Emily's Christmas Wish

by Sharon Stancavage

  "Of course! Are you a slow-top? Think of the connections you would have if you were the next Marchioness of Avonleigh. But Nigel won't have you," she said, staring at Susan in contempt. "He told me so last night. You are a grave disappointment, Susan," Lady Markston said, shaking her head in disgust. The white plume in her turban bobbed ridiculously atop her head.

  "Mother, I can always marry someone else, someone better," Susan said in a desperate voice.

  "Who? A wastrel or a fortune hunter? You know very well that Nigel Manning was your last prayer."

  Susan sat up straight in the chair and met her mother's eyes. "You'll see, Mother—I'll get Nigel to offer for me," she said with a confidence she certainly didn't feel. Nothing was worse than the way her mother treated her when she didn't get her way. It would be worth the sacrifice to be leg-shackled to Nigel, just to stop her mother's constant complaining.

  Lady Markston raised an eyebrow as she continued to pace the room, her turban askew. "We'll discuss this at another time," she said, and motioned for Susan to leave the room.

  As Susan walked to her bedroom, she knew that she had to go through with her plan. It wasn't pleasant or fair, but she had to marry Nigel. If she didn't, her mother would make her every waking moment miserable. She would be the new Countess of Stratford, and when Nigel's father stuck his spoon in the wall, the Marchioness of Avonleigh. Or I'll die trying, she thought, as she closed the door of her bedroom.

  Emily walked into the ballroom and her mouth gaped open in surprise. All of London must be here, she thought, as servants of all ages and sizes, along with the rest of the house party, danced, played games, and drank some of the very abundant wassail that was sitting on a long table.

  "Welcome to the party, Miss Emily," Eliza said, practically bouncing over to Emily. Her abigail was wearing her Sunday-best clothes, and looked quite fetching. Her bright red hair was neatly in place, and her face was flushed from dancing.

  "Are you enjoying the Boxing Day celebration?" Emily asked with a smile, certain of the answer.

  Eliza's head bobbed enthusiastically. "Oh yes—did you know that Lady Harriet, I mean, Lady Ashton, made sure that all of the servants here got a gift? She gave me this fan," Eliza replied, showing Emily a serviceable pink-and-tan fan.

  "Lady Harriet is quite wonderful, isn't she? I think I should talk to Papa and see if we can make our Boxing Day a bit more festive."

  Eliza continued smiling, glancing over toward a handsome young man on her left. "Our celebration is just as much fun, and doesn't seem to be as much work," Eliza replied, straightening the bodice of her pink dress.

  "That is true," Emily replied, scanning the room for Nigel. She wanted to thank him for the puppy (she had been calling her "puppy" lately for want of a better name), but she didn't want anyone to think she was setting her cap for him. As if anyone would consider a spinster of four-and-twenty eligible for someone as grand as Lord Stratford, she thought, spotting Nigel on the far side of the room, talking to a throng of what was probably stable boys.

  "Your gentleman friend is talking with the gents from the stable," Eliza said, glancing over at Nigel.

  Emily blushed. "He isn't my gentleman friend, Eliza," she scolded weakly, looking quickly away from Nigel.

  Eliza had the temerity to wink at her. "Yes, Miss Emily," she replied, and added, "Come over to the tables and play snapdragon with us."

  So Emily spent the remainder of Boxing Day playing snapdragon with any number of servants, receiving dark looks of censure from the very proper Lady Markston. Emily was certain that Lady Markston was much too ladylike to stick her fingers into a fiery bowl of raisins in the first place. And she certainly wouldn't try to eat one of them without burning her fingers or her tongue, Emily thought, amazed at the talent of some of her fellow players. Her fingers were singed more than once, while some of the male servants playing had fingers that flew in and out of the bowl without touching a single flame.

  As Emily continued playing snapdragon (one of her favorite parlor games since she was a child), she glanced out of the window and smiled. The weather was clearing up, and Lady Markston and her daughter would be able to go on their way. Possibly even tomorrow morning, she thought hopefully. Unless Lady Markston succumbs to some sort of illness so Susan can spend more time with Nigel, she added to herself, noting how Susan's gaze kept returning to Nigel.

