It's a Wonderful Regency Christmas

by Edith Layton

  “Mama,” he said, his fair face reddened by more than a day in the December cold, “I’m sorry. Please accept my apology. I absolutely forgot we were going for mistletoe so early. We usually go in the afternoon, don’t we? I was so busy showing Tim The Hall, you see, I started the minute we awoke. I did remember, but when I did you were gone. I felt like a beast. Not just because of the mistletoe, but because I missed going with you, the way we do every Christmas. I went out and got you heaps of it, when I remembered.”

  “Oh, dear,” Maude muttered, “poor Mr. Potts!”

  “Now you have it, but I wish I could have spent the time with you,” Simon went on. “We have such a good time when we go out to get it, don’t we?”

  “There’s next year, thank the Lord, there’s next year,” Maude cried, and hugged him hard. This time he hugged her back—harder, because he was older now, and could.

  While she was getting her breath back she felt a tug on her skirt.

  “I’m better,” Zoe announced. “Even Grandmother says so. Where were you, Mama? I’ve been looking for you.”

  “As have I,” Philip complained. “We looked everywhere. Where were you today, Mama?”

  “A long, long way away,” Maude said, through her tears and smiles. But then she couldn’t say more, because she saw Miles.

  He came into the room with his usual grace, and she stared. There was only the slightest hint of a hesitation in his long, easy stride. She couldn’t look her fill at him; he was tall and straight and altogether beautiful to her. She raced into his arms.

  He caught her and wrapped his arms around her and chuckled. He held her close and she reveled in the feel of his strong, beating heart against her cheek. But then she remembered. She stepped back and gazed up at him.

  “Yes, you were a long, long way away,” he said. “Where were you? I looked everywhere.”

  Maude could only grin until he added, “And Cressida was wondering, too.”

  “Oh,” Maude said. She couldn’t say more. This was worse than her dream. Because she was sure this was real.

  “Yes,” he went on. “She wanted to say good-bye. I told her I’d do it for her. I took her and her brother and their friend to town, to the blacksmith, so they could be sure of getting their newly shod horse in time to start out for London before dark. I bundled all the children I could find in the carriage and made a game of it. But I made sure of it. I didn’t want to risk them staying another day. They came a week too early. Christmas is for family and close friends. Old acquaintances are the ones who are tolerable on New Year’s Eve, if they are tolerable. And if they are really old friends,” he added, his gray gaze somber as he looked at her.

  “They’re gone?”

  “I took them to town to be absolutely sure of it,” he said, watching her gravely.

  “She was a pretty lady,” Zoe commented, “and she used lots of perfume. Can we have dinner now, Mama?”

  Maude laughed until tears came. But everyone knew how easy tears were on Christmas Eve. They trooped in to dinner, where Cousin George began to explain about Christmas customs. Then they heard the carolers on the lawn and left the table to open the door and listen. Then nothing would do but the carolers had to come in and raise a cup of cheer, and have a bite to eat to take the bite out of the winter wind. Mr. Phelps, the smith, sang his deep bass in perfect counterpoint to Mrs. Apple’s high soprano, and Maude cried and cried when Daisy and her father joined in. Half the town was there that night; there never had been a merrier Christmas Eve. And at the very end of the festivities, when even Zoe couldn’t keep her amazed eyes open any longer, Mr. Potts came in, frozen to the bone and bearing an armload of mistletoe. But he soon thawed out before the fire and got into a wondrously complicated discussion with Cousin George about Druid customs.

  It was only when it was very late, and all the guests had gone to their rooms or back to their homes, and the children were all abed, that Maude relaxed. Only then did she dare believe who she was, where she was, and how lucky she was, at last. Now the terrible day she had passed seemed like it had been a fevered dream. It could have been.

  Philip and Zoe had both been sick and then better in a day. Maybe she had caught that same contagion, she thought. It would explain much. A fever might make her imagine many things: make a simple bible scholar into something supernatural; turn her familiar village into a nightmare. What had preyed on her mind could have taken shape in her fevered thoughts. It all could have happened in her mind as she sat in the snow by the well by herself. It didn’t matter anymore. It was over. She’d seen the world without herself in it, and she hadn’t liked it. And never had her own life looked more wonderful.

