O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  His smile faded. “I hope not, too.” He glanced around. “I’d like to see you both gone from this sordid place.”

  “I do my best.” She jutted her chin at him. “Do you think I don’t want to better myself?”

  “I know you do.”

  His voice was soft, his face close to hers. Will, Hal, and the goose were forgotten. Merciful heaven—her knees were shaking, and she was back once again on that balmy summer’s night, losing herself in the heady oblivion of stolen wine and the thrill of this man’s touch.

  He had looked so magnificent when he’d stood up to Will, he’d loosened the shackles that bound her heart. If only Myall had courted her after that night on the beach—she would have been his by now. Had he thought her too far above him to even try? Well, their comparative situations had been entirely reversed. She had no more chance of capturing his interest than she had of becoming Queen of England.

  He reached out a finger and nudged her chin up. She couldn’t stop staring at his lips, recalling their firm touch, and the masculine promise of his body. She scarcely dared to breathe.

  “I come to parley, Mistress Wentworth. Shall we go within?”

  “Very well.” After the way he’d dealt with the vile Will Langley, she couldn’t deny him.

  “Can Hal come, too?” Her voice sounded husky and provocative. She cleared her throat.

  Myall grinned. “Of course, for my offer concerns him, also.”

  The offer was not of an amorous nature, then. A pity.

  “The terms I want to present are my sister Helena’s idea—she always did have more wit than I. But first, I’m to invite you and Hal to dine with us this night. The fare will be simple, but good. She’s an excellent cook.”

  “But—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “Let me finish. Helena wishes you to try on one of her gowns. Nay—you needn’t bridle at the suggestion. She means it to be but a loan. She thought—I mean, we thought—that you might like to dress up and join us for dinner on Christmas Day.”

  “Christmas dinner!” Hal was jiggling with excitement. “You want us to come and eat with you tonight, and for Christmas dinner as well? Say we may, Mistress. I beg you, say we may.”

  Julia tried to remember the last time she’d had a full stomach, or been in the company of friends. Certainly not since she’d come to London. No one in this area trusted their friends any more than they did their enemies.

  Could she trust Myall Farrar? She’d made up her mind to have naught to do with men ever again, no matter how attractive. Yet—if his sister and Hal were going to be there, too, that would be acceptable, would it not?

  “I can see your defenses crumbling.” Myall winked at her, and a disarming dimple appeared at one side of his mouth.

  “Hal and I would be delighted to come, both tonight, and for Christmas dinner.” She felt more like her old self, a gentlewoman of rank, politely accepting an invitation from her neighbor. She should laugh at herself—she really should.

  “There’s a condition attached to the Christmas dinner invitation.” Myall’s dark eyes were solemn, but a faint smile played about his lips.

  “What condition?”

  He grinned. “That you provide the goose.”

  She gulped. It was a good compromise, and a clever one. She looked at the goose. The bird gazed back at her.

  She hesitated. “There’s only one problem, Myall.”

  “And what might that be, sweeting?”

  She folded her arms. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—I don’t want the goose to be killed.”

  Chapter Six

  Yesterday’s meal with Helena, Hal, and Julia had been almost equal in delight to the night Myall had spent with Julia on the beach. He’d claimed the seat opposite her initially, so that he could admire her—she’d looked resplendent in her borrowed dress, with her hair freshly washed and gleaming golden in the candlelight. Then he’d exchanged places with Hal so he could be next to her, where he had the full benefit of her smile, her conversation, and the tantalizing smell of the rose-scented soap with which she’d bathed.

  He’d made an effort to enjoy the food, but its taste had been eclipsed by Julia’s presence—so impossible that she should be there at all, so miraculous that she was. The food, consisting of marrow stuffed with forcemeat, cheese, dried fruit, and a quaking pudding—was well-received by all. Unfortunately, the issue of the goose had still not been resolved by the end of the meal.

