The Christmas Carrolls

by Barbara Metzger

  Merry and Max arrived before Lord Carroll returned home. Now the countess had a different problem: how to keep the boy’s presence secret from her most impressionable daughter. Bess repeated her orders to the nursery maid to make sure there was no misunderstanding. The boy was to stay abovestairs, taking his meals in his room. When he was taken out for fresh air and exercise, he was to use the back stairs, the rear door, the kitchen garden.

  “Oh, then I s’pose I’d best fetch him from the stables, ma’am,” the maid said, sinking into a curtsy and sinking Lady Carroll’s hopes.

  Three red heads were out in the paddocks, three red heads catching the boy’s pony, mounting up, riding out, laughing. Meredyth was most likely showing Max her favorite parts of Winterpark and teaching the boy which trees to climb, which tenants to visit for gingerbread and cider.

  When they returned, Lady Carroll took her daughter aside. “Meredyth, darling, I realize you mean well, befriending the boy, but do you think it’s wise? He will be leaving for school soon, you know, and a different life.”

  “Mama, I understand this is hard for you, truly I do, but he’s just a little boy. Nolly never did anything to harm anyone. Would you have him cooped up in the nursery for weeks on end, with no playmates, nothing to occupy his mind?”

  “Heavens, darling, don’t make him out to be an abandoned puppy you have to rescue! I bought him paints and made sure there were books and toys.”

  “There are dolls, Mama! Hundreds of fragile, fussy dolls.”

  Which she would have known, had Bess ventured to the nursery wing. “He is not here long enough for that to matter,” the countess insisted. “And I do not think that you should encourage him to think otherwise, for he’ll be disappointed. His birth is such that he will never be socially acceptable, and you only reflect poorly on your own breeding by befriending him.”

  “Mama, half of his blood is the same as mine.”

  “But none of it is mine.”

  Merry had no answer. She kissed her mother’s cheek and went upstairs, where her husband and Nolly were reenacting the Peninsula campaign on the nursery floor, using all those expensive, overdressed porcelain dolls as soldiers.

  Joia was even less help, when she and Comfort arrived. “I was appalled myself, at first, to think that Papa could have ... that is, that there was a child. But hiding him away won’t change the fact that he exists. And now I see how important having an heir is to a man.” She blushed and folded her hands over her stomach.

  “Oh, Joia, does that mean you are increasing? Your father will be so pleased! And I, also, of course! Just think, two grandchildren in one year.”

  “It’s early days, Mama, but yes, I think so. Comfort is thrilled and insists it is a boy. His firstborn wouldn’t dare be anything else.”

  “Your father thought so, too, every time.” She recalled again how disappointed they both had been, despite adoring their infant daughters.

  “Yes, well, now Papa can also have an heir he approves. Oliver won’t do, you know, even if he weren’t such a thatch-gallows. With Aubergine heaven knows where, he’s not likely to have any children. He cannot get the marriage annulled, and divorce is too expensive, to say nothing of that scandal. So Noel is the last Carroll left in line. Would you see Winterpark revert back to the Crown?”

  “Of course not, darling, but the boy is—”

  “Whatever Papa tells people he is. It’s a good story, Mama, for no one can say that Uncle Jack didn’t have a French wife or a son who died after sending Nolly to England. There are no records and no one to challenge the boy’s right to Papa’s notice.”

  “There is no proof, either, no birth certificates, no baptismal records, no wedding lines or death notices. A bastard cannot be heir to an earldom.”

  Joia waved that aside. “Barty says Mr. Rendell knows people who can provide such documents, but he doesn’t think they’ll be necessary if you lend your countenance to the boy.”

  “What, am I supposed to perjure myself before the courts?”

  “No, Mama, of course not. You just have to accept Noel as if he were Uncle Jack’s grandson. Why wouldn’t you take him in, raise him as your own, make him part of the family? It is your behavior, keeping Noel locked away like the skeleton in the family closet, that gives the lie to the story. The servants will begin to take their cue from you, and well you know it. Then poor Nolly will be ostracized as a bastard, and Papa will have to petition the courts to break the entail, or to devolve the title onto my firstborn son. But, Mama, my son won’t be a Carroll. He’ll be an Ellingsworth, and the next heir to the Duke of Carlisle.”

