Under the Mistletoe

by Mary Balogh

  “Happy Christmas, Veronica,” he said, and kissed her on her soft little lips. “Someone brought the baby Jesus with his mama and papa during the night. And someone brought gifts, too. I will wager some of them are yours.”

  Jane, he saw, had hurried across the room to get down her parcels with the rest.

  “For me?” Veronica asked, her eyes growing wider still.

  He sat her on his knee close to the gifts, feeling absurdly excited himself, almost as if he were a boy again. And he watched her as she unwrapped the dainty lace-edged handkerchief Deborah had bought for her and held it against her cheek, and the pretty red bonnet and muff Jane had bought her, both of which she had to try on. And then he watched her, his heart beating almost with nervousness, as she unwrapped his exquisitely dressed porcelain doll.

  “Oh!” she said after staring at it in silence for a few moments. “Look what I have, Papa. Look what I have, Miss Jane. Look, Deborah.”

  Viscount Buckley blinked several times, aware of the acute embarrassment of the fact that he had tears in his eyes. And yet when he sneaked a look at Jane, it was to find that her own eyes were brimming with tears.

  “She is beautiful, Veronica,” she said.

  “Lovely,” Deborah agreed with enthusiasm.

  “Almost as beautiful as you,” her father assured her. “What are you going to call her?”

  “Jane,” his daughter said without hesitation.

  And then Deborah opened her gifts and exclaimed with delight over the perfume Jane had given her and with awe over the diamond-studded watch her parents had left for her and with warm appreciation over the evening gloves and fan her uncle had bought for her-because she was as close to being adult as made no difference, he explained. She declared that she would wear them to the dance that evening.

  Viscount Buckley unwrapped a linen handkerchief from Deborah and a silver-backed brush and comb from his sister and brother-in-law.

  And he watched as Jane unwrapped her own lace-edged handkerchief from Deborah and smiled rather teary-eyed at the girl. And then he watched more keenly as she took out his cashmere shawl from its wrapping and held it up in front of her, its folds falling free. She bit her lip and shut her eyes very tightly for a few moments.

  “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” she said before turning to him, her face looking almost agonized. “Thank you. But I have nothing for you. I did not think it would be seemly.”

  Veronica had wriggled off his lap and was gazing down with Deborah into the manger at the baby Jesus, her doll clutched in both arms. Deborah was explaining to her what swaddling clothes were.

  “You have given me a gift beyond price, Jane,” he said quietly, for her ears only. “You have opened my eyes to Christmas again and all its meanings. I thank you.”

  She gazed back at him, the shawl suspended in front of her from her raised arms.

  But Deborah had decided it was time for breakfast and was assuring Veronica that she could bring her doll along and they would find it a chair to sit on and a bowl to eat from. His niece seemed to have quite got over her shock at being exposed to the company of his illegitimate daughter.

  “Come,” he said to Jane, getting to his feet and extending a hand to her, “let us eat and then we must have the servants up here for their gifts. They will doubtless be happy to see that I can do it without a frown this year.”

  He smiled at her and she smiled rather tremulously back.

  Once, when she was seventeen, Miss Phillpotts had given her a porcelain thimble in recognition of her new status as a teacher. It was the only gift she had ever received-until today. Jane set down her handkerchief and her shawl carefully on her bed, as if they, too, were of porcelain and might break, smoothed a hand over each, and swallowed back her tears so that she would not have to display reddened eyes when she left her room.

  But the best gift of all was what he had said to her. You have given me a gift beyond price, Jane. And he had smiled at her. And he had held Veronica on his knee and had looked at her with what was surely tenderness.

  Going back to Miss Phillpotts’s, being alone again, was going to be more painful than ever, she knew, now that she had had a taste of family life, now that she had fallen in-No, that was a silly idea. That she would have fallen in love with him was thoroughly predictable under the circumstances. It was not real love, of course. But however it was, she would put up with all the pain and all the dreariness, she felt, if only she could know that he would keep Veronica with him. She would give up all claim to future Christmases without a murmur if only she could be sure of that.

  It was a busy day, a wonderfully busy day. There were the servants to greet in the drawing room while Viscount Buckley gave each of them a gift, and toasts to be drunk with them and rich dainties to eat. And there were gifts from almost all of them for Veronica to open. It was certainly clear that his staff had taken the viscount’s young daughter to their hearts. And there were carols to sing.

  After the Christmas dinner, taken en famille in the dining room very early in the afternoon, there were the young guests to prepare for.

  There was no containing Deborah’s excitement. As soon as they had arrived, all of them bright and merry at the novel prospect of a party all to themselves without adults to spoil it and tell them to quieten down or to stay out of the way, they were whisked out-of-doors.

  They engaged in an unruly snowball fight even before they reached the hill where the sledding was to take place. Deborah, Jane noticed with indulgent interest, was almost elbow-to-elbow with Mr. George Oxenden, the two of them fighting the common enemy, almost everyone else. But before she knew it, Jane was fighting for her own life, or at least for her own comfort. A soft snowball splattered against her shoulder, and she found that Viscount Buckley was grinning smugly at her from a few yards away. She shattered the grin when by some miracle her own snowball collided with the center of his face.

