by Edith Layton
He’d asked for her hand at the end of it. If that wasn’t a miracle, Maude didn’t know what was. It made the loaves and the fishes look like mere sleight of hand. He, Miles Randal deForest, Viscount Southwood, had asked for her hand in marriage. And had been kind enough not to laugh when she’d grown pale, then red, then pale again, and almost fainted. She would have, except that she’d refused to let anything make her miss that first kiss.
Now, three children and almost two decades later, she still couldn’t entirely believe her good fortune. Merely nice little Miss Maudie had married Miles deForest, Lord Southwood, and was living happily ever after. And still not quite believing it.
She was almost out of breath by the time she reached the drive, and so she lost it altogether when she saw him. Because the sight of him, even now, even after all these years, always caused her breath to hitch. Tall, elegantly made with wide shoulders and narrow hips, his thick dark hair was black as night against the background of sun-dazzled snow, his gray eyes danced with dark light as he saw her. He was not handsome, not as young, blond Mr. Clarence was. Not in the least. He was less, and more. He was craggy and lean, and outrageously attractive, as only he could be.
She flew into his arms and rested one moment there before she danced away so as not to embarrass herself, or him. He was her husband. She’d gone to bed with him last night and waked with him this morning as she had for almost a score of years, and yet she never got over the thrill at seeing him after an absence. Even if it was only of an hour. She shook her head, causing a cascade of hair to cover her blushes. After all this time—it was a miracle. She wasn’t sure if the miracle was the joy she took in him, or the fact that he remained with her, and she didn’t want to know.
He looked at what she was carrying. “Holly,” he said in a deep voice warmed by withheld laughter. “All the way from the woodland? But you could have saved yourself the trouble. There’s so much in the drive. We could have Cullen cut all you want. They need trimming anyhow.”
“You know better than that,” she giggled.
“Oh, yes, my little witch woman must have her holy holly. Now aside from being difficult to say,” he mused as he fell into step with her and they paced toward the house, “isn’t there a contradiction there? Considering it’s a heathen plant, growing by a pagan well?”
“Indeed?” she said, as if she hadn’t said the same thing every Christmas for years. “Tell Saint Ethelinda that, then. It’s her well now.”
“Only because the church decided that if you can’t get rid of it, you might as well name it and call it your own idea. Saint Ethelinda isn’t famous for much around here but coming to grief by that well—and mistletoe and holly are Druid charms, and grow on Druid oaks…but where’s the mistletoe?” he asked, peering into her basket. “Or have you decided you don’t want my kisses at Christmas anymore?”
She blushed. She wished she could say, “Oh, but I do!” and cast herself into his arms. She couldn’t. She hadn’t been able to when they were first married because she’d been too overwhelmed by him. And she couldn’t now because he’d think she’d run mad, to fling herself at him after all these years—although she yearned to do it.
“Children had stripped the lower branches by the time I got there. I’ll go back with a stepping stool later.”
“I’ll do it for you if you like,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she said, embarrassed by what he must think was her childishness. “It’s a cold, damp day and a long way, and you have to be at the station when Simon arrives.”
“My leg’s not bothering me today,” he said quietly. “And even if it was, I can ride.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” she said too quickly. “But you don’t have to trouble yourself. Truly. It’s my pleasure, you know.”
She cast a worried glance at him. He didn’t seem to be in pain, although a west wind often caused his old war wound to ache like a bad memory. He had a slight limp. Damp and cold made it worse. She often thought that the one small impediment must vex him even more because he was otherwise all grace and fluid movement. She thought that was why he made far too much of it when it was new. It had taken her weeks of coaxing and joking to get him to partner her in the waltz that long-past summer.
“You’re supposed to slip and sway when you waltz. Dips are built right into it,” she’d argued. “I don’t doubt you’ll be better at it than anyone there because of your leg,” she’d insisted as he’d sat beside her, laughing, the lines of pain in his face momentarily erased by his merriment.
