A Duke for Christmas

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “What would you do if you could do anything?”

  “Anything? Women aren’t given that choice. We have only three choices—marriage, good works, or... well, you are a man of the world, I have been married. I cannot see myself in the third role. All that is left is good works, and I don’t believe I have the temperament for it.” She sighed.

  “You could marry again.” He saw the resigned way she shook her head, and the sight pained him so much that he had to speak. “Yes, you could. Someone different. Someone who wouldn’t want you to be smaller than you are. Someone who thinks his wife should be free to have her own thoughts, her own soul. If you wanted to look after me, if that is your idea of what a wife should be, I’d want you to. If you wanted to climb an Alp or investigate the life cycle of the common liver fluke, I’d want you to. Whatever you want, Sophie, is what I want for you.”

  “The common liver fluke?”

  He met her eyes and they burst into laughter. He reached out and took her by the shoulders, his hands curving over her roundness. More than anything, he wanted to draw her into his arms, but he felt her stiffness and refrained. “I can offer you all the worldly things, Sophie. Great position and wealth, the admiration of fools who can only see those things. But you can give me...”

  “What can I give you? What did you want from me before?”

  “You can give me the belief that none of these things matter. If you would marry me, I could believe that you wanted only me—Dominic Swift, not the Duke of Saltaire. I need that. You’ve no notion how much I need it.”

  He saw his words sink in and felt a stir of hope. “You remembered that I said how Broderick needed me.”

  “I remember every word you have ever said to me.”

  Slowly, she stepped out of reach of his hands. “I was wrong. Broderick didn’t need me, not the way I thought. If I could be so wrong about so much, how can I trust my judgment again and on the same subject?”

  “You could trust mine.” Even as he said it he knew that wouldn’t satisfy either of them. “No,” he said. “If you come to me, you must want to with your wisdom as well as your love.”

  “Do you think my love will be more easily won than my good sense?”

  “I hope so. Napoleon taught us the futility of fighting on more than one impossible front simultaneously.”

  She showed him an absent smile then turned aside, her arms wrapped about her middle. “You know that I cannot say yes. I am far from ready to even contemplate such a step.”

  “I knew that it was too soon. But seeing you so unhappy is very difficult for me.”

  “Thank you. It is very comforting to know that you care. Only ... try not to care too much.”

  Dominic was glad she had not looked at him. His expression would have given away even more than his words. One consolation remained. She’d turned him down twice now—if she had even the slightest interest in his title or possessions, her present condition would have tempted her to accept him. The fact that a word would alleviate all her financial difficulties and yet that word remained unspoken gave him hope that if she ever did accept him, it would be for himself alone.

  He’d better change the subject.

  “How much longer do you think this baby will take?” Dominic asked, knowing that with most women he would not have dared to broach such a delicate question. He felt confident that Sophie would not react missishly.

  “It’s hard to say. Mother told me that first children can take a very long time. But, there, I have said what prayers I can. The rest is up to God and Dr. Richards.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie saw the baby, her nephew, for the first time at eight o’clock in the morning. The late-rising winter sun had just lifted to the window, sending a beam of palest gold to touch the sleeping newborn’s head. “He has hair,” she marveled.

  “Yes,” Maris sighed, turning her head toward the basket where her baby lay. Her sweat-darkened hair clung to her forehead, and black marks nested like ravens under her eyes. But the smile upon her lips showed that whatever she had suffered, she seemed well content. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

  “He’s so beautiful. Look at his fingers!” Sophie reached out to compare her hand with the delicate fist, wrinkled as an old man’s, small as a doll’s. He slept with the intense concentration that great masters give to their art.

  Sophie dragged herself away from the enthralling sight of watching her nephew sleep. She came to her sister and smoothed the coverlet. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired. I don’t like staying up all night, even without having a baby.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t sleep with all this going on. But it was a productive night, though not compared with yours. Dominic and I stayed up all night copying Broderick’s poems.” She didn’t mention the titles they’d changed. This was not the time to make any sort of lengthy explanations. Besides, there were only half a dozen or so with ill-fitting titles. Dominic had made copies of the originals without changing anything. Surreptitiously, Sophie flexed her right hand. It still ached, and the first knuckle of her middle finger felt raw.

