Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716)

by Kelly, Carla; Jensen, Emma

  Celia’s eyes sparkled dangerously, and Mrs. Floyd hurried to forestall whatever remark her former charge was about to make. ‘‘Do not forget she is your aunt! Or something like it. And she will be showing you a great kindness.’’

  ‘‘Aunt.’’ Celia shivered dramatically. ‘‘I shall never be able to address her as ‘Aunt Gladys,’ try as I might.’’

  ‘‘Oh, pooh. I daresay she is perfectly amiable when one comes to know her. And they do say blood is thicker than water.’’

  Celia chuckled. ‘‘Yes, they do, but she’s no more related to me than you are. She simply married my father’s cousin—whom he never met, by the by! The old duke booted my grandfather out of the house without a farthing, cut him out of his will, and never spoke to him again after he married my grandmother. We never encountered anyone from that branch of the family, and never cared to. And now I know why! If that stiff-rumped Tartar is the present duke’s choice for his life’s companion, only think what he must be like! After a se’nnight in their house, I daresay it will be a relief to hire myself out as a scullery maid.’’

  ‘‘I wish you would not talk in that flippant way, my dear, about matters that are quite, quite serious! And besides, Delacourt is not a house,’’ said Mrs. Floyd severely. ‘‘I would own myself astonished if you encountered the duchess above once a month in that great sprawl of a place. Apart from dinner, that is.’’

  ‘‘Gracious. Will it be so very splendid, do you think?’’

  ‘‘My dear Celia—! Delacourt is famous!’’

  ‘‘I suppose it is.’’ Celia rubbed her cheek tiredly. ‘‘In that case, I’ve nothing suitable to wear. It is a bit much, I think, to have to take something so trivial into consideration just now.’’

  Mrs. Floyd reached out and patted her young friend’s knee consolingly. ‘‘Depend upon it, my dear, they will understand that you are in mourning.’’

  ‘‘They will have to,’’ said Celia defiantly, ‘‘for even if I had the inclination to purchase a new wardrobe right now, I haven’t the funds.’’ Her eyes widened in alarm as another thought struck. ‘‘What about Christmas? I hope I am not expected to arrive bearing gifts for a houseful of persons I have never met. And I cannot afford anything remotely fine enough!’’

  ‘‘Oh, they don’t keep Christmas in the great houses the way we humbler folk do. A pity, I always thought—as if Christmas could go out of fashion! But that’s what one hears.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but we don’t know. The way my luck has been running, I shall arrive to find every room decked with holly and mistletoe, and discover that I must give expensive presents to all my unknown relatives—and their servants! Well, that’s that. The instant I step through the door I shall tell the duchess that I have other plans for the holidays.’’

  Mrs. Floyd looked uneasy. ‘‘But you don’t, my dear. They will think it odd when Christmas approaches and no one sends a carriage for you.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps they will offer me the use of one. They doubtless have a dozen.’’

  ‘‘How will that mend matters? You will have to direct the coachman to take you somewhere. Where will you go?’’

  Celia bit her lip. ‘‘I think I feel an attack of influenza coming on,’’ she said mendaciously, pressing a hand to her forehead and falling back on the sofa cushions. ‘‘What a pity! I fear I shall not be able to visit Delacourt until the second week of January. At the earliest.’’

  Mrs. Floyd’s face fell. ‘‘Well, of course, you could plead illness,’’ she admitted. ‘‘And Mr. Hobbi has promised us a goose,’’ she added valiantly, ‘‘so I’m sure we will have a very merry Christmas here at the vicarage, just the two of us.’’

  Celia’s conscience immediately pricked her. She sat up. ‘‘No, no, I was only funning,’’ she said hastily, and forced a smile. ‘‘The duchess is expecting me next Thursday week, and Thursday week it shall be. I would not dare to gainsay her.’’

  Mrs. Floyd’s relief was palpable. She immediately brightened and began chattering of her nieces and nephews, and how pleasant it would be to give them their little gifts in person rather than sending them through the post, and how there had never been a figgy pudding to equal the figgy pudding her sister-in-law made every year.

  Listening to her, Celia felt ashamed. Her grief had made her selfish. It hurt to see how much her friend was looking forward to leaving her. But it was only natural, after all. Anyone who had a home would want to be home for Christmas.

