Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2)

by Christy Carlyle

  “Most, most assuredly,” Gwyn said, smiling, linking her arm with Rose’s.

  “You’ll not do anything to disturb the wedding?” Morgan said.

  “Nothing can disturb a wedding, nothing unless the groom fails to appear,” Rose said.

  “Then we have nothing to worry about,” Tamsyn said with a very warm, very romantic smile of pure joy. It did give one hope that love could be found within the confines of a very boring marriage contract. “I know without question that Gryffyn will arrive to make me his own.”

  The way she said it, the look on her face, sent chills of longing racing through Rose’s blood. She wanted that. She wanted to be in love, to be joyous at merely saying her beloved’s name. But most of all, she wanted to be out of Castle Keyvnor. Two birds with one stone, and it didn’t even have to be a very big stone, just a nice, ordinary man who wanted to marry her. Of course, he had to be a man her father would approve of. And she would very much prefer if he didn’t live anywhere near Cornwall. Gryffyn, as lovely a man as he was, lived mere moments away, just on the other side of the boundary line. That was too close for comfort.

  As long as she was considering what she wanted, she would very much like an easy-tempered man, a man who cherished her openly with sweet sentimentality, and a man who was unaware of Keyvnor’s haunted reputation. That would be most helpful. Of haunted things, she wanted most passionately to leave all that behind. Very, very far behind.

  Rose looked into the corner of the room. No, the drape had not moved and the candles had not flickered. There was that tell-tale chill in the air, yet to be fair, it was December and it was a blustery day. Of course the room would be cold.

  She really must talk to Mother about the amount of coal used in this house. Certainly they could afford more than the dribble that was accounted a full load into each fireplace.

  “And what about Blackwater?” Gwyn asked Morgan. “Are you worried that the Black Death will fail to show?”

  “Very funny,” Morgan said. “I challenge you to call him that to his face.”

  “Never,” Gwyn said, giggling.

  “Hal will come,” Morgan said, her voice as calm as sunlight. “He must wait upon the tide and then he will come. The Irish Sea is a rough sea in December, but nothing will keep him away. Nothing,” she said, staring at Rose with a gleam in her eye.

  Was that gleam for finding love or was it for avoiding ghostly interference? Rose would not ask. Bedlam was not to be her future.

  “So, what is to be our plan?” Rose asked, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging the shawl about her. “Perhaps we should make a list of those attending, rank them according to suitability, and accost them accordingly?”

  “Accosting a man doesn’t seem a good plan, in general,” Tamsyn said.

  “Men hate to be listed,” Gwyn said.

  “Then I will start a list.” Marjorie beamed and went to fetch paper and ink.

  Morgan ignored her and added, “It brings out their competitive spirit.”

  “And why is that a bad thing?” Rose said. “I am very ready to be married yet I see no reason for any man to know that.”

  “They probably all know it, anyway,” Tamsyn said. “Men seem to expect women to fall at their feet, begging for the marriage contract.”

  “How insulting,” Rose said.

  “Yet perhaps a bit true?” Gwyn said. “At least in our situation. We are a bit desperate yet I am certain we must not appear desperate in the slightest. ‘Twill be a challenge.”

  Rose jumped to her feet. “Why not try it the other way?”

  “What other way?” Morgan said.

  “If men expect women to beg for marriage, and no amount of modesty or subtlety can fool them, we might come at the thing directly. If we are open about wanting to marry, then will that not separate the wheat from the chaff?”

  “What wheat?” Tamsyn said.

  “And exactly what is chaff? Marjorie interjected. “Such an odd word, really. Does anyone know what it looks like?”

  Rose ignored both of them. “This wedding party is only going to last for a short time.”

  “And we can’t afford to waste time on a man who has no intention of marrying,” Gwyn said, understanding precisely what Rose was proposing. “We must be bold to hope for any success at all.”

  “But not tawdry,” Rose said. “Never that. We shall be what we are: lovely women of good reputation and of a good age to marry. If a man is not interested in that, then he is off the list.”

