The Peace of Christmas Yet to Come: Sweet Regency Romance (A Dickens of a Christmas Book 3)

by L G Rollins

  Lady Fitzroy opened the parlor door and all but pushed her inside. The room was a cacophony of voices, random notes plucked on the pianoforte, and laughter. The joy of the room reached her; she could hear it, see it, but it didn’t sink in. It didn’t do anything to lessen the weight building in her chest.

  “Never you mind His Grace,” Lady Fitzroy said. “He’s just another stubborn, foolish man, if you ask me.” She sighed loudly. “It’s a shame, really; the world has so many already.”

  Any other day, Martha might have been tempted to laugh, but just now, she couldn’t seem to muster the energy.

  Lady Fitzroy turned to her suddenly, eying her up and down. “Have you had a London Season, dear? I don’t recall seeing you at Almack’s or at the opera.”

  “No, I haven’t.” She’d actually never even seen London. All those plans had ended when her parents had been buried.

  Lady Fitzroy listed her head. “Perhaps we could find you another less boorish gentleman to occupy your time?”

  “Thank you, but no.” The last thing she felt like doing right now was trying to hold up a conversation.

  Lady Fitzroy turned, pressing her shoulder up close to Martha’s, and surveyed the room. “What is your impression of Mr. Allen? Or Lord Comerford? You know,” her voice dropped, “we have finally uncovered his secret. Should I tell you? Yes, I think I shall. I happened to be in the room when Lord Comerford dropped a small letter from his jacket. I wondered if some woman hadn’t sent it to him, so I retrieved it before a scandal ensued. Of course,” she whispered lower, “I peeked at it before returning it. Would you believe the letter was from his father, demanding he wed and settle down, or be cut off completely?”

  Martha only stared at the distant wall, not wanting to be caught staring at any one person. If what Lady Fitzroy said was true, then that would account for Lord Comerford’s sudden disinterest in her. She was not the kind of woman he would ever deign to marry. With Martha, he had only been seeking entertainment. Folly. Now that he was forced to seek a wife in earnest, she was beneath his notice. Regardless, she was most glad for at least that one change in her situation.

  “Well,” Lady Fitzroy said, her voice no longer hushed, “you have a seat, and I promise we’ll find you a better conversationalist before dinner.” With that, she moved off toward the other guests.

  Martha spotted a chair, a little removed from the rest of the room, and made her way that direction instead. Though she was pleased to know Lord Comerford was not likely to repeat his addresses toward her, even that bit of relief was not enough to put her in a good mood. Ironically, the chair a bit removed was the same one His Grace had sat in that first morning she’d been here.

  She took it now, but not because he’d once sat in it. She took it for the same reasons he had that morning—or so she could only assume. It was a bit removed, and near a good window. And between her and it, there was a small table holding a book. Had the Duke of Pembroke read it last? Her eyes moved over the title three times, but not once did the letters form into coherent words in her mind.

  Not that it mattered. She picked up the book and lifted it in front of her eyes. Martha didn’t bother to actually read, she simply wanted the others to leave her alone.

  What had come over His Grace while they’d been out in the corridor? Why had he not simply spoken? Perhaps the Cratchit family was wearing out their welcome. When she’d first come knocking on his door in the middle of the night, she’d never expected to be staying at Stonewell Castle for days on end. As soon as Tim turned for the better—she refused to dwell on the alternative—they would pack and return to their rented rooms.

  Of course, there would still be doctor visits to arrange and pay for. Tim would need regular checks for the next several months, at least. Perhaps she should reconsider Peter’s suggestion that they put on a mummers’ play. As soon as they left Stonewell Castle, their situation would be dire, indeed.

  “Miss Cratchit?”

  So much for solitude. Martha lowered her book a bit and found Lord Birks bowing before her. “Might I join you?”