  Celia had not given Christmas a thought. Now she realized that she simply had not wanted to think about Christmas, any more than she had wanted to think about Mrs. Floyd leaving. Both thoughts gave her a painful, even panicky, sensation. But she would make an effort to hide that. She owed it to her friend, to let her leave for home with a happy heart, untroubled by the notion that Celia still needed her.

  But she did. Oh, she did indeed.

  Mrs. Floyd was the last person left alive whom Celia loved. The thought of Liz going back to Wiltshire and leaving her alone, completely and utterly alone, filled Celia with a blind and brainless terror.

  It was useless to tell herself how silly she was being. She knew there was no logical reason to fear that Liz, too, would die if she let her out of her sight. But logic had no power over the formless dread, monstrous and paralyzing, that seized her every time Mrs. Floyd left the room. Since the first week of September she had been all but glued to Liz’s side, following her about like a baby chick. How would she feel when Liz left the county? Could she smile and wave her handkerchief as the coach bore her only friend away? Or would she make a spectacle of herself, weeping and screaming like a child?

  This surely was going to be the worst Christmas of her life.

  SUGARPLUM SURPRISES

  Elisabeth Fairchild

  Bath, 1819

  Fanny Fowler, an accredited beauty, one of Bath’s bon ton, slated to be the most feted bride of the Christmas Season, was not in her best looks when she burst through the door of Madame Nicolette’s millinery shop, on a very wet December afternoon right before closing. The violent jingle of the bell drew the attention of everyone present. And yet, so red and puffy were Fanny’s eyes, so mottled her fair complexion, so rain-soaked her golden tresses, she was almost unrecognizable.

  ‘‘Madame Nicolette!’’ she gasped, noble chin wobbling, sylvan voice uneven. Bloodshot blue eyes streamed tears that sparkled upon swollen cheeks almost as much as the raindrops that trickled from her guinea gold hair. ‘‘It is all over. Finished.’’

  Madame Nicolette’s elaborate lace-edged mobcap tipped at an angle, along with Madame’s head. The heavily rouged spots on her heavily powdered cheeks added unusual emphasis to the puzzled purse of her mouth. She spoke in hasty French to her assistant, Marie, shooing her, and the only customer in the shop, into the dressing room.

  Then, clasping the trembling hand of this, her best customer, she led her to a quiet corner, near the plate glass window that overlooked the busy, weather-drenched corner of Milsom and Green Streets.

  ‘‘Fini, cheri?’’ she asked gently, taking in the looming impression of the Fowler coach waiting without, the horses sleek with rain, their harness decked with jingling bells to celebrate the season. Gay Christmas ribbon tied to the coach lamps danced in the wind.

  ‘‘The wedding is canceled!’’ Fanny wailed, no attempt made to lower her voice. ‘‘He has jilted me. Says that nothing could induce him to marry me now. Ever.’’

  The distraught young woman fell upon the matronly shoulder, weeping copiously. Madame Nicolette, green eyes widening in alarm, patted the girl’s back. ‘‘Vraiment! The cad. Abominable behavior. Why should he do this?’’

  ‘‘Because I told the truth when I could have lied.’’ Fanny gazed past Madame with a sudden look of fury. ‘‘I should have lied. Might so easily have lied. Any other female would have lied.’’

  She burst into tears again, and wept without interruption, face buried in the handkerchief in her hands, sho
ulders heaving.

  Madame offered up her own handkerchief, for Fanny’s was completely sodden. ‘‘What of the trousseau?’’ Madame asked, for of course this was the matter that concerned her most.

  Fanny wept the harder, which brought a look of concern to Madame’s eyes, far greater than that generated by all previous tears.

  ‘‘Papa . . .’’ Fanny choked out. ‘‘Papa is in an awful temper. He refuses to p-p-pay.’’ This last bit came out in a most dreadful wail, and while Madame continued to croon comfortingly and pat the young woman’s back, her lips thinned, and her brows settled in a grim line.

  ‘‘And your fiancé? Surely he will defray expenses.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps.’’ Fanny made every effort to collect herself. ‘‘I do not know,’’ she said with a sniff. ‘‘All I know is that he intends to leave Bath tomorrow morning. Now, I must go. Papa waits.’’

  ‘‘Allow me to escort you to the coach.’’ Madame solicitously followed her to the door.

