The Christmas Carrolls

by Barbara Metzger

  “Evan was counting on you,” Lord Carroll insisted, but his arm was around Holly’s waist.

  “Evan was counting on getting into the army. Ren is talking to Squire now, reminding him of Evan’s youth and ambitions, his courage and patriotism. As a last resort, Ren says he’ll offer the old grump ten thousand pounds to let Evan go. Evan will be in alt, for now he can apply for a position on Wellington’s own staff. The general never wants married officers, it seems.”

  “That’s all well and good for the young ‘un, but why didn’t Rendell come to me first?” The earl was determined to find something displeasing about the match.

  “Because I went to him, Papa. And because he knows I can speak for myself.”

  Lady Carroll spoke up now: “I always thought Evan was too young for you, my dear, but we hardly know this man, his father. He seems like a fine gentleman, quiet and reserved, but why not take some time to get to know him before committing yourself? Perhaps in London for the spring? Then, at the end of the Season, if you decide you suit, you can have a proper yearlong engagement and that beautiful wedding at Saint George’s the following May or June. Then you’ll be sure.”

  “I’m sure now, Mama, and I don’t wish to have even one dance with another man. Ren is off to Vienna after Christmas, and he already has a special license.”

  The countess threw her serviette on the table. “I won’t hear of it.”

  “But Joia won’t mind a double wedding. We spoke of it all the time, as girls.”

  “I mind, Hollice. I mind very much that another of my daughters would get married in a harum-scarum ceremony.”

  Ren came into the room then, still rubbing his hands, which were chilled from the cold ride to Squire’s and the faster ride back. He bowed to the countess. “I am sorry, my lady, to displease you. I know you do not wish to part with your daughter, but what can I say to convince you? Would it matter if I swear that I love her with all my heart, that I shall cherish her forever? I had no choice the first time, and no marriage to speak of. It has taken me all these many years to find a woman to trust, a woman to share my life with, my travels, my thoughts, my children. Evan was cheated of a father the first time, and I of a son. All I can do for him now is ease his way in the army, let him make his own choices. But I want to have a family, a real family, and I cannot wait much longer if I’m to show Holly the world, make a home for her out of Rendell Hall, and then help her fill it with our children. She deserves to have what she wants out of life, too, doesn’t she?”

  Coming to stand next to Ren, Holly put her hand in his. “I want him, Mama, no other.”

  Lady Carroll was crying happy tears into her napkin, and Merry was cheering. Lord Carroll conceded. “Can’t say that I like the arsy-varsy way this match came about, but if it makes you happy, poppet, you have my blessing. Let’s have a toast.”

  Bartholemew was already pouring.

  * * * *

  Lord and Lady Carroll were snuggled in the sofa in their private sitting room late that night. Bess had finished weeping for the lost dream wedding, and she hadn’t yet begun cataloging the havoc this new arrangement would wreak on her existing plans. That would come tomorrow.

  “Promise me, Bradford, that you won’t push Meredyth into any hasty match. She’s much too young.”

  “Of course not, my dear. The gal ain’t ready for marriage. She needs a bit more time.”

  “She’s only seventeen. She needs at least two or three Seasons before she’ll know enough of the world to make a wise choice.”

  Two or three Seasons? Lord Carroll had other plans. “Did you ever stop to think, my dear, that our Merry mightn’t take in London? I mean, I think she’s top drawer, but London?”

  “Nonsense, of course she’ll be a success. She is a well-bred, well-educated, well-behaved child.”

  “And she’s well and away the most headstrong and impulsive deb ever to make her bows. Think of all the pitfalls for a lass like Merry in Town, all the silly rules she won’t deem worthy of obeying. No gallops in Hyde Park, no talking to unintroduced strangers. Why, the chit is as friendly as her pup! And that’s another thing: if she brings that dog along, you’ll have merry mayhem, indeed.”

  Lady Carroll’s cheeks paled and her hand trembled as she tucked it more firmly into her husband’s. “She’ll mature,” she said, loyal to the end.

  “Didn’t take Holly that long to know her own mind, did it? Maybe we’ll get lucky with missy, too.”

