The Christmas Carrolls

by Barbara Metzger

  There weren’t many—toasts, that is. Even the smooth-tongued viscount was hard put to come up with a polite way of saying he hoped the two didn’t murder each other before the honeymoon was ended. He did hand Oliver the packet of his IOUs to burn as a wedding present.

  Then, mercifully, the newlyweds were on their way, with at least five people thinking what Merry put into words: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  In a few hours the house party would gather again for dinner, before the outside guests arrived for the ball. The ladies were going upstairs to rest and repair their toilettes. The gentlemen were headed to the billiards room, to recount the day’s run one more time.

  Lord Carroll stopped Joia on the stairs. “I’d like to have a word with you, puss. And your young man.”

  “He’s not my young man, Papa, and I really don’t have time. My hair...”

  “Is perfect, as always. If you make yourself any prettier, I’ll have to beat your beaux off with my cane. Let Holly shine tonight.”

  “Holly always shines, Papa.”

  The earl’s chest expanded in pride. “She does, doesn’t she? Deuce take it, though, did you see her this afternoon? I’ll have mooncalves littering the doorstep knee-deep. When did she grow up, I wonder? I always knew she’d be a beauty, with brains to boot. But enough of that. I have something that needs saying to you today, something that won’t keep any longer.”

  “It’s all right, Papa. You don’t need to explain anything.”

  “You almost married Oliver over it. I want you to understand what happened.”

  “It’s not my understanding you need.”

  “No, but perhaps it’s what you need, my dear, before you think of taking a husband, or refusing one.”

  Comfort was already in the library, gazing at the flames in the fireplace when they came in, looking magnificent in his dark evening clothes with his dark hair combed back. Joia liked it better when the thick waves fell in his forehead. He didn’t seem so toplofty then. She wished Papa would speak his piece and begone, so she could find out what Comfort had meant—and perhaps muss his hair the slightest bit.

  “Are you too warm?” He misinterpreted the betraying blush on her cheeks. “Shall I bring you some wine?”

  Lord Carroll stared at his own glass for a while, gathering his thoughts. “I have always loved your mother, Joia,” he finally said. “And I never strayed from her except that one time.”

  Joia started to rise. “I don’t want to hear this, Papa.”

  But Comfort took her arm and bade her sit. “We should listen.”

  “There was a funeral,” the earl began. “It doesn’t matter whose, I hardly remember, but I had to attend. One of you girls was sick, the measles or the croup or heaven knows what, and your mother did not want to leave you, so I set out alone. It was wintertime and the roads were terrible, all muddy and rutted, then iced over so you couldn’t see the craters.” He sipped at his wine, remembering.

  “There’d been a coaching accident on the road, and I told my driver to pull over and see if any of the passengers needed assistance, even though it was late and I was eager to get home to my wife and sick children. The coachman said his guard had ridden for help, but there was one lone female on board, and could I take her up and out of the cold, as it was beginning to snow again. Of course, I did. She was a drab little squab of a thing, a schoolmistress returning to the girls’ academy where she taught. She was nigh frozen and her lips were blue, so I offered her my flask, which seemed to help.

  “By the time we reached the inn the coachman had directed us to, the snow was falling harder, so I decided to spend the night there also. I made sure Miss Applegate had a room and dinner and a hot bath, and I sent up another bottle of wine, because she’d been so chilled. Then I proceeded to have my own dinner in the private parlor, and to drown my loneliness in the host’s smuggled brandy.”

  “But you never drink to excess, Papa.”

