Under the Mistletoe

by Mary Balogh

  They all began to think of what they would have been doing on that day if only they had had the fortune or wisdom to travel earlier and had reached their destinations. But the images of elegant and comfortable homes and of relatives and friends and all the sights and sounds and smells of Christmas did not bear dwelling upon.

  Lord Birkin went back upstairs with his wife when she appeared briefly early in the afternoon to fetch more water from the kitchen. She had reported to all the gathered guests that there was no further progress upstairs. Poor Lisa was suffering cruelly, but appeared no nearer to being delivered than she had done that morning.

  Lord Birkin took his wife by the arm when they reached the top of the stairs and steered her past Lisa’s room and into their own.

  “Sally,” he said, “you are going to tire yourself out. Do you not think you have done enough? Should it not be Mrs. Palmer’s turn? Or Mrs.

  Forbes’s?”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and he seated himself beside her.

  “Mrs. Palmer is frightened by the very thought of becoming involved,” she said. “I can tell. That is why she is keeping so busy with other things. And Mrs. Forbes is quite inept. Well-meaning but inept. The few times she has come inside the room she has stood close to the door and nodded sweetly and clearly not known what she should do.”

  “And you do know?” he said.

  She smiled. “Some things come by instinct,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, Henry.”

  “But I do worry,” he said, taking her hand and holding it in both of his. “And I blame myself for not bringing you from London sooner than I did. This is Christmas Eve, Sally. Have you realized that? You should be with Lady Middleton and all your friends and acquaintances now. You should be in comfort. The partying should have begun-the feasting and caroling and dancing. Instead we are stuck here. Not only stuck, but somehow involved with a girl who is giving birth. This is no Christmas for you.”

  “Or for you,” she said. “It really does not seem like Christmas at all, does it? But we cannot do anything about it. Here we are and here Lisa is. I must return to her.”

  “What is going to happen when it comes time for her to deliver?” he asked.

  He had struck a nerve. There was fear in her eyes for a brief unguarded moment. “We will jump that hurdle when we come to it,” she said.

  “You are afraid, Sally?” he asked.

  “No, of course not,” she said briskly. But then she looked down at their clasped hands and nodded quickly. Her voice was breathless when she spoke again. “I am afraid that in my ignorance I will cause her death or the baby’s.”

  He released her hand, set an arm about her shoulders, and drew her toward him. She sagged against him in grateful surprise and set her head on his shoulder.

  “Without you and Miss Wilder,” he said, “she would be alone in the stable with the hysterical Tom. You are being very good to her, Sally.

  You must remember that, whatever happens. I wish I could take you away from here. I wish I had not got you into this predicament.”

  She nestled her head on his shoulder and felt wonderfully comforted. If this had not happened, they would be caught up in the gaiety of Christmas at this very moment, surrounded by friends. Except that they would not be together. As like as not, he would be off somewhere with some of the other gentlemen, playing billiards, probably, since the weather would not permit shooting.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “Besides, it is not so very bad, is it? If we were not here, I fear that Pamela would have to cope alone.

  That would be too heavy a burden on her shoulders. She is wonderful, Henry. So calm and brave, so kind to Lisa. Just as if she knew exactly what she was doing.”

  “You sound like two of a kind, then,” he said.

  She looked up at him in further surprise. His face was very close. “Do you think so?” she said. “What a lovely thing to say-and very reassuring. I feel quite inadequate, you see.”

  He dipped his head and kissed her-swiftly and firmly and almost fiercely. And then raised his head and looked into her eyes as she nestled her head against his shoulder again. He very rarely kissed her.

  She ached with a sudden longing and put it from her.

  “I must go back,” she said. “Pamela will be alone with Lisa.”

  “If there is anything I can do,” he said, “call me. Will you?”

  Her eyes sparkled with amusement suddenly. “You will spend the rest of the day in fear and trembling that perhaps I will take you at your word,” she said.

