O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Alice bit her lip in shame at her deception. Ross would want to know that Mr. Scrimgeour had given Amelia a fright, and he wouldn’t take kindly to Alice keeping it from him, or swearing Amelia to secrecy. But, like Susan Claybone, Alice believed the man to be a misunderstood creature, even if he was never likely to be someone she’d welcome into her home.

  Ross placed a kiss on her neck and her skin tightened in anticipation. A warm hand cupped her breast, caressing it tenderly, and he drew in a sharp breath as her nipple beaded in his palm.

  “That’s it, my Alice,” he whispered. “So responsive. Are you ready to show your husband how much you need him?”

  He rubbed his thumb over her sensitive little bud and a soft whimper bubbled in her throat.

  “Ah…” he moaned softly. “My sweet, delectable wife.” He moved his hand along her body, caressing her swollen belly, then he dipped his hand lower. She shifted her thighs and felt his mouth curl into a smile against her ear. He knew her too well—knew when her body was calling to him.

  Then he dipped his hand into the secret place between her thighs and a ripple of desire pulsed through her, as he ran a finger slickly across her flesh.

  “Oh, Alice!” his voice came out in a hoarse growl against her ear. “I believe your hunger surpasses even mine.”

  “Then I trust my husband will satisfy that hunger.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Chapter Seven

  Pengarron, Cornwall, 24 December 1825

  “Papa, Papa!” Amelia cried. “Come and look! Harry’s helping me decorate the fireplace!”

  Ross looked up to see his two-year-old son brandishing a sprig of holly, laughter in his eyes, as he toddled across the carpet toward his older sister, who was hanging a string of pinecones on the mantelshelf.

  “Take care Harry doesn’t hurt himself, Amelia.” Ross said. “Those holly leaves are prickly.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes in much the same manner as Alice did when Ross stated the obvious. But, nevertheless, she bent down and gently took the spring from her brother’s pudgy little fist. He let out a wail and she picked him up, placed a kiss on his forehead and swung him round until he squealed with laughter.

  “Amelia looks after her brother well enough, don’t you, my darling?” Alice said. She reached out her hand to Ross and he took it, his blood warming at the feel of her fingers interlocking with his.

  Amelia beamed with delight, then resumed her decorating, giving Harry a pinecone to play with.

  The drawing room was full of noise and life. Late afternoon was always Ross’s favorite time of day—that delicious moment when the tasks of the day were done, but before the younger children’s bedtimes, when the whole family was gathered together. And tonight, the night before Christmas, the air was filled with the magic and anticipation of tomorrow.

  Ross couldn’t remember the last time the room had been filled with so much joy. Three families together who had endured more than their fair share of heartache, but were now united in their love for each other. Amelia, who he’d once thought was doomed to be an only child forever, played with little Harry, her face shining with love for her brother. And his beloved wife sat in the midst of all the joy of a happy family, busying herself with decorating an orange, studding it with cloves.

  Their guests joined in the merriment—indulging in the informality which reigned over Pengarron. Even Westbury had loosened his necktie. The duke sat on the rug with his wife and Miss Claybone, showing his youngest daughter, little Henrietta, how to tie a ribbon. And Stiles sat at the bureau, helping his daughter Georgia cut stars out of paper, his youngest daughter Eleanor on his lap. Stiles’s wife, Frederica, sat in the corner sketching the whole party.

  The air was filled with spices—the scent of cloves from Alice’s decorations, and the warm aroma of cinnamon and ginger in Mrs. Bascomb’s mulled wine.

  Ross took a seat next to his wife, picked up a clove and poked it into the orange, relishing the tangy scent. Then he placed his hand over the orange, caressing the dimpled flesh. Alice lay her hand on his, her skin soft and smooth compared to his skin.

  “Do you remember the first time you gave me an orange?” she asked.

  “Yes my love, I do.”

  She tipped her face up and he couldn’t resist stealing a kiss.

  “It was the most precious gift I have ever received,” she said, “for I knew it came from the heart.”