  “Not anymore, I don’t. I’m not saying it’s an excuse. A man has no excuse getting cup-shot if he’s going to lose control. And that’s what happened. You see, the wantwit of an innkeeper thought Miss Applegate was my ladybird—saddest excuse for a bird of paradise I ever saw—and put her in my room. I went up, more than a shade castaway, undressed in the dark, and threw myself on the bed—on top of Miss Applegate. Well, she started screaming, so I kissed her, to shut her up. Then she was crying. Seems she’d never had strong spirits before. Anyway, I held her, and one damn fool thing led to another. I was horrified when I woke up to find a strange woman asleep in my bed. Almost as horrified as I thought the schoolmistress was going to be, so I took to my heels before dawn. I hired a carriage to take her to the school, and left her my card. Three months later I received a letter from her. She was breeding. She was about to be turned off without any family to go to, without a reference, without a brass farthing. Who would hire an instructress no better than she ought to be, much less one with a child? How could I abandon a young woman and an innocent babe? Would that have been the honorable thing to do?”

  It might have been the wiser, but Joia had to shake her head no.

  “I sent her funds to rent a cottage, and then found the infant a foster family so she could resume her life, short though it turned out to be. I never saw her again, I swear it. I had to tell your mother because I couldn’t live with the guilt.”

  “How could she trust you again after that?”

  “I gave my word.”

  “But you’d given it before, when you said your marriage vows!”

  “And I meant them, dash it! One night, one mistake, out of twenty years? Your mother knows I’d never stray again. I couldn’t live with myself for the hurt I brought her, and now you. She forgave me, puss. Can you?”

  Joia looked at her father, whom she’d adored all her life, gazing at her so hopefully. So he couldn’t part the seas, he was still her father, and she didn’t love him any less. Then she looked over at Comfort and knew why he’d wanted her to listen to Papa’s tale. His past wasn’t spotless either. Trusting a rake was going to take a giant leap of faith.

  “I’ll try, Papa. I’ll try.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lady Carroll had exceeded herself, the county agreed at that night’s hunt ball. Winterpark glowed with beautiful flowers and beautiful women. The food was delicious, and the gossip was even better.

  Any of the houseguests present for the wedding ceremony was a sage. Anyone present at the bumblebroth in Oliver’s bedroom was a celebrity.

  Now all eyes were on Joia and the viscount as they enjoyed their second dance together. Since it was only the second set of the evening, speculation was rife. The first had been the cotillion. As one of the highest-ranking gentlemen, it was Comfort’s duty to lead off the eldest daughter of the house, behind the earl and countess. The second dance was a waltz, which the viscount had already appropriated and refused to relinquish. They both knew that one more dance together would be tantamount to a declaration, even by country standards, but they still hadn’t found time to hold a private conversation.

  “Do you think it’s too cold for a stroll on the patio?” Comfort asked, reluctant to hand Joia over to her next partner. Tall and slim, dressed in lace-trimmed burnt orange with her golden hair in wisps about her face, she reminded him of a wavering candle flame, beckoning, warming, mesmerizing. There was no way in hell he was passing her on to some cake in overstarched shirt collars. “We should speak.”

  Joia didn’t think a stroll through the Antipodes would be too cool, not after being held in Craighton’s arms through the waltz. She did borrow Merry’s paisley shawl, which her youngest sister had brought along to liven up her pale yellow gown, as though Merry’s red curls and laughing eyes needed any more animation.

  Joia made sure to avoid her mother’s glance, but she did catch Papa’s nod in Comfort’s direction.

  “He is pushing you into this!” she said on their way through the French doors.

  “Who is p
ushing me into what, my sweet?” Comfort asked, more interested in making sure they were out of sight of the curious eyes than anything else. He led her toward a path where the nearby rosebushes bore their last, late blooms, warmed by the protection of the house. Fairy lights, paper lanterns hung in the trees, lighted their way.

  “My father, of course. He’s talked you into one of those dratted dynastic marriages where two great estates and fortunes come together. You need an heir. Papa wants a titled son-in-law. Voilá! A match is made. Well, I say no!”

  Comfort had his arm on Joia’s shoulder, to make sure she didn’t stumble. He pulled her closer to his side, but kept walking. “Do you know, my lady, I believe you have just rejected the second offer of marriage that I didn’t make. Terrible habit you have.”

  Joia couldn’t tell if he was smiling there in the shadows, but she thought he must be. And he wasn’t angry, for he didn’t remove his arm. “That kind of marriage is just what I don’t want.”

