserole. Ben studied her intently, waiting for the miniscule widening of her eyes.

And... there it was.

He knew he should be feeling sympathetic. Perhaps even guilty. After all, it wasn't as if Aunt Maddie had done anything to deserve what she was currently suffering, And it was entirely possible that he'd earn Uncle Matthew's wrath.

But it was still a prank totally worthy of the Lord of Misrule.

"Cook," Mrs. Wheeler said, chewing carefully and patting her lips with a crisp linen napkin, "did you say what was in the casserole?"

"You don't recognize it?" Ben asked, employing the innocent look again. He was pretty sure that no one was buying it, but since no one had called him on it yet… "It's an old Hart family recipe," he said. "Mother told me about it, and I thought it might be a fun dish to try here."

Mrs. Wheeler looked down at her plate uncertainly. "Are those—"

"I'm not surprised you don't remember it," Ben continued. "Mother said she hadn't had it since she was seven years old, so that would have made you what… four years old?"

"Yes, I suppose that's right," Mrs. Wheeler agreed distractedly, poking at the casserole in an attempt to load a portion of it onto her fork. The casserole fought back, a chunk of it landing back on the plate with a wet, oozing sort of sound. A lone Brussels sprout rolled across the table.

"I really think I would have remembered this," she said in some confusion.

"You were four, Maddie," Mr. Wheeler said, taking a portion of the casserole himself. "And wouldn't it be something to have two family Brussels sprouts recipes to serve every year?"

Everyone at the table except for Mr. Wheeler grimaced.

"Well, Maddie?" Mr. Wheeler pressed. "How do you like it?"

Mrs. Wheeler successfully brought her fork to her mouth, hesitating only slightly when she caught a whiff of a distinctive odour. Ben watched as her throat convulsed—most likely an involuntary response designed to prevent food from actually being swallowed. She managed to place the food in her mouth, her eyes widening at the combination of flavours. She chewed carefully, dabbing at her mouth with the napkin, and Ben couldn't help wondering if she'd actually spit some of it out. If so, he was fairly certain it was a first for the consummate hostess.

And then the switch flipped.

Mrs. Wheeler set down her fork. "Matthew, children, you simply must try this!" She caught Ben's eye, and he knew he'd been made. From the sparkle in her eye, however, he also knew that she was as amused as he was. With a sigh of resignation, Ben helped himself to a small serving. When his cousins had done the same and each had taken a bite, Mrs. Wheeler beamed. "I think the flavour of the Brussels sprouts is enhanced by the ketchup chips, don't you, Honey?"

Honey coughed, her hazel eyes streaming at the strong combination of flavours. Ben had been shocked to find ketchup chips in the Wheeler's pantry (they really were a Canadian food, after all) until he'd remembered Honey's fascination with the odd flavour. He had no doubt that Mr. Wheeler imported them especially for her. The real find, however, had been the delicacy imported from Australia. It had almost been a shame to waste the delicious treat in a casserole, but, well, sometimes the Lord of Misrule had to make sacrifices.

"And the onion is a lovely touch, don't you think, Matthew?" Mrs. Wheeler continued.

Mr. Wheeler swallowed manfully in an act of what appeared to be sheer will power. "Yes," he agreed. "I do love raw onion."

"The coup de grace, though, I really believe must be the chocolate chips. Chocolate really does make everything better, doesn't it?" she asked, her tone complacent.

"Oh, they're not chocolate chips," Cook supplied, standing in the doorway to watch the reaction to the casserole. "I crushed an entire package of Tim Tams."

Honey paled. "I'm never going to be able to eat ketchup chips again," she moaned. "Or Tim Tams!"

Mrs. Wheeler ignored her. "Such a simple recipe," she mused. "Layers of Brussels sprouts, ketchup chips, raw onion, and Tim Tams. So easy to assemble, I assume. With ingredients found in almost any pantry! A recipe anyone could come up with," she said with a pointed look at Ben.

Jim shoved his plate away. "Are you serious?" he demanded, glaring at Ben. "I can't believe I actually ate—"

Ben tensed, wondering if he'd pushed the redhead too far. The casserole was gross, yes, but it wasn't as if it was poisonous. Jim, however, apparently had a better sense of humour than Ben had given him credit for.

"Do you suppose we ought to invite the Beldens over for leftovers?" Jim asked, beginning to grin.

"I don't see why not," Mrs. Wheeler agreed. "We certainly wouldn't want them to miss out on the newest Manor House tradition.

