The Christmas Spirit

by Patricia Wynn

  Just then, however, the drawing room door flew open, and Sir Julian burst inside.

  "If you have harmed one hair on her head--" He broke off at the sight of them sitting in civilized converse.

  Helen's shock turned instantly to dismay. "Julian, dear--"

  Matthew folded his arms and settled back into his chair.

  "Hello, Speck," he said with distaste.

  Chapter Seven

  "What do you mean by this, Dunstone?" Sir Julian stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, never taking his eyes from Matthew's face.

  He made the perfect picture of sartorial elegance in Brummell's dictated black. "I will not have you coming here and upsetting my wife."

  Helen had risen to move near him. "It is quite all right, Julian. I do not think Matthew came to cause trouble."

  "Not with you, Helen, at least." Matthew kept to his chair. "I found our conversation most illuminating, and I thank you for it."

  Sir Julian's gaze flew back and forth between them, fear turning his visage white. Finding nothing in either face, however, to suggest a conspiracy, he relaxed just long enough to put his arm about Helen's shoulders and draw her to his side. "If you have had your say," he said to Matthew, "then I must ask you to leave."

  "Oh, but I haven't," Matthew assured him. "One of my purposes in coming may have been to discover just why my fiancée jilted me, and that has been satisfied. But I am far from through with you."

  "Why, you--"

  "Please, Matthew," Helen said. "I implore you not to cause a fight."

  "I am far too weak from malaria to be a worthy opponent for anyone," Matthew said, softening his tone for her sake, "and though you might not suspect it of me, I have learned enough to choose my moments wisely. You have my word, Helen, that I shall not challenge your husband. But we do have some unfinished business to discuss."

  In the silence that followed his speech, Julian looked down into his wife's face, and Matthew was stunned by what he saw in that gaze. A desperate love, and a stark terror of losing it.

  Such blatant feelings rocked Matthew, and, for an instant, he almost pitied Speck. His discomposure was enough to make him repeat in an impatient voice no one could doubt, "I have given you my word."

  Helen turned back to him and hid her reluctance with the dignity she had always possessed. "Then, I shall leave you two alone."

  Matthew stood as a courtesy as she retired. Helen's dignity, which at one time had meant so much to him, he now saw as merely well-schooled manners, not proof of the independence or courage he had believed her to possess. She was still a pleasant woman, but he was almost relieved to see her leave the room. Though, thankfully, none of his former feelings for Helen had been reawakened this morning, he did not particularly want her to hear what he had to say to her husband. From the uneasy glance Julian threw his way, Matthew could tell he felt the same.

  When the door was closed behind her, the two men stood and faced each other. Julian was the first to look away.

  "Very well, Dunstone," he said. "Let's have it out. You've got a nerve coming here, so why have you done it?"

  Matthew's anger flared. "Can you truly not imagine why I've come?"

  "It will be useless for us to discuss anything if you insist upon taking that tone. However, since it is the same you've always used with me, I suppose I should not be surprised to hear it."

  "What the devil do you mean?"

  Julian gave a short laugh before strolling to a table where wine and glasses had been set out. He poured himself a drink, but, after one look at Matthew, had the sense not to offer him one.

  "Such arrogance always. The great Sir Matthew Dunstone, famed explorer of the Nile."

  No matter how much contempt Matthew had for Speck, his jealous words still cut.

  "You were ever full of envy." That much had become evident soon after the outset of their journey together. Julian Speck had resented Matthew's ease with the natives who accompanied them. He had objected to Matthew's use of Arabic when he conversed with Ahmad. And he had derided every skill Matthew exercised that he did not himself possess.

  The fact that Matthew had found such pettiness unreasonable and unforgivable had not endeared the two men to each other. He had felt his partner to be a millstone about his neck, always objecting and ever arguing about the route they should take, when Matthew's superior experience should have been the final authority. Only a few months into their expedition, they had discussed splitting up.