  “I cannot do anything about it, Joia.”

  “Of course you can. If you accept Nolly as Papa’s legitimate heir, no one has to know otherwise.”

  Lady Carroll wiped her eyes, wishing she had her husband’s larger square of linen instead of her own scrap of lace. That gudgeon Bradford was never in the right place, and now everything was Bess’s fault. Not even this firstborn child, the flesh of her body and mirror image of her own youth, could understand. “If no one knew, Joia, if no one ever had the least suspicion, I would still know.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  She was losing them all, her husband and now her daughters. Bess sat alone in her drawing room, which had used to ring with happy laughter and music. Now it was silent and empty, with only the crystal goblets to show that anyone had been here. Bartholemew hadn’t come in to clear away the champagne from the toast at Joia’s happy news. He was most likely upstairs in the nursery with everyone else.

  Bradford had come home that afternoon, tired but satisfied that he had the problems of his Yorkshire property solved. “I am never leaving home again,” he swore, sinking into a chair after the hugs and kisses of his daughters, the handshakes of his sons-in-law, and the frantic barking of Merry’s dog. The countess knew they would have their own welcome, later, upstairs. She also knew, from the way the earl was watching Max like a hungry cat with its eyes on the milk bucket, that he would soon offer Merry’s husband the position of estate manager. As well he should, Bess agreed, for, despite all her protests otherwise, Bradford was too old to go traipsing around the countryside. She could tell his rheumatics were paining him, and most likely his digestion, too, from eating inn fare without her to plan his meals. He did need her, Bess told herself, but not nearly as much as she needed him.

  Then Joia had made her announcement. Years fell away from Carroll’s lined cheeks, and his green eyes sparkled as he made the toasts over the champagne Bartholemew had waiting. “I suppose you’ll take some fool notion into your head, Comfort, and insist the babe be born at Carlisle, eh? No matter. Bess and I shall be there, won’t we, my love?”

  “I thought you were never leaving home again, Bradford. If you’ve had a change of heart, we could go up to London with Joia after the house party. She means to enjoy one more Season, don’t you, darling?”

  They all laughed at how neatly the earl had been trapped, and then they related the latest news from Holly, from London, from the peace conference. Comfort reported on the progress of his Irish stud, and Max on his mangel-wurzels. One topic never came up in conversation, one name was never mentioned. The boy could have been sitting in the drawing room, though, Bess thought, his absence was such a tangible thing.

  And then they all left. Joia thought she needed a nap, and Comfort saw her up the stairs. Merry decided Downsy needed a walk, but she and Max didn’t leave the house. Bradford said he needed to freshen up after his journey, without the usual wink to Bess that invited her along for a private greeting. They were all gone to see the boy, of course.

  Most of Bess’s life had been dedicated to her family, to these walls of Winterpark. Now she felt like an outsider, a stranger, with nothing to show for her years of devotion. She wandered over to the mantel, where one of her husband’s favorite paintings hung. It was a Lawrence he’d commissioned when the girls were younger. All three of them sat around their mother’s skirts in what was
supposed to be a gazebo, with flowers in the background. Joia held a bouquet, and Hollice a book. Little Meredyth played with a kitten in her lap.

  On the opposite wall, a portrait of the earl was displayed. Bradford was portrayed, not in his youth, but with his dark red hair already showing silver at the temples. He was smiling, as if at the antics of his precious poppets across the room. Bess had never liked the painting, although her husband looked handsome and happy. He shouldn’t have been alone, she always thought. There should have been a boy at his side.

  * * * *

  “I cannot do it, Bradford,” the countess said when her husband came to her bed late that night She hadn’t been waiting in their sitting room when he came upstairs, so he’d wandered into her chamber, candle in hand, fresh from his bath.

  “If it’s lovemaking you cannot do tonight, dear heart, I confess I’m glad, for I doubt I’ve the energy myself. May I join you, anyway? I’m deuced tired of sleeping alone, Bess. Lud, how I’ve missed you.”

