by Sahara Kelly
“Spoiled boy, Beelzebub.”
The answering purr agreed.
Her gaze turned once more to the snow covered landscape. She had felt powerful again, after letting her will lie dormant for so long. She hadn’t cared much for anything since the accident, afraid that the shock and pain might have stripped her of her savage determination, as her father had so desperately wished.
He never realized that it was part of who she was. That it was a gift bequeathed to her from her mother.
But then again, he never saw her mother as anything other than his third wife and potential brood mare.
Brushing off the darker thoughts, she turned to a consideration of Prudence Eldridge. When a friend in London had entertained her with gossip, at a time when Hecate was out of the social scene and healing as best she could, the topic of Lady Eldridge had arisen and Hecate remembered her vaguely from some evening event they’d both attended.
She was young, beautiful, and wed to a man who was clearly not in love with her at all. He treated her much as he would a maidservant, even on the rare occasions they were seen in public. But she never protested or complained. Her fortitude was admired by some, but condemned by many more, who voiced the opinion that she should take a few lovers just to ease the agony of living with such a grouch.
The story had stayed with Hecate after her friend had left. And a few months later she’d glimpsed the now-widowed Lady Eldridge at a lending library. Tall, still lovely and very pale, something about her made her memorable.
And for one of the few times in her life, Hecate went home and pulled out her mother’s scrying bowl.
She peeked into the life of Lady Eldridge and saw—secrets. Hidden, some dark, others sad, these matters were best left where they were.
But then there was a quick flash of a man with Lady Prudence, a lover, and it was in the winter. The entire vision changed to one of light and laughter and abundant joy.
Hecate knew now that she’d seen Reid Chillendale. She’d recognized him as she watched the foursome staring at the cottage, and remembered that strong connection she’d felt when his aura had flashed into her mind in connection with Prudence. At that time, he had no name, but that sensation was strong enough for Hecate to focus on Prudence, letting her know she should go for a walk in the snow. A man would be needing her help…
So Prudence had found her mate. She hoped so. Then she remembered the last part of her vision in the scrying bowl. The one that showed secrets revealed and a wedding, lit with sunlight and colors reflecting from icy crystals.
Which begged the question of whether one particular secret was now publicly known, or still lurking in the past, concealed at first by design and then the passage of time.
“Hmm.” She absently pulled at Beelzebub’s ears. His purring paused for a moment and he lifted his head to look at her.
“Yes, I agree. I think in this particular case, we may be forgiven for making sure that the future proceeds as it was foretold.”
“Mrrrooow.”
“Then let us give Fate a hand, shall we?” Hecate smiled. She reached out and rang the small bell on the side table. “I think I need to write some notes, and Dal shall take them to Chillendale for me. After that? Who knows. Time to pack up our belongings and move on, I think.”
*~~*~~*
Prudence had done her best to throw herself into the country holiday events. She’d had brunch with the Reverend and his wife, a young couple who were devoted to each other and their flock. And had presented an excellent fruit cake to their guests.
She’d accompanied Brent and Emmeline, which was helpful to the two of them, since she could serve as a de facto chaperone. The three of them also visited an afternoon tea at the Wallingfords, an older couple who had started a new school several years before. They were also charming and Prudence was especially struck by their forward-thinking views. They had no problem in including girls in some of their classes.
“The mind of a girl should be no different to the mind of a boy,” said Mr. Wallingford in response to Pru’s question. “My wife and I find it quite absurd to exclude them from the process of learning.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Prudence took a bite of fresh gingerbread.
“Young ladies are poorly educated at best, Lady Eldridge. It is sad that these will be the mothers of the next generation, and so few of them are proficient at reading or simple mathematical calculations.”
“I confess to a deficiency in the area of mathematics myself, but I compensated for it by devouring whatever books I could get my hands on.”
Wallingford grinned. “So just think how much you could have learned if you had had the chance to attend a real school.”
“Indeed. It boggles the mind.”
This visit was followed by an impromptu skating party—Pru held Emmeline’s boots and warmed her hands by the small bonfire next to the pond while the newly-engaged pair took to the ice. She didn’t fancy taking a risk and skidding over the cold stuff, only to land in an ungainly heap of skirts, cloak and possibly very cold water.
After that, there was a winter hayride provided by several local farmers, and so the three of them bundled themselves into extra woolen scarves, taking a seat on the hay bales and joining in the loud—and mostly off-key—rendition of some favorite Christmas songs.
She ate too much, did things she’d vaguely heard about but never experienced, like tasting wassail which was hot and fragrant with spices, and managed to immerse herself in the Christmas season, as celebrated by a small village.
And all the time, regardless of where she was or what she was doing, a part of her thoughts remained with Reid.
It was agony to think of leaving him. Of never knowing the kind of life she was glimpsing…one where people became not just neighbors but family, and developed a history that was passed from one generation to the next.
But even worse agony was the thought that because of her, these people might suffer. If the Chillendale ale business was damaged by rumors and innuendos. So many villagers she met were either brewery workers or farmers who grew the barley that went into the ale. It was a delicate web of interdependency that she would not willingly damage in any way.