"What?" Mr. Wheeler looked up from the baked potato he'd been methodically making his way through.

"Oh, Matthew," Mrs. Wheeler laughed, "even with the ketchup chips it's still better than the traditional Wheeler casserole."

The entire table burst into laughter, and even Mr. Wheeler had to smile.

Eventually.

And at least the glare Mr. Wheeler sent in Ben's direction was only half-hearted. Ben took another stab at his largely untouched casserole, watching as an undercooked Brussels sprout escaped the plate. Who said that cooking wasn't fun?

December 28th

"You can't be serious."

Ben raised an eyebrow. Did she not know him at all?

"We won't have to paint our faces, will we?" Diana asked. "I don't like that heavy Halloween make-up.  It feels so greasy. And white is just so... stark."

Ben shook his head, wondering how long it would take them to figure out that the game had already started. Should he already be tallying their failure to comply with his latest edict? Nah. They'd already agreed to abide by the rules, and he had no doubt that they'd be slipping up enough during the day that he would have plenty of chances to see the rules enforced.

Of course, why they wanted to participate was beyond him. They'd been good sports about the Talk Like a Pirate Day, better sports, really, than he'd expected. And they'd taken their "punishments" with good grace, laughing and joking as they'd sought out cleaning tasks. When Celia and Cook had finally told them there was nothing left to clean at the Manor House, they'd relocated to Crabapple Farm, where Mrs. Belden had been more than happy to put them to work. And really, only Jim and Honey had been affected by the Brussels sprout casserole the day before. And there hadn't been any punishment involved. Well, not other than sampling the truly awful casserole.

Which, in hindsight, was punishment enough. Ketchup chips? He grimaced, his tongue curling as he remembered the distinctive texture of the awful, awful dish. That was the absolute last time, he promised himself, that he would construct a recipe based on the first three ingredients he found in a pantry.

Still, was he being too easy on them? He must be, if they were still willing to participate in this charade.

Literally.

As Lord of Misrule, he had decreed that all communication for the day would be through mime. Charade, if mime proved too challenging. Definitely going too easy on them, he decided. Having a back-up plan before they'd even started? What sort of prankster did that?

And then Trixie gave him a brilliant smile complete with a thumbs up.

Apparently, he was the sort of prankster who did that.

He grinned back, wondering how long it would take the chatty girl to incur her first penalty.

"Trixie," Mrs. Belden called from the kitchen, "I could use your help with—" She stopped speaking abruptly when Ben caught her eye and wagged his finger. There was a moment of confusion while the Bob-Whites stared at him in shock. Had they never seen someone stand up to a parent before, he wondered? He supposed it was possible, but... He felt a pang of nervousness as he waited for Mrs. Belden's reaction. He'd always thought that she seemed like a good sport, but would she interpret his actions as disrespectful?

Mrs. Belden groaned, and then laughed at her mistake, displaying the good humour that Ben had hoped for. After pointing at Trixie, she mimed chopping up vegetables, and then pointed to the kitchen. Trixie echoed her mother's groan, but managed to stop herself before she complained aloud.

"Yes, yes," Mart teased. "Off to the salt mines with you." He made a shooing gesture towards his sister, smirking when she stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes at him.

"Our first volunteer!" Ben cheered, laughing when Mart's face fell, his triumph in getting Trixie's goat negated by the fact that he'd been the first of the Bob-Whites to speak out of turn.

It stood to reason, of course. The girls might be naturally chatty, but Mart could only be described as verbose.

And since verbose was now strictly verboten...

"That'll be ten burp-ups," Ben informed him.

Mart stared at him blankly.

Ben made a hurry-up gesture.

Mart opened his mouth, presumably to ask for clarification.

Ben smirked, looking forward to tacking ten more burp-ups on to Mart's penalty.

Mart's mouth snapped shut and he made an exaggerated show of shrugging his shoulders, his palms up.

Knowing that timing was everything, Ben waited until Mart's impatience was palpable before responding. "You're familiar with burpees?" he asked, referring to the callisthenic of jumping straight up, and then dropping to an almost prone position as quickly as possible.

Jim, Brian, Dan, and Mart nodded while the girls groaned.

Good, Ben thought, smiling to himself. "Well, burp-ups are even better," he assured them. "Instead of just going into a prone position, you'll get to do a push-up at the bottom." He paused. "Get it? Burp-up? Pretty clever, right?"

