A Regency Yuletide

by Sharon Sobel

  “Will you remain in Penzance, Miss Cartwell?” Emma asked. “I believe your uncle is very pleased to have you here.”

  “Oh, indeed he is, for I am ever more capable than his housekeeper.” She glanced at Lord Peter, whose eyes were now on her face. “But I feel a great desire to return to London. Lady Winslow is my great aunt, you know, and she has long promised to introduce me to society. Of course, I already have one or two connections.”

  “You shall have me among the number,” said Emma.

  Miss Cartwell hesitated just long enough to remind Emma that she would just be Mrs. Nathaniel Evander, and not as valuable as other connections to a young lady with high expectations. Emma laughed, also reminding herself that being Mrs. Evander would have been beyond her own expectations even a few days ago.

  “Yes, I will,” said Miss Cartwell. “And I am glad you find it will give you pleasure.”

  Emma let the subject go and was grateful for a sudden distraction at the doorway. The fiddler played a little flourish and stilled his instrument as a great cart was wheeled into the room, delivering the Twelfth Night Cake shimmering in the candlelight.

  Aunt Daisy stood with her arms outstretched, waiting to receive both her creation and the expected accolades for its beauty and design.

  “I have never seen her so happy,” said Lord Michael, suddenly appearing at Emma’s side.

  “Neither have I, my lord. But it is not about the cake,” said Emma as she accepted his hand. Thus she stood between the two closest men in her life, soon to be her new husband and her new uncle.

  Mrs. Corcoran emerged from the crowd to the right of Aunt Daisy, holding what appeared to be a knife. Emma gasped, before she realized the silver object was nothing more than a cake server, and that the cook intended to do the honors of serving Aunt Daisy’s creation. But either her enthusiasm or the brandy got the better of her because she came too close to the moving cart and tripped on the front wheel. The weight of the masterpiece propelled the cart forward, ramming it into Aunt Daisy, who stood frozen in horror.

  The collective gasp in the room was more likely in response to the sight of a very large cake suddenly flying over her head than concern about a downed lady.

  But Nathaniel and Lord Michael were quick to move, and pushed through the crowd with Emma fast upon their heels.

  “Marguerite!” Lord Michael called, sidestepping a trail of sugar icing that now adorned the fine oak floor.

  But Nathaniel, his vision obstructed by his uncle, was not quite so lucky. He stepped into the sweet mess, lost his footing, and started to fall backwards. Emma, now seeing nothing but his dark shoulders slipping down before her, rushed forward with arms outstretched, and broke his fall. Her rescue would have been flawless, but that he was much heavier than she, and they started to sink to the floor, Nathaniel’s body still braced by hers.

  “Oh, dear God,” he said after several moments. “This might have been a disaster.”

  Emma looked around them, at legs and the hems of ballgowns, at lumps of cake and icing, the partridge pecking at a sugared leaf, and at one poor gentleman tripping over Nathaniel’s dropped cane. “If this is not a disaster, Nathaniel, I do not know what is.” And yet she clung to him, relishing the weight of his body on hers, and the good clean scent of his hair against her face.

  He shifted to the floor beside her, flexed his bad leg, and laughed out loud. “I am whole, even if the blasted cake is not, and you have saved me, it seems. I say I am the luckiest man on earth.”

  The vicar was yelling something about saving the cake, Mrs. Corcoran was threatening an old man with her cake knife, and Lord Michael was comforting a sobbing Aunt Daisy.

  “In the present company, that is saying a great deal,” Emma noted soberly.

  Nathaniel lifted her onto his lap, and kissed her, which said a good deal more. She was perfectly content to spend the last night of her spinsterhood in such activity, but Lord Peter interrupted them after several moments.

  “I say, are there not sufficient bedrooms above stairs, old man?” he asked Nathaniel. “Or have you broken your leg again?”

  “I am perfectly well, my friend, for my lady has saved me from further injury,” said Nathaniel.

  “Ah, then,” Lord Peter said, and reached a hand down to help Emma to her feet, “have you sustained an injury by your act of heroism, Miss Partrick?”