  ‘‘But it is raining.’’ Fanny wielded both sodden handkerchiefs in limp protest. ‘‘And Papa is in such a mood.’’

  Madame insisted, and so the two women ran together to the coach, under cover of Madame’s large black umbrella, and Madame greeted Lord Fowler, his wife, and younger daughter standing beneath her dripping shield just outside the fulsome gutter. ‘‘An infamous turn of events,’’ she called to them.

  ‘‘Blasted nuisance,’’ my lord shouted from the coach. ‘‘Frippery female has gone and lost herself a duke, do you hear!’’

  ‘‘Fourth Duke of Chandrose, and Fourth Marquess of Carnevon.’’ Lady Fowler’s voice could barely be heard above the pelter of the rain that soaked Madame’s hem, but as the door was swung wider to allow Fanny entrance, her voice came clearer. ‘‘A fortune slips through her fingers.’’

  ‘‘Silly chit,’’ her father shouted as Fanny climbed in, cringing. ‘‘I credited you with far too much sense.’’

  Fanny’s sister kept her head bowed, her eyes darting in a frightened manner from parent to parent.

  Fanny resorted to her handkerchief as she plopped down into her seat.

  ‘‘Do you know what she has done to alienate him?’’ Lord Fowler demanded of Madame Nicolette as if she should know, as if he were the only one in Bath who was not privy to his daughter’s thinking.

  Madame shook her head, and gave a very French shrug as she leaned into the doorway of the coach. ‘‘My dear monsieur, madam, I sympathize most completely in this trying moment, and while I understand you have no wish to pay for the trousseau that has taken six months’ work to assemble, the trousseau Miss Fanny will not be wearing, I wonder, will you be so good—’’

  Lord Fowler sat forward abruptly, chest thrust forth, shaking his walking stick at her with ferocity, the sway of his jowls echoing the movement. ‘‘Not a penny will I spend on this stupid girl. Not one penny, do you hear? More than a hundred thousand pounds a year she might have had with His Grace. Not a farthing’s worth shall she have now.’’ Like a Christmas turkey he looked, his face gone very red, his eyes bulging, his extra set of chins wobbling.

  ‘‘I comprehend your ire, my lord,’’ Madame persisted calmly. ‘‘But surely you intend to offer some compensation for my efforts, my material?’’

  His lordship’s face took on a plum pudding hue. ‘‘Not a single grote. Do you understand? Not one. Make the duke pay.’’ He thumped the silver head of his cane against the ceiling, the whole coach shaking. ‘‘Jilting my daughter.’’ Thump. ‘‘Disgracing the family name.’’ Thump. ‘‘Two weeks before the wedding, mind you.’’ Thump-thump. ‘‘Bloody cheek.’’

  With that, he thumped his cane so briskly it broke clean through the leather top so that rain leaked in upon his head, and in a strangled voice, the veins at his temples bulging, he ordered his coachman, ‘‘Drive on, damn you. Drive on. Can you not hear me thumping down here?’’

  The horses leapt into motion with an inappropriately cheerful jingle, and Madame Nicolette Fieullet leapt back from the wheels.

  ‘‘Fiddlesticks,’’ she muttered in very English annoyance as the coach churned up dirty water from the gutter in a hem-drenching wave. She took shelter in the shop’s doorway to shake the rain from her umbrella.

  The wreath on the door seemed suddenly too merry, the jingle of the door’s bell a mockery. Christmas. Dear Lord. Christmas meant balls and assemblies, and dresses ordered at the last minute, and she must have fabric and lace and trim at the ready. But how was she to pay for Christmas supplies now that so much of her capital was tied up in Fanny’s trousseau?

  ‘‘Madame! You are soaked,’’ her assistant, Marie, cried out as she entered.

  ‘‘Oui. Je suis tout trempe.’’ Madame kept her skirt high, that she might not drip, her voice low, that their customer might not hear. ‘‘You will give Mrs. Bower my excuses while I change?’’

  Marie followed her, a worried look in her deep brown eyes. ‘‘Is it true, Madame? He refuses to pay?’’

  ‘‘Oui.’’

  ‘‘Mon dieu! The material arrives tomorrow. However will we pay?’’