  “Of course.” Martha tried to sound pleased at the company. No doubt this was Lady Fitzroy’s doing, though whether she thought her son “pleasant company” or simply realized he was the only other option, Martha wasn’t sure. They seemed to tease one another quite often, but Martha hadn’t been able to decide yet if the teasing was a cover for how much they truly cared for one another, or simply their way of putting up with someone they wished they could disown.

  He gave her a smile and then stepped toward a chair several paces away, one that matched her own. He dragged it closer to her, angling it out so that they could both watch the room while still conversing comfortably.

  “This has been rather a dull Christmas, has it not?” he said, sitting.

  Martha returned the book—still completely unaware of the title or contents—to the side table. “I’m afraid I would be rather a poor judge.”

  “Ah, yes, because you have been up in your brother’s room all this time.”

  She nodded.

  “Forgive my forwardness, but is he truly so ill?”

  The tears she was fighting moments ago stung her eyes once more. “The doctor is uncertain he will make a recovery.”

  Lord Birks tutted, sounding quite like his mother. “Blasted shame, that.”

  Martha blinked several times, but still the room around her blurred. She ducked her head to keep from being seen, struggling against her tears.

  A soft handkerchief was pressed into her hands. Martha turned toward Lord Birks to express her gratitude, only the moment she caught sight of him, it was clear it hadn’t been him who’d offered it. A man loomed before her, but not just any man; she knew those boots, those breeches, that jacket.

  With a hard scowl and a quick nod, His Grace sent Lord Birks hurrying toward the other side of the room. Martha’s gaze dropped back to the handkerchief in her hands. The chair made a low scritch as His Grace pushed it yet closer to her then a groan as he sat in it.

  Still, she didn’t look up at him. Instead, she turned the handkerchief over in her hands. A heavily flourished “P” was embroidered in one corner.

  “You didn’t have to chase him away,” she whispered, low enough only he would hear.

  “He made you cry.”

  As though to prove his point, a tear dropped away from her eye, landing on the handkerchief and darkening it. Martha finally lifted it to her face, brushing hard and fast at her eyes.

  “He only showed a bit of concern for Tim,” she said.

  “And that brought on the t-t-tears?” His voice, too, was much too low for anyone but her to hear.

  After being rejected by someone she’d thought of as a friend? Yes, it had.

  Martha only gave him a half shrug, then dabbed at her eyes a bit more. If he was so insistent on communicating without words, he could just interpret that bit of expression without any help from her.

  If he understood or not, she didn’t know, because he simply fell silent. Which was quite infuriating. Squeezing his handkerchief tight in her hands, Martha stood.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace, but I think I shall go lie down now.”

  He stood and nodded his agreement, but his eyes held uncertainty. “Of course. I know how hard it is to—be forever in company with . . . insincere actors.”

  Is that what he thought? That she was wanting to get away from his guests?

  Martha eyed him but couldn’t make out the heavy expression he wore. A not-so-small part of her wished they could just go back to what they’d been. Back to the church house, back to speaking freely without worrying about those listening in. Back to when she believed she was his friend. His speech impediment made no difference to her, but that hardly mattered if he insisted on it making a difference to him. And it did matter, else he wouldn’t be so silent all the cursed time.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She dipped a small curtsy and turned to leave.

  He took
hold of her hand, drawing her back gently. “Call me Hugh, please.”

  A strange sensation heated Martha’s cheeks. Her gaze met his. There was warmth there as well. She felt herself lean in, ever so slightly. The feel of his hand holding hers seemed quite the only thing she could think about.

  But then, the sounds of voices from the other side of the room reached her. The laughter, the merriment.

  She didn’t belong in this place, in a room packed with titles and wealth. She had wanted to believe the duke didn’t care, that he was starting to make room for her, to open himself up to her in ways he didn’t—he wouldn’t—for others. But from moment to moment, she never knew which version of the duke she would encounter. One minute he acted as though he wanted to let her in, the next he cast her aside and treated her like the rest of his guests. He wasn’t really going to make room for her. Not truly. She near thought it impossible for him to do so. And her heart couldn’t bear to hope for something that would never come to be.

