Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  The evening began well. Randy and Freddy, scrubbed and dressed in their church clothes, followed a footman to the nursery floor, where Charles had planned more War of the Roses. Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy soldiers he had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.

  Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess and the duchess. The dress she wore, a lovely green muslin, flattered her curves and brought out the gold in her auburn hair. She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would see to it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his countess, her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.

  Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had stiffened showing him in, but Lord Arthur managed a sardonic twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The prodigal has returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her brother-in-law. That she didn't know, Will put down to Emery's pure negligence, if not spite. Sylvia eyed Catherine speculatively, but said nothing. God be praised.

  "Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine asked.

  "Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few changes, Your Grace." He looked at Sylvia sympathetically. Will suspected the old man must guess what it had been like for her, living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now …" Lord Arthur's voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate foyer.

  Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish to use, keeping the conversation flowing over dinner. When politics failed, literature worked. When the social season proved no interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and Will told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along with their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the worst of the bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that reassuring. Catherine provided no input at all.

  "Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly," Lord Arthur said.

  "His father, yes. But the son is nothing like the father," Will told him.

  "Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives on half-pay since Waterloo, but he served in the cavalry like Will for seven years, by all accounts, with distinction."

  "You were in the army?" Catherine asked, suddenly alert. She searched him, as if assessing damage.

  "Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie," Will answered. "I sold out three years ago to take over for my father. He died six months after I came home."

  "Did you miss it?"

  "The mud and the horror of it? No. But I should have been in Belgium."

  "Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew and Jamie were enough of a contribution to the wretched Corsican."

  "Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The compassion in her expression warmed Will's heart.

  "Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told her. "He has gone home to Cambridge to heal. Jamie came through unscathed."

  "In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are visible," Will said sadly. He caught his friend's eye. When he looked away, he found Catherine looking at him speculatively. Could he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women wouldn't want to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear whatever burdens he chose to share.

  Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to the weather, always a safe choice. The impact of weather on agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from Catherine. A brief discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks. She understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat cultivation. She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought proudly.

  When Sylvia rose, the panic on Catherine's face brought Will to his feet. "We needn't be formal among family, gentlemen. I suggest we join the ladies for after-dinner refreshment." And buffer Catherine from Sylvia's company.

  Conversation in the withdrawing room did not go as well. Sylvia's control started to slip, and something in the room bothered Lord Arthur.

  "You were right, Chadbourn. Sometimes, a man has to face his demons," the old man said. "But if this room were mine, I would strip it of its furnishings and change it completely."

  Catherine looked suddenly wary. She put a hand on her father's arm. Lord Arthur, however, appeared lost in his own thoughts. "This is where I told m'father I planned to wed my Mary."

  Stunned silence greeted that announcement.

  "He disapproved," Will said, and immediately regretted it, when Lord Arthur went on as if he hadn't heard.

  "Beat me over the head." He pointed to a finely carved side chair next to the folded card table. "There used to be two of those. He broke one over my shoulder. Dislocated it. I never saw him again."

  Lord Arthur looked around at the company and blinked. "I am sorry, Your Grace," he said to Sylvia, who had gone pale as a ghost. "Old history."

  "Chadbourn, I… I feel poorly. I need to lie down," the duchess said, rising unsteadily to her feet. Will wondered, fleetingly, what ghost Lord Arthur's description of violence had resurrected, but he took her elbow to assist her.

  He stopped and addressed Lord Arthur. They had come this far; he couldn't let it drop.

  "Why? What did he have against your lady?" he asked.

  Perhaps it was his use of "lady" to describe Mary, but Lord Arthur seemed to stand a bit straighter. "Believed the disgrace would 'taint' the family, as if we didn't have worse blots on our family escutcheon, as if my Mary weren't a treasure that would enrich any family."

  Will opened his mouth to ask more, but Sylvia sagged against him.

  "Come, girl, we'd best leave," Lord Arthur said to Catherine. "I hope you feel better, Your Grace. I'm sorry I upset your evening." Lord Arthur bowed correctly, but left the room without pausing.

  Catherine looked at Will, perplexity and sorrow in her expression.

  "We'll talk later," he said.

  ***

  Catherine desperately wished that "later" meant in a year or two. She wished, at least, that Will would give her a week to think about his sister's distress, to recover from her father's revelation, and to steel herself against the perilous attraction she felt every time he came close. He gave her no such time.

  The big bay trotted down the lane, raising dust and Freddy's hopes. For weeks now, the earl had arrived by phaeton with Charles. Today, he came alone.

  "Where can we talk?" he asked without preamble, while Freddy happily led Mercury to the meadow for "a gentle walk."

  "Alone?" she asked. She shouldn't be alone with him. She couldn't.

  "Catherine, I won't hurt you. I won't—" He broke off with a curse and led her to the tool storage closet in the barn.

  She tripped along next to him, and her thoughts raced.

  He closed the door and pulled her into a fierce kiss, before putting a hand on each arm and setting her carefully away.