  Despite her exhaustion, Maris seemed on the verge of asking some pointed questions. Sophie had no doubt that a matchmaking plan had evolved in her sister’s brain. She cast about for something to say to distract her but before she could think of anything, she heard a timid rap at the door.

  “See who that is, will you?” Maris asked.

  Sophie opened the door and blinked in surprise. “Buon giorno, Lucia. Buon giorno, Angelina.”

  Both girls nodded shyly. Between them, in their four hands, they carried a remarkable construct. Pyramidal in shape, it had three crosspieces loaded with fruit and flowers, the latter twisted out of paper. Ribbons cascaded from the peak, some of which Sophie recognized as ones she had discarded while still living in Rome.

  “Abbiano un regalo per il bambino,” Lucia said softly with an anxious glance into the room.

  “What does she say?” Maris struggled up onto her elbows.

  “They have a present for the baby.”

  “Ask them to come in.”

  “Entrata, per favorer.” Sophie pushed the door open wide and the girls carried in their creation, Lucia walking backward. Quickly, Sophie cleared a space on top of a low chest. The maids laid their creation down with great care, tweaked a ribbon, and adjusted a flower. Then, from pockets in apron and dress, came tiny figurines of olive wood and gilt. They had the realism and perfection of Renaissance art. Sophie saw at once that these were valuable antiques. Mary, Joseph, wise men, camel, ass, sheep, and shepherds all took their places on the bottom tier. Finally, and with some crossing of themselves, the girls slipped the figure of Infant Jesus into his tiny manger.

  “What is it?” Maris asked. “It’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s called a creppo. Every family makes them at Christmastime every year. Sometimes they get very elaborate. I’ve seen some seven feet tall.”

  “It’s stunning. Please, how do you say ‘thank you’?”

  “Grazie.”

  “Then grazie very much.”

  The two girls dipped curtsies. Then Lucia asked if they could see the baby. Maris agreed, once the request was translated, and they hurried over to the bassinet to ooh and aah in a way that required no translation at all.

  When Angelina looked up, her face transformed by a more brilliant smile than she usually showed, Sophie saw her red cheek, the flesh swollen and proud, a line of dried blood showing along the edge of the cheekbone. “Angelina, what happened?”

  Her hand crept to cover the mark. Lucia stepped between her and the Englishwomen. “Nossing,” she said. “Cosa può farci se è stupida.”

  “She says her sister can’t help being ... stupid.” Bit by bit, with confirmation from Angelina, the story came out. A strange house, a dark night, a girl too lazy to light a candle, a trip in the dark, and an open
door. They apologized for troubling anyone and insisted that a doctor would be unnecessary. Angelina was bathing it with arnica and vowed that the swelling was already much reduced.

  After a little more baby worship, Sophie suggested that Maris needed her rest. Angelina nodded and took her sister by the hand. But Lucia had something else she wanted to say. Sophie listened and shook her head. “È niente.”

  Maris asked what she’d said. “She is apologizing for not having fresh flowers for the creppo. She didn’t realize that England was a land without flowers.”

  “Tell her that we shall have a beautiful spring and if she wishes to see flowers before then, Lord Danesby will be happy to show her the greenhouses.”

  Lucia beamed brightly upon hearing this from Sophie. “She says that she hasn’t felt warm since she left home.”

  “Poor thing. I’ll mention it to Kenton. He’ll be thrilled to have a chance to show off his flowers to a new audience.”

  After the girls had gone out, Sophie came to the bedside again and took her sister’s hand. “Where’s that fancy nurse you hired?”

  “In bed with a bruised tailbone and a bad case of irritability.”

  “You don’t seem terribly upset about her dereliction of duty.”

