The Christmas Spirit

by Patricia Wynn

  The elegant modiste in the shop she'd frequented in Bond Street cautioned Trudy that it would be difficult to engage a seamstress at this late date. Anyone who was talented enough to make a gown on the order of what she'd described would be completely taken up with earlier orders. The woman suggested that Trudy take a look at a ready-made gown, she said was certain to please her.

  Trudy had intended to purchase another pattern to make her own dress, but the flash of green velvet caught her eye. The modiste held the high-waisted gown up before her in front of the mirror, and from the woman's rapturous sigh, Trudy was reassured that the image she saw in the glass was all she perceived it to be.

  The gown's shade of green altered with the light, the way the color of forest leaves change with the angle of the sun's rays, making her eyes one moment as dark as summer ivy, the next as light as a winter sea. Trudy's cheeks glowed with their customary roses, but their pink had been enhanced by her walk and the anticipation of Matthew's kiss. Her black hair sparkled even by the poor shop light. Trudy decided she could do nothing better than to copy this dress, but to be fair to the modiste, she bought it. The woman thought it rather odd that she would not try it on, but the mere thought of doing so made Trudy shake with fear.

  Most elves refused even to touch human clothes. The surest way to rid oneself of a night-time visitor was to offer him or her a gift of a garment. Trudy was not so superstitious as to fear touching human garments, but, still, the lessons of a lifetime made gooseflesh travel down her back when the shopkeeper pressed her to try on the gown. Trudy was obliged to assume a haughty air to silence the woman, but she could see in the end that the woman's motives had been innocent. She'd simply wanted to see how her favorite creation would look on a creature as divinely lovely as Faye.

  Armed with her dress wrapped up in a parcel, Trudy stepped out of the shop and started to make her way home. If 'home' was what she should consider it, she mused. It was long past time to conjure her house, if for no other reason than at least to have a better mirror than the reflection offered her by the Serpentine or the Thames.

  She flew to the park, and in the space she'd selected, drew up the illusion of her house. When she'd finished, an elegant residence, both strongly built and in the Regency style stood at the end of a short lane, surrounded by trees. Trudy left off all her Aunt Petunia's suggestions for embellishments in order to maintain the simplicity she thought Matthew would prefer.

  Making a key, she unlocked the bolt and went upstairs. Once alone in her own room--which Matthew would never see, but which she perversely fitted out just to suit her mood--she held the gown up in front of her again. The urge to put it on was almost more than she could resist, but she knew she must.

  She wondered sadly how her body would feel with her magic suspended. She asked herself how long it would take her to adjust to living without it. More than anything, she wanted to know if the thrill of Matthew's kiss would be magnified if she wore the gown.

  With an anxious feeling--which made her wonder why she tempted herself with dangerous thoughts--she had to admit that it would. Just as she had already felt in that brief instant when their hands had touched inside her glove.

  Would she ever again experience such a thrill? What would it be worth giving up to make certain that she did? And, more importantly, would she want to go on living if she could not?

  * * * *

  Now, there ye have it. That's how our Trudy got herself in such a deep pickle by Christmas Eve. And I'll admit that I should've been watchin' her instead of playin' with them trolls. But how was I to know what sort o' nonsense a sensible elf like Trudy would get up to when a fellow wasn't around? So ye can't really say it was me fault.

  By this time, o' course, I could see that Trudy was up to some strange kind o' mischief, so all the while she was aprimpin' in front of her mirror, I was awatchin' her from a tree. I could see that somethin' was botherin' her, somethin' more than just a toothache, which is the worst sort o' pain I've ever felt. But I couldn't quite tell what it was, ye see? That's because it was her conscience, which is a thing I don't have and won't ever need. For a conscience is a troublesome thing to an elf, which is why we don't bother ourselves to get them.

  But I had this eerie feeling like, as if somethin' bad were goin' to happen. Only, I didn't know exactly what because, as ye've seen, Trudy didn't really know herself. All I knew was, I had better stick around in case somethin' went wrong with them plans of hers, 'cause I could see she was getting in deeper than she ought.