  “Ah, now we are getting somewhere. What do you want, sweetings?”

  “I want love and affection and passion, all wrapped together. I want a man to want to marry me, not what I can bring to a marriage. I want—”

  Whatever else she wanted would have to wait as Craighton brought his other arm around her and drew her against his chest for a kiss that had the Chinese lanterns doing somersaults.

  “Is that enough passion, my love?” he whispered into her mouth, his hand stroking up and down her back, under Merry’s shawl. “If not, I could ...” His hand moved to her side, just beneath her breast.

  “No! I mean yes.” The hand moved higher, during another senses-stirring kiss. “I meant I thought it was enough.” Joia knew her wits had gone begging, especially when she had to bite her tongue to keep from begging for yet another kiss. “But... but that’s not all.”

  “Lud, much more and I’m like to expire, sweetings,” Craighton said, trying to catch his own breath. “Whatever happened to Miss Prunes and Prisms?”

  Joia sighed. “She’s still here. I still want constancy in a husband, a man I can depend on.”

  “Ah, here’s the crux, then. If I promised not to stray, would you believe me? What if I said that I’ve seen what your parents have—even with the misadventure—and decided that only their kind of marriage will do for me, too, the forever kind, the sharing and caring kind? What if I told you that I waited to marry until I found the one woman who makes my heart sing, so no other song will do?”

  “Am I the one? Are you sure?”

  For answer he put her hand against his heart. “It’s playing a waltz, our waltz, Joia. Can you hear it?”

  She rather thought the strains of a quadrille were drifting through the ballroom doors. “Do you truly love me, then?” She hadn’t dared to hope.

  “It’s like seeing snow for the first time. I didn’t know such a thing was possible, my joy. You showed me. And if you don’t love me that much yet, well, I mean to make you. What would it take, slavish devotion, slaying more dragons, letting your sisters trounce me at jackstraws?”

  “I think one more kiss ought to do it, for I’ve loved you forever.”

  One kiss wasn’t nearly enough for either of them, of course. When the viscount needed to breathe, he told Joia, “You’ll never have to worry about my being unfaithful, for I never intend to be away from your side. You’ll have me next to you by day and in your bed every night.”

  That sounded appealing to both of them, but Joia had to ask, “What, am I to be your warden to keep you honest, your keeper?”

  “You’re already the keeper of my heart. Nothing else matters.”

  Some time later, the viscount took his arms away and stepped back. “No, no more until we are married or your father will have my head. That marriage had better be dashed soon, sweetings, I’m warning you now.”

  Joia pretended to think a moment. “Do you know, I don’t believe I ever heard a proper proposal?”

  “What, should I give you a chance to reject me a third time? Never. Besides, I have it on good authority that the proper Lady Joia would never give her kisses where she doesn’t intend to give her hand.”

  With that he led her back to the ballroom, where the orchestra was playing another waltz. “It will be our third dance, my love. Shall we?”

  “I am sorry, my lord, but I do believe that all of my waltzes are promised to a devilishly handsome rogue with a wandering eye and a wicked reputation.”

  “That chap’s been put to grass. You’ll have to take me.”

  She laughed. “Since that seems to be the best offer I’m like to get, yes, my love, I will.”

  * * * *

  Since all eyes had been on the door waiting for the couple’s return, everyone at the ball noticed that a lock of the meticulous viscount’s hair had fallen in his face, that the fashionable Lady Joia wore a pink rose in her hair that clashed quite horribly with the orange of her dress. And that they danced as if no one else were in the room.

  Lady Carroll made sure she was standing near their position when the music ended. She tried to look severe over such a lapse in decorum, but failed when the viscount kissed her hand and swore to cherish her daughter for a lifetime, at least, for she had made him the happiest of men.

  “Then I am happy, too, my lord.” The countess wiped a tear from her eye.

  “What’s this, eh?” Lord Carroll was there, holding out his handkerchief. “This should be a joyous time, what? Instead my Bess is turning into a watering pot.”