  A cheer rose up. “Papa!” Amelia cried. “It’s finished!” She gestured to the fireplace. “What do you think?”

  “It’s the best decoration I’ve ever seen,” Ross said. “Much better than last year.”

  “You say that every year, Papa,” Amelia said, her voice serious.

  “That’s because it’s true!” he laughed. “All it needs now, is your mama’s oranges, and the room will be ready for tomorrow.”

  “Here you are, Amelia,” Alice said, holding up her orange. She rose to her feet then gave a cry and sat back down.

  The laughter stopped.

  “Alice?” Ross asked. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, crossly. “I sat up too quickly, that’s all. I sometimes forget my size.” She stood up again, this time more slowly, cradling her belly. “Your child has been restless today. I fear the world will soon be graced with another troublesome Trelawney.”

  “More troublesome than me, Mama Alice?” Amelia called out.

  “Statistically speaking, that’s highly unlikely,” Ross said. Alice swatted his arm.

  “Ross!” she admonished, laughter in her eyes. “Amelia’s an angel. I somehow doubt that you were as perfectly behaved as a child.”

  Stiles rose to his feet and crossed the floor to sit next to Alice.

  “Mrs. Trelawney,” he said, “you have it on good authority from me, that your husband was a most ill-behaved child—and a significantly worse young man. He led me into all sorts of scrapes at Cambridge.”

  “Now, that I can believe,” Alice said, a gleam in her eye.

  A clock in the distance struck seven times, and almost on cue, Miss Whitworth appeared. She bobbed a curtsey.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Ross, sir,” she said, “but it’s the children’s bedtime.”

  A chorus of complaints rose up, led by Amelia and Georgia.

  “You heard Miss Whitworth,” Ross said. “Go on, the sooner you go to bed, the sooner Christmas will arrive.”

  “But Papa!” Amelia cried. “I have to find somewhere to put all these stars which Georgia’s father made for me.”

  “How about you decorate yours and Georgia’s rooms with them, Miss Amelia?” Miss Whitworth suggested. “You could put them in the windows. And I’m sure Master Harry would like one too. What say you, young sir? Would you like your very own star?”

  “Ooooh—yes!” the toddler cried.

  “And we mustn’t leave out Eleanor,” Amelia said. “Or Henrietta.”

  “Of course not,” the nursemaid said. “You’re such a thoughtful child!” She held out her hands. “Come on then,” she said. “If you all come now. You’ll have enough time to decorate your rooms before it’s time to go to sleep.”

  Georgia took her sister’s hand. “Come on, Ellie!”

  Amelia approached the Westburys, taking Harry with her, and held out her hand to their daughter. Henrietta, suddenly shy, buried her face in her mother’s arms.

  “Shall I take Henrietta, Your Grace?” Amelia asked.

  “Thank you, dear,” the duchess replied. “I fear my daughter’s a little melancholy. She misses her brothers, you see. She’s not yet old enough to understand that young men often prefer the company of their friends, rather than their sisters. Even at Christmas.”

  “Would you like a star for your room, Henrietta?” Amelia asked. The shy toddler nodded and took Amelia’s hand, and all the children trooped out after Miss Whitworth.

  Westbury rose to his feet and helped his wife and sister-in-law up. “I must say, Trelawney, that
was well done on the part of your Amelia,” he said. “Henrietta dotes on her brothers and has not taken well to their absence. She’s been clinging to Jeanette’s skirts from the moment Edward and Stephen left for London.”

  “Where are they staying?” Ross asked.

  “With Edward’s old schoolfriend from Harrow,” Westbury said. “Edward’s been invited to his first ball, and nothing I said could persuade him to come to Cornwall with us instead.”

  “Which reminds me,” Stiles said, glancing at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Should we not be getting ready ourselves? We’re due at Lord Carlaggan’s at eight.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ross said, smiling at the prospect of an evening’s dancing. “Alice, my dear?” He held his hand out to his wife, but she shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Ross, but I don’t think I can go,” she said.

