Christmas Surprises

by Patricia Rice

  Rodney scowled as he rose from the bench and bent to examine the fallen lid. “I don’t appreciate your levity, old boy. Susan could have been hurt if she’d had her hand in here. Something needs to be done.”

  For once, Rodney was quite right. Darcourt squeezed the ornament in his pocket until he heard a muttered, “All right, all right,” and walked across to examine the instrument. The women immediately crowded around him to look over his shoulder. He gave them a look of irritation which made them step backward slightly. Then raising the lid, Jeffrey set the prop under it again, and tested its sureness. Since his insanity told him that his rebellious angel had caused the accident, he felt secure in announcing that a maid must have loosened the base while dusting. He made a show of securing the prop thoroughly, then wandered to the mantel to allow the amorous duo to return to their music.

  “Can sinners reform?” he murmured sotto voce, although why he bothered to speak at all, he couldn’t say. Mary seemed to hear him even when he didn’t say the words aloud.

  “They make a pretty pair, don’t they?” His invisible companion sighed wistfully. “True love is supposed to be a wondrous thing. I suppose it could transform even a fool, if he loved her.”

  “She’s pretty well cap over heels already,” Darcourt said gloomily. “She’ll be miserable whether I throw him out or not.”

  He heard the unspoken “I told you so.” She was right. If he’d been in London where he was supposed to be, he could have warded off this unhappy occurrence. Why in hell hadn’t his mother seen what was happening? He glanced in the direction of the women, who had returned to their sewing and knew the answer without his angel telling him. Because his mother wanted Susan to be happy, and Rodney had a pretty face and nice manners. He sighed in exasperation. For that same reason, she had brought Emma Wittingham with her. She imagined herself finding him the ideal wife and filling the nursery with grandchildren.

  “Marry that witless peahen and you’ll regret it forever,” the voice in his ear said remorselessly.

  “I don’t need another conscience,” he answered in irritation.

  “What’s that, Jeffrey? Did you say something? Don’t stand over there muttering. Come sit with us and tell us what you have been doing.” His mother looked up and smiled at him pleasantly, as if she hadn’t baited the trap and left it open.

  “Just business as usual, Mother. I’m certain you wouldn’t be interested. Now if you will excuse me, I still have some matters that need to be completed before morning. I wish you good evening.” He nodded curtly to his family and guests and strolled out, trying not to appear as if he had a hive of bees after him.

  He’d left only a low lamp and the fire for illumination in his study, so he didn’t immediately discern the figure by the darkened Christmas tree. When he did, he cursed himself for not noticing that Helen had left the salon.

  His sister-in-law looked up sadly at his entrance, then returned to her contemplation of the tree. Jeffrey hastened to light another lamp and turn up the one by his chair.

  “George used to hide a special present for me in the branches,” she explained quietly, not quite disguising the quiver of tears. “He would bring me down here before everyone else and begin lighting the candles until I found it.”

  “That explains the blackened wicks. I’d blamed the servants,” Jeffrey said cynically, taking his chair.

  She ignored his lack of sympathy. “George was always so full of joy. I cannot believe all that love and laughter is gone. I simply cannot.”

  Darcourt braced himself uncomfortably for the bout of tears. He wasn’t at all certain that he could withstand them himself, and he had no desire to appear ridiculous. He poured himself a brandy and took a swift drink before replying, “He was the better man.”

  Helen sent him a quick look over her shoulder. A petite woman with silky blond hair, she presented an enticing picture in her midnight blue gown. Jeffrey couldn’t tell if she was aware of that or not. Her reply didn’t seem to be coquettish.

  “George was simply a different man. That did not make him better or worse. You are a much more responsible sort than he. Do I remind you too painfully of him, Jeffrey? Am I wearing out my welcome? I don’t wish to, you know.”

  He wanted to say he wished she would find someone else and get the hell out of his life so he didn’t have to remember how much George had loved her, how happy George had been with her. But his remorseless angel listened, and he couldn’t have said something so cutting in any case. Resignedly, he shook his head.