  Hal had ceased to be Myall’s ally—he liked the bird and wanted it for a pet. Myall had pointed out that he had nowhere safe to put the thing. It couldn’t be kept in their room because it needed space, and somewhere outside to deposit its noxious, slimy turds. But if it was housed in their yard, it would vanish in the blink of an eye. One could not keep a goose in an open yard in the East End of London, where so many people went hungry—and expect it to still be there when one returned from the day’s toil.

  Then, the conversation had taken a darker turn. Julia had asked after their father.

  He had no wish for her to know what had passed between him and Father. She didn’t need to know he’d been courting someone before his accident, even though his heart hadn’t been in it. The marriage would have united two prosperous woolen cloth businesses, but the girl, Bess Middleton, had been so disgusted by Myall’s changed appearance, she’d refused the match point-blank. Of course, this had proved his father right in saying that Myall was now a monster, and no woman worth her salt would want him.

  Yet Julia seemed not to mind looking at him. She never winced or looked away—nor did she stare in horrified fascination at his scars. This, he appreciated. He had not, however, appreciated her opinion that he should make peace with his father.

  “What if you were never to see him again?” she’d asked. “What if, secretly, he regretted what he’d done to you, but was too proud to act upon it, or knew his efforts to make peace with you would be in vain?”

  He’d known then that she was thinking of her own father. Though he had yet to discover what had happened between them, he sensed she still hoped for some manner of reconciliation, even if she had no idea how to go about it.

  He’d tried to change the subject, but Helena and Julia had been in agreement. It was the season of goodwill—he must make a final attempt to bridge the chasm between him and Father.

  Like a waterfall grinding away at the rock beneath, they’d worn him down until, eventually, he’d agreed to visit his father on Christmas Eve or, at least, try to do so. But he’d insisted on one condition being met. Julia must accompany him.

  So now, here they were on Christmas Eve morning, walking through the chilly London streets to pay a call upon his estranged father. Myall wanted to prove that there was at least one woman in the world who could bear to look at his ruined face.

  Despite her borrowed shoes and gown, he saw Julia as a goddess and his heart wanted to sing with elation that she was there beside him. Yet, the fear that he was going to have to face rejection from his father once again overshadowed his joy.

  “He won’t let me set foot over the threshold, you know,” he announced, glancing down at her.

  “Myall—you don’t know that. You can but try. I wish I had tried harder to make my father see reason—but then, my trespass was far greater than yours. You had an accident and got burned while saving a child’s life. I became pregnant, then lost the child.”

  He slowed his step, placing a hand on her arm. Was she going to trust him with her story now? His heart sped up in anticipation.

  “I don’t wish to pry. But it must have been terrible.”

  Tears glittered on her dark lashes. He wanted to kiss them away.

  “I was a fool. I wasn’t married, although I fully expected to be. But it’s the same old tale, as old as the hills. Only in my case, to add insult to injury, the man who begot my child embroiled me in a murder plot. Luckily, the victim survived, but ’tis little wonder Father never wanted to see my face again.�
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  Anger surged through him. “Tell me the name of the villain who abandoned you, and I’ll give him a taste of my blade.”

  “Nay, Myall—he has already met his end, at the hands of the authorities. I helped them catch him, but I still know not if I did the right thing. Did I condemn a man to death to save my own skin? Did I act out of vengeance? I’m so ashamed of all I’ve done, but I have been duly punished.”

  “Don’t blame yourself! You were manipulated by a vile seducer, who used you for his wicked ends.”

  She gave him a sad, little smile that almost broke his heart. “How sweet you are, Myall, casting me in the role of guileless innocent. But I was selfish, immature, and stupid. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “You were never any of those things. You were bright, passionate, and full of joy. If only things had been different—I would never have treated you as he did.”

  He still gripped her arm, but she made no effort to pull away. Feeling bolder, he entwined his arm with hers as they continued along the road heading toward the northern edge of London.

