His Christmas Pleasure

by Cathy Maxwell

  And if it meant risking all he owned to let her know how he felt and bring her back, then so be it.

  He saddled a horse and left with all haste.

  Because when you love someone, you go to them no matter the cost. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The trip to London was almost unendurable for Abby.

  She wept most of the way, frustrating herself for not being stronger—and yet she couldn’t help but sense that she was making a grave mistake.

  The Landsdowne coach was well sprung and very good for travel. The servants could not have been kinder.

  They made excellent time. After three days of hard travel, she arrived in London shortly after noon. As the Landsdowne servants retrieved the bag she’d brought from the boot, Harrison, her family butler, opened the door.

  “Miss Abigail?” He came outside. “Thank God, Miss Abigail, it is you.”

  “Harrison, how is my mother?”

  “Sad, very sad. Come in out of the cold and I’ll hurry you upstairs to her.”

  This concern from the usually composed butler frightened Abby. “Please see to the Landsdowne servants,” she said.

  “I will, but please hurry. Please. We’ve waited for you to return home.”

  Inside the house, Abby took the steps two at a time up the curving staircase that led to the hall where her mother’s room was located. The housekeeper, Mrs. George, saw her and rushed to open the door. “We are so glad you’ve returned,” she whispered as Abby whisked by.

  A fire burned in the grate. The heavy velvet curtains were pulled against the cold. The air was overheated and oppressive. This was not like her mother. Her mother relished fresh air, always claiming that a little cold kept the blood pumping.

  Abby looked to the bed. It was made. Her mother was not there, and Abby felt a small measure of relief. She went around the corner to the small sitting room that overlooked the garden.

  Here again the drapes were pulled. Her mother sat in a rocking chair in the corner, her face pale in the room’s murky light. She did not act as if she was aware of anyone being in the room with her. She wore a mobcap over her hair and her black mourning gown. Abby had seen her like this one other time—when she had been in mourning for Robert, the oldest son, who had died in battle. “Mother?” Abby said softly.

  Her mother’s brows came together. She looked up at Abby, as if not believing her eyes.

  Abby walked to the chair and knelt. Her mother’s hands were cold in hers. Her mother squeezed

  her hand hard. “Abby?” “Yes, Mother, it’s me.”

  Tears poured from her mother’s eyes. She fell into Abby’s arms, holding her close. “I feared I would not see you again. This was the same as losing your brother. Heath returned from Scotland and said you were as good as dead to us. I can’t lose my daughter. I can’t lose another child.”

  “You haven’t lost me. Father was very angry.” Abby took the kerchief from her mother’s hands and used it to wipe her mother’s tears. “I’m home now. All is well.”

  “This is the best gift I’ve ever received,” her mother whispered. “Tell me what you’ve been doing? Are you all right? Did that Spaniard do something terrible to you?”

  He’s only broken my heart, Abby thought to herself, but she wouldn’t share that with her mother. She had to be loyal to Andres.

  Instead, Abby started telling her mother about Stonemoor and the horses. “I appreciated your journal of household advice,” she said. “It has rescued me more than once.”

  Her mother laughed, the sound carefree. Abby opened the curtains, and some of the oppressive gloom dissipated from the room. Already her mother’s color looked better. “I had hoped it would be meaningful for you,” her mother said.

  “I am so sorry to have caused you pain,” Abby replied.

  “It was the fear of not seeing you again,” her mother said. “And also my own regrets.”

  “What regrets are those?”

  “At last I understood how my parents felt when I ran away. I was so frightened for you, Abigail. I didn’t know where you were, and when your father returned and said you’d married, I thought my heart was going to stop. I had wanted to be at your wedding. Your father and I have dreamed of it. I now understand why my father cut me off. He’d been hurt. And I was so happy, I was completely callous to him.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “We didn’t mean to chase you away. We of all parents understand eloping. But we were in love, Abigail. From the moment I met your father, I knew my life was tied to his. Everything made sense when I was with him. Certainly he wasn’t the man my father wished me to marry. We had no choice but to elope. But you had a choice.”

  “Did I?” Abby asked. “Father was so set on Lord Villier.”

  “I would have talked him out of it,” her mother said softly.

  “And who would Father choose after him?”

  Her mother shook her head. “It’s the earl of Bossley’s son, isn’t it? You are in love with him the way I was with your father. In spite of what your father and I thought of him, you loved him.”

  Abby gave her mother’s hand a squeeze. “I don’t love Freddie Sherwin.”

  “You don’t?” her mother questioned in disbelief. “You always said you did.”

  “Because I wasn’t thinking clearly. Oh, Mother, this is all so confused, and none of it is your fault, or Father’s. I did love Freddie, but he never loved me. Not in the way Father cares about you.”

  “We knew that.” Her mother dabbed her eyes. Her voice had become animated.

  “But I didn’t know. I thought if I confronted Freddie with my feelings, he would see he was making a mistake asking for my cousin. And I believe he does care for me, Mother … in his way.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “No. In fact, it is far worse than if he just didn’t care. And I think that, on some level, I understood. Then Father arranged for a match with Lord Villier, and well, Andres’s offer for a marriage of convenience seemed far more attractive. It took me away from London, away from where people didn’t believe I mattered.”