He had eventually danced with her. And she had been so overjoyed to find herself in his arms that she hadn’t had to say a word—hadn’t dared to—her stunned delight was so obvious.
He paused by the door and looked down at her now. “I could get you the mistletoe,” he said again. “I’ve time, if you wish.”
“I could drive to the station to collect our son and his guest, you know,” she said as gravely. “But I’ve my jobs, and you have yours.” And the wind was picking up, and though he denied it, she knew his leg could not be entirely free of pain, not with more snow coming. She listed her chores: “I have to get the mistletoe, visit Zoe and promise her I’ll send Simon to her straightaway when he arrives, set Philip some tasks so he doesn’t go mad with boredom, get Mother’s and Father’s rooms set just the way they like them, see to the puddings and cookies, and make sure Cook has everything—and then set out all the ornaments for that walloping great tree. Christmas used to be simpler,” she complained. “Our queen has given me a great deal more work to do, now that we must drag in a whole tree as well as half the woodland at Christmastime.”
“And how you hate that,” he said gently, “don’t you, little ladybird?”
Her gaze grew tender as his half smile was. He’d called her that on their wedding night, when she’d been so ashamed of all the freckles on her white skin. “Ladybird,” he’d breathed as he’d taken her two hands in his to stop her covering herself. “Ladybird,” he’d said against her skin as he’d kissed each tiny one of them as she’d shivered in shocked embarrassment and sheer delight. “My own little speckled ladybird. Fly away home, to me.”
She shivered now, in sweet remembrance. He knew it, and dropped a light kiss on her cheek. She held his shoulders for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing in the clean scent of him. Then she remembered herself and her duties.
“Off with you,” she said brusquely. “I’ve work to do, and so do you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, then added as he began to walk away, “Oh, yes, I’ve set Martin and the lads to cleaning up the stables for you.”
She looked at him in puzzlement.
“In the spirit of the season,” he said with a smile, “though I didn’t tell them why. But there is a certain unsuperstitious young woman, who doesn’t believe in mistletoe, who nevertheless manages to pay a visit to the stables every Christmas Eve—and has since she was a tot—to hear the animals talk. As they are supposed to do.”
Her fair skin turned holly-berry red. To think he knew that! And had never said, not in all these years.
“Nonsense,” she said gruffly. “I only go to give them a carrot or a bit of sugar cake. Christmas, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, laughing, as he strolled away.
*
She drove the pony cart into town. She didn’t have to; any of the servants would have done her chores for her. But she was too excited and anxious to sit still. Simon was coming home! He’d been at school for months, but for this brief beautiful holiday season he’d be hers again. She was too impulsive and she knew it, but she couldn’t just sit and wait for him. She had to be doing something. Last-minute Christmas chores were a wonderful excuse.
She waved at the vicar and his glamorous guest as she saw them standing in conversation in front of the old church. It was as old as the religion itself in this area, but not a famous place. It was too ancient to appeal to more than scholars, and though it was beautiful, it wasn’t
ornate. Famous men and kings had prayed and been buried elsewhere. In fact, Miles was the most elevated man in the vicinity. That thought made her smile, because a less conceited fellow would be hard to find anywhere. Her own father, the squire, had more self-importance than did the Viscount Southwood.
She kept smiling as she drove down the main street—the only street. It was a very small village, a collection of old tilted shops and eccentric cottages. But everyone was proud of the fact that an eminent journal had once called it one of the prettiest towns in all England. Not a shop that didn’t have flowers in front of it in summer. Nor one that wasn’t swagged with green now. The snow powdered it over until it looked more like a gingerbread treat than an actual town. It didn’t offer a single thing that couldn’t be found cheaper and in more quantity in London. But she and Miles preferred it to London. The city made her nervous, and although Miles had cut a dash in his youth there, he’d come home from the war and said he never longed for it again.