  Trapped between a desire to slap his face and a sharper desire to throw herself into his arms, Catherine crossed her arms around her waist, as if to protect herself.

  Will ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. That probably doesn't help my cause, but I thought of nothing else last night." He took a steadying breath.

  "I won't be your mistress," Catherine burst out, unable to hold the thought in.

  "What? Of course not! What do you take me for?"

  "I take you for an earl who has family and friends among the highest ranks in England, who knows full well the place of a baseborn daughter of a country squire. But, Will, I can't do it." She searched his eyes, begging silently for understanding.

  "Aren't you getting ahead of me? What I need first is a friend, a friend and a partner."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I carried on alone for months, Catherine. My father died, and Chadbourn Park fell to me. He left it in good condition, but the responsibility weighed on me. Before I met you, I had no idea how lonely I had become."

  She could formulate no reply to that.

  "I came here to find the land abused, disasters everywhere, and, well, you've met Sylvia and know my
worries for Charles. Before I met you, I was at my wits end."

  "You're managing well. What did I do?"

  "You found me Archer, for one, and a market for the excess of blasted sheep. You rescued Charles."

  "I?"

  He grinned ruefully. "Perhaps your brothers rescued Charles." He sobered quickly. "You have no idea how I feared for him. His father left him so nervous and afraid, that everything I said made him cringe. Freddy and Randy have been a blessing."

  She nodded. "Animals that have been beaten or abused are like that. Love and attention usually works, but not always. You give him that."

  "Friendship helps. It helped him. I need it, too. I think my sister does, also."

  "She won't welcome me."

  "She did well, at first, last night."

  "Until my father's story upset her."

  "I don't think he meant to do that."

  "No, and I don't believe his story was the main problem," Catherine mused. "I've been thinking about her."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There was an elderly man in the village, the shopkeeper's uncle. He had been in His Majesty's Navy for many years. He came to live here, because he could no longer support himself. The family told me he was one of three survivors of a ship that took a direct hit to the powder room. It blew up around him. Once he was back on land, fire sent him running. Loud noises of any kind made him shake and weep. He would hide in shame."

  "He relived the memory over and over. I saw men like that in the army," Will mused.

  Catherine decided to take a chance. "It isn't my business, Will, but did your sister experience violence at the hands of Papa's father?"

  His face looked bleak. "Perhaps. At her husband's hands, without any doubt, although she won't talk about it."

  "I think Papa's story triggered her own memories. I suspect she uses the tonic to deaden them. Give her time."

  "I have given her time. She needs to be pushed out of her stupor. Last night helped."

  "Helped? She almost collapsed."

  He shook his head. "She can't hide, any more than your father can."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Come again, this time for longer. Stay one night. Christmas Eve. The boys will love it, and it may give your father time to get his stories out. He needs to. Sylvia needs to, also."

  She thought about it. "It might work, at least for Papa. Not the twenty-fourth, though. Papa takes us to Christmas Vespers, and then we eat cakes and tell stories. The boys will expect it."

  The longing in Will's face struck her to the heart. How long has it been since he had family intimacy?

  "I won't interfere," he said sadly. "Come the day and night before, and share some of your stories with us. Please."

  She couldn't deny him. "I'll try to convince Papa. He may be ready to come again. He has had many good years here to strengthen him."

  "And Sylvia does not?"

  She shook her head. "Too soon, I think."

  "Let's make a start, at least. I can face the thing with a partner," he told her.

  "Partner?"

  "A partner makes many things more bearable. They can make the impossible possible." He took her hand.

  "I'll bring Papa for a visit, if you wish," she agreed.

  "Cath? Cath? Come and see how the piglet looks in Freddy's old baby bonnet," Randy called from outside.

  Catherine clamped a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh at the picture Randy's words created. Will's laughing eyes made her drop her hand to smile back. Before she could think, he dared a quick kiss, thrust her deeper into shadows, and stepped out. "I am looking for her, too, Randy. "Let's try behind the house."

  ***

  Will wished desperately that Catherine stood at his side two days later, when Sylvia soaked his neck-cloth and sobbed all over his jacket. Three boys looked on with wide eyes and troubled expressions.

  "The boys meant no harm," he murmured. What can I say to heal this madness?

  "Truly, we didn't, Mama," Charles said. Hands still holding pine branches hung at his side. "I invited Randy and Freddy to help make the hall look festive."

  Sylvia's muffled reply was unintelligible. The boy continued desperately, "It's just that Songbird Cottage looks ever so festive, and we never do anything…" He groped for a word. "Fun. We never laugh," he finished, anguish in his voice.

  Sylvia lifted her head and took a look at her son. "But, Charles, we're in mourning."

  Charles raised a defiant, if trembling, chin. "We've been in mourning my whole life."

  She gasped, and Will braced for another outburst. What she said next surprised him.

