Holiday Duet: Two Previously Published Regency Novellas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Will you come?”

  “Will the Entwhistle woman be there?”

  In the Bannerfield family, clever intuition had always been attributed to Mama, but occasionally, Papa tipped his hand. He paid attention to his family, or he had before Mama’s death.

  “I fear Lady Margaret will not make an appearance. She regards the circumstances of her daughter’s birth as a blight on the family honor and does not socialize. I have the sense she conducts this decorating business because her brother refuses to support her.”

  Papa pushed out of his chair with surprising vigor. “That is the most imbecilic thing I have heard short of inviting the Corsican to take up residence in Paris. Half the heirs in the peerage arrive in the nursery less than nine months after their parents’ wedding, our Simon being a case in point. In my day, we knew enough to overlook such minor lapses. Of all the ridiculous vanities… but my day is past.”

  Mama’s portrait hung above the mantel. The marchioness seemed to be smiling at Marcus, or perhaps offering him encouragement. “Is that what Penelope Hennepin would say, Papa? That her day is past, so she’ll sit about in a Bath chair, slurping porridge, and letting young people blunder on without any guidance from wiser heads?”

  Papa said nothing for a moment, then turned a glare on Marcus. “Penelope and your dear mama would say, as I say, that you are a rude and disrespectful puppy who’d best recall his manners.”

  Ah, there was the marquess who’d offered thundering speeches in the Lords, captured the heart of the fairest belle, and raised his sons to be honorable gentlemen.

  “I am a puppy in love, Papa. Lady Margaret swept into my house, hung cloved oranges in every window, draped my prized busts of Aristotle and Plato with greenery, and made off with my heart. I went to war and never saw such plundering of a man’s sanity as she effected on my wits.”

  Marcus hadn’t meant to say any of that. He was the heir now, the prop and stay upon whom his father and sister could always lean, the guardian of orphaned nieces and keeper of the family exchequer.

  He was not a puppy of any variety.

  Papa’s glare remained fixed, then a short, loud sound came from him. “About damned time somebody made off with your wits, lad. Bannerfields are late to lose their hearts, but when we fall, we fall hard and well. I gather her ladyship is leading you a dance?”

  “Must you sound so approving?”

  “Yes.” Papa settled back into his chair and helped himself to Marcus’s eggnog. “Your mother tied me in knots and had a merry time doing it. That lamentable behavior persisted after we spoke our vows, but I learned to tie a few knots myself.”

  “Lady Margaret treasures her independence, Papa. She has had every opportunity to pay several calls on me as the decorating has progressed in the past few days, and she has instead sent minions and junior officers. The results are lovely, but I don’t care for pretty decorations half so much as I long to see her ladyship.”

  How callow that sounded, how… human.

  “Perhaps it’s time you paid a call on her, Marcus. A lady likes to be courted.”

  Pay a call on her where? Marcus’s coachman had reported that her ladyship and the young miss had got out at a street corner in a neighborhood of shops. Their rooms could be anywhere, and Lady Mistletoe’s correspondence referenced only a posting inn in that same neighborhood.

  “I don’t know how to find her, Papa, but when the decorations come down, I can ask her second-in-command.” Though, would a mere request compel Miss Daisy to convey Margaret’s whereabouts? Marcus could not pin his hopes on that possibility.

  “On second thought,” Papa said, “I believe I will attend this little gathering. Warn my grandchildren to be on their best behavior.”

  Marcus offered his father his hand. “I will do no such thing. I’m off to call on Aunt Penny. If for any reason, I should fail to return from that mission, you will host my open house, sir.”

  Papa’s handshake was firm, and his eye held a twinkle. “Give Miss Penelope my regards. Good luck, son.”

  Marcus departed, keeping his reply to himself: I will apparently need it.

  Chapter Seven

  “But, Mama, why can’t I send Emily and Amanda a note? Families correspond at the holidays. Aunt Evelyn wrote to us, and you said I must send greetings to my cousins.” Charlotte paused in her sketching to send Meg a predictable pleading look.

  Charlotte’s knee had healed. Meg’s nerves were deteriorating apace. “Amanda and Emily are not family. I commend your generosity of spirit, Charlotte, but we must not assume undue familiarity.”

