“I don’t believe I know that one,” said the entirely too delightful Lady Morrissey.
“Oh, Lexie,” said Claire, perhaps recognizing the New Year’s carol from their youth, warning of bills that followed the holidays and spending more than what was earned—a cautionary tale for wastrels, a jab from her mother to her father. And what better manner of delivery than to employ one’s own daughter to deliver it! Alexandra ignored everyone, desperate to sing the next verse.
Chilling are the bills
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Alexandra peered directly at Ben as she sang one final verse, not caring that she sang completely out of tune and her fingers were missing the keys.
Never spend more than you earn,
Fa. La. La. La. La! La. La! La! La!
She ended the song on a discordant note, realizing only belatedly how much sentiment she’d put into the last fa, la, las.
“My goodness. That certainly isn’t very cheerful,” said Lady Morrissey. “Someone should rewrite those atrocious lyrics.”
Surprised by her outburst, even Ben looked appalled. His brow furrowed, and he looked at her as though she were a viper that had slid out from beneath the settee and she suddenly felt like one too.
It was all too much!
Alexandra was suddenly ashamed.
“I… I… am sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” She put a hand to her belly, and said, “I… I don’t feel very well.” And without another word, she rose up, pushing away from the pianoforte, nearly tripping over the bench in her hasty escape.
In all her life she had never dared succumb to such vociferousness, and in doing so now, she didn’t feel any better. To the contrary, she felt far worse than before, and so much as she’d tried to stay strong, she needed desperately to cry.
* * *
“There, there,” said Claire, patting Alexandra on the back.
How many times had they comforted each other just so? Ofttimes, it was Alexandra comforting Claire through some bit of outrage, most notably over the world’s many injustices. Claire was precisely the sort to hand out pamphlets in the park or scold a man for shouting at his wife. And really, Lexie had understood that inclination only too well, so she’d often told Claire all the same things she told herself in order to tamp down her own sense of outrage: Not everything in life was fair—this wasn’t: the simple fact that her father had effectively destroyed her two most cherished relationships, not to mention her relationship with her mother as well.
And yet, though Claire had so often taken the weight of the world upon her shoulders, she had never once been spiteful. Alexandra could never again claim such a thing.
Laying atop the strange bed she was meant to share with her dearest friend—perhaps for the last time ever—she sobbed inconsolably into a fat, fluffy pillow.
Claire sat beside her, patting her tangled hair, and for the briefest instant—so fleeting an instant—it felt as though nothing really had changed, that they were still young women, fresh-faced and ignorant of all the ills life held in store. Except… that was no longer the case… they were not in familiar surroundings. These bedrooms with their oak-paneled walls and shuttered windows were not at all brightly lit or cheery. Never mind all the scandals they had seen; Alexandra herself had never behaved so poorly!
Claire’s life was taking a beautiful, magical turn—she was marrying a prince, quite literally. And meanwhile, Lexie was left to choke on her grief. And here, again, she lay sobbing on account of Ben—that terrible, heartless cad!
How many tears had she shed over him by now?
And mostly over these past six months.
“I am so, so sorry,” said Claire. “I didn’t realize… I should never have asked you to play for us.”
“No! Please! Don’t be sorry,” Alexandra wailed. “We are celebrating, after all!”
“Yes, well,” said Claire, tilting her head. “Still, I didn’t realize you were feeling so… melancholy. And I really should have remembered… this time of year has always been so difficult for you.”
Alexandra swallowed convulsively, rolling over onto her back, swiping tears from her eyes as she faced her best friend.
Who else in her life would know such a thing—that she cried despondently nearly every single Christmas?
“Please, Claire… don’t feel badly,” she said. “You had every right to ask.”
“Oh, Lexie… I do hope you will come to spend holidays with me in Meridian. I promise you; I will see to it you are pampered and adored.”
Alexandra wiped her eyes yet again and then hiccoughed, realizing that, no matter how many tears Claire had watched her shed, Claire could never truly understand.
It had never been easy with her parents so at odds, but it was downright miserable after her mother refused to allow Ben and Claire to join them in Shropshire. In retrospect, Alexandra had only ever been despondent when not in their company, and only ever aware of her misery because of the stark comparisons of their households. In so many, many ways, their relationship was a double-edged sword, and even so, Alexandra couldn’t bear the thought of losing her dearest friends—and, yes, this included Ben.
Somehow that was the worst of it all. “I’m only sad to be losing you,” she confessed.
Claire’s expression softened. She tilted Lexie a questioning glance. “Losing me? Why ever would you think so?”
Alexandra swallowed yet again, only this time with great difficulty, because the knob in her throat seemed to have grown large enough to choke her.
“You are not losing me,” insisted Claire, and she reached out to take Alexandra by the hand, squeezing very gently. “You will never lose me, Lexie! You’re my oldest, dearest friend, and this you will always be, no matter where I live. And really, I have so much to thank you for…”
Alexandra grimaced, only thinking about all her father had done to Claire. “Equally as much to spite me for as well.”