She waved to John Phelps, the blacksmith, as she passed his shop, and found friendly hands to take the reins for her when she stopped the horse and stepped out to shop. She bought extra candies and spices, threads and spools at Jessup’s emporium, and was given holiday greetings with her purchases. Then she went into The Fox and Glove, the village’s only inn. It was tiny, but so old and well-preserved it had actually been noted in a guidebook once. Mr. Apple, the proprietor, served excellent ale and the finest cider in the county. Or so everyone claimed. They ought to know, since everyone in town eventually ended up there sometime during the day.
“A glass of the finest elixir ever coaxed from an apple, my lady?” Alfred the innkeeper asked with a wink when she stepped inside his snug parlor.
He didn’t have to ask. But like his father before him, he always did. She grinned and accepted a glass of cider. “Happy Christmas!” everyone said, just as they did in the street when she left—as if they wouldn’t be seeing her on Christmas Eve, when the carolers went through the village and then on up to The Hall.
She’d see them again at the church on Christmas Day. And then at The Hall. Everyone in town, all their tenants, most of Miles’ family, and all of their friends—they’d all wend their way to The Hall during the holiday. Only her own family was coming to actually stay at The Hall. And her son! she thought with glee as she took up the reins again. Simon was coming home!
She returned to The Hall just as two other coaches pulled up in the drive. One held Miles and Simon, and another boy. Maude scrambled from the gig and stood in the drive with a great, glad, foolish smile on her face. But no one saw her.
Simon clambered down from the coach.
“There he is! I say! Why, look, there he is!” Maude’s father called, pounding with his cane, making his laborious way down the little stair of his coach.
“Dear boy, dear boy!” Maude’s mother sang. She scurried from the coach and, bustling past her husband, got to her grandson first. After a shrug at the boy still sitting on the driver’s seat of the carriage, Simon gallantly allowed himself to be swallowed up by the attentions of both his grandparents.
“I say, he’s grown!” Maude’s father said as Miles stepped down. He slapped Miles on the shoulder to congratulate him on his son.
“Like the veriest weed,” Miles agreed, smiling.
“But what’s this I hear about Philip being ill?” Maude’s mother asked, looking from Simon to Miles with anxiety.
“A trifle, a nothing, don’t fret,” Miles said calmly, knowing they would; knowing that having lost two fine boys in their prime, they’d panic at a hint of illness in their darling grandchildren.
Her mother looked up to see Maude and immediately demanded, “Have you had the doctor in?”
But Maude was watching Simon. He’d grown. She’d seen it when she’d last visited the school, but it was more apparent here, where he’d taken his first steps. He hadn’t grown tall so much as he’d lengthened: his body contours changing from those of a boy to a young man, losing softness and gaining length of limb, and just beginning to show true shoulders. He’d always resembled Miles, but now he was beginning to look like a relative she had met but couldn’t quite place. He was changing, and a part of her ached for the little boy she’d been waiting for.
“Simon,” she said, only that.
He saw her then. She put out her arms, expecting him to run to her and hug her, as always. He took a step—then hesitated. He looked back at the boy sitting high on the carriage.
“Come along, Tim,” he said. “Hello, Mother,” he continued calmly, then, and walked to her. He let her hug him, and as she did, she felt shoulders and elbows and bones, and not the wonderfully warm boy she’d sent away.
“Mother, this is Timothy Plummer, from Kent. His father’s abroad, as I wrote in my letter.”
“Good of you to have me, ma’am. Terribly pleased. Lonely back at the school, don’t you know,” the boy said nervously. He was a thin lad with spectacles and a tentative smile. Maude remembered then: he’d no mother, and nowhere to go for the holidays. If he had, if he hadn’t come to her, maybe Simon would have hugged her back and chattered to her the way he used to, instead of standing like a stick, enduring her. She resented the boy being there. And hated herself for it.
“Well, then, welcome, Master Plummer. I’ve got your rooms ready,” she said quickly. “But Simon, first—see that pink blob bouncing up and down in the parlor window? That’s your brother. He’s been sick and so he’s not allowed out for another day. He’s on fire to see you. After you escape his sticky fingers—Cook’s been plying him with jam tarts, the way she used to do to you when you were ill—there’s your sister. Poor Zoe looks like she’s coming down with the same thing. She’s in bed, breathlessly awaiting you.”