  “I do believe we are fortunate in Mr. Rendell, Bradford. He’s such a quiet, intelligent gentleman that I feel he’s quite one of the family already. He adores Hollice, and he doesn’t have any troublesome, toplofty relatives like Comfort does.”

  “And he’s rich as Croesus. Not that Holly chose him for the blunt, but a money tree in the family isn’t a bad thing, not at all.”

  “I’m just glad Hollice didn’t settle on Evan, the way you were urging her.”

  “Me? Urging her to take that moonling? It was you, pushing them together at every turn. The boy’s too young, too much a glory-seeker. No, I never meant him for my girl. Why do you think I invited the nabob?”

  PART THREE

  The Silent Knight

  Chapter Eighteen

  “B-but I ain’t in the p-p-petticoat line, Evan. You know I d-d-d—”

  “Don’t talk well with them,” Evan finished for his friend. “Deuce take it, Max, you’re one of the heroes of the Peninsula, and Prinny just knighted you for bravery. How can you get in such a quake over a Christmas house party?”

  Sir Max, until recently Lieutenant Maxwell Grey of His Majesty’s Cavalry, could have told his friend that it wasn’t the party that had him in such a panic, not the good food and wassail, not the gathering of Yuletide greenery. It was the daughters of the house—and there always were daughters, or nieces, or neighbors’ girls—who had his nerves in more knots than it took to truss the Christmas goose. Max could have explained his dilemma to Evan, that is, if he weren’t so tongue-tied at the very thought of accompanying his friend to Berkshire and then to the festivities at Winterpark, home to three young persons of the female persuasion. He did manage to say, “You know th-the knighthood w-was an accident.”

  “So what? No one else has to know, and besides, it’s the title before your name that counts. At least you earned yours, you didn’t just inherit it. And you can’t deny you deserve all the ribbons on your chest.”

  Evan stopped his packing to admire the decorations on his friend’s dress uniform. He’d have his own medals soon, Evan thought, as soon as this blasted wedding nonsense was over. Meantime, he looked fine in his fresh-from-the-tailors scarlet regimentals, if he had to say so himself. Max’s uniform, for all its trophies, showed signs of wear, a spot here, a frayed edge there. Of course, there was no sense in Max ordering a new outfit, not when he was just waiting for his resignation papers to be processed. If Max hadn’t been ordered out of the army by the physicians after his last injury, they’d be going off to fight the war together. Instead, they were going to Berkshire.

  “You don’t have to talk, old man. Most of the time we’ll be at m’grandfather’s place anyway. Winterpark’s too crowded with the wedding guests. When we do go there, just stand around and look heroic. You’ll do.” And he would, too, Evan thought with a pang of envy at his friend’s erect carriage and classical good looks. At one and twenty, Max was two years Evan’s senior, and besides having had four years ahead of Evan to prove himself in the army, he was taller and broader of shoulder. He was too thin from his recent wound, and his hair was an unfortunate shade of red, but Max did look fine in all that gold braid. “Women swoon over a chap in uniform.”

  Good grief, Max worried, would he be expected to catch them? “I’m n-not going. T-too much t-to d-d—”

  “You’ve got nothing better to do, Max. You told me yourself. You can’t spend Christmas here in the barracks all alone. That’s too dismal a thought.”

  After the last injury, Max knew he’
d been granted a reprieve by the Grim Reaper. Nothing was too dismal for a man who’d felt Death’s breath on his cheek. He hadn’t lost his leg to the French cannon, and he hadn’t lost his life to the infection that followed. He was left with a weakness to the lungs that might go away or might not, according to the military sawbones, making him useless to the army. It didn’t help his speech impediment either. So what? He would be content to be alive and out of the hospitals—if he didn’t have to go to a wedding party in Berkshire.

  “Besides,” Evan was going on, without interrupting his packing, “the air here in Town can’t be any good for you. All that soot and fog. I hear you coughing, nights. Decent fresh country air, that’s what you need. And exercise for your leg. I’m always given free welcome at Lord Carroll’s stables, the finest in the county, don’t you know. Winterpark’s got capital hunt country, or, if the ground’s too hard, there’s an indoor jumping ring to keep his horses fit. You’ll love it.”