  And why she would want to play with a dangerous thing like that dress, as if she couldn't make anything she wanted of her own . . .

  So, ye'll say I should've seen the trouble comin’, but I didn’t. And this was how it occurred . . .

  On the night of the ball, Matthew found Ahmad waiting for him downstairs in the corridor. The Pathan's thick, black brows rose in an arch at the sight of Matthew's elegant garb as he descended the stairs.

  Ahmad gave a deep salaam. "You are looking very well this evening, Matthew saab."

  "Thank you, Ahmad." Matthew brushed a piece of lint from his evening clothes: a new black jacket, a white brocaded waistcoat, and a pair of tight-fitting, black satin breeches with hose to match. "Not too much like a scarecrow, I hope."

  "No, saab. It seems you have recovered your weight."

  "Not entirely. But the difference is no more than a good tailor can hide."

  "You will be calling for Miss Meriwether, saab?"

  "That is right." Matthew pulled the reply she had sent today from his pocket. "I have the directions to her house. I confess it is not an area I am familiar with." Matthew handed Ahmad the piece of paper, which, as was Faye's custom, had been printed in gold. The fact that she'd bothered with such an expense in this particular instance troubled him more than he liked to say.

  But Ahmad made no reference to the gold lettering as he frowned at the note. "The last time I rode on that side of the park, I do not recall seeing a street by that name."

  "She tells me her lane is quite new. Part of one of these new developments."

  "Ah, that will explain it, saab."

  Ahmad did not sound as convinced as his words implied, but Matthew let the subject drop. He took Faye’s note and placed it deep inside his pocket.

  "And what will you do this evening? Visit the almshouse again?" Ahmad had made a practice of visiting the inmates quite often to play at chess.

  "No, I shall take a walk." Ahmad's glance was casual as he asked, "If you do not mind, I shall ride with you as far as Miss Meriwether's house. The night is fine for a walk in the park."

  "Of course I don't mind. But you will beware of footpads, won't you?"

  Ahmad grinned and patted his belt where Matthew knew he concealed a large knife inside his baggy trousers.

  "No need to worry, saab. Your park holds no terrors for me."

  "I should say not. Not compared to those frightful mountains of yours. Still, it's as well not to become too complacent. Danger is danger, no matter how tame in comparison."

  Ahmad nodded, and his expression was more serious than the occasion seemed to warrant. "I agree. May I suggest, saab, that you keep on your guard as well?"

  "Me? At a ball?" Matthew scoffed. "You must be thinking that I shall trip while I'm dancing, but I assure you my friend, our English dances are so lacking in violence that I shall have no opportunity to wound myself."

  "As you say, saab. All the same, I urge you to be cautious. Things are not always what they seem."

  Matthew chose to ignore Ahmad's meaning. He knew his friend still had reservations about Faye. But, in spite of her mysterious ways, Matthew had made up his mind.

  "Yes," he answered, deflecting Ahmad's comment. "We have both discovered that in the past few days." He smiled. "Helen is not quite the faithless woman I thought her. And Julian--though still a prig--was no more a traitor to me than I was to him."

  As he'd expected, Ahmad was diverted by this speech. "He has still di
shonored your name. In my country, a man would seek revenge for his insults."

  "And the feuds would rage back and forth until no member of either family was left. No, Ahmad--" Matthew shrugged himself into his greatcoat--"I think this is one thing my culture has mastered better than yours--forgiveness." He grinned. "You should practice it. It makes life so much more pleasant."

  "But I have been practicing forgiveness, Matthew saab," Ahmad said, as he helped Matthew into his sleeves. "If I had not, you would have been knifed in your bed for all the curses you have flung at me."

  "Touché." Matthew winced. "Although I am not certain one can call it forgiveness when you constantly remind me of my rudeness to you in your most imperiled moments."

  Ahmad's smile contained a wealth of magnanimity. "Sir Matthew was not himself."