It seemed that every direction her thoughts turned led to unhappiness for her. And that was nothing if not depressing.
The nights were the worst. During the day, Brent and Emmeline distracted her enough to ease the worries. But alone, tucked into her bed at the Inn, those worries grew and grew until they threatened to suffocate her.
She slept poorly, ate little and castigated herself for acting like a moonstruck young girl. But still the nights crawled by, riddled with snatched moments of sleep and dreams that were no better than her waking thoughts.
It was a period of unpleasant introspection the likes of which Prudence could not recall. Never had she loved someone the way she loved Reid. And it was the power of that love that made her choices so frustratingly difficult.
Either way would tear them both apart. Either now, if she left, or later should the world prove unforgiving.
She felt damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. And it was utterly horrid being unable to arrive at any kind of compromise.
On the day before the ball, Brent took her by the arm after breakfast. “Let’s talk, my dear. Emmeline will be arriving in an hour or so. But I need words with you.” His face and his tone were both somber.
She sighed. “Very well.” How much worse could it be?
They found the snug empty and made themselves comfortable. “Now,” said Brent. “Supposing you tell me what is the matter with you?”
She looked at him. “Brent, I love you dearly. But this is personal.”
“Nonsense. We’ve known each other since childhood. There isn’t anything we cannot share, Pru. And you are looking like…well death warmed over isn’t an exaggeration. So tell me what’s the matter?”
She paused for a moment, then decided she had nothing to lose. “Reid and I…we
ll, it is there, Brent. I cannot deny my feelings for him, nor he for me.”
“That’s wonderful.” He beamed at her. “I’m so happy. I’d hoped for something like this because I always felt you two would suit so well.”
“Wait.” She held up her hand. “There is a major problem, though.”
“Uh oh.”
So Prudence told him of her circumstances surrounding her birth. “Did you not know?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Never had any idea at all. M’mother never mentioned a word, so she might not have known. And as for my father…well, you know how ill he was for so long. If I recall correctly, his memory began to fade after his accident. And that was…oh…the year after we met? Something like that.”
Pru nodded, knowing that the previous Viscount Rowdean had suffered a serious head injury while out riding and had never fully recovered. Brent had assumed the reins of the Rowdean estate at a young age.
“Well, be that as it may, I am—for all intents and purposes—illegitimate, Brent. And that is a big stumbling block when it comes to marrying a Chillendale.”
Brent’s chest rose and fell on a sigh. He needed no explanation—he understood. “Bollocks.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Chapter Fourteen
Early that afternoon, three handwritten notes were delivered, one to the Viscount Rowdean, in care of the Inn, Little Chillendale, one to Lord Southwick and one to Sir Rodney Chillendale.
No particular mention was paid to them, since notes were flying around from house to house concerning important matters such as gowns, food, gowns and more food. And beverages for those few poor sods who didn’t, or couldn’t, drink Chillendale ale.
Neither did anyone notice the messenger bearing the notes, since a heavy cloak with a thick full hood obscured his dark features, his moustache and beard, and the turban that wrapped his head.
In fact, Dal Singh was adept at becoming all but invisible when working for Lady Hecate Ridlington. And this afternoon, delivering her notes, was no exception.
But by the Gods, he loathed the icy cold.
Mission accomplished, he hurried back to the horse he’d tethered near Southwick, mounted and rode like the wind back to his mistress and what he hoped would be a roaring fire. How the English survived in winters like this, he didn’t know, because it was definitely not to his taste.
His unobtrusive departure was not matched by the effects of the notes on their recipients.
Sir Rodney opened it, casually perused it, and then sat down rather heavily in the chair behind his desk. “Good God.”
At the Inn, Brent was having much the same reaction, although his was accompanied by the exhalation of a mouthful of ale. “Jesus.” His jaw dropped. “Jesus bloody Christ.”
Not far away, Lord Southwick—also working in his office—read the note. And began to tremble. He stood, walked to a small tray and poured himself a large brandy which he took back to his desk and sipped as he read the letter again.
The trembling eased, but his shock was palpable. And after a few minutes, tears began to fall. If anyone had observed him at that moment, they would not have seen the Lord Southwick who managed his estates so ably and with a firm hand. They would have seen an aging man in agony.
*~~*~~*
A couple of hours later, Lady Jocelyn was surprised to find Brent Rowdean in her front hall. “Hallo Brent. What brings you out this way? The ball doesn’t start until eight, you know.”
He smiled. “I know, Lady Jocelyn, and you can be assured that I’ll be here. As will Emmeline.” The smile grew. “You know we’re engaged?”
“I heard. Such great news couldn’t be kept a secret.” She crossed the hall and gave him a big hug. “Congratulations, my dear boy. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
“Thank you. I hope for that as well. But at this particular moment, I’d like a quick word with Sir Rodney if he’s around?”
She blinked. “Well, yes. I believe he’s in the study. Something about getting a year end tally underway.”