  “The metaphorical list,” Morgan said. “Or are you making an actual list of possible husbands?”

  “I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” Gwyn said.

  “I am ready to begin the list, whenever you like.” Marjorie raised her quill in exaggerated triumph.

  “It’s very precise and completely logical,” Rose said, “and I do think that, with time so short, we must be very precise about the thing.”

  “How will you know if a man doesn’t want to marry?” Tamsyn said. “They rarely are so forthright.”

  “I should hope I have enough experience at life that I shall be able to detect that,” Rose said.

  “It can’t be that difficult to determine,” Gwyn said.

  Morgan lifted an eyebrow. Tamsyn bit her lower lip. That was the extent of their response.

  “And if no one is interested in marrying us,” Rose said, “then our time shall not have been wasted. We will be well-prepared for the London Season of 1812. Just think of how efficient we shall be then.”

  “But that’s only if we don’t find husbands now,” Gwyn said.

  “Yes,” Rose said, “and I find it almost inconceivable that a man who attends a wedding is not, somehow, thinking of marriage.”

  “It defies reason. Certainly, he must be,” Gwyn said, looking at Tamsyn.

  Tamsyn nodded slowly. “He must be.”

  “It is a wedding, after all,” Morgan said. “It would be difficult for him not to find a few stray thoughts running toward marriage.”

  “Precisely!” Rose said, looking at Gwyn with a grin of triumph.

  They had a plan, finally, and it was such a logical, practical plan, too.

  Chapter 3

  “Those poor girls haven’t a prayer of a chance,” Nell said. “If I could cry, I surely would.”

  “A woman can always find a way to marry a man,” Roland said.

  “Are you trying to insult me or simply to insult all women?” Nell said.

  Roland, whom she had loved for hundreds upon hundreds of years, whom she had followed into death because she couldn’t bear the thought of life without him, had not been married. Roland, the man she had given up everything for, had not married her. He had not been cajoled into it, not been terrified into it, and not been seduced into it.

  Most days, she wanted to kill him for that. If he hadn’t already been dead, she would have.

  “I’m stating a fact, woman,” Roland said. “Surely we’ve witnessed enough Banfield marriages to agree upon that.”

  Nell decided to let the matter rest. For now. If she felt the urge for a violent argument, and a passionate reconciliation, later in the day, she’d bring up the topic of marriage again. It would be simple enough to do, what with a wedding on the family schedule and the date bearing down upon them.

  Castle Keyvnor and Bocka Morrow, the fishing village that served the castle, were in a flurry of activity. It was quite entertaining. The last time there had been such a commotion was during the will reading in October. Things were getting quite lively at the castle since the latest earl took up residence. That was in large part due to the earl’s daughters and the rapid way they were finding themselves married. Two of the five, by something slightly more than the waving of a hand, married before the end of the year.

  It was dazzling, awe-inspiring, and disheartening.

  What would Castle Keyvnor be like when all five girls were married and gone?

  Dreary and dull, just as it had been a year a
go and ten years before that and two hundred years before that.

  Nell couldn’t bear the thought of it. In some fashion, she looked upon the Hambly girls as a mother, or a very distant ancestor, or, more accurately, as a very deceased interested party. She was very interested in their welfare and their happiness.

  She was also interested in her own happiness, such as it was, and she didn’t think she could bear losing any more daughters of the Earl of Banfield. It was just too much, and all too quickly. Why, if Rose and Gwyn had their way, all five of the dear girls would be gone within a six-month.

  Nell simply could not live, so to speak, if that happened. “It would be a fine thing, to get them all out from under the castle walls and away from here,” Roland said, stroking his dark beard. “I don’t see any reason why the girls can’t find husbands. They’re not bad looking girls. For Banfields.”

  Nell looked at Roland, certain he was jesting.

  “You can’t mean it.”

  “Why can’t I? I can still recognize a fine looking woman when I see one. I’m not that dead yet.”

