by Carla Kelly
© 2011 Carla Kelly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-0135-1
Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.
2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663
Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com
Originally published by Signet-Penguin/Putnam in four anthologies.
Cover design by Angela D. Olsen
Cover design © 2011 by Lyle Mortimer
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
BOOKS BY CARLA KELLY
FICTION
Daughter of Fortune
Summer Campaign
Miss Chartley’s Guided Tour
Marian’s Christmas Wish
Mrs McVinnie’s London Season
Libby’s London Merchant
Miss Grimsley’s Oxford Career
Miss Billings Treads the Boards
Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand
Reforming Lord Ragsdale
Miss Whittier Makes a List
The Lady’s Companion
With This Ring
Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind
One Good Turn
The Wedding Journey
Here’s to the Ladies: Stories of the Frontier Army
Beau Crusoe
Marrying the Captain
The Surgeon’s Lady
Marrying the Royal Marine
The Admiral’s Penniless Bride
Borrowed Light
Coming Home for Christmas
NONFICTION
On the Upper Missouri: The Journal of
Rudolph Friedrich Kurz
Fort Buford: Sentinel at the Confluence
The Christmas Ornament
Make a Joyful Noise
An Object of Charity
The Three Kings
t happened over tea in October 1815, in London, with an old friend who required few conversational preliminaries beyond the observation that Napoleon was at long last taking a sea voyage to St. Helena, and the weather was unusually pleasant for fall.
“Excellent tart, by the way, Lord Waverly!” Sir Waldo Hannaford said, eyeing the table again. “Prune centers?”
“Yes, indeed, Sir Waldo,” the older man replied. “Did ye ever think a purgative could be so tasty?”
Sir Waldo didn’t, of course. There was a time when he would have eyed the tarts with a fair amount of suspicion. But he was older now, and willing to indulge in something that might smooth out the effect of too much dinner last night at his daughter Louisa’s house. He ate another and then settled himself before the fire, sharing the footstool with his older neighbor from Woodcote, Lord Waverly of Enderfield.
“Gilbert, I have something to ask you,” he began after a long moment’s thought.
“Ask away, Waldo. The only thing I have ever held back from you is the location of my favorite trout stream in Scotland.” It was a joke of long standing between the two, and they both chuckled and settled back into the comfort they were born to. “Gilbert, I have a daughter,” Sir Waldo announced at last.
“I believe you have three,” the marquis replied, a smile playing on his lips.
“Indeed, I have. One is married and lives here in London, as you well know, and the other followed her lord to Inverness, where, incidentally, he has an excellent trout stream on his estate.”
Lord Waverly clapped his hands and then rested them on his comfortable expanse of waistcoat “Good for you! And there is little Olivia, if I am not mistaken.”
“Indeed there is, my friend, except that little Olivia grew up.”
Lord Waverly looked at him over his spectacles, his eyes bright. “Did she do that, too? Children have that knack, haven’t they?”
Sir Waldo nodded, pleased at his friend’s good nature. “She is eighteen this month, and preparing for a come-out.”
“Heaven help us! Eighteen! I remember when Jemmy aided and abetted in pulling out two of her baby teeth. Eighteen, you say? A come-out?”
“That is the plan, except that Lady Hannaford and I are not so certain that a come-out is quite the thing for Olivia.” He leaned forward to explain himself better. “Martha is determined that Olivia should marry within the district because she cannot bear to see her last chick fly from the nest.” He looked down at his hands, wondering how to say this, “I am not so certain that Olivia would be happy with what she would find here on the Marriage Mart, anyway.”
“Picky?’“Lord Waverly asked.
“No. Rather too intelligent for her own good,” Sir Waldo stated, crossing his fingers that such an admission would not lower him in his neighbor’s esteem. He wasn’t sure.
Lord Waverly frowned and contemplated the sweets again. “I have one of those,” he said.
“A prune tart?” Sir Waldo asked, following the direction of his host’s gaze.
“No, no! A son too smart for his own good.” He scowled at the dessert tray and motioned for the footman to remove it. “You cannot guess what he is studying now.”