  She was resolved that it should go on the way it always had. She waited until the house was still and the servants were in bed. Miles was in his study. She suspected he was wrapping a present for her. Others might get their gifts on Boxing Day, but they always exchanged theirs on Christmas Eve. But before they did, she had something to do. She scooped up her old cloak and slipped out the door into the cold and starry night.

  The stable was warm with the smell of hay and animals. Maude closed the door carefully behind her. She was alone in the night, with the animals and Christmas Eve. She put down her lantern, then almost jumped out of her skin when she saw a shadow loom up out of the shadows to stand before her.

  “You were right,” Miles said with a smile. “I’ve been listening. The farm animals do get gossipy on Christmas Eve. But they haven’t said much yet. Oh, the old rnilch cow told the horses how glad she was to see the company leave. But that was hardly news. No one wanted them here.”

  His smile faded. He took Maude’s hands in his. “No, no one did,” he said gravely. “I never told you about Cressida because I wanted to forget her. I asked for her hand when I was young and foolish. When I came home from the war battered in heart and mind—and limb—she took one look at my infirmities and broke the engagement. It was the best thing she ever did for me. I tried to forget what a fool I’d been. But I ought to have told you. She tried to make it seem very different. I couldn’t say anything for fear of making it worse. And poor old Charles was once a good friend to me. What could I say to you? Actions speak louder than words. I could only make sure to see her on her way as soon as I could.

  “Forgive me, love,” he said, his gray eyes searching hers. “I never meant to cause you a moment’s distress. When I got back from town to find you gone, I worried. I wondered if you’d ever come back.”

  “Where else should I go?” she asked.

  “Oh, I can think of a great many places. Too many. Because I know very well I don’t deserve you. I’ve always known it. I’d no right to burden a lovely young creature like you with an old battered soldier like myself. But I did. And I’m glad. Thank you for coming home to me, my Maudie.”

  “Oh, Miles,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for being home to me.”

  He kissed her gently, as gently as he had the moment she’d said she’d marry him, all those years ago. Then he kissed her more deeply, as he’d done the next moment, all those years before. And then deeper still, as he pulled her into his arms.

  It wasn’t until they were deep in a bed of fresh-cut straw that she remembered where she was.

  “Heavens!” she said, her eyes flying wide. “In the straw? And on Christmas Eve?”

  “Exactly,” he breathed into her ear. “Precisely,” he said, as she sighed against his. “No better place in the world, my love. There’s no one here but the animals. So let’s give them something to talk about.”

  “Merry Christmas, Miles,” she said tenderly.

  They came to each other then as they had for so many Christmases before. Even as they did, she heard the sound of all the Christmas bells ringing. Some rang out from the old church and drifted through the night. Some tolled from the collars of the cows as they shifted in their sleep. But none were so joyous as those in her heart. She wished the night would never end…and then r
emembered to be very careful of her wishes. Then Miles made her forget everything.

  And far away in the grove, the water in the ancient well lay deep and still. The angelically fair young man standing beside it sighed. He bent his bright head, gazed down into the water, and saw no reflection but that of the stars above him. But they were very bright. He looked up to them and smiled, and then walked off into the silent night.

  With thanks to the great Frank Capra for the wonderful concept. And with a wish for a wonderful Christmas to all.

  The Gingerbread Man

  His Grace dreamed about gingerbread again. He smelled the sweet, sharp spice of it. Pungent and heady, it filled his nose. He could feel the just-baked heat of it fresh from the oven, almost as though it were actually there, beside him on his pillow, just as if he held it in his hand and it was about to pass his lips. He licked those lips in his sleep. He could almost taste the gingery, tart sweetness of it, hear it snap as he bit down: the head, the arm, one of the little iced buttons on the gingerbread man’s vest? It didn’t matter. Just so long as he had some, soon.