If the glares Honey and Diana were sending him were anything to judge by, the answer was no. Still, Trixie appeared more curious than irritated, and the boys' casual shrugs indicated they were resigned, which was probably the best he could hope for. In fact, given the casual flexing of muscles, he had to wonder if maybe the male Bob-Whites weren't looking forward to showing off their physical prowess.

Ben smirked. He doubted they would feel that way by the end of the day.

    

"Is that supposed to be a duck?" Ben asked, tilting his head to the side and studying the picture Trixie had just spent ten minutes struggling to draw.

Trixie threw her hands in the air in disgust and glared at her first "crush". It was probably a good thing she'd only been pretending to like him that Thanksgiving a few years ago, Ben thought, taking a step back to avoid the daggers she was glaring at him. She was a perfectly great girl, but way too volatile for his taste.

Not to mention the fact that she was strong. She'd ended up earning more burp-up penalties than anyone else, but she'd executed them with such precision that he couldn't help feeling a little impressed. The boys were still stronger than her, but she'd been light on her feet and much faster than anyone else.

Even if she'd huffed and groaned and glared her way through them.

Now, though, she was frustrated for an entirely different reason.

Tossing aside the pencil she'd been using to draw...something...she began making a series of gestures that had Ben cocking his head to the side and frowning.

"You have ants in your pants?" he guessed, watching as she made a series of small but energetic jumps.

If looks could kill...

"She's hungry!" Mart yelled, and Trixie, who had been rubbing her stomach, smiled at him brilliantly.

"Ooh!" Diana exclaimed, taking advantage of the fact that they were allowed to speak in order to guess, "would you like me to make fudge? We might not have enough time for it to cool completely, but that didn't stop us in Idaho, did it?"

Trixie looked intrigued by the mention of fudge, but shook her head. When she made a shaking gesture with her hand, Jim snapped his fingers.

"You want to shake things up and have something different?" he guessed.

Trixie hesitated, obviously uncertain of how to respond.

"You want a milkshake!" Mart exclaimed. "I couldn't agree more. Outside temperature should really not be a determining factor in deciding on snacks. After all, Crabapple Farm is perfectly warm, and—"

He stopped abruptly when Ben gave him a pointed look. They were allowed to speak to guess at charades, not to ramble at will.

Trixie shook her head violently at her almost twin and continued the charade, appearing to toss something in the air and catch it in her mouth.

"You want to eat Reddy's dog biscuits?" Brian speculated. "I suppose they won't kill you, but—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mrs. Belden exclaimed, standing in the doorway of the family room. "She wants—" She clapped a hand over her mouth when the other Bob-Whites turned to face her.

"It's a good thing that adults are exempt from the penalties," Ben said, sighing in mock disappointment.

Mrs. Belden nodded, her lips pressed firmly together. Without trying to finish her earlier statement, she wheeled and headed back into the kitchen, though Ben suspected she was attempting to stifle a bout of laughter.

Well. Technically, laughter was allowed, he supposed.

Grinning, he moved to follow Mrs. Belden, stopping to nudge Trixie's shoulder as he passed her. "Really, toots," he said, ignoring the glare Jim was leveling at him from across the room, "if you wanted popcorn, all you had to do was say so."

Trixie's eyes lit up and she opened her mouth. Before she could express her thanks, Ben held up a hand to shush her. She hesitated for a second, and then startled Ben by throwing her arms around him in a brief but tight hug.

Maybe charades weren't so bad after all, Ben thought, smiling to himself as he stepped into the kitchen to ask for Mrs. Belden's help in popping the corn for their evening snack.

December 29th

It was nice, Ben supposed, to have the option of taking a nap. School, of course, didn't lend itself to the practice, and his mother had instructed him from an early age that once he vacated his bedroom in the morning and the staff had been in to tidy it, his room was to remain in pristine condition for the rest of the day. Which meant no mussing of the bed for a spontaneous afternoon nap.

He stretched, wondering if he'd even be able to fall asleep. He hadn't supposed it would be a problem; living in a dorm populated with noisy boys, he'd learned to get by on a minimum of shut-eye. But he'd been keeping earlier hours here in Sleepyside. Last night, after eating the popcorn he and Mrs. Belden had made (well, mostly Mrs. Belden after he'd managed to scorch the first pot…) the party had broken up and he, Honey, and Jim had returned to the Manor House. He still was a little surprised that he'd been able to go straight to sleep after turning in at ten-thirty. But he'd slept like a log until being summoned for the eight o'clock breakfast.