  "Arrogance, Speck? Perhaps I do possess a degree of arrogance, but I will not be branded a coward by a man who, when the first bit of trouble arose, turned tail and left me surrounded by brigands."

  "Me! It was you who ran off and left me lying alone in the middle of the desert!"

  Matthew spoke through clenched teeth. "I suppose you have told that story so often you have started to believe it, but don't forget that I was there." His memories of that day were clearly etched on his mind: their camp at the oasis; the group of horsemen who had suddenly ridden out of a cloud of sand; the crackle of shots; the shouts of their porters.

  "When I gave the order to attack the robbers, you held back instead and took off while the blackguards surrounded me."

  Julian sneered. "You will have to do better than that, I'm afraid. You saw I'd been wounded, yet you and that heathen friend of yours turned and ran."

  "Ahmad is not a heathen," Matthew said, taking a threatening step forward. "As you know perfectly well, for you saw him at his devotions every day, twice a day, quite unlike either you or me. But I see that this is how you twist the truth."

  The scorn in Matthew's voice made the other man flinch. With a quivering hand, Julian raised his glass to his mouth and tossed it off. After a moment of silence, he bowed his head, not meeting Matthew's gaze. "My apologies to Ahmad. Whatever the quarrel between us, I should not have said what I did."

  Matthew was more astonished by this admission than he'd been to see the love for Helen on Julian's face. In his anger at them both, Matthew had assumed that his rival had stolen his fiancée out of spite, and it was unsettling to discover the reverse. That, perhaps, Julian's desire for Helen had been the cause of some of the trouble between them.

  "What became of the porters?"

  Julian started, a second wineglass half way to his lips. He stared at Matthew and frowned. "They followed you. And your orders. You shouted something to them in that accursed Arabic of yours and they rode off with all the horses."

  A sudden thought took Matthew's breath away. "I gave the order to attack. They disappeared."

  The two men stared at each other, both thunderstruck. Matthew could not doubt that Julian's astonishment was as genuine as his own.

  He thought back to the scene at their camp, to the confusion reigning. Had he given the order to attack in Arabic, a language Julian did not understand? But there had been so little time, and he had had to take command, and the porters were all Somals . . . .

  He did not recall seeing Julian at all, but the winds had blown, and sand and smoke had formed a thick screen. It was possible . . . .

  Matthew looked at his former partner and saw the same doubts flickering across his face. Matthew put a hand to his brow and dug his fingertips in.

  "I think you had better poor me a glass of that wine before you drink it all," he said, awash with weariness.

  They sat in Helen's drawing room until well after mid-day, straightening out the tangle of events that had come between them. Julian, it appeared, had taken a ball in the shoulder almost as soon as the fighting had commenced, and since he had been within sight of Matthew at the time, he had assumed Matthew had seen.

  But Matthew's attention had been entirely taken up by the marauders, and by the time he had given a glance back at the camp, the air had been too thick to penetrate.

  He and Ahmad had been surrounded, struck down, and led off in chains to a rebel village from which they ultimately had escaped. Julian had awakened to find everyone gone, the cam
p in shambles, and the horses either stolen or frightened off. Weakened by a loss of blood, he had tried to make his way on foot and had fortunately come across a caravan, heading for the coast. Matthew had expressed such disgust for him before this misadventure as to convince Julian he had been purposely left to die.

  He had sailed for England, where he had let it be known that Matthew had deserted him to go on alone. Then, when Matthew had never returned, it was assumed he had died somewhere in the interior.

  Matthew had gone on, months later, determined to find the source of the Nile even without his instruments or his guides. He and Ahmad had traveled by whatever means they could devise, in whatever guise was needed, but they had failed. Months of captivity at the court of a native chief, heat, exhaustion, and disease had defeated them. Matthew had barely made it back alive.

  And, now, to discover that all his hatred and the fury that had kept him in isolation were nothing more than the result of a bitter misunderstanding . . .