  “You are part of this family now, Helen. I know someday you will find someone even better than George, but you will still be one of us. You are Susan’s sister, the other daughter my mother wanted, the wife my brother treasured above all else. You will always be welcome.”

  He didn’t think he sounded insincere, but she looked at him skeptically anyway. “I will take your words at face value now because I cannot bear to do otherwise. But I’m certain you realize that your mother is hoping we might make a match of it, and you must wish me in Hades.”

  “Isn’t there something illegal or sacrilegious about marrying a brother’s wife?” he asked facetiously, reaching for a cigar and the clippers.

  She smiled then, a weak smile, but it erased the tears. “Then your next choice is Emma. I wish you well of her.”

  She slipped quietly out the door, closing it firmly behind her. Jeffrey felt the breath go out of him and realized he had been holding it.

  “Well, she is the practical sort,” the voice from his angel said.

  Jeffrey went to remove the ornament from his pocket, but it already rested on the mantel. Apparently Mary had a fondness for overseeing her territory from a height. “I never thought of her as such, but I suppose with a husband like George, she had to be.”

  Her materialization this time was much stronger than previously. Mary looked at him through wide eyes of sadness, and Jeffrey felt himself drawn to the understanding he found there. He almost lifted his hand to touch her before realizing the foolishness of the notion. Still, his fingers tingled, and he clenched them tightly in his coat pockets.

  “I’m not very good at this at all, am I?” she asked softly. “You’re not arrogant. You’re lonely and trying to hide it. I’ve been a fool.”

  He blinked in astonishment. She disappeared before he could reply.

  Cursing his aberrant imagination, Jeffrey threw down the cigar he’d never lit and made his way up to his bedchamber. This had been a damned long day and the morrow threatened to be worse. Maybe a decent night’s sleep would chase away this nagging conscience he seemed to have developed.

  As his valet undressed him for bed, Jeffrey surreptitiously scanned the room for any sign of the tin angel he had deliberately left in his study. Her remark about learning male anatomy this morning made him self-conscious now. He had no desire to inquire if the memory of physical attributes disappeared with death or if she had died innocent. He supposed angels simply didn’t know anything about human flesh. That seemed the most reasonable assumption.

  But this flesh of his was all too human. He ached for the comfort of a warm, willing female in his bed. He had been bombarded with perfumes and feminine voices and graceful figures all day. Like a child’s dreams of sugarplums, they danced through his head now as he lay upon his pillow. If he could just reach over and bury himself in welcoming arms, he might be able to drive out the memories until morning. As it was, he was doomed to lying stiff and cold, staring at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry,” a soft voice whispered out of the dark. “I wish I could help. I wish I could be what you need.”

  The voice echoed the agony he felt, and he relaxed slightly. “The physical part passes,” he assured her. “It’s the emptiness that hurts the most. I’ve been so long without decent companionship I’m coming to crave the sound of your voice. I don’t suppose you could find me a woman who can converse with the same wit as you?”

  Her laugh tinkled through the night air. “A
woman who nags and berates you and tells you when you’re wrong instead of agreeing with everything you say?”

  He grinned. “Heaven deliver me from the Emma Wittinghams of this world.”

  “You won’t like a nag any better.”

  He screwed up his face in thought. “If she had a sense of humor, I might. It’s a pity you don’t remember your past life. Maybe you have a sister somewhere.”

  “You can be charming when you choose, can’t you? Go to sleep. I’ll go look for a nagging female for you.”

  He laughed and slowly drifted into dreamless sleep.

  * * * *

  “Why in hell didn’t I send one of the grooms to do this?” Darcourt muttered as he pulled the wheels of the cart out of the mud for the third time. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “If it were freezing out here, the mud would be frozen,” Mary pointed out relentlessly. “And the grooms might not get just the right tree. It has to be of a size to fit on the table, and it has to be absolutely perfect so when she wakes, she looks at it in wonder.”

