Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Ladies, good day.” He bowed to Lady Margaret and then to the girl. “I believe an introduction is in order?” Or perhaps it wasn’t, but one couldn’t entirely ignore a child standing right before one plain as day.

  Lady Margaret curtseyed, her enormous satchel bumping against her skirts. “My lord, may I make known to you Miss Charlotte Entwhistle. Charlotte, make your curtsey to Lord Marcus.”

  The girl’s curtsey was a small replica of Lady Margaret’s, though the child bore little resemblance to her ladyship. Perhaps Miss Charlotte was a niece?

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Charlotte. Shall we be seated, Lady Margaret? I’ve ordered a tea tray, and I understand you have an estimate for me to peruse.”

  The girl watched him as if he were an exotic beast given powers of speech. He felt rather the same about her, though he doubted she would dare speak up in the company of adults.

  “We need not trouble you for tea, my lord.” Lady Margaret opened her satchel and passed over a rolled document tied with a red ribbon, like a legal brief. “I promised you an estimate by noon, and that hour approaches in fifteen minutes.”

  “So it does,” Marcus said. “Nonetheless, I am overdue for a cup of tea, so you will simply have to join me. The chairs by the hearth are the most comfortable.” He led the way across the room, the ladies trailing him.

  “Mama, he has a lot of books!” The girl—Lady Margaret’s daughter—stage-whispered that observation.

  “Charlotte,” Lady Margaret murmured, “manners.”

  “My mother used to do that,” Marcus said, “pack a whole lecture into a single word. I daresay she perfected the art on my father before turning it on her sons. I do have a lot of books, Miss Charlotte, you are quite right.” He cast around for a question that might appeal to a small child. “Do you read?”

  “Yes, sir, though Mama says my French is the despair of her waning years. I’m much better at Latin. Latin is better organized than French.”

  Lady Margaret closed her eyes. “Charlotte, you promised. Not a word.”

  “But, Mama, I would be rude to ignore his lordship’s question.”

  The child was blond, whereas Lady Margaret was dark. The girl was robustly rounded, her mother trim to a fault. They were different sorts of females, and yet, they each had a well-defined jaw and a chin that looked prone to jutting in certain moods.

  A soft tap on the door gave the child a reprieve from further maternal remonstrations, though Marcus rather agreed with Charlotte—Latin was much better organized than French.

  “Come in,” Marcus called, though why his butler was standing ceremony today, he did not know. “Nicholas, please set the tea tray by the hearth.” When Nicholas had withdrawn, Marcus joined the ladies as they took chairs near the fire’s warmth. “Lady Margaret, would you pour out?”

  “Mama and I had a fresh pot of tea last night with our apple tarts and cheese.” The child bounced a bit on the seat cushions, delighted with her own recitation. “The tarts were dee-lish-us!”

  Lady Margaret busied herself with untying the bow to the child’s cloak. “Charlotte, enough.”

  “But, Mama, the tarts were wonderful. You said so.”

  Her ladyship sat back when the child was free of her cloak. “My lord, I apologize. Charlotte’s minder came down with a head cold, and I did not want to miss my promised delivery to you. I thought I could drop off the estimate without…”

  Charlotte watched her mother make this apology, her expression puzzled and wary.

  “Without joining me for tea?” Marcus asked. “Is my company so objectionable as all of that? Charlotte, are your hands clean?”

  She held them out. “Mama is a demon when it comes to washing, sir. Dirt is the mortal enemy of good health and decorum.”

  Lady Margaret was now staring at her lap, her cheeks aflame, and Marcus was beginning to enjoy this dreary, miserable day.

  “Conscientious mothers the world over would agree,” he said. “Lady Margaret, would you be very offended if I glanced at your estimate while we enjoyed our tea?”

  “Not offended at all, your lordship. How do you take your tea?”

  They got through the ritual of the tea tray, the child sitting up very straight. Her mama put two biscuits on a plate and passed them over, then fixed a cup of tea composed more of sugared milk than tea.