  “And I, you, Bradford.” She raised the bedcovers and moved over to give him room.

  He blew out the candle and kissed her soft cheek. “I must really be growing old.”

  “Never, my love.” She snuggled against him, breathing in the scent of his sandalwood soap, feeling his arms wrap her in his familiar strength. This was where she belonged, Bess thought, till death did them part, not when the past came between them. “But that’s not what I cannot do.”

  “I know, dearest, I know.” He kissed the top of her head, there on his chest, and stroked her back. “And I won’t ask any more of you. Thank you for trying, and for taking the boy in while I was gone.”

  Guilt tore at her. “I didn’t try, Bradford. I let the servants do everything for him. He would have been all alone if Merry hadn’t come.”

  “Nonsense, my pet,” he soothed. “All I heard about was how m’lady saved him from the bully in the stable yard. Anyone who stands up to young Freddy, it seems, is top of the trees.”

  “I would have done the same for a street urchin.”

  “But Nolly doesn’t know that. And I know you never would have bought a set of paints for a ragamuffin who got into brawls. The boy is filling the nursery with paintings of his pony. So far they look more like brown clouds to me, but the lad is pleased as punch.”

  “He’s most likely using too much water. The girls all did, at first.”

  Lord Carroll nodded, there in the dark. “I’ll tell him.”

  Bess had always loved to listen to the rumble of Bradford’s voice, with her ear on his chest “What else shall you tell him, about me?’

  “That you are the best thing that ever happened to me. That when I was away I felt as if a part of me was missing.”

  “Am I that part, Bradford, truly?”

  “The best part, my love, the very best. I’ll tell him that I need you to myself, that I’m just a selfish old ogre who can’t bear to share you with anyone else. I’ll visit him at school, and perhaps he can come here for part of the summer. He’ll understand.”

  He’d understand that he wasn’t wanted. Bess tried not to think of a little boy’s pain. “You would send him away, then, for me?”

  “I won’t send him to America, Bess, but I’ll make sure he’s gone from Winterpark. It was too much to hope that you’d take him under your wing. I never should have asked, my dear, I know that now. Soon you’ll be too busy with the girls and your grandchildren anyway.”

  “Where will he go?” Bess wanted to know. It was one thing to wish the boy out of her sight, another to wish him unhappy. She was feeling remorseful enough without imagining him lonely and unfed, preyed upon by bigger boys. “You will not incarcerate him at a school until he is eighteen, like some felon, Bradford.”

  The earl chuckled and smoothed the long braid that trailed down her back. “No, I’ll find another foster family for him, near the academy. Meantime Merry and Max have offered to keep him in Kent. They’re going to go to London with Joia and Comfort after the house party, to look at some livestock on auction. I’ll send Noel to them when they’re back at their own place. Merry will claim him as a cousin.”

  Bess nodded. Meredyth was always claiming something to nurture.

  Bradford was going on: “Joia wanted to have him, and her viscount agreed, but I couldn’t see sending him to London.”

  “You couldn’t see sending anyone to London, Bradford, where you might have to go visit. But you are right, it’s no place for a child, especially not with Joia and Craighton so much in the social whirl. And then there is the baby coming. The boy would be left at Carlisle House with no one to care for him but a parcel of London servants who are most likely more haughty than Carlisle himself.”

  They both knew how arrogant servants would treat a child of uncertain pedigree. “No, he’ll be better with Merry,” Carroll agreed. “She’ll have the house filled with orphaned lambs and broken-winged sparrows. And Max will be a good influence, too. A young hero for him to look up to, that’s what a boy needs.”

  A boy needed to be able to speak to women, too, Bess thought. But dear Maxwell was getting better, amongst the family, at least, and Merry never had the slightest difficulty expressing herself to anyone. “Oh dear, I do hope Meredyth doesn’t teach him to be so outspoken. Or so careless of the proprieties.” She frowned in the dark. “Or to be such a daredevil rider as she was as a youngster.”

  “I told you we shouldn’t have taken mitten to Astley’s Amphitheatre when she was still an infant, but you insisted we all go to London for that Season, too. How many limbs did she break before she learned to stand on her pony’s back? Wasn’t that the summer my hair turned white?”