  “Oh, I’m not. She would have taken Baby and I wouldn’t see him except at her discretion. Now I can be with him all day. I’m tired, but I’m so happy.”

  Sophie bent down and kissed her forehead. “Congratulations. I am almost as happy as you are.”

  She walked down the hall, pensively. She’d never seen anything in all the world so beautiful as her nephew. Sad to think she’d never have any children of her own. Then she paused between steps, finally struck by a good reason to marry Dominic. She had no doubt that his children would be singularly good looking, with his height and undoubted attractions of person. Many women had married for less sensible reasons.

  Another step on, however, Sophie had discarded the notion. He wouldn’t be satisfied with such a marriage. To tell the truth, neither would she. It must be her exhaustion that led her to consider for so much as an instant such an outrageous notion.

  Everyone slept half the day and wandered downstairs, unsure of whether or what they wanted to eat. Kenton wore a dazed expression, reminiscent of his wedding day, when he looked as if he’d been struck on the head by a piece of falling masonry. Now he sat at the head of the table in the morning room, smiling down at his plate as though it were a crystal ball showing him entrancing visions of his future.

  Sophie sat down, meeting Dominic’s eyes across the table. “Have you seen the baby?”

  “Not yet. I’m not very adept with babies. They tend to cry when they look at me.”

  “I’m sure they don’t.”

  “You’ll see. I rather dread the christening. By the way, Kenton ... Kenton?” He looked at his friend, who had suddenly chuckled.

  He smiled at the two of them. “I’ve got a son,” he said.

  “So I hear tell,” Dominic said. “What are you going to name him?”

  “We could never make up our minds. William Hugh or Charles John. If it had been a girl, we were going to name her after our mothers but now...” Though he was obviously tired to the nth degree, he still bore a grin that seemed to have become permanent. “I’ll ask Maris which one she thinks fits him, now that he’s here.”

  He pushed back his chair to stand up but staggered as if his legs were too weak to support him. Instantly, Dominic stood and grasped Kenton by the elbow, holding him up. “To bed with you, old man. This time, you’ll sleep.” Over his shoulder, he looked at Sophie. “Ask Tremlow for a glass of something. He’ll sleep the better for a little sip of alcohol.”

  Tremlow remained his usual sagacious self, despite having had no more sleep than the rest of them. “I shall concoct my famous punch, madam. It has sent many a gentleman to sleep.”

  “It sounds ideal. He’s so excited I doubt he can sleep otherwise. By the way, is my mother awake?”

  “Yes, madam. She has only this moment gone up to visit the nursery.”

  Sophie didn’t know whether Tremlow’s face expressed some emotion, however briefly, or if she had begun to develop the knack of reading his countenance. Whichever it was, she sensed trouble.

  The nursery was on the top floor in a lamp-filled room distempered a soothing blue. The fire flickered in the small fireplace, outlined in delft tiles. Heavy curtains kept the room warm. Sophie tugged at the collar of her dress.

  “And I can assure you, Mrs. Lindel, that none of my other ladies had such an irregular household,” Sophie heard a petulant voice say. The month-nurse lay back on a chaise, a vinaigrette in her limp hand. “These midnight disturbances, strange men rampaging through the halls, this restlessness on the part of her ladyship could have had the worst effects on the child. You have no notion how much danger that baby was in.”

  “I don’t? On the contrary, I’m well aware of how dangerous childbirth can be. I lost a child once.”

  “You did?” Sophie said in amazement.

  Her mother turned abruptly with a flick of skirt. “I didn’t see you.”

  “What is this?”

  “I came up to ask Simms why she isn’t doing her duty.”

  Sophie saw the look she had described to Dominic turned, thank heavens, upon someone else. Simms melted as quickly as butter in the sun. She put her feet on the floor, feeling for her shoes, and stood up, wincing a little.

  “Everything is ready for the baby, Mrs. Lindel. I’ll just go down and get it.”

  Sophie tugged her mother’s sleeve. “No,” she whispered. “Maris is happier keeping the baby with her.”

