Waiting Game

by Sheri Cobb South

  While Mr. Colquhoun took care of the children, his wife gave each of her sons-in-law a pair of knitted wool gloves. Great was Pickett’s consternation when she presented the last pair to him.

  “I haven’t—I didn’t bring anything,” he confessed to his hostess.

  “And how could you, when you didn’t know until yesterday that you would be joining us?” she responded, pressing the gift upon him.

  Realizing that further protests would be impolite (and acknowledging his own need, given the hole in the thumb of his own gloves), Pickett allowed himself to be persuaded to accept. Unfortunately, the exchange had attracted the notice of several of the others.

  “But Grannie, those gloves belong to—”

  Whatever the lad would have said was stifled as his fond mother clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Yes, little Adam is quite right,” Mrs. Colquhoun told Pickett. “This pair was meant for his Uncle James. But I may make my son a pair any time, while we have you with us for this one day only.”

  Pickett smiled up at her, grateful for her honesty. “In that case I owe thanks to James as well as to you. But did you say you made them?”

  “My dear Mr. Pickett, every good Scotswoman can knit!”

  “Everyone except Fanny,” put in that lady’s husband, to hoots of laughter and the maligned Fanny’s indignation.

  At last Isabella nudged her husband and pointed toward their youngest, the little lad who had claimed Pickett’s lap during snapdragon, now fast asleep on the carpet in spite of the noise generated by his older siblings and cousins. The Colquhoun ladies rose as one, declaring the need to see the children put to bed. Pickett, recognizing his cue, followed suit.

  “I’d best be going, too,” he said, “I’ll have to be back at Bow Street in the morning. My employer, as you may know, is a harsh taskmaster,” he added, feeling on sufficiently solid ground with the family to make a joke at their patriarch’s expense.

  He was not disappointed. Isabella chided her father for his cruelty to poor Mr. Pickett, with whom (she said) she had fallen quite madly in love, and both Mary and Fanny insisted that their father invite him to dinner again very soon.

  Ironically, having been hesitant to accept the invitation, Pickett now found himself reluctant to leave. But duty beckoned, and so he thanked Mrs. Colquhoun for her hospitality, shook hands with his magistrate, and, after reclaiming his hat, muffler, and gloves from the butler, stepped out of the warm and well-lit house into the cold December night. It seemed strangely quiet outside after the cheerful din of the Colquhouns’ Christmas celebration, and while it was certainly more peaceful, he did not anticipate with any eagerness his return to the dark and lonely flat in Drury Lane. In truth, a few hours spent with his magistrate’s large and lively family had left him longing for things he’d never even known existed. At that moment he craved nothing so much as an evergreen-bedecked home of his own—not two shabbily furnished rooms over a chandler’s shop, but a house, certainly not so grand a house as Mr. Colquhoun’s, but something—something—

  Something to which he would not be ashamed to bring a bride. And if he were honest, the bride of his rosy imaginings bore a striking resemblance to Lady Fieldhurst. He heaved a sigh of frustration, suddenly impatient for the same annulment hearing he’d spent the last month dreading. The sooner the thing was done, the sooner he would stop hoping for things that could never be.

  Chapter 3

  In Which Is Seen More Private Celebrations

  Silence fell over the Colquhoun household, all the children having either departed for their London homes with their parents or, in the case of those visiting from Scotland, been tucked away upstairs in the nursery beneath the attic. Alone with his wife, Mr. Colquhoun removed a half-empty mug of wassail from her hand and set it down on the nearest available surface.

  “Leave it, Janet,” he said. “You have servants for that.”

  “Yes, I do,” she responded, regarding him with a baleful eye as she picked up the mug again. “And what use you think they’ll be after you gave them a bottle of the best brandy is a mystery to me.”

  He chuckled. “Aye, well, it’s Christmas. They’re entitled to a bit of celebrating, too. Besides, once the bottle is divided amongst all the staff, no one will have enough to get thoroughly disguised, just pleasantly elevated.”