Now, however, the Bob-Whites were exercising the horses. They'd invited him along, of course, but he could do the math as well as the next person and knew that the Wheeler stables hadn't magically grown an extra horse. Someone would have to sit out, and he didn't think he could stand listening to each and every one of them selflessly volunteer to stay behind so that he could ride.

So he'd pleaded fatigue and returned to his room before anyone could call him on it.

Sleep wasn't happening, he realized. His thoughts drifted to the game preserve, and he wondered if the Bob-Whites were holding up their end of the deal. They'd promised to keep speaking in the international accent of their choice, though there would be no penalty other than a good ribbing by their fellow Bob-Whites if they forgot. Ben wasn't with them, after all, to enforce the rules, and he had a sneaking suspicion that allowing either Mart or Trixie any leeway in deciding on a penalty for the other would only lead to disaster.

Not for the first time, he appreciated the fact that he was an only child.

Even if Bobby was still one of the cutest kids he'd ever met. And he didn't just think that because Ben had been a curly blond trouble-maker, too.

Bobby!

Throwing off the covers, Ben hurriedly pulled on the sweater he'd removed for his nap and flung open the door of his bedroom. If all the Bob-Whites were out riding, Bobby was probably at Crabapple Farm, driving Mrs. Belden crazy while she tried to work. Well, there was no reason for both he and Bobby to be bored. At any rate, they could be bored together, and not be a nuisance to anyone else.

Decided, he strode down the hall and slipped down the front staircase, determined to make the quick jaunt to Crabapple Farm. But not before he checked in with Miss Trask. She hadn't exactly asked him to keep her appraised of his whereabouts, but… Well. He didn't need a reason, did he? He was simply being polite, that was all.

Miss Trask's office was at the very end of the corridor, he vaguely remembered, and he hoped that he would find her there. Half of his enjoyment of the decision to spend some time with Bobby was the spontaneity of it; spending ten minutes tracking down the estate manager would definitely put a damper on his enthusiasm.

It was outside one of the first doors, though, that he heard Miss Trask's voice.

"Ze papers you requested are readee, Monsieur Wheeler," she said in what Ben recognized as a perfectly acceptable French accent. She spoke clearly, but not so slowly as to render the accent over the top.

Mr. Wheeler, on the other hand...

"Aye," he agreed. "That ye have, miss."

Ben could only be grateful that Miss Trask's burst of laughter covered his own snort.

"Your Irish accent is getting worse as the day goes on, non?" she questioned, her tone teasing, but still kind.

"Aye," he agreed again. "Just ye be glad that I didn'a pick a Scottish brogue."

Ben couldn't understand how a Scottish brogue could possibly be worse than his truly wretched Irish lilt, or how it would even be different, but Miss Trask apparently did.

"No need for threats," she told him, her French accent once again immaculate.

"Aye."

Ben grinned to himself, wondering if Mr. Wheeler would choose to communicate solely through "Aye's" for the rest of the day. If anyone could pull it off, it would be he.

The phone rang, causing Ben to start guiltily. He certainly hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but listening to the adults actually follow along with his edict was so strange and unexpected that he hadn't been able to stop himself. Besides, if pressed, he could always claim that Mr. Wheeler's accent had deprived him of his common sense.

It was, after all, true.

"Wheeler residence," Miss Trask said, her accent in place as she answered the telephone. "Oui, Monsier O'Connor, Monsieur Wheeler is available."

There was a moment of silence, and then the frantic sound of someone clearing his throat. Well, Ben, thought, Mr. Wheeler had played along with the edict more than Ben had ever expected that he would. And with only occasional flashes of temper, which was even more surprising.

Not to mention the fact that he hadn't sent Ben home after the casserole incident. Not even threatened to.

And so, Ben fully accepted that Mr. Wheeler would drop the accent the instant he picked up the telephone. Ben didn't follow business dealings religiously, but even he recognized the name of Mr. O'Connor, one of the foremost business men in Chicago, and he'd heard Mr. Wheeler mention that he'd be interested in working with the man on a joint venture.

Surely he would drop the accent.

Especially since O'Connor was Irish.

"Aye, Mr. O'Connor," Mr. Wheeler said. "And what can I be doing for ye today?"

Ben's eyes bulged, as if this would aid him in seeing through the closed door.