  She walked alongside of him, examining a holly tree with interest, reaching out to pluck a few choice branches and add them to the cart. He couldn’t see how nearly invisible fingers could break holly twigs, but she seemed to have no trouble in doing so.

  “Don’t you feel the cold?” he asked, consumed with curiosity.

  She didn’t quite reach his shoulder when they stood next to each other like this. When she turned to look at him, she had to look up. He liked that feeling better than having her always staring down at him.

  “I think I am noticing it more than I did before,” Mary answered with a degree of puzzlement. “It’s quite invigorating. I’ve obviously forgotten the feeling of warmth and cold, or the smell of evergreen or spices. Your cook must be creating something delightful. The house smelled so delicious this morning, I almost felt hungry.”

  “I suppose humans do have physical pleasures to counterbalance their emotional distresses. I suppose heavenly bodies are above pleasures of the body.”

  “I think I rather miss it,” she said wistfully. “As I told you, I’m not very good at this. There are so many things to be seen in this world, it’s difficult to concentrate on the problem.”

  “Well, thank you for that,” he answered jokingly. “This problem prefers your entire attention.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you have that, all right. Did you know you are very handsome when your hair falls down and curls on your forehead like that? You ought to come outside more often. It adds color to your cheeks.”

  He gave her a startled glance, and she laughed, shimmering a little more brightly. “We are almost at the vicar’s. You’ll have to quit talking to what’s not there before someone sees you.”

  He would second that motion. The carter coming down the road was already looking in his direction, no doubt wondering why Lord Darcourt pulled a cart filled with evergreens through the field. If he saw him talking to the evergreens, he’d back off quickly. Somehow, that idea wasn’t as appealing as it once might have been.

  Jeffrey nodded in the carter’s direction, then turned off on the path to the vicarage. The carter raised his hat in greeting and rolled on by.

  The vicar ecstatically ushered him in, calling to his housekeeper for hot chocolate, offering to take Darcourt’s wraps. Jeffrey brushed him off politely, hauling the fat tree onto his shoulder and into the house. Mr. Cooper looked too frail to lift even this small specimen.

  The vicar hastily gathered up the angelically gathered holly branches and hurried after the viscount down the hall to the sickroom. Together, they set the tree in the bucket of sand already prepared. The housekeeper came bustling in, murmuring suitable exclamations of awe. The invalid slept through it all.

  Jeffrey finally doffed his coat and accepted the hot chocolate as they began fastening the candles he’d carried in his pockets. The closed room filled with the fresh scent of outdoors, and the vicar whistled a carol beneath his breath as he reached for the higher branches to wire on the candles and entwine holly among the boughs. Jeffrey watched in wonder as the older man’s face seemed illumined from within as he worked. The gray lines of worry temporarily faded as hope replaced anguish.

  He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing. The girl in the bed seemed beyond these festivities. She looked even paler and weaker than she had the day before. Her breathing appeared more labored. He was raising the good vicar’s hopes for naught.

  When they had the last candle fastened and the last holly twig tucked in, the tree still looked bare. Jeffrey stepped back and looked at it disapprovingly. The vicar and housekeeper looked at it with expressions of wonder, but he was accustomed to the gaily decorated tree in his home. This one didn’t appear to be the glorious miracle that would waken a dying woman to the world’s beauty.

  His fingers closed on the tin angel in his pocket. He clung to it for a minute, then with firm resolve, he drew it out of his pocket. It was naught but a child’s toy. His insanity had to end sometime. It had been nice having a laughing, nagging, challenging delusion to keep him company, but it would be better if he returned to reality. With gentle care, he propped the angel on the very top of the tree, where it could look upon the invalid in her bed.

  The gold-painted halo seemed to straighten of its own accord. The shining white wings looked ready to take flight. The painted face smiled radiantly, even within the dim confines of the sickroom. The vicar and his housekeeper made quiet exclamations of joy.