  “She may feel that way now, but she needs her rest.”

  “Couldn’t we help her? I’m not doing anything except eating and sleeping, and you have lots of experience with infants.”

  “Not for twenty years. One grows rusty. No, Simms has been hired to perform a service. She had better be about it.”

  When they were alone, Sophie turned to her mother. “What’s this you said?”

  “Oh, I’m not going to bother my children with ancient history.” Seeing perhaps that Sophie wasn’t about

  to give up, Mrs. Lindel sighed resignedly. “It was a very long time ago. Before Maris. Our first child was a boy.

  He lived three weeks.”

  “But... you’ve never said a word. You’ve never visited a grave...”

  “It was a very long time ago,” Mrs. Lindel said again. “We were in London at the time. He was buried in Town at St. Clement Dane. I went there the last time I visited Maris and Kenton.” She smiled with understanding at her daughter. “The grave was gone. They don’t keep them, you know. London cemeteries are so crowded that they move or cover over the bodies. And he was so very small.”

  Sophie put her arm about her mother’s shoulders, more for her own comfort than because Mrs. Lindel seemed to stand in need of it. “I had no notion.”

  “No, there was no reason for you to know. Maris came and then you. Besides, one forgets such things. They are like a story you read once upon a time. Whether it made you laugh or cry, eventually you put it down and the details fade. You go on with your life and you say ‘Well, this is what I have. I can be happy.’ And you are happy.”

  She patted Sophie’s hand, where it lay on her comfortable waist. “Oh, I forgot to tell you in all the excitement. Your gown has come. Dear Miss Bowles must have slaved like a Turk over her needle. I’d like you to try it on. You can see mine at the same time. I think it suits me. Dark blue, you know, shot with silver. I wear it with a turban.”

  “A turban? No, that’s for dowagers. You are far too young for such things.”

  Mrs. Lindel’s laughter did have something girlish in the tone, despite everything. “I’m so glad you came home, Sophie. Between you and your sister, you will keep me young.”

  “No turbans?”

  “No. No turbans. Though it is very grand.”

  “We’l
l give it to Simms to reconcile her to the hardness of her lot.”

  * * * *

  The next day, the household returned to its usual schedule. Dominic and Sophie were once again in the library, copying out Broderick’s poems. They had discussed the changes to the poems with the ill-fitting titles and had agreed, more or less, on what the new titles should be. All but one.

  “This passes me,” Sophie said. “I can make neither head nor tail of it. The poem is plain enough, simply history, but why call it that?”

  “The title does seem portentous,” Dominic conceded. He held the paper closer to his eyes as if that would help bring it into focus. “I just don’t know of what.”

  Sophie looked up at a shadow she glimpsed out; of the corner of her eye. “Kenton,” she called. Her brother-in-law straightened up, rather sheepishly, and put down the brogues he held in his hand. His feet wore only stockings.

  “Good morning. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You were sneaking out, sir,” Sophie said. Dominic slued around in his chair to look over his shoulder with a wide grin.

  “Kenton will never make a poet.”

  “On the contrary,” Kenton said, stung. “I wrote an ode to my wife shortly after we were married. It even rhymed, pretty well, though I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with bo ... well,” he concluded with a glance at Sophie. “Well, some of the words were difficult.”

  “Good,” Sophie said with satisfaction. “You can come and help us.”

  “Ordinarily, only too happy to help, but I must see to my greenhouses. I haven’t been down there since the baby came, and I don’t trust my gardener or, at any rate, only as far as I can see him. He doesn’t water enough.”

  “Just come and listen for a moment,” Sophie pleaded. “Dominic and I want your opinion on this poem.”

  With evident reluctance, Kenton padded over to them in his stocking feet. He stood behind Dominic’s chair, his arms folded on the studded edge, ready for instant flight given half a chance. “Is it one of Broderick’s?”

  “Yes. It’s called ‘Walk Sunset Down’ and it has us in a quandary. What do you think it means?” She cleared her throat.