  But, for the moment, Nigel appeared to be ignoring Susan completely. The holiday was definitely improving for Emily.

  Nigel stood across the well-lit room, relaxing against the mantel, studying Emily.

  She stood in a gathering of mostly servants, his valet among them, thoroughly enjoying a game of snapdragon. Her delicate hands darted in and out of the flaming raisins, and he marveled at the fact that she didn't appear to be burning herself at all. Snapdragon was never a game that he mastered, and he watched Emily with interest. She laughed with his valet, Harriet's abigail, and a chorus of other hired hands as if she had known them all of her life. In turn, they smiled shyly back at her and appeared to be completely at ease with the very untitled Miss Winterhaven.

  On the other side of the room, Henry was entertaining the stable boys with another parlor game. The rather large group of men of all ages and sizes were placing various lighted candles in a can filled with ale and trying to drink the contents. Most of the men were singeing their mustache hair and the tips of their noses, Nigel noted with a grin.

  Harriet was playing the piano in the far corner, and Aubrey and Susan were sharing a stiff waltz. Susan didn't look too happy with the situation, and kept giving him marked looks across the room. He pointedly ignored them, while Aubrey occasionally flashed him a smile.

  But what Nigel truly wanted to do was to go over to Emily and spend the rest of the evening with her alone. Of course, Lady Markston would be spreading all sorts of vile gossip if I did that, he thought, glancing over to the lady in question. She was standing in a corner, and appeared to sneeze at regular intervals. She must not want to leave quite yet, he decided, and would bet Henry that Lady Markston was soon to be down with some sort of illness.

  Nigel sipped his wassail, and his eyes naturally wandered back to the group playing snapdragon. Emily looked so delightful in her deep blue velvet dress, giggling like a young girl over the raisins. He could see her eyes shining from across the room, and she was undoubtedly the most beautiful and unaffected female present. Yes, she will make a splendid countess. Or a marchioness, he thought, his eyes drifting over her lithe form.

  But as the evening wore on, Nigel began to thank the legendary Manning Mermaid. It was the sole cause of his acquaintance with Emily, and he was dashed grateful. He was very close to writing a very telling note to Emily's parents. I hope they won't mind their daughter marrying a peer, he thought distractedly, completely forgetting that Emily and her family were well acquainted with Roger. And his roguish ways.

  The next few days were spent in a flurry of activity. Henry and Harriet separated their guests by sex, and tried to help their friends form some ideas on their costumes for the Blackmore masquerade.

  Harriet was much more successful than Henry. The ladies were naturally more interested in finding a costume to suit their needs, while the gentlemen had to be coaxed a bit more. Aubrey finally relented and opted for an old uniform of one of Henry's ancestors, deciding he rather liked the look of a military man. His valet shined the tarnished medals that adorned the suit, and, in one afternoon, his costume was complete.

  Henry chose something more elaborate, since he had discussed his costume with Harriet. They were once again going as Marc Antony and Cleopatra, which they had done for several fetes. Unfortunately, Henry had gained a bit in his girth, and needed some adjustments made on his very flimsy costume. Harriet was exactly the same size and shape she'd been on the day she was married, so her costume, like Aubrey's, was ready immediately. Of course, her abigail was to help her paint herself rather elaborately, so most of her work would be on the day of the mas
querade itself.

  Lady Markston, in a rare show of self-restraint, declared that "Since there isn't a proper modiste present, I will simply wear a mask and a domino. If I'm well enough to attend." Harriet was certain that Lady Markston would definitely be well enough to attend, since someone had to keep Susan at bay. As for her costume, Lady Markston was correct; there wasn't anything in the attic that would have suited someone of her girth. So, in the end, it was decided that Lady Markston should indeed wear a mask and a domino.

  Then there was the question of Lady Susan's costume. Earlier in the week, while discussing the masquerade, Harriet bet Henry a shilling that Susan would decide to go to the fete dressed as Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty. Henry, in all of his male innocence, declared that "No female can be that vain."