  “I have not,” said Emma, as both she and Lord Peter helped Nathaniel. “Indeed, I feel better than I have in many years.”

  “You may feel even better after you have had a slice of cake, for everyone seems quite certain Twelfth Night Cake tastes even better when it has been tossed on the floor and splattered onto people’s clothing.” As if to punctuate his point, he ran a finger along Miss Cartwell’s shoulder and studied a little red globule for a moment before putting it in his mouth. “Quite excellent. My compliments to the cook.”

  Emma looked around the room, realizing Lord Peter spoke nothing but the truth. Aunt Daisy was, as usual, making the best of a bad situation, and had the remains of the cake shoveled onto a large tray so it could be served from the table. It now was entirely upside down, and looked like nothing so much as a wide brimmed bonnet, but the large mound of sugar and flour would probably taste no different than a work of confectionary art.

  “I should like a piece, Aunt Daisy,” said Emma, hoping to demonstrate her confidence.

  Aunt Daisy looked at her for a moment and then down at the cake, and said, “Not yet, dear. I am saving you for last.”

  No one else, apparently, needed to wait. The vicar, no longer concerned about pagan traditions, asked for a double portion, and Lady Tregaris scraped off all the sugared rosebuds for herself. Portions were doled out all around, until only the small circlet that originally stood on the very top of the cake was handed to Emma on a silver plate. It looked rather wretched, and had been crushed by all the other layers, but a bit of silver ribbon still poked through the icing.

  The dried bean, bestowing the right of kingship for the evening, was luckily found by a gentleman. Unluckily, it was found by the vicar, who protested that he would have nothing to do with the proceedings.

  However, when the queen’s pea was nearly swallowed by the laundry maid and then coughed up as proof of her victory, the vicar seemed a bit more reconciled to his plight. He took the woman’s rough hand, and led her to the center of the room for a dance. Neither of them seemed particularly adept at the art, but no one seemed to notice or care.

  “Do have your cake, dear,” said Aunt Daisy to Emma. “You will need your strength for tomorrow.”

  Emma, happily, knew what to expect on the day and night of her wedding, and thought it would scarcely make a difference if she ate the cake or not. She glanced at Nathaniel, who seemed more interested in her plate than in anything else.

  “Well, I certainly do not need to eat ribbon,” she said, using her fork to poke at the bit of silver sticking out of the crumbling cake. But it proved a bit tenacious, and then it seemed to not be a ribbon at all. In fact . . .

  “I hope you are not too disappointed that you did not find the pea,” Nathaniel said as Emma pulled an emerald bracelet from the cake. It was encrusted with sugar and crumbs. “This belonged to my mother, and there is a necklace as well. Perhaps you will wear both on the morrow?”

  “It is beautiful, though I am not sure if I should eat it or wear it,” Emma said, holding it up to the light. “It is certainly too rich for me, in either case.”

  “Nonsense,” said Aunt Daisy. “It is precisely what you deserve. Nathaniel is a man of very refined taste, as well I know.”

  Both Emma and Nathaniel looked at her in surprise.

  She waved off their doubts. “You have learned everything you know from your dear uncle so how could it be otherwise? In fact, just the other day . . .”

 
The revelation of that day was lost to them, however, as Aunt Daisy and her cake were in great demand. Lady Tregaris wished for a pea as well, and spooned through the ruins of the cake on the tray hoping to find one. Lord Peter proclaimed the cake the best he had ever eaten—and both his experience and his appetite were vast—and asked that the recipe to be sent to his own cook. The squire’s wife licked the icing off her husband’s plump fingers. And Lord Michael announced that they were witnessing the start of a new tradition at Pencliff.

  Aside from Aunt Daisy’s look of horror at that pronouncement, there was no one who thought the Twelfth Night gathering anything but the most splendid evening in the history of Penzance.