  “It’s kind you are to think of them, my love. Just as it was kind of you to invite young Mr. Pickett to join us for Christmas dinner.”

  “He’s a good lad. I just hated to think of him all alone on Christmas. I only hope I didn’t throw your numbers off, inviting him at the last minute.”

  “Nonsense! What do numbers matter at a family dinner?”

  “True, but Mr. Pickett is not family. Speaking of which, I suppose you’d better apologize to James for depriving him of his gloves.”

  “Gloves!” scoffed Mrs. Colquhoun with uncharacteristic vehemence. “What that young man needs is a wife!”

  “Now, don’t you start in on him too! Poor James has enough to bear with his sisters trying to marry him off.”

  “Well, I don’t say they aren’t right, although Isabella might find her brother more open to her advice if she were to dispense it with a lighter hand. But I wasn’t talking about James. I meant your Mr. Pickett.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s got a wife. Therein lies the problem.”

  Her eyes grew round with surprise. “He’s married? To whom, pray?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Naturally, this assertion did nothing to diminish her curiosity, and so Mr. Colquhoun was obliged to remind her of his recent trip to Scotland in the company of his youngest Runner, and to explain how it had resulted in Mr. Pickett’s being bound in a Scottish marriage by declaration with Lady Fieldhurst, widow of the late viscount.

  “Married to a viscountess!” exclaimed Mrs. Colquhoun at the end of this narrative. “What do they intend to do?”

  “Her ladyship is seeking an annulment, although it has yet to come before the ecclesiastical court.”

  Not for nothing was Janet Colquhoun married to a magistrate. “An annulment, you say? On what grounds? They are both of legal age, and I can’t see how fraud would be a valid claim in this case.”

  “No. The only possibility that even remotely applies is impotence.”

  “Oh dear, what a pity! His, or hers?”

  “Between you and me and the lamppost, it’s neither. But since her ladyship has been married before—during which time her husband must surely have filed his own complaint based on such a condition—and Mr. Pickett can offer no proof to the contrary, the burden falls on him.”

  “ ‘No proof to the contrary,’ ” she echoed thoughtfully. “Do you mean—?”

  He nodded. “Precisely. Although he assures me that he has no reason to believe he couldn’t, the situation has never come up.” He frowned at his own last words. “If you will pardon the unintentional pun.”

  Mrs. Colquhoun, however, had no interest in puns, intentional or otherwise, for a new thought had occurred to her. “My love, do you suppose our James is still a—”

  “I don’t know, and I beg you not to ask him,” he interrupted hastily.

  “No, of course I won’t. I only wondered—mothers do, you know. But it seems to me that Mr. Pickett must love this lady very much, to make such a sacrifice for her sake.”

  The magistrate sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right, my dear. He has been besotted with her from the first, but I had thought that once it was clear she would not stand trial for her husband’s murder, he would recognize the hopelessness of such an attachment, and fix his interest on a more attainable object. It appears I was wrong, however. If anything, he’s in a worse case now than he was before.”

  “And Lady Fieldhurst? What are her sentiments, do you know?”

  “Does it matter? Even if she loved him desperately, such a match would be impossible. Only imagine if our James’s employer were to die, and James wed his widow.�
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  Her bosom swelled in maternal indignation. “I’m sure our James is good enough for anyone!”

  “You know that, and I know that, but try telling the beau monde that, and see what reaction you get! And our James is connected, albeit distantly, to Sir James Colquhoun of Luss. John Pickett, on the other hand, is the son of a transported felon, and God only knows what other bad apples one might shake out of his family tree. Any such marriage would be social suicide, and her ladyship is wise enough in the ways of her world to know it. Still, this annulment business is weighing heavily on the lad’s mind. That’s why I didn’t want to leave him alone on Christmas Day to dwell on it.”

  As he passed through the drawing room door, she slipped her hand into his arm and stopped him directly beneath the kissing ball and lifted her face expectantly. “You’re a good man, Patrick Colquhoun. A happy Christmas to you.”

  Nothing loth, he bent and kissed her lips. “And to you, my dear.”