  Countess Stiles set her sketchbook aside. “But Alice,” she said, “you spoke of nothing but the Carlaggan’s ball when you invited us. Surely you wouldn’t want to miss it?”

  “Forgive me,” Alice said, “but I’m very tired.”

  “If I recall,” Ross said, “Lady Carlaggan promised to set aside a room for you, so that you might rest and enjoy the evening in relative peace. You will be well cared for.”

  “I know,” she replied, “but I think I’ve overexerted myself today. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company tonight.”

  She smiled up at Ross and he caught a glimpse of fatigue in her eyes. Though he’d been looking forward to the ball, his wife’s wellbeing meant far more to him. He took her hand, and lifted it to his lips.

  “Then I shall remain here with you,” he said. “Lady Carlaggan will understand.”

  “Oh no!” she cried. “I wouldn’t entertain it, Ross. I know how fond you are of dancing, and…” she glanced at her body, “…you’ve been denied the pleasure for too long, given your wife’s ungainly shape.”

  “Alice, you’re not…”

  She grinned at him, mischief in her eyes. “I’ll not take no for an answer,” she said. “You can partner Miss Claybone for the evening.”

  His heart sank at the prospect of spending an evening with the prickly Miss Claybone. But, to his surprise, instead of a flat refusal, Miss Claybone actually smiled!

  “What say you, Miss Claybone?” he asked. “Can you bear to have me at your side tonight?

  “If Alice is agreeable to it, then so am I,” came the reply. “You possess the one quality which renders a dance partner agreeable in my eyes.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re married,” Miss Claybone replied. “I can safely dance with you without feeling hunted. And if you promise to protect me from the gallantry of the gentlemen tonight, then I, for my part, will promise not to tread on your toes.”

  “Very well,” Ross said, turning to his wife. “If you’re sure?”

  “I am,” Alice said, relief in her voice. No doubt, though Alice relished congenial company and merriment, in her condition, she craved solitude and wanted Ross out from under her feet—and he was willing to oblige her, in this, as in everything else.

  Chapter Eight

  Alice waved at the carriages as they set off into the swirling snow. She waited until the lanterns disappeared round the corner at the end of the road, before turning from the window and resuming her place on the chaise longue by the fire.

  She picked up an orange and began studding it with cloves, inhaling the rich, tangy scent of citrus and warm spice. The sounds of merriment and seasonal celebration had been replaced by the quiet, soft sounds of Pengarron—the longcase clock ticking in the hall, the crackling of the fire, and the distant footsteps as the servants rushed to and fro, preparing the warming pans for when Ross and the rest of their guests returned from Lady Carlaggan’s party.

  Ross had not wanted to leave her on her own, but she needed the solitude, and she was never alone—not with the servants bustling about the place.

  And besides, Ross loved dancing, and he needed to enjoy himself. Once the baby arrived, they’d have little time for sleep, let alone merriment—not when Ross insisted on remaining in Alice’s chamber every night. Unlike conventional couples, after they made love, he liked to hold her in his arms until she fell asleep, relishing the shared warmth of their bodies. After little Harry’s birth, Ross had remained in her chamber, insisting he share the responsibility for their son. She smiled to herself at the memory of waking up in the middle of the night to the sounds of singing coming from the nursery, only to find her husband pacing up and down the floor, rocking baby Harry in his arms, singing “The First Nowell” in a soft baritone.

  About an hour after the party had left, Alice finished studding the orange with cloves. She added a velvet ribbon as a final flourish, then set it aside, reached for her shawl and went to the kitchen. It always seemed inefficient to ring the bell to summon two servants to make her a cup of hot chocolate, when she was perfectly capable of retrieving it herself. And with no guests in the house, there was nobody to witness her flouting society’s rules—not that her friends, even the imposing Duke of Westbury, would disapprove of such informality.

  She pushed open the kitchen door and froze. Mrs. Bascomb stood by the back door, together with Jacob, the head groom. They were deep on conversation and Mrs. Bascomb seemed to be crying.

  “Mrs. Bascomb!” Alice exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?” The two servants looked up, guilt on their faces.