  “You should be,” Nell snapped. “You want a Banfield girl to find wedded bliss? I cannot believe my ears. Surely God has wrought a miracle in you.”

  Roland drifted down to settle in the midst of the sisters. Rose shivered violently and murmured under her breath, “Go away.”

  Roland scowled and moved to float above the tea table. “That one needs to go. She can be married and miserable far from here, and good riddance. And I never said I wished any kind of bliss upon a Banfield, God save me; I said they could well find themselves married, which is a different tale entirely.”

  Nell snorted gracefully; she made it a point of pride to do everything with grace and feminine allure, even though Roland was her chief audience, and what an annoying audience he was. “Lady Rose deserves better than to be tossed into the nearest male arms, just to satisfy you.” Nell floated down to settle herself in front of Rose, studying her beauty and youth with hungry eyes. Rose did not react in any noticeable fashion. “You want her gone because of the bond between you. She senses you strongly. I should think that, as a man, you would find that flattering. You enjoyed it enough with that fool of a girl, Mary.”

  “Mary is no Banfield,” Roland said gruffly.

  “That she is not. Mary can marry the tailor’s apprentice, poor lad, and that would suit me well,” Nell said.

  “Has he asked her yet?”

  “No, nor her uncle. I fear he will come to his senses---” Nell started to say, when she was stopped by a roar of laughter from Roland.

  “So you admit it. A man must be out of his senses to marry.”

  “To marry Mary, yes, certainly, for she is a ninny and an imbecile,” Nell said. “But Lady Rose is not Mary, or would you compare them?” When Roland opened his mouth to answer her, she said, “Forget she is a Banfield, then speak.”

  “‘Tis not something that can be forgotten, nor should it be,” Roland said. “A more scurrilous pack of wolves England has never seen. The lot of them should tumble into the sea and sink from sight for a thousand years, and it would take that long for the very soil they trod upon to recover from the blight of their touch.”

  “Yes, yes,” Nell said, yawning delicately and obviously. “Your views on the family are well known. What about Rose?”

  Roland stood at the far side of the room from Rose, looking at her as she laughed and plotted with her sisters. There was some odd bond between them, a bond he loathed as he loathed all Banfields, past, present, and future. The longer she stayed within the castle walls, the stronger the bond grew. In all his years at Keyvnor, this was unique. He disliked the sensation immensely. She could feel him, perhaps even see him, and only him. What was worse was that he could sense her; he always knew where she was within the bounds of the Banfield lands. He was even coming to be able to sense her emotional state. It was a revolting sensation. He had to get the girl out of Keyvnor. He had to remove her from the premises.

  She wanted to marry.

  Marriage would take her far away, if she married wisely and well.

  Roland didn’t see any obvious reason why she should not marry, and quickly, too. The sooner the better.

  “She’s a nice looking woman,” Roland said. “Some man should find her acceptable.”

  “You really are dead, aren’t you?” Nell said, with a salty little smile.

  No man was that dead.

  “Good hair,” he said, “of a pleasing shade. Good skin. Good eyes. Clean features and a strong chin. The hips,” he said, “look very promising. She should breed well.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “What have I done now? I answered your question,” Roland said, with a salty little smile of his own. “Lady Rose should have very little trouble in finding some innocent man to marry her.”

  “An innocent man? Is she to marry a fourteen-year old?”

  “It is plain you did not know many fourteen-year old boys.”

  It was then that Nell decided to engage in a violent argument, for of course she had known boys of fourteen years of age, and of course she was going to catalog each and every one for Roland, with appropriate details, and not so appropriate details. They could reconcile later, and perhaps at some point frighten Mary into throwing herself into the surf. It would be a fine way to enjoy a winter afternoon.

  Chapter 4

  Snow left Grimston Hall on a cold, clear day well ahead of his planned arrival at Castle Keyvnor on December 23. The wedding was on December 24; he saw no reason to dally at Keyvnor and, in fact, saw it as a kindness to the family that he would be in attendance for the wedding, engage in a convivial meal or two, and then on his way and out of theirs. He allowed for bad weather, bad roads, and bad inns in his travel plans.