Sir Waldo couldn’t. He had endured a year’s incarceration at Magdalen College until his father was kind enough to die and provide a ready-made excuse to return home to run the estate. He had never found scholarship to his taste. “No, I cannot imagine,” he said.
“He watches people move!”
“No!”
“Yes! He sketches all their motions and tries to figure out ways for them to do their tasks more efficiently.” Lord Waverly made a face and moved closer. “He even attends autopsies here at London Hospital to study muscles.”
“No!”
“The double firsts were bad enough, but Jemmy knows so much now that I have a hard time talking to him. He is done at All Souls, and he actually helps students who write down every pearl of wisdom that issues from his overheated mind! I call it ungentlemanly; and so I tell him, but he just laughs…” he lowered his voice, “… and ruffles my hair. They all take liberties,” he concluded.
A gloomy silence settled over the sitting room; a log dropped in the fireplace. “Is he attached to a female?” Sir Waldo asked, his voice more tentative, considering his friend’s obvious irritation.
“Goodness, no! He is twenty-eight, and I despair—positively despair—of grandchildren.” This was obviously a sore topic with Lord Waverly, because it propelled him out of his chair to pace the room. “Since he has a fortune in his own right from his dear mama, I cannot compel him to find a wife by threatening to hang onto his quarterly allowance.”
He stopped in front of Sir Waldo, his hands out, the picture of frustration. “And even if he had only a small stipend, he is so frugal he would make do all year and then probably invest the residue!” He put down his hands. “I’ll wager that half our friends would wish for problems like this from the fruit of their loins,” he sighed. “Truth to tell, there is a sweetness to his nature that always quells me when I think I will pick a fight with him. So would he be your perfect son-in-law?” Lord Waverly sat down heavily in his chair, and stared into the fire.
“I believe he would be.” Sir Waldo pulled his chair closer to his old friend. “I want someone who will be kind to Olivia, keep her in the vicinity, and not mind if she reads books.”
“That would be James,” Lord Waverly agreed. “Such a union might even produce grandchildren eventually.” He was silent a moment, staring into the fire, and then looked at his old frie
nd. “He is also mortally shy. How do you propose to bring this about?”
“I’m going to ask him,” Sir Waldo said. “You know I am not a fancy speaker. I’ll put it to him straight out.”
“You’re going to propose to my son?” Lord Waverly could not help smiling.
“Hmm. I suppose I am,” Sir Waldo agreed, struck by the thought. He picked up his glass. “What would you say to an engagement by Christmas?” Without a word, his friend picked up his own glass, and they drank together.
It was one thing to laugh about a proposal with an old friend, Sir Waldo discovered, but quite another to actually put the suggestion into motion. Even the harvest scenery between London and Oxford failed to rouse his interest as he contemplated the next step. My older daughters would call me the rankest meddler, he thought as he stared out the window. They would point out how well they did on the Marriage Mart, and assure me and their mama that Olivia would find a man on her own.
But will she? he thought, far from the first time. Even the vicar, who was not given to either reflection or observation, noted once that Olivia “looks at me as though I don’t quite measure up.” I should never had indulged her whim for scholarship, Sir Waldo told himself, again not for the first time. Who would have known she would outshine everyone in the family, with the possible exception of her oldest brother, Charles? She is too smart for her own good. And probably at the mercy of fortune-hunters, considering her uncritical disposition. That causes me worry, he thought.
Thank goodness that at least she was not difficult to look at, although no beauty, he knew. Still, even there, Olivia was a true original. She had the correct posture and loveliness of her mother and sisters, but she was only a dab of a thing. “I hope James Enders has not grown too much since last I saw him,” he said to his reflection in the carriage window. “He could be intimidating to a chit like Olivia.”
He knew Olivia’s hair was hopeless—red like his own, though darker, but with the added defect of curling like paper corkscrews that pop from a magician’s box when the lid is removed. It wasn’t a matter of taming the wild mop, but rather forcing it into submission. Olivia does not help the matter much, he reminded himself, not when she drags it all on top of her head into a silly topknot. Well, not precisely silly, he reconsidered, smiling at the thought. I call it fetching, in a funny kind of way, even if her mama despairs. She is interesting to look at, he concluded, possibly even memorable. But a beauty? Alas, no.