  He chuckled, and she realized how rarely he did so these days. She had almost forgotten that it was his smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed that had first attracted her to him. “You are probably right,” he said.

  He escorted her back to Lisa’s room, though he did not go inside with her. She felt refreshed, almost as if she had lain down and slept for a few hours. Pamela was leaning over a moaning Lisa, dabbing at her brow with a cool, damp cloth. She looked around at Lady Birkin.

  “Two minutes,” she said. “The pains have been two minutes apart for more than an hour now. It must be close, don’t you think, Sally?”

  But it was not really close at all. There were several more hours of closely paced contractions and pain to live through.

  Everyone moved from the taproom into the dining room for afternoon tea, just so that they might have a welcome change of scenery, Colonel Forbes said with a short bark of laughter. Lord Birkin, strolling to the window, announced that the rain appeared to be easing and that he hesitated to say it aloud but the western horizon looked almost bright.

  “But it is happening too late, my lord,” Miss Amelia Horn said.

  “Christmas has been ruined already.”

  Mrs. Forbes sighed and nodded her agreement.

  And yet they were all making an effort to put aside their own personal disappointments over a lost Christmas. They were all thinking of the baby who was about to be born and of the child’s destitute parents. Miss Eugenia Horn was still busy knitting baby boots. Mrs. Forbes, having recalled that she had no fewer than eight flannel nightgowns in her trunk, flannel being the only sensible fabric to be worn during winter nights, declared that she did not need nearly as many. She was cutting up four of them into squares and hemming them so that the baby would have warm and comfortable nappies to wear. Miss Amelia Horn was cutting up a fifth to make into small nightshirts. She had already painstakingly unpicked the lace from one of her favorite caps to trim the tiny garments.

  Even the gentlemen were not unaffected by the impending event. Colonel Forbes was thinking of a certain shirt of which he had never been overly fond. It would surely fit Tom and keep him warm, too. By good fortune the garment was in the trunk upstairs-for the simple reason that it was one of his wife’s favorites. Lord Birkin thought of the staff at his London house and on his country estate. There really was no room for an extra worker. His wife had already foisted some strays upon him. He was definitely overstaffed. Perhaps some banknotes would help, though giving money in charity always seemed rather too easy. The Marquess of Lytton turned a gold signet ring on his little finger. It was no heirloom. He had bought it himself in Madrid. But it had some sentimental value. Not that he was a sentimentalist, of course. He drew it slowly from his finger and dropped it into a pocket. Sold or pawned, it would provide a family of three with a goodly number of meals. The quiet gentleman withdrew to the stable after tea to stretch his legs and breathe some fresh air into his lungs.

  Pamela Wilder appeared in the dining room doorway when tea was over and immediately became the focus of attention. But she could give no news other than that Lisa was very tired and finding it harder to bear the pains. Miss Wilder looked tired, too, the Marquess of Lytton thought, gazing at her pale and lovely face and her rather untidy hair. Lady Birkin had sent her downstairs for a half-hour break, having had one herself earlier.

  “The tea is cold, dear,” Miss Eugenia
Horn said. “Let me get you a fresh pot. There is no point in ringing for service. One might wait all day and all night too if one did that.”

  But Pamela would not hear of anyone else’s waiting on her. She went to the kitchen herself. The marquess was sitting in the taproom when she came out again, carrying a tray.

  “Come and sit down,” he said, indicating the chair next to his own, between him and the fire, which he had just built up himself. “It is quieter in here.”

  She hesitated, but he got to his feet and took the tray from her hands.

  She sighed as she sat down and then looked at him in some surprise as he picked up the teapot and poured her cup of tea.

  “Is she going to deliver?” he asked. “Or is there some complication?”

  He liked watching her blush. Color added vibrancy to her face. ”I hope not,” she said. “Oh, I do hope not.”

  “Do you have any idea what to do?” he asked. “Or does Lady Birkin?”