“This is not true,” said Claire, shaking her head. “I already told you, Lexie. I do not blame you for what your father did. He was a despicable man, but you, his only daughter, are no less his victim. And if you do not mind me saying so, your mother is a selfish prig!” She lifted Alexandra’s hand and pressed it to her breast, hugging it fiercely.
Lexie swallowed yet again. “Your brother blames me.”
“He does not!”
“Oh, but he does, Claire! I see it in his face whenever he looks at me.”
Despondent over the thought, Alexandra began to sob again, tears spilling from her eyes as she remembered the bitterness in Ben’s words and that horrid look in his eyes as he’d tossed away that drupe. Bittersweet though it might have been, that kiss was a memory Alexandra cherished, and he was willing to throw it away so easily!
“Ben…” Claire paused for a long moment to better consider her words. “I must admit, he’s still quite troubled by his time in Fleet. I cannot imagine what atrocities he endured there. But I promise you, Lexie, he will get over it, and I must confess, I did hope that in close proximity you two might find a way to come together.”
Lexie remained silent, fervently wishing the same. It was bad enough that Claire would be leaving London… only with Ben she might bear it…
“It would please me immensely to know you were… close. Supporting each other in my absence.” She squeezed Lexie’s hand yet again, then let go, and then she, too, laid down on the bed to gaze up at the ceiling.
“When will you leave?”
Claire sighed. “The end of February.”
“How wonderful,” said Alexandra, and then… really… she didn’t know what else to say.
She had always dreamt Claire would stand for her at her own wedding, and she would stand for Claire…
“I’ve asked Chloe and Lady Morrissey to stand as my bridesmaids,” Claire said finally, as though reading Alexandra’s mind.
“How nice.”
“Very,” said Claire, reaching out and taking h
er again by the hand, lacing her fingers through Alexandra’s. “And you… I rather hoped you would stand as my first bridesmaid… will you?”
“Me?”
Claire nodded.
Bleary eyed, Alexandra tightened her throat so she wouldn’t sob like a baby, and then they laid together without speaking, holding hands.
“I don’t have a dress,” Alexandra said after a while, but that wasn’t a refusal… to the contrary, nothing would give her more pleasure.
“Oh, but you do,” said Claire, with a smile in her voice. “I was going to give it you when I asked… not here, but at home. The dressmaker from Courtauld’s made it in your favorite color.”
“Blue,” said Alexandra with a hitch to her voice. It wasn’t a question.
“Blue,” said Claire.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to stand at your wedding.”
“Good,” said Claire. And then there was nothing more to say. They were two old friends lying side by side, staring at the ceiling, and nothing would ever change that—not even marriage.
“Shouldn’t you go down and tend to your guests?”
“Oh, no,” said, Claire, with a smile in her tone. “They’ll fare well enough without us. It’s time to retire anyway, and…” She placed a hand to her belly. “I’m afraid you’re not the only one who overindulged.”
Alexandra giggled drunkenly, thinking of the first time Claire ever tried arrack punch—that night of her party at Vauxhall Gardens, at some gala planned by the Duchess of Kent. “I did warn you,” Alexandra said.
Claire giggled softly. “But you didn’t heed your own warning.”
Both girls fell into sudden fits of giggles, squeezing each other’s hands. They laughed until they couldn’t any longer, then sighed contentedly.
“Say Claire… do you remember that night of Merrick’s reception?”
“How could I ever forget?”
“That look on your face when Merrick put the ring on your finger!”
“Ian,” Claire corrected.
“Ian,” said Alexandra. “He’s nice,” she relented.
“He is, and so is Prince Merrick… if you’ll give him a chance.”
Alexandra tried to reconcile that man belowstairs with the man she’d met at Almacks—the one who’d made googly eyes at his wife and tried so hard to put a stranger at ease at the dinner table. “I suppose there’s more to everyone than meets the eye,” she said.
“Yes, which brings me to Ben,” she said. “Really, Alexandra, you must know he blames himself.” Claire squeezed her hand. “He’ll never speak an ill word of my father, but you must know that my father left us in too deep, and Ben… well, he tried to save us.”
“Really?” said Alexandra, turning to look at Claire in surprise, and Claire nodded very soberly. “But I thought—”
Claire shook her head, knowing only too well what Alexandra must have thought… that Ben was the one responsible for all their woes.
“I see,” said Lexie, and suddenly she did. She understood something she didn’t before… Ben didn’t so much blame Lexie… he blamed himself… no less than she blamed him as well. It was no wonder he’d responded so coldly to her… he knew her well enough to see it all in her eyes… so then… if she wanted that to change, she must look at him another way…
“Feel better?” asked Claire.
Alexandra smiled. “I do,” she said. “I really do.”
Chapter 7
21 December
Rule No. 7:
On Keeping It Quick.
A kiss beneath the mistletoe must be quick and close-lipped. Only a peck upon the cheek or the lips will do. If a napkin is required after, then you have done it all wrong!
The very next morning, Alexandra encountered Ben in the gallery, with his hat in hand, studying a portrait. Embarrassed by her outburst in the parlor last evening, she longed to slip away unnoticed, but he peered up the stairwell to catch her eye, and she was forced to put on a brave face.
“Morning,” she said, but not so coolly as she’d spoken to him yesterday evening.
