Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  She finished the hem and knotted the thread, neatly trimming it with her sewing scissors. The matron swept off with neither verbal thanks nor a coin, still grumbling to her friend that Lord Kingsley was being wasted on The Debenham.

  There was a temporary lull in the retiring room, and the chambermaid said with concern, “Are you feeling all right, Christa? You’ve come all over white.”

  Christa forced herself to smile. “Just tired, Maggie. I have been busy all day, what with the ball and readying Miss Annabelle. I’ll be all right if I sit for a few minutes.”

  She sat down just before her knees could buckle and leaned her head against the back of the chair. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, and she wondered if she were going to faint. Had Alex offered her a carte blanche because he wanted her, or just because he wanted a woman? She shuddered—she knew he didn’t love her, but surely there had been some caring? Had he already been planning on offering for Miss Debenham, or had he chosen to marry her because he was lonely, and Christa had refused him?

  Questions tumbled painfully in her head but there were no answers. You knew he was not for you. You are a servant, without name or fortune. She is an heiress and beautiful. A cat may look at a king, and a servant may love a lord, but the lord will marry a lady.

  Christa found she was shivering and forced herself to relax. Of course he was not for her—she could have had him, on his terms, and had refused. She had no right to complain when he found a companion among his own class.

  But did it have to be so quickly?

  It was past three in the morning when the last guests left and the servants could move in and begin the cleanup. Annabelle leaned against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, almost too tired to stand. Certainly the ball had been a success, but … Alex came up to her, having just put the last departing guests into their carriage. Even he looked tired.

  “I wish you happy on your coming marriage, Alex,” she said, doing her best to keep both question and reproach from her tone.

  Her brother sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I would have warned you about it, Belle, except that it was as much a surprise to me as to you. I’m sorry for stealing some of your thunder on what should have been your night alone.”

  “I don’t mind sharing the attention,” she said with a tired smile. “I found it is very fatiguing to be the center of attention for a whole night. But …” She paused, then said carefully, “I had not realized that you were so attached to Miss Debenham.”

  “Events took on a life of their own,” he said dryly. “Will you mislike it, Belle? You and she are friends, aren’t you?”

  Annabelle considered before replying. She had never liked Sybil above half, but if Alex wanted to marry her, he should be free to do so without worrying about whether his childish younger sister was going to sulk. “Oh, yes, Alex. She has always been most friendly and helpful.” She could not quite keep the note of acid out when she added, “She has tried to hint me into a more elegant mode any number of times.”

  Alex looked startled. “I think your present style suits you much better than Miss Debenham’s would. She is … um …” He fumbled for a correct term.

  “Unusually dramatic?” Annabelle suggested.

  “Exactly.” Alex gestured to the butler, who had just entered the hall. “Morrison, the servants have done a splendid job this evening. Please give everyone a half-day off tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, my lord. And very generous, I might add.” Morrison executed a half-bow and withdrew to spread the good news. In most houses the servants had to stay up after a party until the cleaning was done, then rise at their usual hour the next day. Lord Kingsley was really a most considerate employer.

  Christa was waiting for Annabelle and quickly unpinned her hair and brushed it out. “You appear to have had a great success, Miss Annabelle.”

  Her mistress smothered a yawn. “So it would seem. Much of that is due to you—you have worked harder than anyone. I intend to sleep very late tomorrow, and you have my permission to do the same.” She glanced at Christa’s reflection in the mirror. “Did you hear of my brother’s engagement?”

  “Yes, miss.” The reply was colorless.

  Annabelle sighed. “I wish I could be more enthusiastic. It is flattering that a Beauty like Miss Debenham should choose my brother, but I have always found her to have a sadly commonplace mind.” She stood so Christa could help her out of her gown.

  “Men seldom choose wives for their minds, Miss Annabelle.”

  “No, I suppose not. But I am not looking forward to sharing a house with her.”

  Christa smiled faintly. “They will probably not marry for some months. Perhaps by that time you will have found a suitable parti of your own.”

  Annabelle gave an elaborate shudder. “Never! I think I will retire to a cottage and raise roses. Will you join me, or would the life be too slow for an abigail of your talents?”

  Christa chuckled as she turned the bedcovers back. “We shall see, Miss Annabelle. The future is not written yet. Even a cynical, brokenhearted woman of the world like you may learn to love again.”

  “On the whole, I would prefer the roses,” Annabelle said sleepily. “At least the thorns are visible.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alex paid a call on Sybil Debenham the day after Annabelle’s ball. He was greeted with a knowing smile by the Debenham butler, who ushered him into a room where Sybil was sitting with her mother. Claudia stood and simpered, “Lord Kingsley—so delightful to see you! I just want to tell you how happy you’ve made me. Sybil is my only baby, and I have prayed for her happiness. I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone.” She flitted out of the room, leaving Alex with his “fiancée.”

  Sybil gazed at him adoringly. Still standing, Alex said, “It seems that circumstances last night created a false conclusion.” To his horror, crystal tears started welling up in the aquamarine eyes.

