Christmas in the Country

by Carola Dunn

  “No, nor to do half the things for you she ought. But I shall not scold you now for your determined independence. I must not keep you any longer from your ‘comfortable cose.’“ He smiled at Cecily.

  “Do you not think, sir,” she proposed tentatively, “that a determination to be as independent as possible may be a good thing? At least, when my old nurse ‘took the rheumatiz,’ as she said, she found a certain amount of exercise kept her joints from stiffening so badly.”

  The doctor looked at her in surprise. “In some cases, perhaps, but there is more than one type of—”

  The Duchess laughed. “You two may discuss my case at a later date. Just tell me, Iain, before you leave us in peace, how does that child go on, who broke his arm?”

  “Famously, Aunt Lou, testimony to my brilliant medical skills.”

  “Dr Macfarlane tells me Ben is in the kitchen devouring mince pies,” Cecily put in. A notion struck her. Was she bold enough to suggest it? Nothing venture, nothing gain, she told herself, regarding it as a test of her resolve to please herself. “Did you know, ma’am, that his ambition is to become a footman? I wonder if you might not find it convenient to employ him as a page, to run errands for you and to learn how to behave as an indoor servant.”

  Her Grace was obviously startled, whether by the idea itself or by Cecily’s forwardness in speaking out on such brief acquaintance.

  “A splendid notion,” exclaimed the doctor. “You will not hesitate to send Ben Diver running where you would not ask Mrs Fredericks.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Duchess thoughtfully. “Once his arm has healed.”

  Dr Macfarlane turned back to Cecily, hazel eyes twinkling. “But how does your suggestion accord with your approval of activity as a palliative for rheumatism, Lady Cecily?”

  “Don’t tease her, Iain,” ordered his aunt. “Go away, do. Edward will be here any moment wishing to further his acquaintance with Lady Cecily.”

  The Duchess and Dr Macfarlane exchanged a slightly apprehensive glance. As the doctor bowed and departed, Cecily wondered what was its significance. Was the Duke less enthusiastic about his heir’s bride-to-be than she had been given to suppose?

  If so, she could hardly count on him to save her. He would never offend a good friend like the Earl of Flint by hinting his daughter was unsuited to become the Marchioness of Avon.

  The Duchess talked to her kindly about life in Town as compared with the country and similar indifferent subjects. Nothing arose to awake in Cecily a desire to express any unconventional point of view. She liked the Duchess very much. Such a mama-in-law would be some compensation for a marriage of convenience, she thought hopefully.

  Her gaze sought out Lord Avon, but first found Dr Macfarlane. He was laughing with a pretty, golden-haired young lady.

  An unexpected pang shot through Cecily, a painful contraction of the heart, as though from a sudden deep disappointment. Don’t be a ninnyhammer, she scolded herself. She had had no reason whatsoever to assume Iain Macfarlane was unattached—and still less to care.

  Her carefully schooled face must not have revealed the burst of emotion, for the Duchess continued to talk of the convenience of living close to the shops and amusements of Bath.

  “And we are so happy that Iain was able to set up a practice close to home,” she continued, “quite apart from his being the best physician I could ask for with my silly ailments. He and Jasper grew up together, you know. They are as close as any two brothers who have taken different paths in life. Now that Jasper is ready to settle down, they will doubtless be closer than ever.” She patted Cecily’s hand with her knotted fingers.

  Cecily understood the unspoken words. Despite his profession, the doctor was a loved and respected member of the family, and the Duchess was relieved by her future daughter-in-law’s willingness to accept him as such.

  The Duke came in just then, with Cecily’s papa.

  “Well, Cecy, what do you think?” Lord Flint greeted her. “Pembroke and I have picked out a pretty little dapple-grey mare for you to ride while we are here.”

  “If you like her, she’s yours,” the Duke announced.

  Cecily curtsied, further depressed by this indication that his Grace, too, considered her betrothal a settled matter. “Thank you, sir,” she said, “you are too kind.”

  “Fiddle-faddle, my dear, she is only a hack. I had a fine young hunter ready for you, but Flint tells me you don’t care to hunt. A dashed shame!”