“What?” the squire said, stopping, his cane hitting the ground like it was struck there with a mallet.
“Zoe’s in bed, Father. Nothing serious. I think she’s getting the cold Philip had,” Maude explained.
“Then Simon mustn’t see her, until the thing blossoms, or goes away entirely,” her mother said. “Certainly not!” her father trumpeted.
“But she’s been desperate to see him,” Maude argued, “and it’s only a cold.”
“You can say that?” her mother asked.
There was a silence. Only a second of silence, and after only four words. But there was a world of pain opened up.
“Of course you’re quite right,” Maude said dully, looking away from her parents. “We’ll wait to see how she feels in the morning. There’s time enough. She’ll see him tomorrow night—or Christmas morning. It will be her present.”
She hurried to the house alone. But Miles was soon by her side.
“She meant nothing by it,” he said quietly.
“Of course she did,” she said in wonder at his foolishness, and then fled into the house before he could try to deny it again.
*
She wouldn’t let it ruin her Christmas. It was a thing, like her husband’s lame leg that he’d had to cope with, that she had to learn to live with, however much it pained her. She’d make the holiday merry, because she, of all women, knew how tenuous happiness was, how fleeting it could be. And so she kept herself so busy she had no time to fret or chat with her parents or children until it was time to dress for dinner.
“You look very nice in that, is it new?” Miles asked.
He leaned against the door, looking in at her. She was dressing as best she could without her maid. She’d sent Betsy away after she’d laced her stays. There was too much to do this afternoon; the girl could be better occupied than wasting time trying to make her mistress look beautiful.
“This?” Maude asked, looking down at her gown as if seeing it for the first time. It was crimson velvet, a daring color for a lady with auburn hair. But it was a deep, rich shade, as close to black as it was to blood-red, and it made her eyes green as the great tree she’d decorated. The skirt swept wide and full as the bottom of that tree. The g
own showed off her white shoulders, and its wide sleeves accentuated how narrow the waist was. She turned in place to let him see. She thought of her usual game, of saying, “This old thing?” But she needed more than his laughter tonight.
“I had it made for the holiday,” she said. “It was my gift to me.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, levering a shoulder off the door and reaching her in a few long, uneven steps. “No. It is your gift to me.”
He held her close as she held him, and when his lips left her cheek and sought her lips, she sighed against his mouth before she surrendered all thought and feeling to him.
“No,” he eventually muttered, as his hand left her breast. “Too much to do,” he said on a shaky breath, stepping back. “But if you would wear things that were sensible instead of merely beautiful, we could have made something of it.”
She opened her eyes in anger and saw the laughter in his.
“I distinctly felt buckram and whalebone as well as cotton and silk and whatnot beneath that velvet second skin of yours,” he said. “Getting you out of it would be a pleasure. But back into it again? Before dinner?”
“That is, supposing I intended to get out of it now,” she said haughtily, putting her nose in the air as she straightened her gown and swept from the room. But she felt much better.
She stopped in to visit with a sad and sleepy Zoe. Her fever had gone down, and she was cranky only because she missed seeing her dear Simon.
“Tomorrow, Christmas Eve, I promise,” Maude said. “If you’ve no fever and are bright-eyed as I know you can be if you get enough sleep tonight. Then there’ll be nothing wrong with you seeing Simon. But you know how Grandmother and Grandfather are.”
“I know,” Zoe said on a weary little sniff. “But I am not a—a pestilence, like Philip said.”
“No,” Maude said, smiling. Then she remembered that neither had she been a pestilence, but still there were always two bonny ghosts at her side at Christmastime, sadly watching her grow older than they had ever been. “No, never,” she said more softly as she kissed her goodnight. “But now you rest and be better, and all will be well.”