  Joia’s sisters had left their dance partners to come see what was toward, and they were teary-eyed, too. Holly making a pretty speech about welcoming their new brother-in-law, but Merry simply throwing her arms around the viscount’s neck, to her mother’s chagrin.

  The earl shook his head. “Never try to make heads nor tails of a woman’s reasoning, my lad. And always carry extra handkerchiefs.”

  Lady Carroll clucked her tongue. “Bradford, are you trying to frighten the poor boy off before there’s even been an announcement?”

  “An announcement, that’s what we need!” the earl declared, on the off chance that his hard-to-please daughter might change her mind. “Not that there isn’t a soul in the room who hasn’t figured it out for himself. We’ll need some—”

  “Champagne, my lord?” Bartholemew appeared at Lord Carroll’s elbow with a tray and full glasses, while similarly burdened footmen circulated throughout the vast ballroom. “We were prepared for a Great Event.”

  “Excellent man. You should be running the government, except what would we do without you here at Winterpark?”

  “I am sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  “Yes, well, it didn’t take an Aristotle to figure this one out, what with these two smelling of April and May.”

  “June,” the countess declared, downing her second glass of champagne. “We’ll have a beautiful June wedding at Saint George’s, Hanover Square. I suppose we’ll have to invite the Prince and his brothers, but perhaps they won’t come. The reception will be at Carroll House, of course; the gardens should be at their prime, especially if we start early in the spring. I can almost see the wedding in my mind, Joia dear.”

  Lady Carroll was slightly on the go, and who could blame her, with her house turned into a gabble-grinder’s banquet hall? What with Oliver’s mingle-mangle, Joia’s making mice-feet of her reputation, and the hint of old scandals on new lips, it was no wonder the countess forgot herself. Of course, she could see that June wedding, for it was the one she’d planned for herself twenty years ago. “It will be the wedding that I never got to have.”

  “Whyever not, Mama?” Joia asked the question they were all wondering. “It’s not as though you made a runaway match.”

  “Why is your anniversary in February if you dreamed of a June wedding?” Holly wanted to know.

  Lady Carroll giggled. “Because the date had to be moved forward.”

  “Now, Bess, there’s no need to go into past history.”

&
nbsp; “Why not?” the countess asked, fluttering her husband’s handkerchief in his direction. “Every other family secret seems to be public knowledge.”

  “Mama! Never say you and Papa anticipated your vows!” Holly exclaimed, while Merry’s jaw fell open.

  Joia was doing some calculating. “But that makes me—”

  “The eldest daughter.” Craighton hurriedly filled the breech, waving off Bartholemew and his refilled tray of champagne. “And I am sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but I shall need to be in Ireland in the spring, to see about the new foals. No sense putting all the money and effort into the venture if I’m not going to be there. And I did promise Castlereagh I’d attend the meetings in Vienna this winter. He’s a friend of my father’s, you know. I thought, that is, Joia and I decided to wed soon, and honeymoon in Vienna. We could keep an eye on Oliver, too.”

  Lady Carroll started weeping again. “Now, Bess, you know youngsters get impatient.” Lord Carroll frowned toward his youngest daughter, who had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “And a Christmas wedding is everything magical. We can hold a ball....”

  “We hold a ball every Christmas, Bradford.”

  “Yes, but this will be the finest. We’ll invite everyone, even the mad king; you’ll spend a fortune, turn Winterpark inside out, and dress the girls in silks and velvet.”

  “I’m not having my daughter’s bridal gown made by any provincial seamstress, Bradford.”

  “Of course not, my dear. The Carroll ladies will be dressed by the finest modiste in the land. I expect nothing less.” He expected to have to sell some Consols to pay for it all.

  “Then it will have to be London, and you’ll come along, too, Bradford. There are bound to be engagement balls, and Carlisle is usually in London for the Little Season. His Grace will want to meet our Joia. And Meredyth can use a little Town bronze if she’s to be presented next spring.”