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in nearby Mayfair, Lord Rupert Latham knocked on the door of a tall, narrow house in Curzon Street. Since he was a frequent visitor, he was admitted by the butler and shown at once into the drawing room, where he gazed about the elegantly appointed chamber with an air of marked disapproval.

  “What, no evergreens in honor of the season?” he chided the mistress of the house, a fair-haired beauty who sat on the straw-colored sofa with a book in her hand. “I confess, I came calling with no other purpose than the hope of catching you beneath the kissing ball.”

  “Then I fear you are doomed to disappointment,” replied Julia, Lady Fieldhurst, laying aside her book as she rose to greet him. “You forget that I am still in mourning.”

  “In letter, if not in spirit,” he agreed. “Fortunately, our festivities need not be hampered by the lack of botanical display.”

  He took her in his arms and would have kissed her, had she not turned her head at the last minute, leaving him with nothing but a mouthful of golden hair.

  “Don’t, Rupert.”

  He raised his head, but his arms tightened about her waist. “Why the devil not?”

  “I told you—”

  “You told me a great piece of nonsense about being in mourning for a husband you were perfectly willing to cuckold eight months ago, when he was still alive.” His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “And yet I have a feeling your reluctance has less to do with your deceased husband than it does with your living one.”

  “And why shouldn’t it? After all, it seems wrong for me to—to indulge in pleasures that are denied him.”

  “He can’t miss what he never had, while I—” He bent his head again, this time pressing his lips to her ear. “I have been waiting for eight long months.”

  She put her hands to his chest, holding him at arm’s length until he took the hint and released her. “I’m afraid you’re going to be waiting longer than that.”

  “I see,” he said, glowering at her. “You intend to keep me dangling until the annulment is granted.”

  “If you must know, it’s worse than that. It was a mistake, Rupert. I’d quarreled with Frederick, and then had too much champagne, and—and I made a mistake. In a way, I’m grateful to Frederick for preventing me from following through with it.”

  “I see,” he said again. “Then we are to be, as they say, ‘just friends.’ But I warn you, Julia, I do not give up easily. I trust you will permit me to hope?”

  She sighed. “I suppose I can’t stop you, but you may be sure I shall do nothing to encourage you.”

  “Your very existence encourages me. I shall not say goodbye, then, but au revoir.”

  He raised her hand to his lips with an air of exaggerated gallantry, and she reluctantly allowed this familiarity; it seemed the quickest way to be rid of him. After he had gone, she returned to the sofa and picked up her book, but found she had no more interest in the convoluted tale of a well-born (and, if the truth were told, rather vapid) young lady who falls in love with a stable lad who turns out to be the lost heir to a tiny, and entirely fabricated, European kingdom. Really, Julia thought, eyeing the gilt-edged, calf-bound volume with disfavor, authors ought not to write such drivel. It only encouraged impressionable young women to yearn after wholly ineligible men.

  This observation led, not unnaturally, to thoughts of her own wholly ineligible man, Bow Street Runner John Pickett, twenty-four years old and, at least in the eyes of the law, her husband. There had been no word from her solicitor as to when their annulment would come before the ecclesiastical court, but this was not entirely unexpected: Mr. Crumpton had cautioned them that it might take several months, and no attempts by the current Lord Fieldhurst to grease the wheels of justice had had the least effect in speeding the process along. In truth, she was not quite certain whether to be sorry or glad. Given the humiliation that the process demanded of poor Mr. Pickett, it would surely be kinder to have it over and done with as quickly as possible, so they could both put the unfortunate episode behind them. And yet she could not shake the feeling that there remained some unfinished business between herself and Mr. Pickett—and that it would remain unfinished regardless of what the law had to say as to their marital status.

  It was with considerable relief that she heard the strains of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” being inexpertly performed just outside her door. She heard the butler’s footsteps crossing the hall, and called out to forestall him.

  “Never mind, Rogers, I’ll go.”