  Lady Carroll shuddered, remembering. “Let us hope that Maxwell has enough sense for all of them.”

  “He had enough wits to marry our girl, didn’t he?” The earl sighed, the sound reverberating through Bess’s cheek. “That’s why I wanted the boy here, love. Not to upset you, but because I wouldn’t have to worry about someone turning him into a madcap or a weakling or a misanthrope. You’d have done a good job of rearing him, while letting him find his own self. You did it with the girls and they couldn’t have turned out better.”

  “You make it sound as if I raised our daughters all by myself, Bradford. You know I did no such thing, but had you by my side the whole time.”

  He laughed. “You know I would have spoiled them unmercifully if not for your good sense.”

  “But I would have tried to make them into pattern cards of respectability without your leavening influence.”

  “We were good parents, weren’t we, my girl?”

  “We were the best, dearest. And we’ll be superb grandparents, for we can overindulge the unmannerly little darlings to our hearts’ content, then send them home to their unsuspecting parents. That should make up for some of the sleep we lost worrying over the girls.”

  The earl stroked her back while Bess listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. Before sleep claimed her, the most contented, restful sleep she’d had in weeks, Bess had to say, “I truly am sorry about the boy, Bradford.”

  “Shh, Bess. It’s done.”

  “But what about meantime? What shall we tell the servants and the houseguests?”

  “We’ll tell the gabble-grinders that we’re investigating the boy’s parentage. With no proof coming out of France, we’re not ready to press his claim. They’ll understand. The highest sticklers will be pleased we aren’t trying to foist a cuckoo bird into their nest without more research. And the servants won’t expect a sprig in short pants to be invited among the company anyway.”

  “There will be talk.”

  “There will always be talk, my love. All you need do if one of the scandalmongers pries is look down your beautiful patrician nose and change the topic. That never fails to silence the worst gossips, Countess Carroll.”

  “Or you could raise one of your elegant eyebrows, Lord Carroll, and sneer. That deflates the pretensions of the most tenaciou
s toadeaters.”

  “You see? We are a good combination, nearly invincible. And don’t worry, Bess. The boy will be fine.”

  “But will you be fine, too, Bradford?”

  “I will be, with you by my side. In fact, I don’t feel quite so ancient tonight after all. What about you?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Guilt was a lumpy mattress beneath Lady Carroll. That and her husband’s snoring were keeping her awake. Bess could have pulled the pillow out from under his head, or tried to roll him over, but he’d likely wake then, and he needed his sleep. Bess needed to think. She carefully inched out of Bradford’s embrace and off the bed, into her robe and slippers, all without lighting the candle until she reached the sitting room.

  Instead of relighting the fire, though, or making herself comfortable on the sofa, the countess tiptoed out to the hall and up the stairs. Why was she skulking about? she asked herself, pausing on the landing. It was her house, after all.

  She was mistress here, the keeper of vigils, the upholder of virtues—and the victor. She’d won. Her husband loved her enough to give up his own flesh and blood, his dreams of posterity, for her. Why did her triumph taste like coal dust on her tongue, then, bitter and making her eyes tear? Why did she feel so very small and unworthy of the great love he’d shown?

  Bess found herself outside the nursery door. A lamp was burning, on her orders. Joia had been afraid of the dark—or was it Hollice?—and a little boy in a strange place might need the same security. She went past the playroom to the bedchamber, telling herself that she had to make sure she was doing the right thing, making Bradford send the boy away. She wasn’t just acting out of stubborn pride over an old wound, she swore to herself, nor out of jealousy, fearful of sharing her husband’s affection. No, she could not be that mean, that vengeful, that petty.

  It was for the boy’s sake, she maintained. He’d be better off elsewhere. Bess could let Noel stay on, but she could never love him, never treat him like one of her own, and he’d know. Children always did. No, it was far better to let him go to Merry, thence to a loving family, she told herself as she stood over the sleeping boy. She’d go along with Bradford to make sure they were decent, kind people who believed in education and art, honor and horses, for the Carroll part of him.