  IN THE EARLY morning hours of January 6th, Emma Patrick turned in her lover’s embrace and held her bare arm up to the pink light of dawn. She wore nothing but the emerald bracelet and the necklace Nathaniel had fastened around her neck when they retired to his bedchamber, and she decided she liked them, and him, very much indeed. In a few hours, she would be helped into her white bridal dress, but she knew everyone assembled at her marriage ceremony would see nothing but the jewels.

  Aside from Nathaniel, of course, for she was now so confident in his love that she knew he would see nothing but her.

  He was the only man for her. How had she not known it at once? She was sure she had loved Beaconstone, Dennis and Bart, and would always grieve the loss of them. But Nathaniel was a part of her, as no other man ever was and never could be. He understood her pain and pleasure, her doubts and hopes, her needs and desires. He knew how to make her happy.

  “It is not yet morning, surely?” Nathaniel groaned, burying his face in her hair. “Did we not just go to bed?”

  “It is morning, and I suspect many of your uncle’s guests never found their way to bed,” Emma said.

  “I pity them, for it is a great comfort,” he said.

  “If that is your way of telling me I am as familiar as an old pillow, I shall have to do you harm,” she teased, before thinking about her words. She could not have laughed about such a thing even a day or so ago.

  She reached across his chest to finger the dimple in his cheek. He jumped, suddenly awake.

  “Is that a weapon? What have you there?” he asked, a little suspiciously.

  Her hand hovered over his face, and the bracelet glinted in the brightening sun. “If it is a weapon, you have given it to me yourself. Emeralds have sharp edges, you know.”

  “Which is why most women do not wear them to bed,” he said, scratching his chest. “I shall have to give you cotton wool for our first anniversary.”

  “As you wish. But I seem to recall you asking me to wear the jewels even as you removed everything else,” she said, warming at the thought.

  “It was a good idea at the time.” He closed his eyes as she ran her hand over other parts of his anatomy. “In fact, I have decided I like it more and more.”

  “Please remember that later today. I ought to find my way back to my room before our aunt and uncle decide they must each lecture us on the joys and obligations of marriage. They would not like to discover we have already read the book, so to speak.”

  “I am fairly certain they know where we are and what we have been doing. And are we not being married just moments before them? In that circumstance, I believe we shall have to interrupt the vicar to lecture them, as we will be the old married couple.”

  “So we will be,” Emma said, and sighed with happiness. “And, truly, Aunt Daisy is far too busy today to trouble herself about us. She wished to festoon the breakfast parlor with ribbon and scent the room with oranges and . . . oh dear!”

  “What is it? Did Peter consume all the oranges? He is a dangerous man to invite to any dinner.”

  “No, it is not that. It is far worse!” Emma struggled to sit up, pressing against Nathaniel’s leg in the process.

  He grunted. “I can only imagine. What can be worse?”

  “The Christmas decorations! We were so preoccupied last night we never removed them!”

  “I believe I saw the laundry woman wearing a spray of ivy like a shawl around her shoulders. She was not wearing much else.”

  “Dear God! The vicar will be scandalized and refuse to come to perform the wedding this morning.”

  “Be assured my love, if he is sober, he will come. He wore a crown of holly and could barely keep his hands off her.”

  Emma settled back into Nathaniel’s arms. “You do not understand, Nathaniel. It is very bad luck to leave the decorations past Twelfth Night, as I am sure I told you. The tree sprites will leave the safety of their boughs and bring us nothing but misfortune for at least a year. We cannot risk it.”

  “I believe we already have, for it is at least six hours since the bell tolled the start of a new day, and we have both survived. I sustained nothing more than a kick to my leg, and you can only claim to have been overly loved.”

  Emma laughed. “Is such a thing possible?”

  “No, it is not. But if we can believe it nevertheless, I would suggest that the power of being overly loved is more than sufficient to fight off the bad humor of tree sprites, or superstitious mischief, or the consequences of really bad luck. It is accomplished and Nathaniel Evander and Emma Partrick have triumphed.”

  “What have we won?” She laughed again.

  Nathaniel looked quite serious, with his hair spiked about his face and a crust of Twelfth Night Cake on the bridge of his nose.