  “You’ve always mattered to your father and I—”

  “I know that, but to a silly young woman, and that is exactly what I was, a parent’s care and love is no match for what other people think of her.” Abby rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “I don’t feel that way now. I know I’ve hurt you and I am sorry for it. Please forgive me.”

  Her mother’s tired face became a wreath of smiles. “We forgive you all. And it is a blessing you are home. Please, don’t worry about that horrid Spaniard. I know your father will be able to do whatever is necessary to remove him from your life.”

  “Mother, I don’t want him removed.”

  “You don’t?” Her mother sat back.

  “No,” Abby said, “I love him.”

  “Love him?” Her father’s voice surprised both of them.

  Abby turned. Her father had come around the corner. He still wore his hat and coat and smelled of London’s sooty air. She nodded. “Yes, hopelessly.”

  Admitting it never ceased to amaze her. Her love seemed to grow stronger with each declaration.

  “Well, if you are so hopelessly in love, why are you here?” her father demanded. “And where is the man?”

  For a second, Abby was tempted to lie … but she realized that this was what had hurt her parents from the beginning. She’d cut them out of her thoughts and her life, and it had wounded them.

  “I’m here,” she said, “because Freddie Sherwin did something right for once. He told me you were ill. As for my husband … I’m waiting to discover if he loves me.”

  Her mother’s empathy was immediate. “Oh, darling.”

  Her father’s brow darkened. “You would be better off without him.”

  “Would I, Father? I don’t think our child would agree.”

  Abby had surprised her parents few times in her life, but she d
id so now—and they each had a different reaction.

  “Abigail, a baby?” her mother said. The last signs of illness evaporated. Her eyes took on a glow of anticipation.

  “This is a devil of a mess,” her father said, raising a hand to his forehead. He paced the length of the room. “How can we end this marriage if you are breeding?”

  “Heath,” her mother admonished. “That’s not the way to talk about our grandchild. She’s not breeding. She’s doing exactly what a woman should do when she is in love.”

  Her father grunted his opinion. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat, his expression reminding Abby of the Stonemoor barn cat when he didn’t catch the mouse he was chasing.

  Her mother ran her hand over Abby’s curls, the way she used to when Abby was a child. “I hope the babe has your hair coloring and your eyes,” she said. “And your nose.”

  “I want him to have something of Andres,” Abby answered.

  “Does he know?” her father demanded.

  Abby hated to admit, “No. This is something I’ve just realized. We’ve been so busy at Stonemoor that I didn’t notice. However, on my way here, at one of the inns I stopped at, I met a woman who had just realized she was with child. She spoke of the symptoms.” Abby felt color rise to her cheeks over talking so frankly in front of her father. “That’s when I suspected I was. I have many of the same concerns.”

  “I always sensed I was right away as well,” her mother said. “Almost immediately. Isn’t that true, Heath?”

  “Do you think it might be a good idea to tell the child’s father?” her father asked pointedly, choosing to refuse to take part in good wishes.

  Rising to her feet so that she could better face him, Abby kept hold of her mother’s hand as she said, “I will tell him … when I see him.”

  “Something is havey-cavey here. Abby, your mother leads with her heart, but you and I always lead with our heads. What are you about?”

  “I don’t lead with my head any longer,” Abby told her sire. “This is my heart, out there for everyone to see. I love him, Father, and I need him to love me.”

  “And so you are here—?” her father wondered again.

  “Yes,” Abby said, “and I hope he comes for me. I want him to care for me as much as I do him.”

  “What if he doesn’t come?” her mother asked, doubt in her voice.

  “He’ll come,” Abby said. She had to believe he would. She must.

  Her father grumbled under his breath before saying, “If you are so certain, why go through this exercise?”

  “I needed to see Mother. Freddie made her sound as if she was at death’s door—”

  “Do you think I would let her grow so ill and not inform you?” her father said.

  Abby knew he was worked up. There was a time she would have met him passion for passion. But she felt older now, and wiser. “I don’t want us estranged. I want my child to know his grandparents.” She released her breath and said, “I know you are angry with me, Father. I defied you, but I think that is because I was meant to be with Andres Ramigio.”

  “You thought you were meant to be with Freddie Sherwin at one time as well,” he threw back at her.

  “I have no argument,” she admitted. “I was wrong … and if Andres doesn’t love me, he may not come for me.”

  Her father shook his head, as if his anger was churning inside of him. He raised a hand, ready to point a finger and speak his mind, but her mother rose. “No, Heath, no more. Have you forgotten what it is like to be so new in love?”

  “Catherine, you have always known my devotion for you.”

  “Have I? I seem to remember an argument we had a week after we married where I packed my bags and was ready to leave. Do you remember that? You blocked my way, refusing to let me pass.”

  “You are my wife,” her father said. “We were married. You couldn’t leave on a whim.”