  Martha pulled her hand from his. “No.”

  Turning, she hurried out of the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two days had passed, and still, Tim’s fever would not let up. It hadn’t grown worse, but that alone was Martha’s consolation. For the moment, she needed to focus on something else, anything to keep her mind occupied.

  Martha pulled on another bit of fabric, the long costume dress falling out of the trunk and onto her lap where she sat on the floor. Holding the shoulders of the dress, Martha held it up and looked it over. It would make for a fine medieval princess, but what she needed was clothing for a knight. Setting it down, she pulled out something with more of a silver hue to it.

  She’d taken to avoiding conversations with Hugh—she pressed her lips tighter together and corrected herself—with the Duke of Pembroke. Gracious, ever since he’d invited her to use his Christian name, she’d hardly been able to think of him any other way. It was highly improper of him to suggest she do so.

  Martha held up the clothing. It shimmered almost like armor in the sunlight that filtered through her bedchamber window. It was another dress, though it wasn’t particularly elegant. Hardly more than a bit of draped fabric, really. With a bit of work, it might be made to look like a soldier’s garb.

  “This is the last of it, miss,” a maid said as she pushed her way into the room, carrying another heavy-looking trunk between her hands. “And I think there are some old masquerade masks in this one.”

  “Thank you, Anne.” Redoing a few masks to wear would help make sure no one recognized either her, Peter, or Grandfather during the performance.

  The maid set the trunk down beside the other three she’d already brought and then stood. “Have you found anything suitable?”

  Martha held up the silver gown. “Do you think this could pass as a knight’s uniform if done up differently?”

  Anne tipped her head to the side, looking it over. “I think it might, but it would require a bit of sewing.”

  Yes, it would. “Do you suppose His Grace would be overly upset if I altered one of the costumes his mother made?”

  Anne’s smile instantly fell. “Oh, I wouldn’t know, miss. He was right curious when I told him you wanted these things to begin with.”

  Martha had only known to ask after the trunks because she’d overheard Lady Fitzroy speaking of the masquerades the late Duchess had always held. She’d hoped the lady had saved her costumes and had been pleased when the servants informed her she had. It was perhaps cowardly that she hadn’t inquired with the duke herself about her use of them, but avoiding the man was so much easier than willing her heart into submission whenever she was in his presence.

  Martha turned back to the dress, setting it aside with the other two that she’d found and liked. “If he wants to know what I’m about, you can tell him he’s free to come and inquire any time he wishes.” At least he’d granted Anne the permission she sought. She hadn’t been sure when she sent a maid to speak to him on her behalf that he would relent.

  Martha glanced over at Anne, who was suddenly pale and silent.

  “Heavens no, miss,” Anne said. “I couldn’t say that.”

  Oh, dear; she’d upset the girl. She hadn’t meant to.

  “Of course not,” Martha said quickly. “I was only expressing my displeasure at His Grace’s continued silence.”

  “He’s always been that way. Ever since he was a boy.”

  Yes, that was not hard to believe. Not now that she’d seen the way he acted around other people. Martha reached for a deep red sleeve but didn’t pull it out.

  “I suppose he has his reasons,” she said slowly as she fingered the fabric. What had that been like, to grow up struggling with something everyone else found so easy, so natural? Struggling with something that was so necessary?

  “He’s a duke, miss. He don’t need more of a reason than that, as I sees it.”

  “Perhaps.” Martha turned her gaze back to Anne. “And you promise to not tell any of the other guests, or even any other servants about this?”

  “That you’ve asked me, and that I’ve agreed to.”

  “Thank you.” Like her job for the vicar, if these new plans were known to anyone, it wouldn’t reflect well on her or her family.

  Anne curtsied and left the room.

  Martha slowly pulled the deep red dress onto her lap, but she didn’t look at it much. The longer she thought on the duke and his so-called friends, the more she thought perhaps she did understand the duke’s hesitance to speak. His guests were nice enough individuals, save Lord Comerford and perhaps Lady Wilmington and Harriet, but she couldn’t see any of them overlooking something as out of the ordinary as a man who struggled to speak.