  “Why, everything,” he said.

  OF ALL THE miracles of the Christmas season, those most appreciated by the small and weary party assembled in Pencliff’s ancient chapel on the morning of January sixth were the simplest. The two grooms, uncle and nephew, stood upright and in good health at the altar. The vicar was reasonably sober, though he had to be reassured several times that the men standing before him were not a couple, and that two brides would soon be joining them. Snow fell through the night, but did not deter guests from returning to Pencliff to witness the marriage ceremony. And the ceiling of the chapel did not collapse.

  For Emma Partrick, who had abandoned her childhood dreams of a splendid wedding some time after the death of her third fiancé, the day somehow proved to be everything for which she ever hoped. Her beloved Aunt Daisy would bring her down the aisle to the altar, a parent first but a bride as well. Their gowns were not at all similar, but touches of greenery added a seasonal elegance to both their costumes. Aunt Daisy rather liked the look of holly to accent Emma’s emeralds, but Emma decided the bright leaves were surely her talisman of good luck, good health, and true love.

  She knew a bride ought to be fraught with nerves on her wedding day, worried about the journey ahead. But Emma had already weathered several storms, and now walked slowly and assuredly down the narrow aisle, towards the one man who would provide her a safe harbor for all their life together. This she knew, as many brides did not, because of all that came before this moment, and a love that grew from a deep and abiding friendship.

  Nathaniel watched her as she came towards him, looking appropriately solemn, but revealing a telltale flicker of a smile on his lips. Emma, suddenly afraid that she might laugh out loud in the sheer joy of the moment, glanced at Aunt Daisy, whose cheerful grin did nothing at all to temper Emma’s feelings. She too was a bride who traveled far to reach this blessed day, and her happiness could not be contained.

  The vicar looked momentarily confused as each bride went to her groom, but was urged into action by a few words from a disheveled Lord Peter, who did not quite manage to stand up with Nathaniel, and instead sat slumped in the first pew. He was flanked by Miss Porter and Miss Cartwell, who alternately poked him in the ribs, to keep him awake. In any case, the marriage of Miss Emma Partrick and Mr. Nathaniel Evander proceeded without further incident; some minutes later, they embraced as Mr. and Mrs. Evander and stepped aside to
witness the marriage of Lady Westbrook and the Earl of Bristol. The language of the second service was somewhat grander, and the vicar’s voice somewhat more sonorous, as befitting such a ceremony. But he also had the advantage of an additional ten minutes to sober up.

  Lady Westbrook did little to oversee her own wedding breakfast, and as the new Countess of Bristol she wisely overlooked the burned toast, undercooked eggs, and thin cream that Mrs. Corcoran prepared for the feast. The countess undoubtedly contemplated the changes she would make in her kitchen, but for now seemed perfectly content to sit with her new husband and stir her tea, and listen to stories about every other wedding in the history of Penzance. Still, she noticed when her niece and new nephew left the parlor.

  Nathaniel and Emma stepped out into the winter sunshine of the new day, wrapped together in a wool blanket someone left on a chair. The footsteps of many guests, both last night and this morning, had already cleared the path, and they were able to walk some distance before Emma feared she might ruin her slippers. They stopped where they were, warm in their close cocoon, and looked towards the sea.

  “It truly has been an extraordinary two weeks,” Nathaniel said. “I doubt we will ever see their like.”

  “I hope not. But what began in misunderstanding, distrust, and doubt, has somehow emerged as a very fine thing.” Emma wrapped her arm around her husband’s waist. “Did you not believe I traveled to Penzance to marry your uncle?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Emma pinched him.

  “Well, yes, perhaps I did, but Peter planted that little seed in my mind. He seemed to know a great deal about you.”

  “He probably knew a great deal about my reputation. But nothing at all about me.” She looked up at Nathaniel and saw his eyes were closed against the glare of the sun. “It is the way of the world.”

  Nathaniel opened his eyes. “Do you mean that rumor becomes legend, and legend becomes truth?”