  Charlotte set aside her sketch and went to the window. “The snow has melted. We could pay a call on them.”

  “Children do not make social calls in polite neighborhoods.” Oh, how that waspish note in Meg’s voice horrified her. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I don’t mean to be a bear, but there are rules about such things, and those rules are sometimes difficult to observe.”

  Charlotte wandered over to Meg’s desk. “You are sending out a lot of letters, but you aren’t receiving any, except from Aunt Evelyn.”

  The countess had written to inquire whether Charlotte would be joining her aunt and uncle when they repaired to Webberly Hall in a week’s time. Evelyn hadn’t included good wishes for the holidays, hadn’t inquired about Meg’s well-being, hadn’t invited Meg to spend her holidays at the family seat.

  “I have every confidence that this afternoon’s post will bring more requests for estimates,” Meg said. “The weather has doubtless distracted people from their decorating.” The weather had been sunny enough to melt the snow into a dirty slush that froze at sundown. Ice slicked with melting snow made the streets treacherous, though Meg would have gladly braved a blizzard to answer a summons from a customer.

  She had half expected, half dreaded a summons from Lord Marcus Bannerfield, but none had arrived. Daisy reported that his lordship’s home was in great good looks, Meg’s decorating schemes having brought out all the house’s best features and—as was usually the case when a job turned out well—putting the staff in a fine humor.

  “Can we go to Lord Marcus’s open house?” Charlotte asked, twiddling Meg’s pen. “Amanda and Emily will be there.”

  “May we,” Meg said, “but no, we may not. We haven’t been invited.” Thank heavens. As much as Meg longed to see Marcus again, to hear his voice, to… spend time with him, she knew that wish was ill-fated. He must take a wife, despite his protestations, and she must provide for her daughter, or reconcile herself to allowing Lucien to do that.

  “That’s the mail!” Charlotte bellowed as a tap sounded on the door. She flung open the door to find the grocer’s boy, red-cheeked and out of breath, on the other side.

  “Fetch George a biscuit, Charlotte,” Meg said, going to the door. “George, what do you have for us today?”

  “Just this, my lady.” He passed over two sealed pieces of paper. “Papa said to tell you we’ll be getting in more greenery on Friday.”

  “Thank you, George. I’ll tell the children.” Lady Mistletoe’s Holiday Helpers would fashion that greenery into wreaths, swags, kissing boughs, and other more profitable products. Their pay would be modest, but they would spend the day in the warmth of the grocer’s stable and take home blemished produce and an apple or an orange, if they worked quickly.

  George went on his way, his cheeks bulging with the last of the biscuits Lord Marcus’s cook had sent home with Meg. The ham was nearly gone, and the tea wouldn’t last another week.

  “Do we have projects, Mama?” Charlotte asked, brushing crumbs from her pinafore.

  Meg slit open the first epistle and found a stilted rejection of her services. The second was more direct. A loyal customer in years past had simply scrawled not this year across Meg’s polite inquiry. Almost all of her regular customers were declining to hire her this year, with the exception of a few widows and cits who did not circulate much in Society.

  Lord Marcus’s project had insp
ired in Meg such hope—maybe the better neighborhoods and wealthier homes had noticed her work, maybe her business was poised to grow. In the past few days, that hope had been dashed into small pieces.

  Meg returned to the lumpy chair behind her desk. “Charlotte, how would you feel about spending some time at Webberly Hall?”

  Charlotte bounced onto the sofa and took up her pencil and sketch pad. “I would not like that at all, Mama. The Hall is cold, everybody pulls my hair there, and we are always praying until our knees scream. Let’s not go to the Hall.”

  Another rap on the door had Charlotte bounding off the couch. “It’s George again!” she bellowed, quite unnecessarily.

  “I found two more for you,” George said, passing over sealed letters. “Sorry about that.” He tarried in the doorway, letting out the heat and doubtless hoping to earn another biscuit.

  “You ate the last biscuit, George, or I’d offer you another.”

  He tugged his forelock, grinned, and went whistling down the steps, while Meg slit open another letter.