  A painful restlessness finally drove him out of Julian's house, although their final words had been healing. Julian Speck had promised to do his bit to restore Matthew's reputation among the members of the African Association. The two men, undoubtedly, would never be friends. Matthew's erudition and arrogance were anathema to one of Sir Julian's persuasion. Julian's blatant disrespect for other cultures infuriated one with Matthew's keen mind. But at least they had come to terms.

  The morning had taken its toll on Matthew's body. Such wrenching emotion had left him feeling limp. He needed a good dose of English mutton and some porter, he decided. So, he took himself to dine at Limmer's Hotel in Bond Street, where the conversation, which consisted of nothing but the turf, should be as innocuous as it was boring, and where a good English meal could be had.

  At this early hour, he did not expect that the coffee room would be filled, so he was surprised by the noise issuing from it. Then he recalled the season, and he thought he knew the cause. Even though Christmas was hardly observed any more, and most of its ancient rituals had died out, in England, at least, it was still an excuse for excess food and drink. And one could not indulge in the latter without other forms of revelry creeping in.

  Matthew took a chair at a table off in a dark corner and ordered himself a heavy meal. Then he sat back to watch the revelers, who laughed and took snuff and fought over their wager books.

  He envied them their amusement. They had gathered here to drink with their friends and to place bets on horses. Though such companionship was something Matthew had never desired once he had turned his sights onto conquest, he felt the need of it now. The familiar smells of mutton pies and good English beer mixed with the smoke from the fire, awakening in him vague memories of scenes from his childhood, and the green of holly and ivy brought back other Yuletides.

  As the old smells and sounds milled around him, and his exhaustion passed, Matthew experienced a curious feeling of lightness. It was as if all his shame and anger and hatred had floated away, leaving a vast void in their place. No, not a void, precisely, but something with an elusive substance.

  He wondered if, in forgiving Helen and losing his hatred for Julian Speck, he had not experienced a rebirth of his soul. Often in his darkest hours, he'd feared that he had lost it, that it would never return. But truth and clarity had worked their inevitable magic to bring it back to life, even though its return left him still feeling relatively hollow.

  An unreasonable sadness hovered over him, as if his purpose for being had gone. If those vicious emotions had been all that had kept him alive this past year, he was an object for pity indeed.

  Never one to accept a bad condition tamely, he thought about what he must do to rectify his. Find something else to care about, that was sure. But what?

  He could never mount another expedition. To do so would be to court certain death. Too many men had died already in a similar search for glory for him to think otherwise, and Matthew was no fool. He had already spent his allotment of vitality in his own vain searches.

  Was that his trouble? Did his failure to find the Nile weigh so heavily on him or, without massive ambition, was he just another man set adrift?

  His dinner came, and Matthew cut off his musings, which had done nothing to soothe his disquiet. He needed action to take his mind off these dismal reflections, if not some other form of comfort entirely.

  He thought of Faye, who had helped him overcome this one great tribulation of his life, and who surely had the gifts to help him solve many more. And, all at once, he realized that with his reluctance and mistrust behind him, he was free and ready to go on with his life. A life with another woman, perhaps.

  And, just as suddenly, he found he could no longer wait to see Faye.

  After hastily eating, he climbed into a hackney-coach with the intention of calling upon her immediately. But when he gave the driver the name of her street, the man did not recall ever having seen a Meadows Lane near the park. Matthew suggested that he drive up and down Park Lane to look for it. The coachman told him that the effort would be wasted since he knew every inch of Westminster and London as well; but Matthew insisted and in the end was disappointed.

  It was always possible, he told himself, that a narrow lane, which was not much visited, could have been overlooked, but still the episode left him feeling uneasy. At this time of year, darkness settled over London very early over London, so Matthew had no recourse except to wait for the morrow. He would return home and inform Ahmad of the illuminations of the day, and next morning, he would ask for Faye at the almshouse.

  * * * *

  Trudy had hovered about him all day, using her cloak to sneak into Helen's house and spying on them both from behind a sofa.