  Matthew was glad to see Ahmad's good humor restored. He did not want his Pathan friend to worry about Faye and what she might be. To Matthew, her origins were immaterial. He had seen enough death to know that life was too short to be wasted on such foolish considerations as birth or position. If Faye's father had been a wealthy Cit, she possessed more than enough charm and poise to overcome that stigma. If she were a thief, he could only approve her particular brand of roguery. And if--as he more than half suspected--she was merely an enchanting kind of eccentric, he was eccentric enough himself to keep up with her.

  Matthew looked at his friend more seriously. "There have been many times," he said, "when I have not been myself. But, do you know, Ahmad, I think I have never felt more at peace than I do right now."

  Instead of the comfort he had hoped his words would bring, a new consternation arose in Ahmad's eyes. But Matthew's friend did not give voice to it.

  Instead, he said, "I should wish you a merry Christmas, saab, for I do not expect I shall see you before morning."

  "Thank you, Ahmad. Shall we go?"

  Chapter Ten

  The streets of Westminster that Christmas Eve were thickly crowded with all sorts of conveyances. At the last moment, Matthew had been obliged to bribe a driver in order to secure a carriage. He might more easily have hired a couple of chairs, but he refused to give up this chance of privacy with Faye. The question he had to pose her was best left until the end of the evening, and he would be damned if he'd propose marriage out in the street. Since he was not at all certain he would be invited into her house after the ball, he decided the carriage would be a necessity.

  This driver, like the last, claimed no knowledge of Meadows Lane, but Matthew assured him that the street had only recently been built, so the man followed his directions. As soon as the lane appeared--short and possessed of only one house at the end--Ahmad begged to be set down.

  "I shall see you at breakfast." Matthew tossed the remark, his eyes already fixed on the doorway ahead. It gleamed as white as sunlight in the black of the night, like a brilliant beacon in the fog.

  "Take care, Matthew saab." Ahmad's words seemed to echo behind him in the quiet street as the hired chaise rolled on to its destination.

  No other houses had been built on the lane as yet, although graceful lamps had been spaced along its length. As the horses neared the end, the structure that greeted Matthew's eyes was so new and fresh that no soot had sullied its bricks. Its eaves were shining with white paint. Its windows sparkled with an unnatural cleanliness, while, with the exception of an occasional evergreen, all around it the trees of the park loomed in leafless silence. A clump or two of mistletoe, which must have escaped the Christmas revelers, hugged their empty limbs. As Matthew stepped down, the wind seemed to ruffle them, as if they bent to see him.

  With his mind on mistletoe and the pleasures it would bring, Matthew abandoned his quick examination of the house and strode up onto the porch. He had barely pulled the bell, when the door was thrown open by a footman, who grinned at Matthew in a most unseemly manner.

  Taking the servant's good humor as evidence of some celebration going on below stairs, Matthew wished him joy of the season and identified himself. The footman asked Matthew to follow him into a nearby parlor where he might wait.

  All the furniture inside seemed as new as the house, although its style was restrained and comfortable. Not having known what to expect, Matthew was reassured by Faye's good taste, which seemed so perfectly to suit his own. He only wondered that she should have considered her household to be in disarray, when it was plainly in excellent order, with the one exception of the servant's demeanor. He decided that, despite Faye's protestations, she must be a far more exacting housekeeper than she'd allowed.

  Before this contradiction could raise other questions in his mind, he was distracted by the entrance of a plump, tiny lady, draped in lavender satin. She swept into the room with a flourish, made him an elaborate curtsy, and extended one dainty hand for him to kiss.

  "Sir Matthew Dunstone?" she inquired with a downward sweep of black lashes over violet eyes.

  Matthew had never had the patience to be a gallant, but something about this pretty woman, who reminded him of Faye, made him pleased to extend her the courtesy. He bowed low over her hand and let his lips brush her fingers, which he found as soft as rose petals and strongly scented with lilac. "Madam? I am afraid you have the advantage of me."

  She giggled, and the roses in her cheeks bloomed. To Matthew's astonishment, they seemed the result of purest nature rather than rouge.

  "I am Faye's Aunt Petunia," she said. "She has asked me to bear you company while she puts the finishing touches on her toilette. I hope you do not mind," she added with a daring wink.