  “Edward!” said the Duchess in a warning tone.

  “Perhaps your papa is mistaken?” the Duke said hopefully. “I daresay your hunt at home does not admit ladies, so you have no notion what you’re missing?”

  “I fear, sir,” Cecily found herself saying, “I do not hunt because my sympathies are all with the fox.”

  The Duke’s jaw dropped. Lord Flint looked dazed. Her Grace chuckled. Lord Avon, who had arrived unnoticed at Cecily’s side, had that glint of mocking amusement in his gaze. Dr Macfarlane, also converging on the group, frankly grinned.

  The two young gentlemen each offered Cecily an arm.

  “Do come and meet my sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and their spouses,” drawled Lord Avon.

  “And mine,” said his cousin.

  Her face burning, Cecily glanced at the Duchess, who nodded. A hand on each offered arm, she fled.

  “You knew!” she accused her rescuers in a whisper.

  “Only that my father hoped you shared the family passion for the hunt.”

  “Not that your sympathies lie with his prey.” Dr Macfarlane was still grinning, but with warm understanding in his eyes.

  “Still less that you would tell him so. Lord, I’d not have missed his face for a monkey!”

  “I cannot conceive what came over me. Pray don’t tell Mama,” Cecily begged as they approached the nearest group of people. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “We shan’t breathe a word,” Dr Macfarlane promised, adding challengingly, “shall we, Jas?”

  “It’s a deuced good story, coz,” Lord Avon protested, then sighed, “but as you wish, Lady Cecily. My lips are sealed.”

  The introductions proceeded. Cecily was already acquainted with a few of the relatives, met in Town. Plainly everyone knew or guessed she was Lord Avon’s intended, though nothing specific was said. She could not but be gratified by her kind reception, even as she was embarrassed by the obvious interest with which she was regarded.

  Yet afterwards one particular moment stood out—the moment when she was presented to the golden-haired beauty.

  She was Lord Avon’s sister Sophia, and married to Lord Garwich.

  * * * *

  In spite of everyone’s kindness, Cecily rather dreaded the time after dinner when the ladies withdrew from the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Without their restraining presence, the ladies were apt to be far more searching in their enquiries into her accomplishments.

  Cecily had often enough witnessed a young lady put through her paces and dismissed as of no account. Heretofore she had escaped such an inquisition because of her father’s rank. Now, among the members of a ducal house, a mere earldom was no protection.

  When she discovered that the amiable Duchess always retired directly after dinner, her qualms increased. It was not that she cared whether she was approved, she reminded herself, but the process was uncomfortable. Besides, Mama would be sadly disappointed if Lord Avon’s female relatives persuaded him not to come up to scratch.

  Entering the drawing room, she braced herself. Card tables were already set up. Cecily was competent at whist, loo, ombre and quadrille, when she managed to stop her mind wandering from boredom, but the games would probably wait on the gentlemen’s reappearance. Chess men had been laid out on a chequer-topped table, too, she noted. Though the carved figures had always intrigued Cecily, Mama held the common opinion that chess was too difficult for the female brain.

  The usual occupations for ladies immediately after dinner were convers
ation, needlework and music. A spinet stood in one corner of the room. Cecily hoped she would not be invited to play or sing. Mama and Papa both fondly assured her she performed charmingly; she knew her musical skills were mediocre. Concentrating on the notes of the complicated sonatas and Italian arias expected of an accomplished young lady left her no attention to spare for phrasing or dynamics.

  A voice came from behind her. “Do you play, Lady Cecily, or sing?”

  Unprepared, Cecily forgot to put a guard on her tongue. “Not if I can help it,” she blurted out, then added, “but Mama will expect me to if I am asked.”

  “Then I for one shall not ask you,” the young, raven-haired matron assured her with a sympathetic smile. The wayward black curls, together with the smile so like her brother’s, reminded Cecily that this was Dr Macfarlane’s sister.

  “Thank you, Lady Sutton, but someone is bound to,” she sighed.

  “Nothing is so horrid as to be forced to perform before strangers.”

  “Especially when one knows one’s performance to be indifferent!”