  Jane found herself giggling quite as helplessly as Deborah was doing.

  The sleds were much in demand when they reached the hill as the young people raced up the slope with reckless energy and then zoomed down two by two. Nobody complained about the cold even though there was a great deal of foot stamping and hand slapping against sides. And even though everyone sported fiery red cheeks and noses.

  Veronica stood quietly watching, holding Jane’s hand.

  “Well, Veronica,” her father said, coming to stand beside them, “what do you think? Shall we try it?”

  “We will fall,” she said, looking gravely up at him.

  “What?” he said. “You do not trust my steering skills? If we fall, we will be covered with snow. Is that so bad?”

  “No, Papa,” she said, looking dubious.

  “Well.” He held out a hand for hers. “Shall we try?”

  “Can Miss Jane come too?” Veronica asked.

  Jane grimaced and found the viscount’s eyes directed at her. They were twinkling. “It might be something of a squash,” he said. “But I am willing if you two ladies are.”

  “I… I…” Jane said.

  “What?” His eyebrows shot up. “Do we have a coward here? Shall we dare Miss Jane to ride on a sled with us, Veronica?”

  “Yes, Papa,” his daughter said.

  And so less than five minutes later Jane found herself at the top of the hill, seating herself gingerly on one of the sleds, which suddenly looked alarmingly narrow and frail, and having to move back to make room for Veronica until her back was snug against the viscount’s front. His arms came about her at either side to arrange the steering rope. And suddenly, too, it no longer seemed like a cold winter day. She was only half aware of the giggles of the young ladies and the whistles and jeers and cheers of the young gentlemen. She set her arms tightly about Veronica.

  And then they were off, hurtling down a slope that seemed ten times steeper than it had looked from the bottom, at a speed that seemed more than ten times faster than that of the other sledders when she had wa
tched them. Two people were shrieking, Veronica and herself. And then they were at the bottom and the sled performed a complete turn, flirted with the idea of tipping over and dumping its load into the snow, and slid safely to a halt.

  Veronica’s shrieks had turned to laughter-helpless, joyful, childish laughter. The viscount, the first to rise to his feet, scooped her up and held her close and met Jane’s eyes over her shoulder. Perhaps it was the wind and the cold that had made his eyes so bright, but Jane did not think so.

  Oh, how good it was-it was the best moment so far of a wonderful Christmas-how very good it was to hear the child laugh. And beg to be taken up again. And wriggle to get down and grab at her father’s hand and tug him impatiently in the direction of the slope. And to watch her ride down again with him, shrieking and laughing once more.

  And how good it was-how achingly good-to see him laughing and happy with the little child he had fathered almost five years before but had not even seen until a few days ago.

  Chilly as she was-her hands and her feet were aching with the cold-Jane willed the afternoon to last forever. He was to go to the Oxendens’ for dinner and he was to spend the evening there and perhaps half the night too. Once he had gone she would be the lone chaperon of the group, apart from the lady who was coming to play the pianoforte. She was going to feel lonely.

  But she quelled the thought. She had had so much, more than she had ever dreamed. She must not be greedy. This evening was for the young people.

  And then, just before it was mutually agreed that it was time to return to the house to thaw out and partake of some of Cook’s hot Christmas drinks and mince pies, Veronica was borne off by Deborah to ride a sled with her and Mr. Oxenden, and Viscount Buckley took Jane firmly by one hand and led her toward the slope.

  “If you stand there any longer,” he said, “you may well become frozen to the spot. Come and sled with me now that I have relearned the knack of doing it safely.”

  She savored the moment, this final moment of her very own Christmas. But alas, this time they were not so fortunate. Perhaps the constant passing of the sleds had made the surface over which they sped just too slippery for successful navigation. Or perhaps there was some other cause.

  However it was, something went very wrong when they were halfway down the slope. The sled went quite out of control, and its two riders were unceremoniously dumped into a bank of soft, cold snow. They rolled into it, arms and legs all tangled together.

  They finally came to rest with Jane on the bottom, flat on her back, and Viscount Buckley on top of her. They were both laughing and then both self-conscious. His eyes slid to her mouth at the same moment as hers slid to his. But for a moment only. The delighted laughter of the young people brought them to their senses and their feet, and they both brushed vigorously at themselves and joined in the laughter.

  Jane was tingling with warmth again. If only, she thought shamelessly.

  If only there had been no one else in sight. If only he had kissed her again. Just once more. One more kiss to hug to herself for the rest of her life.

  Oh, she really had become greedy, she told herself severely. Would she never be satisfied?

  An unwanted inner voice answered her. No, not any longer. She never would.

  But it was time to take Veronica by the hand again. It was time to go back to the house.

  Viscount Buckley went upstairs to change into his evening clothes while the young people played charades in the drawing room and Jane played unobtrusively in one corner with Veronica and her new doll, the kitchen cat curled beside them, apparently oblivious to the loud mirth proceeding all about it. He had lingered in the room himself, reluctant to leave despite the squeals from the girls and loud laughter from the boys that just a few days before he had welcomed the thought of escaping. But he could delay no longer if he were to arrive at the Oxendens’ in good time for dinner.