  “I’d forgotten that,” Marcus said, setting the estimate aside. “How one fixes tea for a small child. Charlotte, would you like to explore the library while your mother and I chat for a moment?”

  “Mama?”

  “If you climb on anything, anything at all, Charlotte Marie, you will subsist on prayers and porridge for a week.”

  Charlotte was out of her chair like a liberated puppy. “Yes, Mama!”

  “My lord, I do apologize for all this bother.”

  “To have company as I enjoy a cup of tea is no bother. I’ve asked my father if he and I might combine our households, but he refuses to leave the quarters he long shared with my late mother. His town house hasn’t room for me, plus two little girls and their nurses, governesses, and so forth.”

  Lady Margaret sipped her tea, cradling the cup in her hands as if hoarding the warmth. “The marquess lives alone, then?”

  “With his retainers of longstanding, but yes, Papa is alone. My sister and I look in on him as often as possible. My brother’s death was a blow, and Papa is no longer the man who raised me.”

  “It’s not good for the elderly to face the holidays alone.”

  Was it good for Lady Margaret and her daughter to face the holidays alone? Marcus might ponder that conundrum late into the night, but another thought seized his present awareness.

  “Would you be willing to join me on a reconnaissance mission to the marquess’s house? My sister could lure him away for supper, and you and I could reconnoiter.”

  “Reconnoiter, my lord?”

  “Papa’s house needs some holiday cheer, my lady. The servants won’t ask him for permission to decorate, and he won’t suggest they bother with the folderol lest he add to their burdens. The lot of them are quite venerable, but as you say, the elderly should not be left out of the holiday festivities.”

  Papa would probably disown him for this, but Marcus liked the idea more the longer he pondered it. Eliza should have proposed such a project, but for once, Marcus could beat her past the post.

  Lady Margaret set aside her empty tea cup. “Have you considered my estimate for this household, my lord?”

  Her estimate was a quartermaster’s delight, every item noted, priced, totaled, and scheduled. The sum was considerable, but included taking down all the decorations as well as setting them up.

  “I notice you have everything scheduled except when you’ll remove the decorations.” An odd oversight, given how thorough she was in every other regard. “Have some more biscuits.”

  She took one more. Only one. “I will remove the ribbons, cloved oranges, kissing boughs, and satin runners within one week of Twelfth Night, sooner if you contract for it.”

  “And the greenery?” She’d proposed a Bavarian forest worth of Christmasing—swagging, wreaths, and table trees.

  “That’s on page two, sir. I remove the last of the exterior decorations when you make the final payment. Not before.”

  “Because some people try to avoid paying you altogether?”

  She spoke very quietly. “Most households pay merchants and shopkeepers for the entire year in December. Then there are gift baskets for the servants and neighbors, holiday meals and celebrations, charitable projects, and the like. Trying to collect a substantial sum in January can be frustrating.”

  Charlotte appeared at her mother’s elbow. “May I please have another biscuit?”

  “One more,” Lady Margaret said, “and then we must be going.”

  The child plucked a biscuit from the tray as nimbly as a pickpocket lifting a watch, then darted off again. To eat a treat while wandering about the library was po
or manners, but Marcus was beginning to suspect that many varieties of poverty afflicted Lady Margaret and her offspring.

  “Have you any questions regarding my estimate, your lordship?”

  “I do not.” Even Eliza would have been hard put to find fault with Lady Margaret’s work. “You sent two copies, and I gather we sign them to memorialize the terms of our agreement.”

  She looked pathetically relieved. “Just so. And the first payment—”

  Marcus held up a hand rather than allow an earl’s daughter to discuss money before her own child.

  “I will write out a bank draft for the entire project. As you say, the holidays can be hectic, and a single payment is less bother than several installments. When will you begin your work here?”

  “Tomorrow.” Her gaze strayed to the basket of biscuits. “Nine of the clock, sir, and we will make a deal of noise.”

  The child, by contrast, was silent somewhere between the shelves of books.

  “I will look forward to seeing my house transformed, Lady Margaret.” He wrapped up the remaining biscuits in a linen table napkin, passed them to her, and put a finger to his lips. “And perhaps on Friday, we can find a time to take a peek at my father’s house.”