  Moreover, Anne’s comment made it sound as though not everyone knew of Hugh’s situation. Had life been so hard on him that he’d simply chosen to hide? To shield such a thing from the neighborhood was one thing, but to hide it from his own staff and servants? She’d believed he hadn’t spoken when she requested it because of his pride and potential embarrassment, but if his guests didn’t know he stuttered? That might change her view of things.

  Martha shook her head. It was more than she could figure out at the moment. She lifted up the red dress. She could use this one as well. Pushing Hugh and everyone else from her mind, Martha quickly looked through what was left in the trunk before her and the new one Anne had brought. All in all, she was fairly sure there was enough here to make all the costumes she would need.

  Next on her list was to speak to Peter and Grandfather about her new idea.

  She found Peter in Tim’s room. Grandfather, like herself, was not being allowed time away from his employ simply because Tim was sick. He’d left for Dunwell before she had returned from the church house that morning.

  Thank goodness for Peter. Though her littlest brother rarely opened his eyes, Martha could have sworn he rested better when Peter was in the room. Perhaps he simply knew when his brother was about, even subconsciously.

  Catching sight of the mound of fabric in Martha’s arms, Peter stood, his brow raised high, his forgotten paper soldiers left on the floor at his feet. “What do you have?”

  “Costumes,” Martha said, sure to keep her voice soft so as not to bother Tim.

  “You mean?” Peter’s eyes grew wide.

  Martha nodded. “Yes. We’ll be doing a mummers’ play, after all.”

  Peter cried out, enthusiastic, and threw a fist into the air. Martha quickly shushed him, a finger to her mouth, though she couldn’t help but smile. She glanced over at Tim. He rolled over but didn’t wake.

  “Sorry, Martha,” Peter said, dropping his voice as he hurried up to her. “Do I get to be St. George?”

  “Yes, and I thought Grandfather would make a fine doctor.”

  “Can he bring me back to life twice? Or maybe even three times?”

  Martha sat the many costumes down on a nearby chair. “I think it’s customary for St. George to only die once.” She
pulled the silver dress out and held it up to Peter.

  “Is it customary for him to wear a dress?” Peter said with a grimace.

  “Silly, I plan to remake it. This will be your armor.”

  “Can you add some dark red spots on it, like dried on blood?”

  “Peter!”

  He only held his hands up. “I’m supposed to be a knight.”

  “Well, that’s no cause to be morbid.”

  Tim let out a little sigh and they both glanced his way. He was still sleeping. At least he didn’t appear to be fitful. He had been yesterday, but Doctor Lock had only given him more laudanum and said they still needed to wait and see.

  “Tim will be sad not to be the dragon,” Peter said.

  “Yes, he certainly will be.” But enough dwelling on their sadness. She turned back to Peter. “Perhaps next year.” She didn’t see their situation getting any better between now and twelve months hence. She saw no reason to anticipate them not needing money then, either.

  “He would like that,” Peter said, also returning to his costume. He held it up to himself.

  It would certainly take some sewing. “Actually, Peter, will you go find Anne for me? Ask her for some thread and a needle? If we’re going to be ready anytime soon, I’d better get to work right away.”

  “Sure thing.” He pushed the silver dress back toward her and hurried from the room. Martha smiled after him. She hadn’t seen him this excited for months. It was nice to see him like this. She turned her gaze back toward the silver dress. Now, if she could only find a way to turn this decidedly feminine attire into something masculine and knightly. Her governess had insisted she practice her sewing often as a little girl, but this was going to put her skills to the test.

  The door behind her creaked as it opened.

  Martha turned toward her brother. “That was rather fast, even for you, Pe—”

  But it wasn’t Peter. It was Hugh. He stepped into the room, glancing over at Tim. Martha’s own gaze jumped that direction. The little boy lay with his back toward them, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.