  Yet despite the fact that he was pressed for time, he wandered to the window of his bedchamber after his valet had exercised all his artistic skills on the tying of his neckcloth and had helped him into his blue evening coat, as tight as a second skin, according to fashion. He stood gazing out at twilight and snow, not really seeing either.

  He was seeing Veronica in her red Christmas bonnet, her muff on a ribbon about her neck. He was seeing her rosy-cheeked with the cold, bright-eyed and laughing, and tugging impatiently at his hand. Looking and sounding like a four-year-old. And he was thinking of her next week or the week after or the week after that, going away to settle with her new family.

  He was going to be lonely. He was going to grieve for her for the rest of his life. And if Jane was correct, he was not even doing what was best for Veronica.

  Jane! He could see her, too, animated and giggling-yes, giggling!-and beautiful. Ah, so beautiful, his prim, plain Jane. And he thought of her the week after next, returning to Miss Phillpotts’s school with Deborah, returning to her life of drudgery and utter aloneness. She had never been hugged or kissed or loved, she had said-not out of self-pity but in an attempt to save Veronica from such a fate.

  He was going to be lonely without Jane. He thought of his mistress, waiting for him in London with her luscious, perfumed body, and of the skills she used to match his own in bed. But he could feel no desire, no longing for her. He wanted Jane with her inevitable gray dress and her nondescript figure and her face that was plain except when she stopped hiding inside herself. Jane, who did not even know how to kiss-she pursed her lips and kept them rigidly closed. She probably did not know what happened between a man and a woman in bed.

  He wanted her.

  And he wanted to keep Veronica.

  His valet cleared his throat from the doorway into his dressing room and informed him that the carriage was waiting. The viscount knew it was waiting. He had been aware of it below him on the terrace for at least the past ten minutes. The horses, he saw now when he looked down, were stamping and snorting, impatient to be in motion.

  “Have it returned to the carriage house,” he heard himself say, “and brought up again after dinner. I had better stay here and help Miss Craggs with the young people at dinner. They are rather exuberant and unruly.”

  That last word was unfair. And what the devil was he doing explaining himself to his valet?

  “Yes, m’lord,” the man said, and withdrew.

  Well, that was the excuse he would give the Oxendens later, he thought, as he hurried from the room and downstairs to the drawing room, lightness in his step. It would seem an eminently believable excuse.

  And so he sat at the head of the table during dinner, the second of the day, while Jane sat at the foot, Veronica beside her, and the young people were ranged along the two long sides. And he listened indulgently to all their silly chatter and laughter without once wincing with distaste. And he feasted his stomach on rich foods, which it just did not need, and feasted his eyes on his two ladies, who were both making sure that the doll Jane was having her fair share of each course.

  And then it was time for the young people and their chaperon to adjourn to the drawing room. The servants had rolled back the carpet during dinner, and Mrs. Carpenter had arrived to provide music for the dancing.

  Veronica was to be allowed to stay up and watch until she was sleepy.

  And he was to go to the Oxendens’. The carriage was waiting for him again.

  But what if any of the silly children decided to imitate their elders and disappear in couples to more remote locations? What if young George Oxenden, in particular, decided to become amorous with Deborah? They had been flirting quite outrageously with each other all afternoon. He had even spotted the young man kissing her beneath the mistletoe she had deliberately stood under. How could Jane handle all that alone when she had Veronica to look after, too?

  No, he could not leave her alone. It would be grossly unfair when he was the master of the house-and when Susannah and Miles had entrusted Deborah to his care.

  “Have the carriage sent away,”
he told his butler. “I will not be needing it this evening after all.” He smiled fleetingly in self-mockery. This was the most blatant example of rationalization he had ever been involved in. And he must have windmills in the brain. He was choosing to party with young people rather than with sane adults?

  No, actually he was choosing to party with his lady and his daughter.

  They had danced a quadrille and numerous country dances. All the young people danced every set. They were clearly enjoying the novelty of being able to use the skills they had learned from dancing masters in the setting of a real ball-or what was almost a real ball.

  Jane was feeling wonderfully happy as she watched and as she played with an increasingly tired Veronica. The child did not want to give in to suggestions that she be taken up to bed. At the moment she was seated cross-legged on the floor beside the Nativity scene, rocking her doll to sleep in her arms and looking as if she was not far from sleep herself.

  But what completed Jane’s happiness was the fact that for some reason Viscount Buckley had not gone to the Oxendens’ after all but had stayed at the house. He had mingled with the company and chatted with Mrs.

  Carpenter between dances and had not been near Jane and Veronica. But it did not matter. Just having him in the room, just being able to feast her eyes on him, was enough. He looked even more splendidly handsome than usual in a pale blue evening coat with gray knee breeches and white linen and lace.

  She thought with secret, guilty wonder of the fact that she had been kissed by this man. And that she had his gift, the lovely shawl, to hug about her-literally-for the rest of her life.

  He was bending over Mrs. Carpenter, speaking to her, and she was nodding and smiling. He turned to his young guests and clapped his hands to gain their attention.

  “This is to be a waltz, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Do you all know the steps?”