  She opened the door and found half a dozen children of varying ages and heights, all belting out the old carol with gusto, if not skill. Nevertheless, this was the season when intention, rather than execution, should be rewarded. She leaned against the doorframe, hugging her arms about herself for warmth, and listened, smiling, until the final “tidings of comfort and joy.” Fortunately, she had anticipated such holiday visitors, and the excellent Rogers had prepared for this eventuality by placing a small bowl of pennies on the piecrust table next to the door. As the last note faded, she reached into the bowl, grabbed a handful of coins, and tossed it into the group. The makeshift choir broke up at once, the children scrambling after pennies with squeals of delight that were only slightly less musical than their singing had been. Having retrieved the last of the coins, they shrieked their thanks before hurrying off toward the next house in quest of further riches.

  Alone once more, Julia gazed up at the stars, shining like diamonds in the cold, clear December sky. Her thoughts returned to John Pickett, and she wondered where he was this Christmas, and if he was thinking of her.

  “Happy Christmas, Mr. Pickett,” she whispered, then stepped inside and closed the door.

  Chapter 4

  In Which John Pickett Takes On a New Case

  The twenty-sixth of December—commonly known as Boxing Day—being the day on which servants, pensioners, and other dependents were given their Christmas boxes, Julia’s morning was filled with presenting these gifts and accepting the thanks of their grateful recipients. Although her household staff was small, enough pomp and ceremony accompanied the procedure that it was past noon by the time she had leisure to compose an answer to the letter that had come to her from Somersetshire the day before Christmas. But compose it she must if it was to be sent out when mail delivery resumed the next morning, and so she settled herself at her elegant rosewood writing desk and reached for her correspondence. She shuffled through tradesman’s bills (one for coal, another for wax candles, and a third from the greengrocer, all of which must be paid by the end of the month) until she found the one she sought: a single sheet of fine vellum addressed in her mother’s spidery script. Her heart sank as she unfolded the crossed sheet and reread Lady Runyon’s melancholy missive. At least, Julia reflected, she could reply to her mother quite honestly that she had not received the letter until Christmas Eve, much too late to change her plans for the holiday.

  In truth, she would have had no desire to spend Christmas at her childhood home even had the
letter arrived a full month earlier. The death of her sister Claudia a dozen years earlier still hung over her parents’ house like a pall, and Julia could not bear the thought of hearing her mother still bemoaning the loss of her elder daughter after more than a decade. Still less could she face the prospect of being obliged to enact the rôle of the grieving widow. And that her mother would expect nothing less of her, Julia had no doubt. No matter how unsatisfactory the late Lord Fieldhurst might have been in life, Death, in Lady Runyon’s opinion, erased all the deceased’s faults; only witness the pinnacle of perfection which poor Claudia had achieved in her fond parent’s memory.

  And, as usual, it was Death that provided the theme of her mother’s Christmas correspondence. Beyond the annual complaint about how the Joyous Nativity only served to make her all the more Conscious of her Own Loss, she predicted confidently that, as Painful as her dear Child must find the Holiday Season at present, Time—that Great Healer—must eventually Blunt the Edges of her Sorrow (the privilege of perpetual mourning, it seemed, was one Lady Runyon reserved for herself), for having just turned twenty-seven, Julia was Too Young to spend the Rest of her Life Alone. Reading these lines, Julia could not help thinking that, if her mother knew she had contracted a second marriage (albeit unintentionally) a scant six months after Lord Fieldhurst’s death, Mama would be singing a very different tune.

  Still, one of her mother’s assertions gave Julia considerable food for thought, and she searched for the intriguing lines to read them again. Yes, here it was, right after the bit about the Blunt Edges of Sorrow. Here her mother pointed out that in four short months (Short? Every one of the previous eight had seemed to last an eternity!), her year of mourning would be completed, and she would be able to Rejoin the World from which she, in her Grief, had Withdrawn. Overwrought though the expression of it might be, Mama’s reasoning was quite correct, Julia thought, feeling something akin to hope for the first time in many days. In only a few months, Frederick would have been gone a year, and she would be able to put off her blacks for good. But what would she wear instead? Everything else she owned would be at least a year out of date.