  “You never came to see me. After that night, I never saw you again.”

  The catch in her voice sent a chill down his spine. “What do you mean, I never came? I came to the house the very next day to ask your father’s permission to court you, but your uncle’s steward told me that you’d instructed him to turn me away. I came by your uncle’s house every day for a fortnight in the hope that you and your father were still staying in Suffolk. I prayed I might catch you walking in the garden, or spy you at one of the windows so I could speak with you. Did your father say nothing to you? Did your uncle not mention my visit? Did you never chance to look out the window and see me?”

  She pulled him to a halt, and her blue eyes scanned his face, frowning.

  “He said nothing. I stayed abed that first day after the ship discharged its cargo of liquor—I’d never supped such strong wine before, and had a pounding head. The day after that, Father took me back to Milforde, claiming he thought the sea air disagreed with me. I begged to be allowed to stay longer, so that I might see you again, though I didn’t tell them that. Father wouldn’t hear of it.”

  So, that was why this bright jewel had vanished from his life. Her father had not been interested in the suit of a youngster. Especially not one who’s father’s fortune came from trade.

  “Julia—”

  She placed a finger on his lips. “It seems we were both foiled in our efforts to meet again. But we can’t change the past, only the present. For now, we have to see your father.”

  He was glad to see that her tears had dried, and that the roses were back in her cheeks.

  “We still have a potentially unpleasant duty to perform, Myall. But mayhap we’ll have a warmer welcome than you expect.”

  He smiled and gazed into her eyes, thinking he could drown in those pools of blue. Entirely forgetting where they were, he brushed his lips across hers.

  She didn’t flinch. Her mouth was soft and yielding beneath his and the urge to prolong the kiss almost overwhelmed him.

  But he’d vowed to see his father. Mayhap, afterward, he might see if he could avail himself of Julia’s lips again. He would be in sore need of comfort by then, after all.

  They spoke of lighter matters as they covered the next half-mile. Then, as the surroundings became more familiar, the old feeling of dread settled over him like a cloak.

  “This is the place—my father’s house.” He wanted to turn away and retreat. This was a feeling one couldn’t fight with swords or arrows. The sight of his old home reminded him of the soul-deep despair he tried to keep buried, but which continually gnawed away at him. Only now, today, with Julia at his side, the pain was less keen than usual.

  He advanced toward the wrought-iron gate. “It used not to look like a wilderness.” The state of the garden—enclosed within its high brick walls—took him aback. Father had used to be proud of these gardens. Was he now so mean with his coin that he wouldn’t employ a gardener? What a tangle this would be come spring if naught were done to restore order.

  “No matter.” Julia urged him forward. “It is the man you need to see, not the garden.”

  His feet felt like lead as they approached the covered doorway of the house. Should he have brought a gift, mayhap? Nay, Father would look on it as a bribe. Anyway, it was too late now to turn back and hunt for something.

  He banged the hilt of his sword against the oak panels, then stepped back and waited. Julia’s hand stole into his, and he gripped it hard, then released her.

  A panel slid back in the door, and his father’s face appeared behind the iron grille. Fully expecting the panel to slide closed again, accompanied by some colorful curses, Myall was surprised to hear bolts being shot back. A key was turned in the lock.

  He was even more surprised when his father, clearly sober but looking dreadful, pulled him into his embrace.

  “My son! Myall! Is it really you? Thank God you have come. Quick, hurry in, there’s not a moment to lose!”

  Chapter Seven

  Julia found herself swept into the house along with Myall. As a myriad of bolts were slid to behind them, she resisted the urge to turn around and escape. Myall’s father had the look of a madman.

  The man’s hair had clearly not been cut in months, nor his beard trimmed. He was stick-thin, with haunted, dark eyes. Though dressed in what must have been expensive clothing, his doublet and hose were shabby and dirty. The house was almost as cold as the room she shared with Hal.