  “That depends on how much progress we’ve made here, sir.” She slid the biscuits into her satchel and rose, gathering up her daughter’s cloak. “Charlotte, come along. It’s time we were leaving.”

  “In a minute, Mama. I just want to—”

  A loud crash came from the direction of the globe, then a beat of silence, followed by a hearty wailing.

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte’s manners were disgraceful, but then, what had Meg expected? One did not take children on business or social calls. Charlotte had only Daisy to mind her, and Meg was too busy earning a living to impart to Charlotte more than casual lessons in deportment.

  Tea with Lord Marcus had thrown the shortcomings of that arrangement into stark relief. Charlotte fidgeted, she interrupted, she stared like a bumpkin, she was impertinent and boisterous, and now this—outright disobedience.

  “Dear me,” Lord Marcus said with admirable calm. “Somebody has taken a spill.”

  Charlotte was on her back, half braced on her elbows, waving one booted foot about and howling as if possessed. Around her lay the shattered remains of a globe, suggesting Charlotte had been climbing the bookshelves and had fallen onto the sphere from above.

  “Charlotte, stop that racket,” Meg said, kneeling beside her daughter. “You have destroyed the world, and you can claim all the affliction you want, but you disobeyed a clear instruction.”

  The wailing ceased as if a tap had been shut off. “I fell. My knee hurts.”

  Lord Marcus knelt on Charlotte’s other side. “Shall we have a look at the injury?” No censure colored his question, suggesting small children smashed his possessions regularly.

  “Charlotte, if you are shamming, the consequences will be dire.”

  “My knee hurts. I banged it on something.”

  I can ill afford to take you to a physician. Lord Marcus had not yet written out his bank draft, and physicians expected payment for services rendered.

  His lordship scooped Charlotte into his arms and carried her to a velvet-upholstered sofa. “I will leave your mother to examine your wounds while I see about procuring some ice.”

  The sofa was some distance from the fire and thus not exactly cozy. Meg fetched Charlotte’s cloak and spread it over her, then dealt with Charlotte’s boots and stockings while Lord Marcus absented himself. An angry red weal was already rising above Charlotte’s right knee, and another bruise was forming on her shin.

  “You will suffer for your transgression,” Meg said, but because that sounded too much like something Lucien would say, she also smoothed a hand over Charlotte’s hair. “Was it fairy tales that led you astray?”

  “His lordship has a whole shelf of fairy-tale books, but I had to climb to read the titles. I tried to reach for Aesop, but I could not hold on tightly enough. Are you angry, Mama?”

  Charlotte had her father’s store of guile, but she wasn’t crafty with it—not yet. “I am disappointed because you disobeyed me, but I also realize you have never seen such a library before. To allow you to roam here was like inviting a hungry cat to explore a fish market unsupervised.”

  Though at Webberly Hall, Charlotte would have access to a library nearly as grand as this, and the girl did love books.

  “A cat would not have fallen like I did,” Charlotte said. “My knee really hurts.”

  “Ice will help, my dear.” But what antidote could Meg prescribe for Charlotte’s lack of decorum? Her ignorance of proper manners? Meg had sold her only formal tea tray years ago. How was Charlotte to learn how to comport herself when taking tea when Meg had only cracked mugs and mismatched saucers for Charlotte to practice on?

  Lord Marcus returned, bearing a basin full of chipped ice and several linen cloths. “I regret to inform you, Miss Charlotte, the housekeeper is brewing up some willow bark tea. I’ve seen battle-hardened soldiers cry at the prospect of a single serving.”

  “Is it truly awful?” Charlotte asked.

  He passed Meg the basin and pulled a hassock up to the side of the sofa. “That depends. I might be able to bribe Cook to add a dash of honey, and then the trick is to drink it all at once. Down the hatch, rifles at the ready. Ye gods, child, that is a mortal wound. You have given your knee a black eye.”

  Meg took the cloths from him and fashioned an ice pack for the mortal wound. “It’s a mere bruise, and one that resulted from disregarding the rules.”