  Lady Sutton laughed. “Should you like to escape for a quarter of an hour? I usually go up to the nursery to make sure the children have settled down, especially their first night away from home.”

  “Oh yes, let me go with you. You have several children?” Cecily asked as they turned back towards the stairs. “You do not look old enough.”

  “Two, and a third on the way.” She patted her still flat abdomen. “No hunting for me this season, alas. Uncle Edward is sadly disappointed that I shall not try out Daystar, his young mare, but Iain agrees with my midwife at home that riding is unwise. He has made something of a study of pregnancy, since his particular interest is children.”

  “Is it? He was very good with the little boy who broke his arm, the gamekeeper’s son.”

  “He is all praise for your assistance.” Lady Sutton cast a curious glance at Cecily, who felt herself blush. Tactfully the viscountess made no comment on the eccentricity of an earl’s daughter kneeling in the mud to help an urchin. “You are fond of children?”

  “I...I hardly know. I have no brothers or sisters. Does Dr Macfarlane have a great many children in his practice?”

  “Very few, poor fellow. Bath is crammed with aged invalids, many of them wealthy, fortunately. Iain’s dream is to open a clinic exclusively for children, particularly those whose parents cannot afford medical care. He saves every penny he can, and he has not touched a penny of his inheritance from our father, thanks to Uncle Edward’s generosity. Here is the night nursery.” She put a finger to her lips.

  Following on tiptoe, Cecily gazed down at a dark-haired cherub, smiling in his sleep. Young as he was, the infant looked heart-stoppingly like his maternal uncle.

  Cecily decided she was exceeding fond of children, which would explain the odd emotions churning inside her. They could not possibly have anything to do with that likeness.

  Chapter 4

  When Cecily and Elspeth, as she had been invited to call Lady Sutton, returned downstairs, the gentlemen were already entering the drawing room.

  “All’s well?” Lord Sutton asked.

  “They are both fast asleep, Tom,” Elspeth assured him.

  “Inspecting the nurseries, eh, Lady Cecily?” enquired the Duke jovially and all too loudly.

  Colour tinged Lord Avon’s cheekbones. “Will you sing for us?” he begged in haste.

  Elspeth looked in surprise from him to Cecily, obviously feeling he ought to be aware of her reluctance to perform.

  “Not tonight,” Cecily excused herself. As she cast about wildly for something to explain her refusal, her gaze fell on the chessboard. “If it will not inconvenience anyone, I have been longing for a chance to learn to play chess.”

  “Capital!” cried the Duke. In view of her interest in chess and in the nurseries, her faux pas over the fox seemed to be forgiven. “I shall teach you myself. Iain, we’ll have our game later.”

  “By all means, Uncle,” Dr Macfarlane agreed, with a slightly puzzled glance at Cecily.

  Did he think she was deliberately toadying to his Grace, even at the cost of disobliging Lord Avon? She wanted to tell him she had not known the board was set up for the Duke. “I don’t wish to inconvenience anyone,” she repeated.

  “Not at all, not at all,” his Grace insisted.

  “You had best help teach Lady Cecily, Iain,” Lord Avon proposed dryly. “My father’s explanations are not always of the clearest. He so confused me in my tender youth, Lady Cecily, that I developed a terror of the game. Should you take a liking to it, however, I must try again.”

  Laughing, Cecily went with the Duke to the chess table. The doctor pulled up a chair beside her. At first his closeness distracted her, a disturbing quiver running through her whenever her elbow chanced to brush against his sleeve. She soon found herself glad of his assistance.

  The Duke saw the game in terms of a fox hunt—the king was the fox; the pawns hounds; the queen the huntsman; the bishops whippers-in; the knights well-mounted riders ready to take hedge and ditch in their stride, though with a deplorable tendency to jump the hounds. The castles, inexplicably known as rooks, his Grace held in scorn. They were plodding farmers on sorry nags who insisted on going round the edges of each field so as not to damage the crops.

  Though a complete novice, Cecily could see how these views affected his play. With Dr Macfarlane’s aid, she quickly grasped the basic moves and began to realize the immense complexity of strategy and tactics.