  “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Trelawney,” the cook said, “but it’s Miss Amelia’s little dog. She’s escaped again.”

  “Is that all?” Alice laughed. “If I know Twinkle, you’ll find her in my chamber, curled up in Monty’s basket with poor Monty relegated to the floor.”

  Mrs. Bascomb shook her head. “No, ma’am, she’s gone outside!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, quite sure,” came the reply. “The little mite was in the kitchen with me, begging for scraps. When Jacob came in for his supper after he’d seen to the master’s carriage, the door caught in a gust of wind and banged against the wall. Ever so loud it was. The poor little thing bolted right outside the door! I didn’t worry at first, ma’am, as she’s run off before, but she’s not back yet and it’s been over an hour.”

  “An hour!” Alice cried. “She’s been outside for that long?”

  Mrs. Bascomb colored and looked down. “Forgive me, ma’am, I was so busy seeing to Jacob’s supper and preparing for tomorrow, I clean forgot about the little thing.”

  “Well, let us look for her now,” Alice said. “She can’t have gone far. I daresay she’s hiding in the wood store.”

  She pulled the door open and was met with a blast of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.

  “Have a care, ma’am,” the groom said. “It’s rare cold out there.”

  The three of them stepped out into the yard. Jacob approached the woodstore, and raised his lantern, throwing a beam of light over the neatly-piled stack of logs.

  “No sign of her, ma’am.”

  He swung round and Alice caught sight of a pattern of marks in the snow.

  “Jacob!” she cried. “Shine your light toward the chicken coop. I thought I saw something.”

  He raised the lantern and Alice gave a cry.

  “There!”

  A trail of marks stretched out on front of them, and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Them’s pawprints to be sure, ma’am,” Jacob said, “and they’re going in the direction of Boscarne House.”

  Boscarne House!

  Alice’s heart sank as icy fingers clutched at her insides. Only yesterday, Mr. Scrimgeour had threatened to kill the little dog if he saw her again. What would happen if Twinkle were caught in his property?

  Alice would never forgive herself if anything happened to Amelia’s beloved pet. The poor child would be heartbroken. And for what? Alice’s pride. Had she told Ross about Mr. Scrimgeour’s threats, he would have confronted the man. But she’d kept i
t a secret.

  And now, Twinkle was in danger.

  “What shall we do?” Mrs. Bascomb asked. “The master’s forbidden us to go there.”

  “But he’s not forbidden me,” Alice said.

  “On no, Mrs. Trelawney, ma’am! You cannot go in your condition!” Mrs. Bascomb cried.

  “I feel fine,” Alice said. “A walk will do me good, and it’s not far.”

  “At least take Jacob with you,” Mrs. Bascomb said. “You’ll go with the mistress, won’t you Jacob?”

  Alice shook her head. “No, you must both stay here and search the house in case Twinkle returns. It’s no further than my regular walks. I can be there and back in less than an hour. And I’m not afraid of Mr. Scrimgeour. Jacob, give me the lantern.”

  The two servants exchanged resigned glances. They knew enough of their mistress by now to understand that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Which was just as well, for she didn’t have time to argue.

  Snow had begun to fall again, settling on the ground, glistening in the moonlight and covering the pawprints. Soon they’d disappear altogether.

  Alice raised the lantern and cried out.

  “Twinkle!”

  Her voice disappeared into the wind and she forged ahead, following the trail.

  Boscarne House loomed up in the distance, a dark shape which seemed to absorb what little light there was. Alice shivered—though not from the cold. A faint light flickered in an upper floor window, giving the impression of a soulless eye frowning out across the landscape.

  Alice slipped through the gate into the stableyard. With luck, the owner was inside the house, indulging in in his solitary existence, and he’d never know about the trespassers.

  The wind gave a low howl and a shiver of fear rippled through her body. It almost sounded like…

  The howl rose up again and her blood froze.

  It wasn’t the wind. Neither did it sound human. She raised the lantern, but there was nothing there, only the squat rectangular shape of the stables.

  Foolish woman!