“Morning,” he replied.
It was only belatedly that she realized he had a hat-full of mistletoe and she tilted him a questioning look.
“This,” he said, tilting the hat so she could see that it was already full to the brim. “I thought I’d spare us both,” he said with a sheepish smile.
He couldn’t help himself.
Ben swallowed as Alexandra approached. She was a vision this morning with that bright red ribbon tied about her ivory dress, looking like a Christmas present he’d like to unwrap… lovely as ever, though something seemed entirely different this morning… different, but inherently familiar… and seeing the Lexie he recognized only made him all the more determined to spare her the grief of having to endure all this mistletoe.
Damn Claire and her meddling.
He reached up, meaning to pluck down a sprig that was hanging from the chandelier in the foyer, but Alexandra approached him and reached up to stay his hand… “Don’t,” she whispered.
Ben swallowed convulsively. The scent of her was entirely too intoxicating… painfully familiar and he winced. She touched his hand very gently and withdrew as though burned.
“It’s not for us,” she said, and Ben stared miserably into his hat… remembering another time he’d stood before Alexandra with his hat in his hand, only begging… alas, he wouldn’t do that ever again…
Beg.
Already, he’d swept through the house, and managed to remove every last sprig downstairs, except this one…
Alexandra smiled conspiratorially. “How will Lady Morrissey entertain herself if you take them all away,” she asked, and he peered up to find a familiar glint in her eyes.
“Right,” he said, with a bit of a smirk. “I’ll put them back.”
“I’ll help,” she said, and without another word spoken between them, they rehung the mistletoe, then parted ways. This time, when Ben watched her go, he didn’t find her quite so vexing… nor himself quite so tormented.
* * *
In rare winter form, the snow continued to fall—more than six heavy inches over the course of two short days.
It was barely cold enough to keep the snow from melting, but not quite cold enough to keep it light and fluffy. The air itself was permeated with a dampness that sank straight into the bones, and there it remained. And therefore, the building of snowmen, or truly, any outdoor enterprise was less than desirable, particularly for those who did not plan for inclement weather—namely Alexandra.
All the fireplaces throughout the residence were lit and kept tended. Activities of preferences were any such endeavor that kept them near to the hearths. All except for singing by the pianoforte. No one else could play well enough to accompany, and Alexandra was too abashed to give it another go.
Using the drift-covered roads as an excuse, the Duchess and her brood did, indeed, end their journey at Hampton Court Palace (even despite the fact that only a mere seven hundred meters separated the Pavilion from the Palace). But that was well and good. Victoria was closer to Merrick’s father than she was to Ian or Merrick, and perhaps knowing their father wasn’t planning to attend the holiday, she was far less inclined to be present.
And really, although poor Drina was more than accustomed to adult company, it would seem a tad gauche to involve her in a holiday with so many twains. Alexandra herself might have considered it perfectly gauche to be invited, though she was beginning to catch a notion of what Claire had intended. And, it seemed to Lexie that God himself must be conspiring with Claire, because in these parts, they rarely experienced snow days, and when they did arrive, it was already melted by eventide. Quite to the contrary, it was piling upon windowsills, frosting panes, and generally turning everything white, white, white.
So, it seemed, Claire had some less than angelic help as well…
Chloe might be perfectly innocent of their schemes, but Lady Morrissey was conspir
ing even unto the finer details. Her attention was ever on the sprigs of mistletoe, which she appeared to be moving suspiciously, hither and thither. Either she was placing them strategically for her own designs… else she was plotting… with Claire.
And whatever her true intent, it didn’t stop her from teasing Mr. Cameron every chance she got, greedily collecting mistletoe kisses.
In fact, their behavior was scandalous, locking lips, and suckling faces at every juncture in the house.
Regrettably, however, Alexandra no longer had any taste for gossip, and far more than stir her sense of scandalmongering, it fortified her resolve to avoid it at every cost—equally so much as she was resigned to avoiding Ben, as well as the mistletoe.
Ben, too, had made himself scarce after their meeting in the foyer. He and Alexandra formed an unspoken truce, avoiding each other whenever possible, and so it was that when everyone retired to the drawing room for another game of charades, and Ben decided to join them, Alexandra declined the invitation. Instead, she set out to find herself a safe location to sketch—not in the foyer, nor the ballroom, nor the gallery, nor the music room, nor the dining room, nor the study. All of these rooms were infested with mistletoe.
“Alexandra!” she heard Claire call as she passed by the parlor, but this time Lexie daren’t be caught. Unfortunately, it was beginning to feel as though her only recourse was to trespass into someone’s bedroom, or hide away in the servant’s quarters… or…
She found the library only by chance, hidden away behind another gallery. One glance about the room revealed it to be entirely free of mistletoe. No doubt Claire believed it would be the one place in the house she would have no interest in, which only proved how clandestine Alexandra had been about her studies. And meanwhile, Claire was rarely without a tome in hand, and never much cared one way or another whether she might be called a bluestocking. Her own father had lovingly called her a solitudinarian—a thing Alexandra was learning to appreciate, if not entirely by choice.
The Art of Kissing Beneath the Mistletoe Page 7