  “No,” she said, and she closed her eyes briefly. “None at all. We can only hope that nature will take care of itself.”

  Oh, Lord. There was a faint buzzing in his head.

  “You are a clergyman’s daughter,” he said. “You were never involved with such, er, acts of nature?”

  “No,” she said. “My mother made sure that I had a very proper upbringing. I wish I knew more.” She looked down at her hands. “I hope she does not die. Or the baby. I will always blame myself if they die.”

  A thousand hells and a million damnations! He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “If they die-and probably they will not,” he said, “they will die in a warm and reasonably comfortable inn room instead of in a stable, and tended by two ladies who have given them unfailingly diligent and gentle care instead of by a hysterical boy.”

  She smiled at him rather wanly. “You are kind,” she said.

  He looked down at her hand and spread her fingers along his. “You have artists’ hands,” he said. “You must play the pianoforte. Do you?”

  “Whenever I can.” She looked wistful. “We always had a pianoforte at the rectory. I played it constantly, even when I should have been doing other things. I was often scolded.”

  “But there is no instrument at your place of employment?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “A beautiful one with the loveliest tone I have ever heard. I give my pupil lessons and try to steal a few minutes for myself whenever I can.”

  He felt angry suddenly. “They have to be stolen?” he asked. “They are not granted?”

  She smiled. “Mrs. Raven, my employer, suffers from migraine headaches,” she said. “She cannot stand the sound of the pianoforte.”

  His jaw tightened. “It is not a good life, is it,” he said, “being a governess?”

  She stiffened and withdrew her hand from his. She reached out to pick up her cup and raised it to her lips. “It is a living, my lord,” she said, “and a reasonably comfortable one. There are many women, and men too, far worse off than I. We cannot all choose the life we would live. You do not need to pity me.”

  He looked at her broodingly. Her hand was shaking slightly, though she drank determinedly on. Did he pity her? He was not in the habit of pitying other mortals. No, he did not think it was pity. It was more admiration for her and anger against employers who evidently did not appreciate her. It was more the desire to protect her and see happiness replace the quiet discipline in her face-the desire to give her a pianoforte for Christmas, all wrapped about with red ribbons. His lip curled in self-derision. Was this unspeakably dull Christmas making him sentimental over a governess?

  “What would you be doing now,” he asked her, “if it had not rained?”

  She set her cup down in its saucer and smiled down into it, her eyes dreamy. “Decorating the house with the children,” she said. “Helping my mother and our cook with the baking.Finishing making gifts.Delivering baskets to the poor.Helping my father arrange the Nativity scene in the church.Getting ready to go caroling.Looking forward to the church service. Running around in circles wishing I could divide myself into about twelve pieces. Christmas is always very busy and very special at home. The coming of Christ-it is a wonderful festival.”

  He took her hand again, almost absently, and smoothed his fingers over hers. He was the Marquess of Lytton, she reminded herself, and she a mere clergyman’s daughter and a governess. Last night he had held her and kissed her, and she had almost gone to bed with him. She was still not sure if she would have allowed the ultimate intimacy or if she would have drawn back at the last moment. But he had drawn back, and now they were sitting together in the taproom, talking, her hand in his. This was a strange, unreal Christmas.

  “What would you be doing?” she asked. “If it had not rained, I mean.”

  He raised his gaze from their hands, and she was struck again by the keenness of his blue eyes beneath the lazy lids. They caused a strange somersaulting feeling in her stomach. “Stuffing myself with rich foods,” he said. “Getting myself inebriated.Preparing to make merry and to drink even more. Flirting with a lady I have had my eye on for some time past and wondering if I would be spending tonight with her or if she would keep me waiting until tomorrow night.” One corner of his mouth lifted in an expression that was not quite a smile. “A wonderful way to celebrate the coming of Christ, would you not agree?”

  Pamela found herself wondering irrelevantly what the lady looked like.

  “I cannot judge,” she said. “We all have our own way of enjoying ourselves.”