  Her flirtatious manner obliged Matthew to respond in kind. "Your question puts me at a disadvantage once again. I cannot say that I mind without being untruthful, nor can I own to being delighted for fear of giving offense to your niece."

  This remark seemed to tickle her enormously. She took a delicate Japanese fan--a trinket he had not noticed her wearing--raised it to her lips, and tapped his wrist with it.

  "Lud! But you’re a naughty boy!" she said, in a style reminiscent of the previous century. "And I shall have to caution my niece to have a look to you."

  At her statement, a new concern arose in Matthew. He had been counting upon the expectation that he and Faye would be alone, but her aunt's unanticipated presence suggested otherwise.

  "Are you to accompany us to the ball, madam?" he asked in as polite a tone as he could muster.

  "Heavens, no!" Faye's Aunt Petunia laughed and touched one hand to her dimpled cheek. "Why, Faye would have my head upon a platter if I did! Although I should dearly love to dance with you, young man. And perhaps I shall, one of these fine, dewy evenings."

  Even Matthew, with his wealth of experience, was startled by such a bold remark. Eccentricity seemed to run in Faye's family--if not total madness. He was beginning to think he understood the reason for Faye's avoidance of polite society, for it would be difficult for such a free spirit to swim where she wanted in a pond thick with sharks, who were certain to take issue with slight differences in comportment.

  But for all her eccentricity, Aunt Petunia seemed to be a lady, at least, and a delightful, though surprising one.

  Before he could ask her by what name he should address her, a rather breathless Faye entered the room. Matthew turned to greet her, and his heart caught in his throat.

  Everything about her seemed to sparkle. Her emerald eyes were lit with the softest glow he had ever seen in them. Her welcoming smile was a bright snowy white. Even her hair, which was as soft and as black as midnight, shone as if the moon had lit it. The green dress she wore, which draped her slender figure to the ankles, spoke of holly and mistletoe, and the roses in her cheeks whispered of firelight and kisses. Matthew was struck speechless as if he were seeing her for the first time.

  I am besotted, he thought.

  Faye, in turn, took in his black evening garb, and he witnessed her approval of the extra pains he had taken with his appearance tonight.

  Her frank admiration, which sp
oke of a hunger nearly as great as his own, made his eyes fill with mist.

  Then, through that hazy mist, he spied something--

  A pair of pointed ears, nestled in the sharp black of her hair. Green felt instead of velvet for her clothes.

  The plaster walls of the room seemed to fade away, letting ghostly trees emerge from the park . . .

  Matthew closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  "Matthew?" Faye's voice came from close by. He felt the soft touch of kid on his cheeks and forehead. "Are you all right?"

  He shook his head and opened his eyes, and she was there again as she had been, dressed in green velvet for the ball. The softness of her features soothed him.

  "A momentary dizziness," he said, taking a deep appreciative breath. Her scent, a mixture of hedgerows and lavender, filled his nostrils. "For an instant, I feared a return of my fever."

  Faye placed the back of one wrist against his brow. "I don't feel any fever," she said, but her face was troubled.

  "It's over now." Matthew held her away, then took her gloved hands in his. "I see you have worn my gift."

  A rapid flush, greater than anything his remark had warranted, tinged her features. "Yes, I have," she whispered, as if it were a secret to guard between them.

  "What is this? What did you say?" Aunt Petunia said sharply from behind him.

  "Nothing, Auntie." Faye winked at Matthew. "I am certain you misunderstood." She reached for a handsome cloak that had been thrown upon a chair. Of a sudden, Faye seemed in great haste to be gone. "Sir Matthew just made me a compliment. There is nothing for you to be concerned about."

  Faye tugged at his sleeve. Nothing loath--for, in truth, Matthew still felt a bit dizzy--he followed her lead and made his goodbyes to her aunt.

  "But--did he not say--" she stammered.

  Petunia's pretty face had puckered in concern. Why, he did not know. But it was clear to Matthew that, whatever the cause, it was something Faye did not wish to discuss.