  Days later, looking through the dusty trunks in the attic, Susan came upon a very sheer, completely indecent pink frock fashioned rather like a Grecian tunic. "This is it!" she squealed in delight. "I'll go to Lord Blackmore's dressed as Aphrodite!" she exclaimed, holding the sheer confection up to see if it would fit her dainty frame.

  Harriet and Emily exchanged telling glances, and both ladies rolled their eyes toward the heavens. Harriet and Emily were both tired of Susan and her antics, and were counting the days until she left.

  "That would be an interesting costume," Harriet commented diplomatically, staring at the costume in Susan's hands. "There is no way on this earth that Lady Markston will let her wear that costume," she whispered to Emily.

  "She will look like a veritable cyprian! It will be the scandal of the year," Emily whispered back with a grin.

  "I suppose we can have Blanche work on it," Susan declared, her fingers caressing the sheer material.

  "Blanche, my abigail, worked with the local modiste for a time, before I employed her. She can work absolute miracles," Lady Markston confided with a smug smile.

  "I'm going to my room to try it on. Mama, will you send Blanche posthaste?" Susan asked, walking down the narrow attic stairs.

  "I'll join you, dearest," Lady Markston replied, following her down the stairs.

  As soon as Lady Markston closed the attic door behind her, Emily turned to Harriet and said, "I do believe that your husband owes you a guinea."

  Harriet smiled. "I couldn't convince him to bet a guinea. Henry never had any luck at all at the tables, so the most he would bet me was a shilling," she replied, opening one of the trunks in the corner. "You still haven't found anything you like?" she asked Emily with a slight sigh.

  Emily shook her head, and looked into the trunk Harriet had just opened. "All of Henry's relations were, well, almost dwarfs!" she announced, and both ladies fell into a fit of the giggles.

  "Dwarfs! Don't say that too loud or great, great Aunt Honoria may come back from the dead and start haunting us!" Harriet said, still giggling.

  "It's true!" Emily added, riffling through the clothes. "If they weren't dwarfs they were at least much more… um… delicate than I am," she finally said, a wide smile on her face.

  "Yes, well, Henry doesn't seem to have any female relations that fit your size."

  Emily looked over at her friend, her eyes sparkling wickedly. "Are you implying, Harriet, that I'm a giantess?" she asked in all seriousness.

  Harriet looked over at her, momentarily worried that she had offended her friend. When she saw the smile that Emily was trying to repress, she began to giggle again. "Giantess? No, I think I'm trying to imply that Henry's ancestors were, well, elves!" she concluded with a giggle.

  Emily continued to giggle as she picked up a simple, long, black-hooded cloak. "And what, may I ask, is this?" she asked, handing the garment to Harriet.

  Harriet looked it over carefully. "Why, if I'm not mistaken, I do believe it's a monk's robe."

  "A monk's robe? Really?"

  Harriet continued to examine the merino garment. "Well, maybe not an actual monk's robe, but I do believe that there is some sort of story about one of Henry's great great grandfathers dressing up as a monk for some sort of family function or another. They say he was a bit let in the attic, but Henry has always claimed that it was done to annoy the rest of the family. I tend to agree with Henry," she concluded, handing the robe back to Emily.

  "It seems to be long enough for me," Emily observed casually, a wicked gleam entering her eyes.

  Harriet frowned. "You can't actually be considering going to the masquerade as a monk! We're in the country—the rustics here would be scandalized," Harriet replied, hoping to dissuade Emily from her train of thought.

  Emily shrugged. "Harriet, nothing in this attic is long enough for me to wear, so any outfit will take ages to alter, if it can be altered. I could always wear a domino and a mask like Lady Markston, but that's dashed boring. And I'm certainly not going to dress up like a Greek goddess and wander about half-naked in front of a passel of strangers," she concluded, folding the monk's robe neatly.

  "Emily, I'm sure my staff wouldn't mind working on a new costume for you, and they would most certainly have it done before Blackmore's rout," Harriet said weakly. She had seen the gleam in Emily's eyes before, and knew that she didn't have the slightest chance of dissuading her friend.

  "I don't want your staff to go to all of that trouble. I've been trying to think up a suitable costume for days, and the only thing I felt comfortable with was a domino. I'm not young and beautiful like most of the ladies who attend these functions. In fact, I'm not even a lady. I'm just Miss Winter-haven, a spinster with no expectations. In this outfit, no one will pay any heed to me, and I'll feel much more comfortable," she concluded, walking toward the stairs.