  Aside from these alarming discoveries, she was impressed by the size of Myall’s family home. It was easily as big as Glemham Hall, where Walter de Glanville had once lived, and it was richly furnished with tapestries, decorated cabinets, and chests. The walls boasted portraits in ornate gilded frames, and there was even a well-stocked bookcase in the entrance hall. A passageway stretched off into the gloom, where the kitchen and pantries must be, and a carved staircase rose to the upper floor.

  There was no sign of any servants, and everything exhibited an air of neglect—much like Myall’s father. Cobwebs draped the plaster ceiling, and every surface was covered in dust.

  “Come within.” Master Farrar opened a door and ushered them into a large room. It had a flag-stone floor covered with a drugget carpet, and every seat boasted a velvet cushion. How hard it must have been for Myall to give up such comfort! She knew well enough the pain of so drastic a change in one’s circumstances. But perchance something better was in the wind.

  “Who is this? Is she friend or foe?” Master Farrar peered at Julia.

  Myall’s face was an impenetrable mask. He bowed stiffly. “This is Mistress Julia Wentworth, a dear friend.”

  “Good, good.” Master Farrar sketched her a bow. She noticed his gaze was darting around the room as if he expected to be attacked at any moment.

  “What has happened here, Sir? Where are all the servants?” Myall dusted off an upholstered chair and offered it to Julia. She sat—and tried not to stare too much at his scarecrow of a father.

  “I couldn’t afford to keep them. I had to let them go—all but Sarah. She cooks and mends for me. But she’s getting old, too, and there’s only so much she can do. I suppose I should ask her to bring refreshment now that you’re here, though we can barely spare anything.”

  “In good time.” Myall indicated a chair and waited until his father was seated before settling down himself. “What manner of catastrophe has occurred that means you can’t afford servants anymore?”

  “I can’t afford anything, Boy. All this will soon have to be sold.” He gestured around the room.

  “Are you telling me you’ve spent your entire fortune on drink?” Myall’s voice was hard with anger.

  “Nay. Nay, Son. I gave up a good half-year since. But my vintner keeps coming around and demanding I buy from him again. He’s a monster—he’ll bleed me dry. Or attack me. I’m afraid to leave the house.”

  Was the man telling the truth?
Myall exchanged glances with Julia, and she could tell he was completely at a loss.

  “If you’ve not been buying wine, what have you spent the money on?”

  “I don’t know. The household accounts? Mayhap things are just more expensive now. I haven’t sold a bolt of cloth in months. No one can afford it.”

  “Our woolen cloth was always very reasonably priced. Are you saying no one’s been buying, or that you haven’t attempted to sell? Mayhap I need to talk to your clerk about the accounts.”

  “I had to let him go, too. The business has collapsed. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. That vintner will have the constables on me. And you’ll have me locked up in the Bethlehem Hospital—I know you will.”

  Myall left his seat and knelt by his father’s chair. “I swear on my life I’ll never let that happen. Stop worrying. I’ll sort out this vintner, go over the ledgers, and check the cloth store to see if what remains is in good condition. I won’t leave you again until everything is put to rights.” He grasped his father’s hand, and the look of gratitude the old man gave his son warmed Julia’s heart.

  Suddenly, the door opened and a middle-aged woman entered.

  “Goody Sarah!” Myall stood and treated the newcomer to a disarming grin.

  “Oh! It is the young master back again. Oh, Sir, I’ve been so worried—your father is not himself at all. I wanted to send for a physician, but he said he couldn’t bear the expense. I’m sorry to gainsay him, but that’s nonsense. He is no poorer than he was when you left home, even if he has stopped selling the cloth. He’s hidden his money, is what he’s done—and now he can’t remember where he put it, or how much there is, and it’s not my place to go hunting for it. Oh! I am so glad you are come to visit him. I was about to despair.”

  She let out a noisy sob, then threw herself into Myall’s arms. He held her, patted her consolingly, then eased her away to look her in the eyes.