  He had encountered none of that.

  As a result, a most awkward result, he was a few scant hours ride from Castle Keyvnor on December 21. It was very close to being humiliating. Naturally, travel being what it was, no one could, with perfect ability, predict when one would arrive anywhere; Snow, however, did make it his practice to predict his arrivals. He was in the sorry condition now of very possibly arriving at Keyvnor before Blackwater.

  Humiliating.

  Snow had met Hal Mort, Viscount Blackwater, at Newmarket quite a few years back. They both shared an appreciation for fast horses, as indeed did every man who frequented Newmarket, yet they also shared a fascination with breeding and running profitable breeding stables. They would never be in competition with each other, not that Snow was averse to bare knuckles competition, because Blackwater was interested in breeding thoroughbreds for racing while Snow was actively breeding Trakehners for the cavalry, for coaches, and for cross-country hunting. He couldn’t think of a more perfect breed for fox hunting, and coupled with his kennel of fox hounds, still in its infancy, his operation would become the premier destination for all hunters north of the Mediterranean. If he had his way. Which he entirely expected he would.

  Blackwater had recently acquired a most promising stallion, the hoped for root of his enterprise, according to their last correspondence. While looking at stock, he had stumbled upon a possible addition to Snow’s stables in some minor lord’s diminished stable in eastern Cornwall. Blackwater had included the stop to peruse in his itinerary; unfortunately, the horse was not what he had in mind and he had left without the horse, his money still tucked away in his purse.

  If only he had another lead on a possible Trakehner. He needed both the horse and the time spent. Blackwater was coming to the wedding from his estate in Ireland, his arrival deeply unpredictable. Of course, Snow knew Banfield, but not well. One of his reasons for attending this wedding of two of Banfield’s daughters was to solidify that acquaintance, yet he did not think arriving too early was ever a good way to make a friend. He certainly never enjoyed it. Not that he ever entertained.

  That would change once he had his countess, he supposed. Women did seem to love to have pe
ople about them all the time. They didn’t appear to have the ability to enjoy their own company for any length of time; it was likely because they had nothing of note to occupy their minds.

  That explained Pammie and her fixation on the family ring.

  Snow looked down at the ring. He no longer felt the weight of it, though, now that he considered it, from the moment he slid the ring onto his finger it had felt a part of him. He had fitted his finger perfectly, which had at the time struck him as odd since his father’s fingers had grown thin with age and the ring was not loose on him, nor tight on Snow. Because the ring had not demanded his attention, he had swiftly stopped thinking of it, not even to polish it or twirl it distractedly or admire it. The ring had disappeared from his thoughts, both conscious and unconscious. If only the same could be said for Pammie.

  The coachman, Ridley, encouraged the team up a slight incline and the coach rocked back slightly before righting. Not a single wheel lost on the trip, not a single night without adequate food and lodging. Remarkable. If Castle Keyvnor was haunted, the ghosts were doing a poor job of it. One would think that, with a bit of effort, a ghost could harry a team with little enough trouble. He was within ten miles of Keyvnor; surely a ghost could cover ten miles and not break a sweat.

  Snow smiled and looked out the window. Not a ghost to be seen. How disappointed Pammie would be. He would not tell her how Keyvnor had not lived up to reputation; there was no point in needlessly ridiculing the woman. She had her beliefs and he had his; she was of an entirely different generation, and a woman.

  Now, as to her insistence that he find a wife at Castle Keyvnor, that, clearly, was ridiculous. But as to finding a wife, he supposed she did have a point. Sooner was as good as later to do his duty to the title and the family. He had known since he left the nursery what his duty was and there was nothing to be gained by putting it off to some distant, foggy future. Once he had his stables in order, something he was near upon doing, he would see to taking a wife and continuing his bloodline. It was time.