"No, Mr. O'Connor, there's no mistake." Mr. Wheeler's voice was still polite, still friendly, but Ben there was an undercurrent of tension that made him want to take a step backward.

Except he couldn't.

His feet felt rooted to the floor, and instead of moving away, like he knew that he should, he found himself pressing closer to the closed door.

"No, t'isn't a joke, either," Mr. Wheeler continued, still maintaining a light tone. "I'm working at home for the Christmas holidays, you see, and my children—"

When he spoke next, his accent was in place but his words were clipped.

"No, Mr. O'Connor. I am most certainly not disparaging your culture." His voice took on a firm, controlled quality that told Ben that he had cut Mr. O'Connor off, mid-tirade. "You will have noticed that the phone was answered by our estate manager, who, though she is no way French, spoke with a French accent. Due to an arrangement with my children and my nephew, we have agreed to adopt an accent for the day. It is part of our Christmas festivities."

There was a moment of silence.

"No," Mr. Wheeler said. "I most certainly do not take orders from spoiled children. I do, however, enter into agreements with persons I respect. I made an arrangement, and I gave my word that I would adhere to it. I fully intend to keep my word."

The words, complete with Irish accent, echoed in Ben's head. Persons he respected? Was Uncle Matthew talking about him? He couldn't be, Ben decided. Because Mr. Wheeler was no fool, and as such, he would know better than to trust Ben.

Was he referring to Miss Trask, whose idea the Lord of Misrule had been? Yes, he must be. It was the only plausible explanation. Or perhaps Honey and Jim? They were model children, after all, and Matthew Wheeler was smart enough to know how lucky he was to have two such well-behaved and responsible children.

After all, all his uncle had to do was look to Ben to see an example of an irresponsible son. That would make anyone appreciate his own children more, wouldn't it?

"I'm sorry, O'Connor, but my accent will be in place for the remainder of the day," Mr. Wheeler said firmly. "We can reschedule our call for tomorrow, but I feel it only fair to warn you that I've no idea what the Lord of Misrule will come up with for tomorrow's festivities."

There was another pause, and Ben had the sickening feeling that his stupid idea of forcing everyone to talk in ridiculous accents was going to cost his uncle a major business deal.

"Oh, so you've heard of the Lord of Misrule, have you?" Mr. Wheeler said, sounding suddenly lighter. "Of course you have; you were educated in Europe, weren't you? Yes, we've adopted the tradition for the twelve days of Christmas. My nephew Ben is in charge. And doing a fine job, I might add. Do you know what he did at dinner the other night?"

And just as Ben's feet had previously been stuck to the floor, he now found himself turning on his heel and striding to the front hall as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. His uncle thought that he was doing a good job? He blinked, unable to comprehend it. No one ever thought he did a good job.

His motions mechanical as he fought to reconcile his uncle's words with his own actions, he shrugged into his winter coat and was halfway down the path to Crabapple Farm before he realized that he hadn't told anyone he was leaving the house.

Well. He'd just have to call the Manor House from Crabapple Farm. And hope that Celia answered. She'd chosen a Cajun accent, and there was no sense in letting that bit of entertainment go to waste.

December 30th

Pirate accents.

Brussels sprouts casseroles.

Mimes.

International accents.

Ben frowned at the list he'd just compiled. As Lord of Misrule, he felt he'd been doing okay. Okay, but not great. After all, were any of the things he'd come up with truly memorable? Truly worthy of being categorized in the "misrule" category? He leaned back in his chair, speculating. He'd earned a name for himself at school with his pranks, but he somehow couldn't picture stealing everyone's underpants and freezing them under a layer of ice at the Wheeler's front door. He grinned, remembering the shouts of outrage from his fellow dorm mates, first when they'd discovered they had no underwear, and second when they'd found their underwear. In retrospect, it probably hadn't been the wisest decision to freeze them directly in front of the Dean's entrance. It had felt good, though. Satisfying. At least until he'd been fingered as the perpetrator. Even being called on the carpet, so to speak, hadn't been too bad. It had been worth it. But the idea of doing the same thing here in Sleepyside… Not appealing. And explaining himself to Miss Trask? Unthinkable. He shuddered at the thought. What was happening to him? Was he developing a conscience? That thought was almost more disturbing than having to handle his cousins' underwear.

"Ben?"

He jumped.