  His Grace swallowed—and tasted—nothing. Nothing but the promise of gingerbread. But he still smelled it and the longing for it suffused him. He moaned. His desire was so keen he turned, and then tossed, and then anguished: awoke…

  …alone and confused, to a stark white morning, absolutely devoid of gingerbread.

  Which only made sense. After all, His Grace, the Duke of Blackburn, was fast approaching his thirtieth year and besides, so far as he knew, he didn’t like gingerbread.

  But he had dreamed of it every night for more than a week now, and had craved it desperately in every dream, and now he was becoming concerned. Owen Whitley, the seventh Duke of Blackburn, was no stranger to lust. But this kind of lust was absurd, he thought as he sat up and ran a hand over the morning stubble on his lean cheeks. He hadn’t felt so ashamed of a dream since he’d been thirteen. But the tasty treats he had dreamed of then were of a much different sort.

  Gingerbread, His Grace thought with a snort of disgust. He swung his long legs over the side of his high bed, and as if on cue, but merely because of years of finely trained instinct, his valet, Krupper, came into the room, pushing a small trolley full of shaving equipment before him. Krupper saw the opened window, sighed, and with a great show of world-weary patience, closed it firmly before he approached his master. Sleeping with opened windows was bad for the health and bizarre besides, but Krupper knew his master’s idiosyncrasies too well to argue over it. And his master knew Krupper’s preferences too well to comment.

  Evil miasmas might flourish in the air, but His Grace had been raised in the countryside, and felt even London air was better than none. Besides, though London was raucous at any hour, he was lucky enough to have his bedroom window facing his own courtyard, and his nearest neighbors were two sweet old sisters who went to bed with the sparrows and never made a sound to disturb him in the night. Owen took a deep breath now, before the footman who had followed Krupper into the room could relight the fire in his hearth. The air was still cold, scented with the usual London mixture: woodsmoke, horse, and morning mist…and gingerbread—at least, Owen could still scent it in his mind. He frowned. Krupper saw it, and quietly raised the window sash an inch.

  “No,” Owen grumbled, “it’s not the window. It’s… Tell me, Krupper, do you smell anything…ah, sweet?”

  Krupper raised his thin nose and sniffed. “Shaving soap, but it is your usual, my lord: sandalwood. And ah—bay rum, I suppose, though the bottle is as yet unopened.”

  “Not anything…gingery?” Owen asked.

  “Heavens, no! Woody, with perhaps a trace of violet, but I have not changed my own toilette in years; we don’t wear such scents, Your Grace, and never have.” He looked an accusation at the footman, who turned scarlet and said with dignity, “Ain’t me. Used plenty of soap on me hands, but it ain’t Sunday. Dint use nothing else neither, I swear.”

  “Bother,” Owen said, and frowned, and then seeing how his servants were looking at him, he smiled. It was such a generous smile, so warm and absolutely genuine, that they relaxed. Anyone would have.

  His Grace had the most astonishing smile. He was a fine-looking man, tall and lean, with even features and a strong jaw. But he was fair-haired and ice-eyed, with such high cheekbones that he could look a little cold when his face was calm, and actually menacing when he brooded. But his smile transformed him. It made him look young and friendly, and in Krupper’s private opinion, perhaps even a shade too accessible, for a man of such high degree.

  “It’s nothing,” the duke told his servants, “never mind.” But it was something, and he couldn’t stop thinking of his night as he washed and dressed and prepared to go out and begin his day. Ten nights of unrelenting gingerbread was taking its toll. Owen was beginning to worry about himself, a thing that he couldn’t recall ever doing before.

  “And that’s what’s so strange,” he told his hostess a few hours later as he sat in her parlor, taking a cup of tea with her. “I mean, a man may worry about his life, which I did when I was in the Peninsula; or he might worry about his fortune—which I promise you I do when I go to White’s or somesuch gaming place and am lured into a high stakes game. But I’m unused to worrying about my sanity!”

  Unfair, his hostess thought, seeing the smile he flashed at her, manifestly unfair that he could smile like that and not realize what it did to a female’s heart, and stomach…and lower locales. But she could never be the one to tell him.