  “You don’t really want to marry me, do you?” she whispered. “I knew it was too beautiful a dream to be true. But when my mother made that mistake, and you didn’t correct her, I had hoped … that a miracle had taken place, that you returned my feelings …” Sybil turned her head as if to hide her emotions, then looked up at him valiantly. “But it shall be as you wish. I do not mind the scandal. Of course you would not wish to be tied to me. What have I to offer?”

  Fifteen years at sea does not prepare a man for such adroit manipulation. With a rush of weariness Alex accepted the fait accompli. The engagement might have resulted from a bizarre mistake, but he had been found kissing her, an action somewhat compromising to an unmarried woman. It might have happened on her initiative, but he was still responsible for the possible consequences. They would both be exposed to gossip and censure if he cried off. He wouldn’t have minded for himself, but he had no right to expose Sybil to such unpleasantness. Nor was he eager to crush her feelings for him—she looked so vulnerable. He had been looking for a wife, after all, and it wasn’t as if he had met any ladies he preferred greatly to Miss Debenham. There is one you prefer, but she isn’t a lady. Alex repressed the thought.

  With one faint hope he said, “Any man would be greatly honored to have you as his wife, but I fear that I will make a poor husband. I have decided to return to sea, and should be posted to another ship soon. A captain’s wife is much alone, and you would not receive the attention and cherishing you deserve.”

  Sybil’s voice choked a little as she said, “So brave! I will never stand between you and your duty. I will be honored to wait on the shore for you, for as long as you want me to.”

  There was to be no escape that way. He said woodenly, “If you are sure, Miss Debenham, I am delighted that you will honor me with your hand. I will notify the newspapers of our engagement.” She looked as if she expected but would not welcome another kiss, so he made his bow and left.

  Resignation settled over Alex as he reached the street. He hadn’t intended to return to a ship’s command, but
the war with France offered exciting possibilities. He gave a melancholy thought to his friend Peter Harrington’s loving marriage, then shrugged. Perhaps he lacked the ability to love in that way. And if he spent years on end at sea, it hardly mattered whom he married. At least Sybil didn’t think she would mind the neglect.

  On impulse, he continued on to the Admiralty. Fortunately, Admiral Hutchinson was able to see him quickly. After a minimum of preliminaries, Alex said, “I’d like another ship.”

  Hutchinson leaned back in his chair. “I hear you are getting married. Don’t you wish for time with your bride?”

  His remark drew no response, and Lord Kingsley’s expression did not invite further comment. The admiral stoked up his pipe and said, “If you are interested, the yard in Plymouth has almost finished a sister ship to your old Antagonist. She’s going to be named Invicta, and she has a few new tricks we hope will let her outsail anything the French have. Of course, the Invicta is another frigate, not a ship of the line.”

  “I actually prefer the quickness and maneuverability of frigates, sir.”

  “Well, they suit your style. If you want the Invicta, she’s scheduled for her final outfitting soon after Christmas. By the time she’s ready to sail, you’ll have had a year to recover from that Gibraltar business. You may want to go down to Plymouth and oversee the last stages.”

  “I would like that very much, sir. With your permission.” Alex bowed and left the office. Hutchinson watched him depart with narrowed eyes. Jumping on the first available ship seemed a damned funny response to getting betrothed. Still, the Navy could use as many captains like Kingsley as it could find. He shook his head, then returned to the mountain of papers on his desk.

  That night at dinner Alex told his sister he would be returning to active naval duty. Annabelle looked up in shock. Her first reaction was to remind him he had promised to stay home as long as she needed him, but she held her tongue. Something very strange was going on with Alex—the sudden engagement and now this decision to go to sea again. If she asked him to stay, she had no doubt that he would keep his word, but with her newfound maturity she saw his need to get away. When she had ordered her thoughts, she said, “We shall miss you, but you have arranged things here so that we shall manage very well.”

  “Thank you, Belle,” he said quietly.

  “When will you be leaving?”

  “Sometime after Christmas I will go to Plymouth to oversee the final outfitting of the ship. It’s a new frigate, the Invicta. We should be ready for assignment in March or April.”

  She nodded, then asked diffidently, “Can we go to the Orchard for Christmas? We were so happy there last summer.”

  Alex smiled at her, the strain on his face easing for the first time that day. “I would like that very much.”

  Christa felt that the weeks between Annabelle’s ball and the Kingsleys’ removal to Suffolk had an air of waiting. One phase of family life was over, and the next not yet clear. Annabelle went to her share of teas, routs, and balls, and had more than her share of gentleman callers, yet showed no partiality for any of them. If there were no more sobs in the night, there was no great enthusiasm either. Sir Edward Loaming had not been seen in London since the elopement, and the rumors linking his name with Annabelle’s died a quick death.

  Lord Kingsley spent little time at the house, working long hours at the Admiralty to complete the work he had laid down for himself. Christa knew from her mistress’s occasional comments that he regularly escorted his fiancée to various social functions. Annabelle said rather plaintively that Alex seemed to have nothing to say to the beautiful Sybil, but that Sybil had more than enough words for any two people. The marriage had been set for the end of March, shortly before Lord Kingsley took command of his new ship.