  Though the temptation had been great to interfere, especially when either Helen or Julian had spoken sharply to Matthew, she had bitten her tongue and stayed out of his way. Matthew's expression, when he had discovered his ruin had all been due to a muddled circumstance, had made her wince, but there had been nothing she could do at that moment to help him. She wished she had some way of seeing him whenever she wished. Not as Trudy, but as Faye.

  In the morning, after she'd divined Matthew's intentions, she flittered over to the almshouse ahead of his carriage. When he arrived, she was discussing the inmates' most pressing needs with Mr. Waite. The steward seemed to have decided not to question her infrequent appearances since they always brought some benefit to his house. And this morning, he had even greeted her with a moderate indication of joy.

  When Trudy saw Matthew enter the workroom where they were standing, her heart gave an astonishing leap. And her pulse kept up a flutter of rhythm even though she'd been expecting him.

  Just why she should react so irrationally raised a worry in her breast. But she forgot it the moment Matthew's eyes lit upon seeing her, and an answering smile sprang to her lips of its own accord.

  Mr. Waite was the first to speak. "Ah, Sir Matthew. Welcome, sir. You see our dear benefactress, Miss Meriwether, has visited us again, and with quite a delightful thought in mind."

  Matthew took Trudy's hand and raised it to his lips, his fixed gaze burning deeply. "Oh? And what has Miss Meriwether planned this morning?" He raised his brows as much as to say that he could see she had charmed their host at last.

  Trudy let Mr. Waite speak since she thought it would appear more modest to do so.

  "She has come to ask whether our pensioners are sufficiently supplied with gloves for the winter, and I have to say that they are not."

  "I was afraid they could not possibly be, but that will give me something I can do for them for Christmas," Trudy said.

  "Oh . . ." Suddenly uncomfortable, Mr. Waite glanced away. "If that makes the giving more acceptable to you, you may consider it as such, though of course our inmates have no use for pagan observances. Being Mohammedans for the most part, they neither drink spirits nor indulge in frivolous rites."

  Matthew hid a smile and cleared his throat before offering Trudy hi
s arm. "If Miss Meriwether is determined to celebrate the Saturnalia, perhaps I should accompany her to make certain she comes to no harm. I'm afraid the streets are rather more rowdy than usual because of the season."

  As he drew her quickly out of the building, making their goodbyes, Trudy protested, "The Saturnalia! I did not say I celebrated the Saturnalia!"

  "No, but clearly our most-Puritan host views Christmas as a similar evil. All those pagan customs involved! The drinking and the singing and dancing must surely be viewed as wicked."

  "Do you think them so?" she asked, uncertain of his temper.

  Matthew laughed. "No, not at all. They are relatively harmless expressions of high spirits meant to warm us in our darkest days."

  "They are much more than that," Trudy asserted.

  Matthew questioned her with a glance. He had brought her to the street where his carriage waited. "And what is Christmas to you?" he asked.

  Trudy flushed. "I was not necessarily speaking of Christmas," she said. "Though I am far from heathen! We have ever been--" She had been about to say that elves were Christians, too, but she doubted he would believe her.

  Sensing the danger in too much speech, she ended lamely, "I was speaking of the Yule, which is different."

  "How so?"

  "Oh--" she gave a tiny shiver--"it is a magical time when everything is turned inside out, and goblins lurk in the dark."

  Matthew's crumpled brow betrayed a hint of amusement. "Do you tell me you are superstitious, Faye?"

  "Why, yes! Are not you?"

  "Certainly not, and I believe you are pulling my leg." Matthew reached to open the carriage door. "Well, shall we go?"

  "Go where?" Trudy did not wait to find out before climbing inside. Her heart had made another leap at Matthew's high spirits, as if she'd been infected by a dance.

  "We are off, are we not," he asked, "to purchase gloves?"

  Matthew took her to the shop where he had fitted himself out before embarking on his last expedition. A place, he assured her, where they were certain to find sturdy gloves.