  "We have, haven't we? Ten years of mourning. Never any joy. No smiles over dinner. No guests. Never any holiday greens. No Christmas pudding. No Twelfth Night revels, not here, not with family. No joy. Even Boxing Day felt like a court ceremony, and no one ever told me the rules." She gave a little hiccup and put her head on Will's shoulder. "I always got them wrong."

  He hugged her close.

  "Oh, Will, do you remember how Father used to make the household laugh on Boxing Day?" she asked.

  "I remember. I didn't think you did. Do you remember how Mother organized Twelfth Night revels?"

  Sylvia cried again, but with less desperation. To Will, it felt like the soul-shaking cry of mourning. She mourned, he suspected, the loss of youth, family, and joy, not her husband.

  He gathered her close and spoke to the boys over her shoulder.

  "You're right to bring joy to this house, Charles, but perhaps the grand foyer is not the place to start." It will take more than the boys' efforts at decoration to make this monstrosity feel human. "I suggest you start with the nursery."

  Charles's face fell, but he complied. He picked up one pile of branches. "Come up with me, Randy and Freddy. At least upstairs, no one will interrupt us."

  "Wait, boys," Will said. "You could also decorate the family parlor. Celebrations belong best with family, no?"

  "Famous, Charles! We'll all be there, won't we, my lord?" Randy looked at Will hopefully.

  "You certainly will. We'll all be together tomorrow night." I have no idea how I'll make sure joy outweighs grief, but I'm damn well going to try. "There will be gifts," he said with a wink.

  "Excellent notion!" Charles exclaimed.

  "Come on, Charles. A parlor will be easier to do, anyway," Freddy suggested. "We were going to need a big ladder for this one, and that Stowe liked to have apoplexy when we brought in the greens." He looked around the cavernous foyer. "It would be a good place for the nativity pageant, though."

  "Don't even think about it," Will called over Sylvia's shoulder at the retreating boys.

  In the boys' absence, Sylvia's quiet weeping echoed off the walls. "Come, dear one, let's go upstairs." He kept an arm around his sister's shoulders while he led her to the stairs. "Were the decorations so terrible?"

  "They aren't terrible at all," she said, her voice thick with tears. "It reminded me of Chadbourn Park. Emery never allowed it. He never allowed us to celebrate."

  "I thought Emery liked his pleasures."

  "He spent the weeks at house parties, but he left orders. Once, I put up holly in the parlor and took it down before he returned."

  "Good for you."

  "Stowe told him. Emery beat me and turned off the two servants who helped. I never did it again. He hated me." He felt a tremor go through her body and wished his late brother-in-law to one of the lower rungs of Hell. At least she finally said the words, he thought.

  When they reached her room, Will took her face in his hands. "Someday, Sister, when you are ready, you will tell me everything, and I will tell you again how very sorry I am that I didn't protect you from that man."

  She smiled sadly. "He was my husband. He had every right. You could do nothing."

  Her words didn't assuage his guilt, but they fed his determination to make it up. "He's gone, you know. Make yourself believe it. If you let him continue to blight your existence,
you give him power over you still. Don't do it. Flourish, instead. Your revenge will be joie de vivre."

  A twist of her mouth almost looked like a smile.

  "Disobey his every rule, Sylvia. Defy his every unreasonable dictate." He leaned his forehead to hers. "Fly free."

  "Such as entertaining Lord Arthur's family?"

  "Absolutely."

  "But there's something about that woman, Catherine …"

  "Whatever it is, if it came from Emery, it is poison, and we will not let it blight our lives!"

  She nodded, but Will wasn't convinced that she meant it.

  When his sister shut the door, he slumped against the wall. She looked skeptical and, he suspected, afraid. Catherine's words came back to him. "Give her time." He couldn't undo eleven years of damage in a few months.

  How am I to endure years of this? If he had to do it alone, he couldn't bear it.

  For now, he had boys to oversee. I need to remind them to hang mistletoe. A smile took hold, and he stood a bit taller. He hurried to the family parlor.

  Chapter Eight

  Now for the hard part, Will thought, when he entered the family parlor.

  The Wheatlys' arrival had gone smoothly, primarily because Will had thrown the fear of God—or of being turned off—into Stowe. Lord Arthur looked relieved to be in the guest wing, where fewer memories haunted him. The boys greeted cots in the nursery with hoots of joy. Catherine looked merely resigned, until she saw that her room looked out over the gardens. He expected that, by morning, she would have drawn up plans to restore them.

  Dinner also passed without incident. Lord Arthur remarked that he had few memories of the dining salon.

  "I was seldom at home, you see, once I was an adult," he had said.

  Stunned silence greeted that pronouncement, and Will once again offered a prayer of gratitude for Glenaire. The marquess diverted the discussion smoothly.

  Both Sylvia and Catherine made a greater effort than they had at the previous dinner. Catherine's disinterest in fashion and Sylvia's distaste for crop rotation limited them, however, and only Glenaire's gambits kept the conversation flowing. When the ladies rose, they left the gentlemen to their port with no sign of animosity.