From the doorway, Miss Trask chuckled. "My apologies, Ben," she said, and to her credit, she did sound sorry. And amused. But there was some sorry in there. Which is more than he could have said for himself if he'd done the same thing to someone else.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "I just thought I'd drop by and see if I could get the inside scoop on what you have cooked up for us today." She paused. "Though I do hope it isn't another Brussels sprouts casserole," she said, looking queasy. "I do believe I'm quite happy to wait until next Christmas to sample that one again."

"No Brussels sprouts," he assured her, privately agreeing with her reasoning. After all, it wasn't likely that he would be invited back next year, was it?

"Well?"

Her tone was so expectant, so filled with anticipation, that Ben didn't quite know what to do with it. "Er… well… that is…" Stammering was not an acceptable form of communication, he reminded himself sternly. Not when it was because he had failed in his task to be prepared for his duties.

"Ah," she said, her tone knowing. "At a bit of an impasse, are we? Too many ideas, or too few?" she questioned.

Ben's eyes widened. How did she know? Yes, at the moment he was stumped for ideas, but in the past he'd felt the exact same inability to more forward when he'd had too many ideas.

"Too few," he answered, looking down at the paper where he'd been cataloguing his earlier pranks. "I'm just not sure what I should do next. We've already done too many talking gags," he decided, thinking of the Talk Like a Pirate, the miming, and the foreign accents. "And the Brussels sprouts casserole was bad enough that I don't have the heart to make anyone, much less myself, eat anything awful again."

Miss Trask nodded thoughtfully. "It was quite dreadful," she agreed. "How on earth did you come up with that recipe?"

"The ketchup chips and the Tim Tams were the first two things I saw in the pantry," Ben admitted sheepishly. "And the Brussels sprouts and onion were on the counter."

"I see. Well, I think I speak for all of us when I say that I hope you won't be doing any more menu planning. Although…" She paused. "Wasn't there talk of a cave man meal?"

Ben cocked his head to the side. "Yes! Wasn't it Mart's idea?"

Miss Trask smiled. "Yes, I believe it was. Now, you're under no obligation to take direction from anyone, but if you're looking for an idea, I do believe this one might set the right tone."

Yes, Ben thought, she was right. Eating without utensils would cause everyone to do something outside of their comfort zone, but who could really argue with steak and baked potatoes? And no one would have to be penalized, because there wouldn't be any utensils at the table for them to cheat with. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders. It was a good solution, and he knew it.

"That's perfect," he told Miss Trask, and then paused. "I'm going to have to talk to Cook, aren't I?"

Miss Trask's blue eyes twinkled. "And sooner rather than later, I should think."

Ben groaned, hoping that Cook wasn't holding a grudge from the Brussels sprouts incident. She'd seemed friendly enough, and he hadn't noticed anything unusual about his food, but...

"No time like the present," Miss Trask continued, and Ben had the sneaking suspicion that she was well aware of his current discomfort, and even enjoying it. Well. He couldn't exactly blame her, could he? She was going to be eating steak without benefit of a knife later that day. A little rejoicing in his discomfort at making the prank happen was probably justifiable.

"Thanks, Miss Trask," he said, tossing the pen he'd been fiddling with back onto the desk before standing up. Miss Trask stepped back into the hall, allowing him to pause.

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world," she told him as she followed him to the kitchen, and Ben had the sneaking suspicion that she wasn't referring to the actual meal, but the fact that he would have to solicit Cook's help.

Ben hesitated in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Cook bustled around the island, gathering ingredients. He had no idea what he was looking at, and could only hope that she hadn't gotten far on her dinner preparations.

"Come to bless me with another family recipe?" Cook asked, not looking up from the flour she was measuring into a mixing bowl.

Ben winced. "No. No, I think we've all learned our lesson there."

Cook snorted. "I ought to chase you out of the kitchen," she told him, brandishing a wooden mixing spoon.

"But?" he asked hopefully when she made no move to make good on her threat.

"But I've never had that much fun watching people eat," she admitted, grinning at him. "Ketchup chips, Ben? Really?"

"I really feel it was the Tim Tams that put it over the top," he told her, his tone perfectly serious.

Cook raised an eyebrow in addition to the mixing spoon. "And who's the cook here?" she demanded.

"You are," Ben admitted. "And…"

"And you have another favour. Well, out with it," she demanded, vigorously mixing what was in the mixing bowl.

"I'd like to do a cave man meal," he blurted, and waited for her to kick him out of her kitchen.