  ‘‘I shall think of something. Do not torment yourself.’’ Madame sounded confident. She looked completely self-assured, until she locked herself in the back room, pressed her back to the door, and sinking to the floor, wept piteously at the sight of Fanny’s finished dresses.

  More than a dozen beautiful garments had been made up to Miss Fowler’s specific measurements, in peacock colors to flatter Fanny’s sky blue eyes and guinea gold hair. Thousands of careful stitches, hundreds of careful cuts, and darts. How many times had she pricked her fingers in the making of them? How many times had she ripped seams that they might fit Fanny’s form more perfectly? It was heartbreaking just to look at them. Tears burned in Madame’s eyes. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The masterpieces were, of course, the wedding dress, and two ball gowns, one in the colors of Christmas, an evergreen satin bodice, vandyke trimmed in gold satin cord, Spanish slashed sleeves that had taken several days to sew, a deeply gored skirt of deeper green velvet, with a magnificent border of gold quilling, and twisted rolls of satin cord that had taken weeks’ worth of stitching.

  ‘‘Fanny must have something entirely unique,’’ her mother had insisted, ‘‘something worthy of a duchess.’’

  The results were exquisite. Madame’s best work yet. They were the sort of dresses every young woman dreamed of. Head-turning dresses, and yet in the best of taste, the perfect foil for youth and beauty. They were the sort of dresses she had once worn herself in her younger days. Gowns to catch a man’s eye without raising a mother’s eyebrows. Gowns to lift a young woman’s spirits and self-esteem as she donned them. She had hoped these dresses would be the making of her name, of her reputation.

  Now they were worthless, completely worthless. Indeed, a terrible drain upon her purse.

  Defeat weighed heavy upon Madame’s shoulders. Tears burned in her eyes. Sobs pressed hard against her chest, her gut, the back of her throat. What to do? Panic rose, intensifying her feelings of anger and regret.

  She had believed the future secure, the holiday fruitful, her worries behind her at last.

  But no! Life surprised her most mean-spiritedly, at Christmastime, always at Christmastime.

  The tears would not remain confined to her eyes. It had been long since she had allowed them to fall. They broke forth now in an unstoppable deluge.

  She clutched her hand over her mouth, stifling her sobs, choking on them. But they would not be stopped. Disappointment surged from the innermost depths of her in a knee-weakening wave. She was a child again, unable to contain her emotions. She thought of her mother, lying pale and wan in her bed, the familiar swell of her stomach deflated, the strength of her voice almost gone.

  ‘‘My dear Jane,’’ mother had whispered, cupping the crown of Jane’s head, stroking the silk of her hair. She could still feel the weight of that hand, the heat. ‘‘I ha
d thought to bring you a baby brother for Chr-Christmas.’’ Her mother’s voice had caught, trembled. She had given Jane’s hand a weak squeeze, her hand hot, so very hot. ‘‘But, life never unfolds as one expects, pet.’’

  Jane had been frightened by her mother’s tone, by the strangled noises of distress her father made from the doorway. She had not understood it was the last time she would have to speak to Mama. She had patted the feverish hand, then held it to her cheek and said, ‘‘Do not cry, Mother. If you have lost my little brother, Papa will buy you another for Christmas. Won’t you, Papa?’’

  Her father had made choking noises and stumbled from the room.

  ‘‘Jane!’’ Miss Godwin, her governess, had sounded cross as she snatched her up from the side of the bed.

  But Jane had clung to her mother’s fingers, the strength of her grasp lifting her mother’s arm from the bed. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  Her mother’s clasp was as desperate as hers. ‘‘Cherish what is, my pet, not what you imagined,’’ she said, the words urgent, the look in her eyes unforgettable. And as Miss Godwin had gently pried their hands apart, she had said with an even greater urgency, ‘‘Promise me, Jane, my love. Promise me you will not allow regret to swallow you whole.’’

  Jane had nodded, not knowing what she promised, looking back over Miss Godwin’s shoulder with a five-year-old’s conviction, no comprehension of the words. Promising was easy. Honoring that promise was not.

  ‘‘Look for the silver surprises, my love, in the plum pudding at Christmas, and know that I put them there for you.’’ Her mother’s words were almost drowned out by the muffled desperation of her father’s cries.

  He sat, bent over in the dressing room, a balled handkerchief stuffed in his mouth. His shoulders had shaken in a manner she had never before witnessed.