  So she simply acted as she always had, as though she didn’t notice a thing but the words he said. “Stark raving mad,” she said airily, addressing her teacup, “such a pity. Comes from such a fine family too. But His Grace had to be taken off to Bedlam, raving about pastries, and frothing at the mouth for gingerbread… Oh, I don’t think so, Owen, I really do not,” she said, laughing.

  “Not quite that bad,” he admitted, grinning at her. Trust Elizabeth to find the humor in it. That might have been why she was the person he’d told about his problem. She always saw the funnier side, and had since they’d been children. Younger sister of his best friend, growing up in the same shire, and half the time the same house, Miss Elizabeth Lloyd could be counted on to josh a fellow out of his sullens, then and now.

  Perhaps it came from her being a younger sister, a tagalong suffered by her brother and his friends if she promised not to cry. And one who soon found herself included in their sport, because she not only never cried, but always made them laugh. Always—when they were young, as well as when they were older and considered themselves dashing blades, and found to their chagrin and delight that Elizabeth could still take them down a notch or two.

  Garrett was wed now, with brats of his own. But Elizabeth had never married, and was still his good friend, Owen thought with pleasure. Odd that she never wed, he thought fleetingly, as he often did, for she was youthful looking, still very pretty in a gamin-like way, with her russet curls and bright blue eyes. Even at—Gad! he realized with a little shock: seven-and-twenty.

  Already? he could scarcely believe it. She’d been pursued by many likely lads in her day… In her day? Owen thought uncomfortably—that made it sound like she was a confirmed spinster. That couldn’t be. He, after all, was a full three years her senior. But seven-and-twenty was considered beyond mature for a woman, and she did live alone in London, with only her elderly cousin as a companion, which was a thing no young girl could do....

  “Well,” Owen said, refusing to think of such dire things as time passing on such a fine morning, “I thought I’d ask you about it, Elizabeth, because it occurred to me that maybe there was something about gingerbread when we were young, something I’d forgot, that was troubling me. Dreams are often conscience calling. I know it sounds odd, but you shared my childhood, do you recall—did we ever do anything particularly significant with gingerbread? Did I?”

  “Nothing I can remember,” she answered, her head to the side as she
considered it. “Except for leaving it over most of the time, for in fact, as I recall, you never cared for it. Now, hedgehogs—the kind our cook used to make—you remember: ladyfingers covered with whipped cream, shaped like a hedgehog, studded all over with almonds? Those you positively drooled over. Don’t make such a face, you know you did.”

  “You forgot the whiskey she used to flavor it with,” he put in.

  She grinned and said, “Hardly—I knew why you boys loved it. But, gingerbread… Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, “I think it’s only the Season. Scents are very powerful things, and all of London seems redolent of gingerbread with Christmas coming. Such wonderful scents are coming out of every bakeshop that I vow I put on a stone every time I pass one.”

  “As if you had to worry,” he said, eyeing her. Because she was still trim, if a bit full breasted, he thought, and then looked away, because as fine a sight as it was, it seemed somehow wrong to ogle Elizabeth’s bosom.

  “Oh, but I do have trouble with sweets—” she began.

  But before she could elaborate, he interrupted her. Females could go on for hours about the supposed defects in their figures, whatever a fellow said. “There you are,” he said quickly, “London reeks of Christmas these days. That must be it.”

  “Well, it might be,” she mused, “but it may be more, at that. Do you know? Scent’s a powerful provoker of memories. I can’t get a whiff of eau de cologne—you know, that stuff Napoleon is supposed to adore—without thinking of Monsieur Regardez—you remember our music teacher?”

  “Lord, yes!” he said, his gray eyes sparkling, “Garrett and I made him despair, but he doted on you. I haven’t thought of him in years, but now I think on it, I smell that cologne, and there he is before me as though no time had passed at all.”

  She smiled. “Just so. And gin always reminds me of Bream—your undergardener, remember? Gin and mint, that is, because he was always chewing it in hopes no one would know....” They laughed, remembering.