Brent grimaced. “Oh Lord. Yes, it’s getting to be that time for all of us. D’you think he’ll have a moment for me?”
“Of course.” She led him down a short hallway and stopped in front of a large door. Tapping on it, she entered. “Brent’s here, Rodney. Wants a word. Got time for him?”
Sir Rodney stood. “Of course. Just the man I want to see.”
Lady Jocelyn blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. Come on in, lad. Warm yourself.” Sir Rodney walked to the fire. “Will be it all right if I ask Joss to stay?”
“Er…” Brent looked somewhat puzzled.
“I received a note this morning.”
“Ah. Well then.” Brent’s countenance cleared. “Yes, sir. I’d be very pleased to have Lady Jocelyn here.”
“Good.”
*~~*~~*
And an hour or so after that…
“Beg pardon, Milord. Sir Rodney Chillendale and Viscount Rowdean are here and would like to see you. Should I show them in?”
Lord Southwick stood and passed a hand over his face. Then he sighed. “Show them into the parlor, Giles. And if you would make sure there’s a decanter of brandy there as well, it would be appreciated.”
He closed a book on his desk and went to join them
The appropriate words were spoken between the three men, hands were shaken and then they all sat.
“I don’t know what to say,” Lord Southwick looked at his two guests. “You’re being here at this moment leads me to assume you received a note today, as did I?”
“We did.” Brent kept his voice level. “And yes, that is why we’re here.”
“Damned mess.” Sir Rodney frowned. “And my son is caught in the middle of it.”
“He is?” Southwick’s face betrayed his surprise.
“Yes. He wants to marry Prudence.”
Southwick closed his eyes. “There is no way to gloss over this, is there? I should have known that no matter how effectively one buries one’s past, it will always reappear to haunt one.”
“And usually at the worst possible time,” added Brent.
“Thank you for that.” Southwick’s lips curled. “I’m already aware of the accuracy of that statement.”
“Well,” said Sir Rodney. “Brent and I have spent quite a bit of time discussing this matter. And here’s what we think might work…”
*~~*~~*
The ballroom at Chillendale Hall was not a room that saw a lot of use over the year, but come Christmas, it sprang to life. The chandeliers were cleaned and dozens of candles were lit, casting a warm glow over the freshly polished floor and the shining surfaces of the sideboards ringing the large room.
Tall gold-framed mirrors hung between even taller windows on one wall, and their reflections opened up the space—or at least seemed to. Curtains of dark green velvet would be covering most of those windows, for warmth and to contrast with the gleam of the gold beside them. The large glass doors at the end of the room, though, would be left uncovered.
Although nobody was expected to stroll out onto the terrace for a breath of air, Lady Jocelyn had arranged for candles in lanterns to be placed outside, illuminating the snow and the miniature fir trees in their marble urns. Half a dozen always grew somewhere around Chillendale Hall, reserved specifically for this occasion. It was a tradition that she very much enjoyed and it always proved a success with her guests.
The room itself was large; at least twenty or thirty couples could comfortably dance their way around, and there was plenty of extra room for onlookers. Upholstered chairs were clustered out of the way so that chaperones might sit together and keep an eye on their charges without tiring themselves out, and a large double door led to an equally large formal dining room where there would be a constant supply of refreshments.
Since this was an informal affair, the Chillendales didn’t offer a full dinner, preferring to allow their guests to consume what
they liked when they felt like it. But there would be a small orchestra providing suitable music, whether it be something as socially correct as a quadrille or as lively as a country dance.
The decorations, of course, were green and white, as befit a Mistletoe Ball. The local ladies had enjoyed many an afternoon forming real balls out of the stuff with a bit of twine and some leftover wire from the local chicken farm pens.
There were green ribbons draping from the chandeliers and green bouquets of fir artfully arranged in large vases scattered here and there. The mistletoe balls were hung wherever there was an appropriate spot; over doors and windows and even one or two from the chandeliers themselves.
“Well, I think we’ve kept up the reputation of this house for the Mistletoe Ball,” said Lady Jocelyn to Reid as they walked through the prepared rooms.
“It looks incredible, Mama.” He peered into the dining room to see the serving dishes starting to appear. There were huge piles of gleaming plates and the servants were smiling and hurrying around, resplendent in their uniforms which for this occasion were adorned with lots of green ribbons. They too would enjoy the party, once all the food was set out. This night was one of the few which ignored social standings within the community, and the under housemaid was free to dance with whomever might ask.
Reid always made sure he danced with as many of his servants as he could. He felt it was the least he could do, given their duties to him and the family throughout the year. They would receive their customary “boxes”— gifts and bonuses neatly wrapped—on the day after Christmas. It was also a holiday for all of them.
Reid and Lady Jocelyn particularly enjoyed handing out the boxes with a kind word or a little joke, and then retiring to their snug parlor where they could pick at a tray filled with Christmas leftovers. Some other households in the country held hunts on that day, but at Chillendale, it was set aside for spending many hours doing nothing whatsoever, to the approbation of everyone.