  “B-b—”

  “And if you’re planning on taking over that bit of land you inherited, you could do worse than consult with Lord Carroll. The earl knows more about husbandry than anyone you’re liable to meet. And he’s not a bit high in the instep.”

  Max stared at the open, empty suitcase on his own bed. “B-but he’s got d-d—”

  “Daughters, I know. Three of them. You don’t have to worry, old chap, they’re all good sports, and Carroll ain’t looking to get you legshackled to any of them. He held out for a duke’s heir for Joia, and m’father for Holly. The pater’s a nabob, don’t you know. They’ll be happy as grigs jaunting around.” He shrugged. “No accounting for tastes. So that only leaves Merry, and she’s too young. No offense, old man, but you’ve got your knighthood and your medals, that scrap of unproductive land, and two cousins ahead of you before you can hope for a peerage or an inheritance. That’s not much to recommend you to a prospective papa as particular as the earl.”

  The earl’s daughters could look to the highest in the land, Max thought, and had. They’d never notice a broken-down soldier. He could ride and relax, eat better food than he’d had in four years, maybe ask the earl to recommend some books about agriculture. Max took a pile of neatly folded shirts out of his drawer.

  But what if the daughters had friends? They were bound to be popular. Evan said they were great guns, decent enough sorts that he’d been prepared to marry one of them. It was a wedding; there’d be bridesmaids. Max would have to do the pretty with a houseful of females. Scores of them. Maybe hundreds. Max pictured himself trying to navigate his way through a shop filled with china shepherdesses, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back. Mounted on a horse. He put the shirts back in his drawer.

  Evan took them out again and tossed them haphazardly toward Max’s suitcase. “Deuce take it, I need you with me, old man. It’ll be deadly dull in the country, else, with no one at Blakely Manor but m’grandparents. Truth to tell, m’grandfather ain’t best pleased with me right now. He’ll come around, of course, when he sees I don’t perish at the first engagement, but I intend to play least in sight at the Manor. At Winterpark there’ll be the two pairs of lovebirds and the infant. No one to ride out with or go to the tavern with when they start talking wedding plans. I have to stand witness for my father—glad to do it, don’t you know, pleased as punch he asked—but I don’t want anyone thinking I’m wearing the willow for Holly or anything. You’ve got to come, Max.”

  So Sir Maxwell, recently, and if he had his druthers, still, Lieutenant Grey, traveled with his barracks-mate into Berkshire, or into hell, depending on who was reading the signposts.

  * * * *

  Max survived his introduction to the Blakelys easily enough. The old squire stormed out of the room and Mrs. Blakely wept on Evan’s new jacket. Then they went to Winterpark for dinner.

  The modest house where Max was raised could have fit into the entry hall of Lord Carroll’s family seat. Max’s self-confidence could have fit into a peapod, one with a wormhole in it, so the contents dribbled away when the most dignified personage in the world greeted them. And that was only the butler.

  Evan duly presented Max to three vibrant, exquisite young women—four if one included their mother, who was everything gracious, trying to set him at ease. She might have defeated Boney single-handedly more easily. He did manage to lift the ladies’ hands the proper two inches beneath his lips when they held them out to him. He made creditable bows when they didn’t, as was the case with the Duchess of Carlisle.

  “Don’t mind the old besom,” Evan whispered to Max. “She’s such a dragon, her own husband don’t live at home. Comfort’s mother, don’t you know.”

  In addition to the other guests, Max also had to meet the viscount, a Corinthian of the first stare; his father, the duke; Evan’s father, the nabob; and the young ladies’ father, the earl. What the deuce was Max Grey doing in this elevated assemblage? Trembling, that’s what.

  Since they were gathered in the Chinese Room before dinner, Max decided to take up a position in front of one of the red lacquer screens in the corner, hoping his regimentals would blend in. His camouflage must have worked, for no one addressed Max except a footman serving sherry, which the officer declined. Dutch courage was not his way. Dying the slow death of a social misfit was, in spades. There was no way in Hades he was going to last through this night, much less two weeks. He’d only embarrass himself and Evan, so it was better if he made his excuses now. He’d march right up to Lady Carroll, in front of all of these polished and pomaded paragons, and announce he had to leave before he puked. Pigs would fly first.