  “Yours is a large family?” he asked.

  “I have three brothers and four sisters,” she said, “all younger than myself. It is a very noisy household and frequently an untidy one, I’m afraid.”

  “I envy you,” he said. “I have no one except a few aunts and uncles and cousins with whom I have never been close.” He raised one hand and touched the back of a finger to her cheek. “I am sorry you have not been able to get home for Christmas.”

  “I believe that everything that happens does so for a purpose,” she said. “Perhaps I was meant to be trapped here for Lisa’s sake.”

  “And perhaps I was meant to be trapped here with you for… for what purpose?” he asked.

  His eyes were looking very intently into hers. She could not withdraw her own. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” he said, and his voice was very soft, “to discover that innocence can be more enticing than experience. And far more warming to the heart.”

  He raised her hand while she watched him with widening eyes and warming cheeks, and set his lips to it.

  “I must be going back upstairs,” she said.

  “Yes.” He lowered her hand. “You must.”

  But the next moment they were both on their feet. Lady Birkin had appeared at the top of the stairs. She was looking distraught and was beckoning urgently.

  “Pamela,” she called. “Oh, thank heaven you are there. Something is happening. Oh, please come.” And she turned and hurried out of sight again.

  Pamela could feel the color draining from her head as she rushed across the room toward the staircase. She scarcely heard the quite improper expletive that was the marquess’s sole comment.

  “Bloody hell!” he said.

  The bed was soaked. Fortunately Mrs. Palmer had given them a pile of old rags and told them to spread some over the sheets. There was something about waters breaking, she had mumbled before scurrying away about some real or imagined chore. Pamela and Lady Birkin stripped away the wet rags and replaced them with dry ones. But Lisa was in severe distress.

  She was panting loudly and thrashing about on the bed. Her moans were threatening to turn into screams.

  “Hot water,” Lady Birkin said, trying to keep her voice calm. “I have heard that hot water is needed.”

  “Lisa,” Pamela had a cool cloth to the girl’s brow. “What may we do for you? How may we help?”

  But there was a feeling of dreadful
helplessness, an almost overpowering urge to become hysterical or simply to rush from the room.

  And then the door opened. Both Lady Birkin and Pamela looked in some surprise at the Marquess of Lytton, who stood in the doorway, his face pale. Perhaps they would have felt consternation, too, if they had not been feeling so frightened and helpless.

  “I think I can help,” he surprised them both by saying. And he grimaced and turned even paler as Lisa began to moan and thrash again. He strode over to the bed. “I think she should be pushing,” he said. “The pain will subside soon, will it not? Next time we must have her in position and she must push down. Perhaps the two of you can help her by lifting her shoulders as she pushes.”

  The two ladies merely stared at him. Lisa screamed.

  “The Peninsula,” he said. “I was a cavalry officer. There was a peasant woman. There was a surgeon, too, but he had just been shot through the right hand. He instructed a private soldier and me. The private held her and I delivered.”

  Lisa was quiet again, and the marquess turned grimly back to the bed.

  “Raise your knees,” he told her, “and brace your feet wide apart on the bed. The next time the pain comes, I want you to bear down against it with all your strength. This little fellow wants to come out. Do you understand me?”

  Through the fog of weakness and pain, the girl seemed to turn instinctively to the note of authority and assurance in his voice. She looked up at him and nodded, positioning herself according to his instructions. And then the fright came back into her eyes and she began to pant again.

  “Now!” he commanded, and he pushed his hands forward against her knees through the sheet that still covered her to the waist while Lady Birkin and Pamela, one on each side of her, lifted her shoulders from the bed and pushed forward. Lisa drew a giant breath and bore down with all her might, pausing only to gasp in more air before the pain subsided again.

  “Send down for hot water,” Lord Lytton said while Lisa relaxed for a few moments. “Go and give the instruction yourself, Pamela, but come right back. Someone else can bring it. But wait a moment. She needs us again.”