  Lord Marcus appeared to inspect the injury, which meant he leaned nearer to Meg’s chair. On a man of such unrelenting dignity, she expected a traditional masculine fragrance—bay rum or lavender. Instead, his scent brought to mind the warm spices—cinnamon and ginger, with a hint of citrus.

  “Miss Charlotte, you surely did disregard the better angels of common sense,” he said, sitting back. “See what comes of such lapses? We will bind up the knee when the ice has reduced the swelling, and you will hobble quite pathetically for days, if not weeks.”

  Charlotte clearly wasn’t sure whether his lordship was teasing or not. Neither was Meg.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” Charlotte murmured. “I will not disregard the whatever-you-said again. The good angels.”

  “See that you do not, child. Your mama will consider me a bad influence, and I pride myself on never having earned that dubious distinction heretofore.”

  His lordship’s expression put Meg in mind of the patriarchs of the last century, despite his hair being unpowdered. Long chestnut locks in a tidy queue put him in the category of people who disregarded fashion in favor of personal preference. Nonetheless, Meg doubted he would disregard the cost of a shattered heirloom.

  “I will repay you for the damage,” she said, applying the ice pack to Charlotte’s knee. “That is the least I can do.” Though an antique globe might be worth the entire profit on the decorating project… if not many times that amount.

  A dire thought followed that realization: Charlotte might be forced to live at Webberly Hall simply because Meg hadn’t the means to support her.

  “That globe graced my father’s schoolroom,” Lord Marcus said. “Papa inflicted it on me because he doesn’t like to toss out what needs tossing. The world has changed immensely in the past hundred years, and the globe had become all but useless.”

  He seemed to mean these words, but they offered Meg little comfort.

  “I will buy you a new one, then,” she said, “or you can subtract an appropriate sum from my invoice.” She had no idea what a grand globe cost, complete with a mahogany stand, for Charlotte had shattered the stand as well.

  The butler arrived with a pot of willow bark tea, and Charlotte dutifully swilled an entire cup. Her knee was swelling despite the ice, and the bruise on her shin was turning blue.

  How am I to get her home? The way was long en
ough that Meg doubted she could carry Charlotte the distance, and the snowy, slushy streets would be treacherous even if some crutches could be found sized for a child.

  “The physician will be along any minute,” Lord Marcus said, “and lest you entertain daft notions about traversing the streets with an injured child, Lady Margaret, I’ve ordered the housekeeper to make up a guest apartment for your use.”

  His lordship spoke as if this magnanimity solved all difficulties, while Meg heard her brother’s voice accusing her of riding around in fancy coaches like a kept woman. What would Lucien say about biding under the roof of an unmarried man without a chaperone or social connection to afford even a pretense of propriety?

  Meg rose and set aside the basin. “My lord, might I have a word with you in private?”

  “Mama’s angry,” Charlotte said. “When she talks like that, she wants to yell, but a lady doesn’t raise her voice.”

  Charlotte chose a fine time to recall the dictates of ladylike deportment, for all she was telling the truth.

  Meg was angry, also tired, overwrought, and frustrated, but Lord Marcus was trying to be helpful. Even if his kindly suggestion would ruin what was left of Meg’s reputation, he did not deserve to have a basin of ice dumped over his head.

  Lady Margaret paced back and forth before the hearth in Marcus’s office. This was his favorite room in the house, being on the garden side and therefore private, and also cluttered with books, newspapers, letters, and other comforting indicia of a busy and meaningful life.

  The office was, though, something of a mess, viewed through a visitor’s eyes. Marcus could only hope Lady Margaret was too focused on composing her tirade to notice the untidiness.

  “I am a lady by title and by birth,” she began, swish-swish-swish-pivot. “My circumstances in recent years have become humble, but my standards of behavior remain fixed.” Swish-swish-swish-pivot. “I expect of myself the proprieties an earl’s daughter must observe if she is to uphold the promise of her upbringing.”

  A great clattering crash followed these opening remarks, for her ladyship’s skirts had knocked the iron hearth set onto the bricks before the fireplace.