  So Max stood at attention. He was on guard duty, ready to defend his Chinese screen, or crawl behind it. Then the enemy approached. “Lieutenant Grey? Or should it be Sir Maxwell? I’m to be your dinner partner.” Merry tucked her arm into his and led Max into the dining room.

  The room could have seated half his battalion, but Max was no more intimidated than he’d been earlier, since he’d passed the point of panic. He was going to have to speak to this young woman. And the woman on his other side. Lud, he should have thrown himself on that French cannon.

  Miss Merry chattered away, though, getting them through the first course. No, Max had to remind himself, Evan’s familiarity wasn’t his. She was Lady Meredyth, as hard as it might be to think of such a lively little sprite possessing such a starched-up title. She looked more like a forest elf with her wide green eyes and cap of red curls. Her hair wasn’t as carroty as his, Max noted, but was a richer, darker shade of auburn. Her mouth seemed curved in a permanent smile, when she wasn’t talking about her father’s hunters, her dog, or Evan’s military career.

  Then it was time for Max to turn to his other dinner partner, a woman of a certain age named Miss Almira Krupp, who was companion to the Duchess of Carlisle, poor thing. Miss Krupp was far more interested in Reverend Foster on her other side—the widowed Reverend Foster on the other side of fifty—than an impecunious cavalry castoff.

  Miss Krupp’s defection suited Max down to his toes, which were beginning to uncurl in his boots. Now he could enjoy his meal in peace. After years of stringy chicken roasted on a stick over an open fire—when the soldiers could find a chicken or light a fire—this meal was heavenly. Lady Meredyth kept urging him to try this or that delicacy, and then didn’t mind when his mouth was too full for conversation. The girl seemed satisfied, in fact, with a nod or a smile or a “Hmm” to whatever she was speaking about at the moment. Right now she was talking about the coming wedding.

  “I’m to be the only bridesmaid, you see, now that Holly is one of the brides, and Mama is furious. She says it’s uncivilized and a poor reflection on the family. What do you think, Sir Max?”

  He grunted.

  “No, I don’t think so either. But then there’s the problem of Holly’s gown. It was to be red velvet, for the Christmas wedding, but Mama says no self-respecting bride gets married in a red gown, and there’s no time to have another fitted. Mama is ha
ving a white lace overdress made to cover the red velvet. Isn’t that clever?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, I thought so, too. Even if Papa complains the stuff costs enough to be made of spun gold. Um, I’m not boring you, am I? Papa says my tongue runs on wheels.”

  Max shook his head vehemently. He wanted to ask what she was going to wear, but was afraid to press his luck. She ought to be dressed in green, he thought, to match her sparkling eyes. Then she’d look more like a woodland pixie than ever.

  “My gown is green velvet,” she said, as if reading his mind.

  Max said, “Ah.”

  * * * *

  After dinner the young people played charades, heaven and Evan be praised. Strutting like the cock of the rock in his uniform, Evan picked Max and Merry to be on his team, leaving Holly with Joia and the viscount, who had eyes for no one but each other. Mr. Rendell had to complete some business, he said, and the older members of the party were setting up two tables for whist, the duke at one table, the duchess at the other.

  Max didn’t do half badly at charades. Of course, by the time he managed to utter his guess to the clues, Lady Meredyth or Evan had shouted out the answer. When it was his turn to act out a phrase or a bit of poetry, Max performed nobly. Silently and blushingly, but nobly. They lost anyway.

  The poker-backed butler wheeled in the tea cart piled high with sweets and nuts and fruit. The duke sat at one end of the room and the duchess held court at the other, and neither was interested in Max, thank goodness. He planned to keep eating so he wouldn’t be called upon to make conversation. He might get through this evening yet.

  Later Evan went off with Comfort to play billiards, and Max would have gone along, too, but Lady Meredyth took his arm and led him to her father.