  “Is it a project, Mama?”

  “No.” Another not this year. Lord Marcus had paid Meg in full, and that sum would last a little while, but then what? If holiday decorating had gone out of fashion, or some other service was having more success with Meg’s customers, Meg and those who depended on her were out of business.

  “And the children will need what money I have,” she murmured.

  “Beg pardon, Mama?”

  “Just talking to myself,” Meg said. She took the last letter to her desk, for the seal was crested, and she’d seen the same handwriting on documents at Lord Marcus’s desk. An invitation lay within, for Lady Margaret, Miss Charlotte, and friends to attend an open house hosted by Lord Marcus Bannerfield and family. The favor of a reply was requested.

  Across the bottom, in a tidy hand, somebody had added, Please come. I miss you. M.

  I miss you too. I will always miss you. Meg considered the invitation for a long while as the fire burned down in the grate and Charlotte sat sketching on the sofa.

  When the task could be put off no longer, Meg penned short, unremarkable regrets. Nothing could come of a liaison between a disgraced widow and an eligible bachelor, nothing but further tarnish on Meg’s reputation. Lucien would demand guardianship of Charlotte in that case, and Meg would have to acquiesce.

  She sealed her reply and tossed the invitation on the coals in the hearth.

  “Is that another estimate, Mama?”

  “No,” Meg said, watching the heat curl the edge of the invitation. At the last moment, she tried to snatch the paper free of the flames, but she’d waited too late, and the only tangible link she had to the man who’d stolen her heart burned to ashes.

  “This is marvelous,” Eliza cooed, bussing Marcus’s cheek. “Even better than I had planned. Where did you find that children’s chorus?”

  The children were out of sight, on the foyer’s mezzanine, under the watchful direction of Miss Daisy. Marcus had negotiated with her directly, but no amount of coin or cajoling could pry Lady Margaret’s direction from her.

  “Lady Mistletoe supplied the chorus,” Marcus said, raising his voice as if to be heard over the buzz of goggling, gossiping guests and the cheerful din from the mezzanine. “Just as she provided the decorations, provided the recipes for the punch, and chose the musical selections.” Daisy had selected the songs, based on her ladyship’s typical choices.

  “More guests,” Eliza said, taking Marcus by the arm. “Do try to smile, your lordship.”

  “Your husband is smiling,” Marcus retorted. Hennepin had appointed himself Lord of the Punchbowl, and every time Marcus glanced that direction, Ralph was toasting Eliza from across the room.

  “I am smiling too,” Eliza said. “We received almost no regrets.”

  So where is Lady Margaret? Marcus was surprised to find no less luminary than the Earl of Webberly handing his hat to Nicholas, while Lady Webberly passed her cloak to a maid.

  “My lord, my lady, welcome and Happy Christmas.” Marcus bowed over the countess’s hand. “I believe you know my sister.” The introductions proceeded along the usual lines, then Eliza drew the countess away, insisting that her ladyship would adore the decorations in the gallery.

  “Perhaps you would like to see what Lady Margaret has done with the gallery as well, my lord,” Marcus said.

  Webberly’s smile was strained. “Not too loudly, please. Margaret’s little projects are something of an embarrassment.”

  “Little projects?” Marcus made himself take a visual inventory of the foyer, which had never looked as festive, nor smelled as luscious. Cinnamon, clove, citrus, and nutmeg perfumed the air, from cloved oranges, sachets, and discreetly placed scent pots. The bannisters were wrapped in spirals of red, green, and gold ribbon, and the statues and portraits wore garlands of holly. On the sideboard and in each of the foyer’s deep windows stood a small evergreen adorned in the German tradition with red bows and delicate beeswax candles.

  Four different kissing boughs hung from the central chandelier and had already occasioned much merriment. The parlors had been kitted out in the same finery, and the gallery was a work of art.

  “My sister is stubborn,” Lord Webberly muttered. “Pride is a sin, and in this case, the fall has already occurred. That is rather a lot of mistletoe.”

  His expression suggested any mistletoe was too much. “You disapprove of tradition?” Marcus asked.