  “A whim?” Her mother gave him a sharp eye. “As I remember, you had grown frustrated with lugging along a wife who was crying for her mother. And you weren’t going to let me return. Of course, you were very persuasive, sir. Nine months later, we had Robert.” Her expression started to crumple at the mention of her son. She forced a smile through it. “I lost one child, Heath. I won’t lose another, not when she’s made the trip back for us. And this Spaniard, perhaps he is all the things you’ve warned us about. But then you had a roguish reputation, too—and you turned out rather well.”

  “I had you, Catherine. That’s what made the difference.”

  “And this Spaniard has our daughter. What is his name, Abby? Not his title, his name.”

  “Andres. Andres Ramigio.”

  Her mother tested the name. “Romantic, no?” she said to Abby’s father.

  He frowned. “I can’t like him. He took my daughter.”

  “And he is giving us a grandchild,” his wife reminded him. “Another sign of our love for each other.”

  “He’ll be half Spanish,” her father muttered. “Heath Ramigio. It’s a silly name for an English baby.”

  Abby was about to call him out, but her mother beat her to the response. And a nicer one it was.

  “He’ll also be a remarkably handsome child. Think of it, Heath, he’ll be like Abby, my looks and your brains—with a bit of his father thrown in. And who is to say he’ll be named after his grandfather? Especially if his grandfather continues to have such a hard head?”

  “I’ve a hard head because I want what is best for my children,” was his reply.

  “It’s not your hard head I worry about, Heath. It’s you hardening your heart. You must realize they aren’t children any longer. They are adults, and not one of them has listened to you yet. Perhaps your grandson will … and I shall encourage Abby and Andres to name him Robert.”

  Suddenly, the anger left her father. Abby had never seen him cry. Not even at her brother’s funeral. He’d stood straight-backed, holding her mother, who’d been consumed by grief—but tears welled in his eyes now.

  “I just want to protect all of you,” he admitted. “I want you safe. And I didn’t do such a good job with my boys. One gone, and look at the other two. I don’t want you heartbroken, Abby. I don’t want myself heartbroken again.”

  Both Abby and her mother flew to him. They put their arms around him and hugged him with all they had. He hugged right back.

  Her mother used her kerchief to wipe away the tear stains on his cheeks in the same gentle manner Abby had used on her earlier. Her father was a bit embarrassed, but he didn’t deny the emotion.

  Instead, he said, “If that Spaniard doesn’t come for you, Abby, then he is a fool.”

  “I agree with you, Father. I agree.”

  The first day home, Abby kept her spirits up. Her mother’s health continued to improve. Her trip had served a very good purpose.

  The servants all took a moment to let Abby know that they had genuinely been worried for her. It was assumed everything was fine now that Abby was back.

  The second day without word from Andres, Abby wasn’t as strong in her resolve.

  What right did she have to test Andres in this way? She knew he could be fiercely independent. If she had been Andres, she wouldn’t have come for her either.

  If he did not come for her, did she go to him?

  Could she return to her marriage and pretend as if nothing had happened?

  Abby feared she lacked that gift.

  Jonesy paid a call. She’d heard a rumor that Abby was back, and she fished shamelessly for details about her marriage. Both Abby and her mother managed to keep her at bay, and not one word was said about a baby.

  Her mother seemed to understand the doubts Abby was experiencing. It was a good time for the two of them. Instead of just mother and daughter, they spoke to each other as friends, peers.

  Abby missed Andres terribly. She missed being her own mistress. She missed the country.

  By Christmas, Abby realized her life in London seemed meaningless
.

  Every year, Abby’s uncle, the duke of Banfield, hosted Christmas Day dinner for those who were still in town. Everyone of any importance was there. It was an enjoyable event.

  Abby waited until an hour before her family should depart to inform her parents she’d rather not go.

  Her father frowned. “Why not? Because of Freddie and Corinne?”

  “I have no difficulty being around them,” she said, and meant it. She was completely over Freddie. She didn’t even consider him a friend. In fact, she felt sorry for Corinne. “I’m just not feeling festive.”

  “Abby, you can’t stay home,” her mother said.

  “It’s Christmas.”

  It didn’t feel like Christmas. Abby missed her husband desperately.

  “I shall be fine,” she told her mother.

  “You will not be alone this night.” Her father came around to stand in front of her. “Abigail, I shall not have you moping because that foreigner has disappointed you—”

  “He has not—” Abby started to defend him.

  “Come now,” her father countered, cutting her off. “If things were fine between you, he’d be by your side. How much longer will you wait?”

  “He’s going to come for me,” she said, the words starting to sound hollow.

  “But not on Christmas Day,” her father said. “In truth, I’m a bit disappointed in him. I rather thought he would.”

  “You did? I was under the impression you preferred to believe the worst of him,” Abby said.

  “Sherwin would be the worst,” her father answered. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Abby my girl, for the sadness this is causing you. However, we will not leave you at home, and we must make an appearance to preserve the myth of family harmony. Come with us. We won’t stay long. You know anything under Banfield’s roof irritates me.”

  “I fear Andres doesn’t care,” Abby admitted.

  “Don’t give up,” her mother urged. “When we come home, I shall write a letter to him.”

  “Please, no, not that.” Abby drew a shaky breath. “He has to come to me on his own.” It was what Celeste had said. “Only then will I know he cares.”