  “It is magnificent, my lord,” Mr. Cooper whispered as they tiptoed out of the room. “I must admit, I thought it a pagan enterprise to bring trees into the house, but it cannot be wrong to admire the Lord’s handiwork. Clarissa will be delighted. She has long approved of your family’s Christmas celebration.”

  The vicar’s excitement and gratitude carried Darcourt out of the house, but his words didn’t warm him as he began the walk to the village to pick up Susan’s gift. He felt a peculiar melancholy at giving up the fantasy of a guardian angel.

  * * * *

  The door closed after the vicar and the viscount, throwing the sickroom into darkness again. From her perch atop the tree, Mary wriggled and stretched a little, contemplating the impossibility of the task she had been assigned, while watching the dying girl in bed with a little more than curiosity.

  Jeffrey Darcourt possessed a stubborn character, she decided. She admired his intelligence, and she knew his heart was in the right place. He just needed to be hit over the head with a brickbat upon occasion to bring the two together.

  That wasn’t right either. She had tried those methods, and they hadn’t pierced his stubborn determination to let the world go to hell on its own. No, what Jeffrey Darcourt needed, she couldn’t easily provide.

  If only that silly Emma Wittingham or even the widowed Helen could be the kind of companion Jeffrey needed, she could arrange for him to fall into their arms and love would begin to heal the gaping wounds in the viscounts soul. He needed tenderness and understanding and companionship—and an occasional slam over the head with a brickbat.

  Mary giggled lightly at the thought and again contemplated the woman in the bed. With a little care, Clarissa Cooper could be a lovely young woman. She didn’t seem to lack for intelligence either. Unfortunately, her soul was quite firmly attached to that young man who had gone before her. Even if she interfered and forced Clarissa to stay here on earth, the vicar’s daughter might make Jeffrey a capable wife, but she would never be able to love him as he deserved. It just wouldn’t work.

  A rather naughty thought entered her mind, and Mary teased it around awhile. She thought she might be able to do it, with a little cooperation. She would be taking a terrible risk. She didn’t know if she was ready to take that kind of risk yet. But the more she thought about it, the more tempting it sounded. Of course, the path to hell was paved with good intentions and temptation had little to do with heavenly desires. But she just might be able....

  S
he wriggled some more and popped out of the tin angel. She had to give this more thought. She needed to work on Jeffrey just a little more, see if she couldn’t accomplish her task with more orthodox methods.

  Show him ghosts of Christmas past? Show him the future? Set an orphan on his front step? They all sounded dreadfully difficult for a junior angel.

  She found the viscount walking down the main street of town, a package firmly grasped under one arm, his boots muddy from his traipse across the fields. Darcourt’s arrogance had little to do with his wealth, she could see. He didn’t need a fancy carriage and prancing horses to impress people with his consequence. He had a firm sense of his place in the world. He had just chosen to deny it.

  Whimsically, Mary perched atop the swinging wooden sign announcing a tavern called the Fox and Hounds. She sensed the impending fracas to come, and she wanted a ringside seat. Human nature fascinated her, and she suspected had she been walking in Clarissa’s shoes, she would not be allowed the opportunity to observe this next spectacle.

  Sure enough, as soon as the two combatants were thrown into the street outside the tavern, the good ladies of town scattered in different directions, hurrying to hide themselves from unseemly conduct. Mary propped her chin in her hand and watched with interest as the younger of the two combatants scrambled to his feet with a curse and tried to walk off. The elder was a bit slower in gaining his balance, but he grabbed his adversary’s coat by the back and jerked him around.

  “If I catch you near Betty again, I’ll beat you into mincemeat, I will!”

  A peculiarly unpleasant threat, Mary decided, but she did nothing to interfere as the younger man dodged the blow thrown at him. The viscount was almost upon them. He had a black look on his face that didn’t bode well for either combatant.

  “You can’t stand between me and Betty, you old goat!” the younger man shouted as he shoved at his opponent, striving to break the grip on his coat.