  “I disapprove of licentious behavior, my lord. My countess and I look the other way regarding a bit of frivolity in the servants’ hall, but our own seasonal joy is solemn and sincere in nature.”

  What a dreary old stick, though Marcus doubted Webberly was much past thirty years of age. “And what of your sister? Do you include her in your seasonal joy?”

  Webberly looked pained as a blushing young lady planted a kiss on the cheek of a smiling swain.

  “Why the interest in my sister, my lord?” He moved to the edge of the foyer. “Margaret lives a life of quiet obscurity, for the most part. If she has provided decorating services to your satisfaction, then no more need be said on the matter.”

  “Ah, so your sincere seasonal joy doesn’t include gathering with family or respecting tradition. I am remiss as a host to keep you standing here admiring my decorations. Surely a cup of Lady Margaret’s punch can find its way past your prejudices?”

  “Good God, you mean to tell me she’s handing out recipes for punch now?”

  Marcus led his guest down the corridor, the sconces on each side positioned within fragrant wreaths. Kissing boughs hung at regular intervals, and the usual lace table runners had been replaced with red and green quilted fabrics. Guests stood about with plates and cups of punch, and the music from the foyer added to the holiday air.

  Marcus stopped outside the gallery doors. “Lady Margaret hands out recipes for punch, for gingerbread, for Christmas pudding. She fashioned the little sprigs of holly you see on the footmen’s livery. She rehearses the choir, she makes the kissing boughs. She personally selects the spices that make up those luscious sachets, and she employs the least among us—orphans, climbing boys, foundlings—to carry out her work. In my opinion, Webberly, Lady Margaret Entwhistle has a far more sincere grasp of what the holidays should be about than your sniffy, condescending lordship can even fathom.”

  Webberly drew himself up like a strutting pigeon. “I would see satisfaction for those insults, Bannerfield, but you are apparently not yet acquainted with the details of Lady Margaret’s introduction to motherhood. She has brought shame upon her family, and all her little mercantile ventures, however prettily they dazzle you and the rest of Society, cannot atone for the fact that my niece can never claim legitimacy.”

  The children had launched into a hushed version of Jubilate Deo, so Marcus hardly had to raise his voice to be heard over them.

  “You pathetic, posturing, pompous, prosing hypocrite. Your own parents anticipated their vows, but I
am willing to bet my Town coach you never once castigated them for that lapse. You never looked down on your dear mama, never considered her behavior a blight on the family escutcheon. You reserve your contempt for your own sister—who tells me you yourself introduced her to Entwhistle—and yet you have the effrontery to call yourself a Christian.”

  In the silence that followed, Webberly’s hauteur faltered, then dissolved into panic. The two footmen positioned on either side of the gallery doors exchanged an equally fraught gaze and then, for reasons Marcus would never understand, swung open the double doors and stood at attention.

  Gracious everlasting angels, the entire room was facing the doorway, not a single person making a sound. Expressions ranged from shocked, to blank, to gleeful, to worried.

  “I beg you,” Webberly muttered, “not another word.”

  Aunt Penny had passed along her recollections regarding Webberly’s parents. Marcus now knew her speculations in other regards were accurate as well.

  “You either lavishly admire your sister’s work,” Marcus replied quietly, “and sing her praises until we’re tired of hearing them, or I will mention that you and your countess also anticipated your vows.” A fact Aunt Penny had confirmed with reassuring certainty. “Explain to your lady wife that her days of making Margaret’s life difficult are over as well, and find the courage to apologize to your sister for having abandoned all honor where she is concerned.”

  Webberly nodded once, took a slow breath, then sauntered into the gallery. He stopped two yards inside the doors, his gaze tipped up.

  “Margaret did this?” The amazement was genuine, as Marcus’s had been. “Margaret and those… those urchins?”

  “Every bit of it,” Marcus said, taking in again the heady scent of greenery crisscrossing overhead and the myriad candles in their brass-backed holders. A red runner ran down the center of the room, and red and gold ribbons laced the pine boughs looping from the ceiling. Margaret had also draped greenery at the windows, suspended bunches of mistletoe among the swagging, and hung delicate golden bells on ribbons from the pine roping as well.