  Harriet followed her friend. "Emily, I don't see why you're still so uncomfortable in English Society," she complained, traipsing down the steps.

  Emily shrugged. "I suppose I should forget about it, but I still rather dread masquerades. Don't you remember? The evening Roger Manning was going to announce our engagement was during a masquerade—you must remember how he went out of his way to humiliate me. That must be why I still dread these events, to a certain extent," Emily explained as they walked down the wainscotted halls.

  Harriet had forgotten about Roger, Emily's humiliation at his hands, the mermaid, and the curse. All she knew was that Nigel, her favorite cousin, was quite smitten with her best friend, and that Emily appeared to favor him. The other facts had become conveniently lost among all of the holiday plans she had whirling in her mind. So Harriet calmly replied, "You'll see—you'll have the grandest time at Blackmore's masquerade, I promise."

  Days later, Emily was grateful that she had chosen such a simple costume. Whatever they were doing to Susan's costume took up every waking moment of Susan and Lady Markston's time, which was quite an added bonus. Harriet was having more paste jewels applied to her costume, and the men wouldn't even mention what they were wearing. Aubrey was in seclusion with his valet, while Nigel and Henry spent a good part of their days playing cards or riding.

  The weather had cleared and the roads were very nearly passable. In fact, according to Henry's groom, the roads were on their way to being perfect.

  As predicted, Lady Markston had contracted some sort of malady that prevented her from traveling. So, due to her illness, Lady Markston was confined to her bed, and was only interrupted dozens of times a day by Susan and her abigail. Harriet predicted that Lady Markston would recover after the Twelfth Night celebrations. Henry declined to bet with her.

  It was also the consensus that Susan and Lady Markston had given up on Nigel. He was very firmly in Emily's pocket, even though the lady in question certainly didn't realize it. Aubrey was especially pleased by that turn of events, since he could now pay court to Susan.

  Until he accidentally overheard a private conversation between Lady Markston and Susan. Lady Markston's bedchamber door was left open, and Aubrey was innocently walking down the hall. Until he heard Susan's voice passionately ringing through her mother's room.

  "But Mama, I will get Nig
el to offer for me," Susan said, and Aubrey's face froze in shock. He was certain that Susan had given up on Nigel and the farcical idea of marriage to him.

  "And how are you going to do that?" was Lady Markston's reply.

  There was a long pause, and Aubrey could imagine the smug look on Susan's face. "Why, he's going to compromise me. Then he'll have to offer for me," she declared, as Aubrey paled.

  "And when is this going to take place?" her mother asked.

  "I have it all arranged. I will be hopelessly compromised tomorrow night, after the masquerade. Would you like to hear the plan? It's ever so clever," Susan said proudly.

  "No, I'll have no party to it," Lady Markston said, and Aubrey heard footsteps up the stairs. So he casually walked away from the door, his face still pale. He had to make sure that he was the one who compromised Susan. But how can I do that if I don't know her plans? he wondered, his frown still in place as he retreated into his bedroom.

  Emily sat in the candlelight of the music room, playing a soft tune on the pianoforte. The moonlight streamed through the open drapes, and the snow cast an eerie glow on the ground. Her puppy, finally christened with a name, was curled up underneath the instrument, fast asleep.

  The scene was tranquil, but Emily felt anything but. Nigel had been distant for the past four nights, ever since the Christmas Day festivities. He must be toying with me, she thought with a sigh, her turmoil reflected in the dreadfully depressing piece of music she was playing.

  She was so intent on her own musings that she didn't hear the door open behind her, or notice the shadow that fell across her music. It was only when she heard a small yip from under the pianoforte that she chanced to look behind her.

  Nigel was standing in the doorway, clad simply in his breeches and a very unkempt white shirt. It was very late in the evening, well past midnight, and Emily assumed that everyone in the household was fast asleep. So she stopped playing and tightened her dressing robe around herself modestly. It certainly wasn't respectable to be alone with a gentleman in her state of undress, she realized with a slight blush.