  As, under the doctor’s tutelage, she cornered his Grace’s fox-king, she said regretfully, “I doubt I shall ever devote enough time and effort to it to play well.”

  “Dash it, nor do I,” the Duke admitted, “but I enjoy a game now and then, all the same, even if Iain wins every time.”

  “I don’t claim to play well, sir, merely slightly better than you! As you say, it’s agreeable as an occasional pastime.”

  “Much more entertaining than cards,” Cecily observed. “I should like to play again some time, and learn more, if either of you gentlemen is willing to oblige me. But now I must leave you to a proper game.”

  The Duke demurred, saying being beaten hollow once was enough for one evening. “Won’t you favour us with a song, my dear?” he requested.

  Resigned, Cecily obliged.

  * * * *

  Iain was intrigued. Lady Cecily Barwith sang her ornate Italian aria as woodenly as most well-bred young ladies, though she had a pleasant, low, singing voice. Otherwise, she was not at all what he had been led to expect. Jasper’s description to his mother had only told the half of it.

  Despite his cousin’s temperate praise, Iain had not been surprised to see a lovely young lady, for Jas would demand nothing less. But Lady Cecily was not at all a milk-and-water, compliant female without a mind of her own. Every time he recollected his uncle’s stunned face when she confessed her outrageous sympathy for the fox, he felt his lips twitch. And every time he recollected her practical kindness to little Ben Diver, defying decorum, his heart swelled within him with an emotion he did not choose to identify.

  Oh yes, Lady Cecily had a mind of her own!

  Yet on one point Iain had not been mistaken. Jasper was not in love, and nor, he was quite certain, was Lady Cecily. They were on easy but nothing approaching intimate terms.

  She did not seek to meet his eyes, nor even follow him with her gaze. He did not attempt to be alone with her, nor even draw her aside from the others for a private word, as Iain would have if she were his...if he were in the same circumstances. Both were satisfied to make a suitable, indeed, a splendid match applauded equally by both families and all the rest of the Beau Monde.

  The aria ended to a scatter of applause, the most fervent from the least musical members of the family and those at the card-tables—including Jasper—who had not listened. Watching Lady Cecily closely, Iain saw her delightful nose wrinkle in a scarcely perceptible moue. She was not content with her own p
erformance, he guessed.

  Someone called for another song. Lady Cecily sent a swift glance to her mother, who shook her head.

  “Good,” Elspeth murmured in Iain’s ear.

  “Pray hold me excused,” said Lady Cecily with an air of relief. “I am a little tired after the journey.”

  Bidding the company good night, Lady Flint bore her off to bed, and several other ladies admitted to fatigue and followed. Iain caught Elspeth’s arm as she rose.

  “What do you mean, ‘good’?” he said. “She sang no worse than most accomplished young ladies.”

  “Myself, for instance! But she dislikes performing, she told me. I was glad for her that her mama decided a second song would be putting herself forward.”

  “Ah, I see.” Driven by something within him, Iain asked, “Do you like her?”

  “Cecily? Very much. One cannot be certain, of course, but I believe she may have what it takes to make Jasper settle down.”

  “One must hope so,” Iain said, conscious of a hollow feeling, caused, he was sure, by his doubt over his cousin’s readiness to settle down, even with Lady Cecily. “They don’t seem particularly fond of each other.”

  “I daresay affection will grow once they are married. They are both likable people. Not everyone can fall desperately in love while jumping a five-barred gate side by side, as Tom and I did. Speaking of whom, he is bearing down upon me with a light in his eye which says ‘Time you retired to your rest, mother of my children.’ Good night, brother dear.”

  Iain watched them go, for the first time envious of their love.

  He and Jasper were the last to go up to bed. As they mounted the stairs together, Jasper said, “Well, coz, do you approve?”

  “Of Lady Cecily? She is...” enchanting? “...an excellent choice. Pretty and amiable, well-bred, and she will grow into the dignity required of a duchess.”

  “Dignity? Yes, I daresay. I confess,” his cousin mused, “she has more spirit than I gave her credit for. Perhaps marriage won’t be the intolerable bore I had anticipated.”