  Christa had silently resolved to be gone from the household before the wedding, though she had not yet informed Annabelle. She and her cousin Suzanne had talked, and agreed that the middle of March would be a good time for her to start at the shop. Christa had met her cousin’s Henry, and he was a quiet, reliable man who obviously adored his French bride-to-be. From their behavior, she suspected that Suzanne’s campaign to make Henry a little less proper had been successful; they both had that cat-in-the-creampot look about them. Christa was amused and touched by their obvious pleasure in one another, but preferred not to be around the happy couple too often. It was too vivid a reminder of her own loss. She had always said that she wouldn’t marry unless she found a man the equal of her father and brother; it seemed unbearably cruel that she had found him but couldn’t have him.

  The weather had been unusually dry that autumn, and the trip to Suffolk was accomplished with none of the distress that December traveling often caused. Christa felt a flood of happiness at the sight of the Orchard’s magpie facade—surely it was the drollest house in the world! She hoped Lord Kingsley would never change a thing about it.

  Alex did not travel down with his brother and sister, preferring to arrive two days later accompanied only by his valet. Christa wondered idly if he was avoiding her—they had scarcely seen each other in the two months since Annabelle’s attempted elopement. She shrugged mentally; such thoughts were a vanity. Why should Lord Kingsley think of her at all, much less make an effort to avoid her? She was the most minor of footnotes to his existence—a servant who had been useful, and who had refused to share his bed.

  Christa’s jaded view of life could not long survive the merriment of the season. It was her first real English Christmas, since the year before at Radcliffe Hall they had been in deep mourning. In contrast, the servants and tenants of the Orchard were delighted that the family was in residence for the first time in several years, and the old customs were observed with a particular flourish. All of the cottages were decorated with greens, including pine and ivy, but the glossy holly with its bright berries was the prime favorite.

  The most surprising bit of decoration for Christa was the mistletoe. It was a considerable shock the first time one of the male servants caught her beneath a sprig that hung in the kitchen. The custom was to take a berry each time a kiss was stolen, and when all the berries were gone, the kissing had to cease.

  Christa observed that the berries seemed to grow back every night, and could only assume that some merry male did not wish the kissing privileges to run out before the twelve days of Christmas were done. She seemed to be the most popular object of embrace, possibly because of her exotic origins, but none of the female servants was neglected. Monsieur Sabine, a Frenchman to the core, seized this English custom with delight, even stealing a kiss from the redoubtable housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison. He kissed all of the girls except Christa; she decided that it was because they were both French, and the mistletoe was legitimate only if one of the participants was English.

  By the custom of the house, on Christmas Eve the servants and the family celebrated the holiday together in the great hall. The Yule log was brought in ceremoniously and lit by the brand that had remained from the previous year’s log. The Yule log had been carefully chosen and seasoned to burn easily, as it was considered bad luck for the coming year if it did not burn the night through. This year’s log was of apple wood, and the sweet scent of its burning suffused the hall. The three Kingsleys circulated the room, stopping for a word with each servant and child, exchanging news with those whom they hadn’t seen lately. The sense of community that had bound a medieval manor from the highest to the lowest was very strong tonight.

  Christa was happy to sit with a group singing traditional Christmas songs. She had always loved the joyful music of the season, and while English songs like “The Holly and the Ivy” and the “Sussex Carol” were new to her, she was able to pick up the tunes quickly and hum or wordlessly harmonize. At the urging of her fellow carolers, she sang two French songs. She translated the titles as “Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella,” and “Oh, Come, Oh, Come, Emmanuel,” then sang the words in her own language.

  As Alex heard Christa’s sweet
voice soaring in the old French melodies, he stopped his social round to listen, his heart constricting with memory and regret. He had avoided her since his engagement, afraid to be tempted, or to see questions in her wide gray eyes. He was committed to another woman, and had no right to be yearning after one who had refused him. But tonight was Christmas Eve, when maid and master could mingle freely.

  When the feasting and singing were done, two fiddlers and a bass viol player brought out their instruments and the dancing began. Christa was laughing and clapping her hands in time to the music when she realized that Alex had materialized beside her. She looked up at him, still laughing, then caught her breath at the expression in his amber eyes. His deep voice sent a warm shiver down her spine when he asked, “Will you dance?”

  She gave him her hand and said gaily, “Lead on, my lord!”

  The fiddlers struck up a rigadoon, a lively dance done in couples rather than sets. Christa had taught it to the Kingsleys, and Alex had mastered it well. Spinning and jumping, they both put aside the events of the autumn and returned to the simple pleasure of the summer.

  Christa wore a swirling crimson dress that contrasted vividly with her dark hair and fair skin, and her vital charm and grace drew the admiring eyes of every man in the room. By the end of the dance, Alex was ruefully wishing that he could exercise the droit du seigneur and carry her off as his ancestors might have done several centuries earlier. It was impossible to imagine the impeccable Sybil Debenham enjoying herself with such abandon, or looking so delectably disheveled.

  When the music ended, Christa grinned up at her master and said, “Your dancing has improved out of all imagining, my lord.”

  Alex still held her hand from the last dance turn. Looking down, he said softly, “Your teaching is one of many things I will always remember you for.”