Instead, she frowned and mixed harder. "A cave man meal? If you think I'm heading into the game preserve to hunt your dinner—"

"No! No. Not quite that cave man," he assured her. "Just steak and baked potatoes."

She looked at him, suspicion stamped clearly across her features.

"And no utensils," he muttered.

Cook hesitated. "You want me to serve steak and baked potatoes."

Ben nodded.

"But no forks or knives."

He nodded again.

"Oh, she said," rubbing her hands together and reaching for a bottle of vanilla. "This is going to be fun." She paused, the measuring spoon of vanilla hovering over the bowl. "Did I mention that I'm making a chocolate cake for dessert?"

It was Ben's turn to grin. "You're right," he agreed, "this is going to be fun."

    

"Honey, dear," Mrs. Wheeler said, "tell me about your day." She frowned at the slab of meat she held gingerly between both index fingers and thumbs and tilted her head to the side, as if contemplating it. Bringing it closer to her mouth, she looked for a place to take a bite, but hesitated.

"It was fine," Honey said. Ben raised his eyebrow. Conversation at the dinner table was considered mandatory, unlike his house, where the "silence is golden" rule was in full effect. No, at the Manor House, dinner conversation was polite but personal, and though Ben had only been at the Wheeler's for a few days, he already felt as if he knew all of them better because of the tidbits they'd chosen to share at the evening meal. Honey's less than substantial reply was excusable, Ben thought. After all, it wasn't every day that they had the opportunity to watch Madeleine Wheeler attempt to eat steak with her bare hands.

"That's nice, dear," Mrs. Wheeler replied absently, and Ben had to hide a smile. He'd seen his aunt pay strict attention to the most boring socialites in the world, keeping them engaged in conversation. Concentrating on her daughter while eating without utensils, however, appeared to be too much for her. With a small frown, Mrs. Wheeler set the steak back on her plate and eyed the baked potato.

Ben grinned even wider. He'd had mercy on them and had the cook place a dollop of sour cream on each baked potato. This, in itself, was a source of amusement, as Mr. Wheeler didn't feel that the serving had been nearly generous enough, and Mrs. Wheeler was no doubt dreading indulging in the treat for the first time in years. The diners had been encouraged to add bacon bits and chives from bowls, though they'd been required to accomplish it without serving spoons.

Some of the facial expressions he'd observed, Ben decided, really deserved a place of their own in the Wheeler gallery of portraits. After all, where was the emotion, the art, in the carefully crafted blank expressions of the subjects in the cold, dignified portraits? Here at the dinner table was true emotion.

Even if those emotions were chagrin and uncertainty.

Honey nibbled delicately at the edge of her medium steak. "Oh, this is good!" she exclaimed.

Jim, who was already on his second mouthful, nodded vehemently. "Very flavourful," he agreed, wiping at the stain around his mouth.

Mrs. Wheeler sighed and picked up her piece of steak again.

"Just do it, Madeleine," Mr. Wheeler urged, using his finger to evenly distribute the sour cream on his baked potato. He frowned when the layer wasn't as thick as he would have liked, and added more bacon bits.

"They're all going to fall off when you try to take a bite," Mrs. Wheeler chided him, and then laughed at the incredulous stare he gave her in return.

"Madeleine, dear, this meal is going to be a royal mess no matter what," he said, shaking more chives onto the potato. "It might as well taste good."

"True," she agreed. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the steak firmly. Instead of taking a delicate bite, however, she seized a generous portion between her teeth and tore, leaving herself and everyone else in the room startled at the picture of the elegant hostess with food extending on either side of her mouth. Chewing carefully, she managed to swallow the generous portion.

"That is good!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide. "Matthew, I'm certain that the steak is more flavourful this way. Don't you agree?"

"Hmm? What?" Mr. Wheeler looked up, his lips covered in sour cream and dotted with bacon bits.

"Nothing," Mrs. Wheeler assured him, laughing as she attempted another bite of her steak. "Although, I do think that the cave men might have had napkins of some sort," she speculated, eyeing Ben.

Ben shrugged andtucked into his own meal. "Records are spotty at best," he informed her, and set about clearing his plate. There was, after all, chocolate cake for dessert.

And if that wasn't an opportunity for a family photo, he didn't know what was. Grinning to himself, he slid his cell phone from his pocket and surreptitiously snapped a picture. Holidays, after all, were all about the memories.