He sat back, smiling at the thought of his daughter, thinking of her quick step, her outright laugh, and her absorption in books. “It is this way, I should tell you, James Enders,” he rehearsed in the carriage as the Oxford spires appeared on the horizon and the land began to slope toward the River Isis. “An estate agent once told me that even the most oddly arranged house can find a buyer. It just takes the one person who happens to be the right buyer.”
Even his admitted lack of scholarship never quite prepared Sir Waldo for Oxford. Whatever his inward turmoil, he took the time to admire the loveliness of Magdalen Tower, smile at the architectural eccentricity of the Radcliffe Camera, and listen as Great Tom tolled the hour from The House. Olivia should be here, he mused, and then chuckled at the impossibility. In his own year at Magdalen, he had passed All Souls numerous times, and never without a sense of awe, knowing that it housed the brightest among them—those who were finished with undergraduate years and embarked upon more study, a thing Sir Waldo could never imagine. He addressed the porter at All Souls and asked him to locate Lord Crandall.
“Ye timed it right, sir,” the man informed him. “We are almost at Evensong, so the tutorials are over. I’ll have him here directly, if you would wish to wait in the foyer.”
Sir Waldo did not wish to wait there, not when the quad beckoned, with its trees of fall colors. Christmas is coming, he thought, looking at the late afternoon sky. I wonder what my dear wife will tell me that she wants me to surprise her with on Christmas morning? I shall have to ask her soon, he mused. The day was cool, but the sun had warmed the stones in the quad. Flowers close to the warmth of the wall still bloomed. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Lord Crandall approaching. He was content to stand slightly in the shadow of the corridor and watch the man come closer.
James Enders—Viscount Lord Crandall from one of the family’s various honors—wore his black scholar’s robe, which the wind picked up and made him seem larger than life for a moment. Sir Waldo smiled to notice that Lord Crandall’s hair, dark like his own father’s years ago, looked no tidier than Olivia’s. Hair must be a nuisance to the brightest among us, he could only conclude. Louisa’s and Mary’s hair was always in place, and not even a loving father could overlook their lack of book-wit.
He had not seen Lord Crandall since the death of his second son, Timothy, seven years before, killed in the retreat from Corunna and buried with all military honor in the Hannaford vault. James, an undergraduate at New College then, had attended the obsequies, his face serious, his eyes troubled. And I never invited him back, Sir Waldo thought with a pang. I was always afraid to see him again, because he was so closely allied with Tim. I may not have been fair to any of us. I wonder, first of all, if I owe him an apology?
James was even taller than before, with that purposeful stride of all Enders men. Not a lolly-gagger in the bunch, Sir Waldo thought as he gazed with something close to fondness on his dead son’s friend. Big hands, big feet, and a wide mouth, he observed. The Almighty was generous in all ways to that particular twig on the branch of the human family. None of them handsome, but they do have hair.
And then he was standing in front of Sir Waldo, his hand extended. Wordlessly, Sir Waldo came forward and found himself caught in a bear hug of an embrace, something he had not anticipated, but which he found gratifying in the extreme. And then what would the young man do but take his hand and kiss it? Sir Waldo felt tears start in his eyes. What is it about you Enders? he asked himself as he allowed his hand to be kissed and then held. Such a gesture would seem strange indeed from another, but from James it seemed so fitting as to make him grateful he had come here, no matter the outcome.
“You have been too long away, Jemmy,” he said simply. “Or I have.”
“No matter,” the viscount replied. “There’s hardly a rip in the world that can’t be mended. Come inside with me, and I’ll send my man for beer and cheese.”
Soon Sir Waldo was seated, warm and comfortable in what must be Lord Crandall’s favorite chair—all rump-sprung and soft—while his host sat cross-legged on a shabby rug in front of the fire, toasting cheese.
“I suppose I should serve you something better than cheese and beer,” he said, turning the fork with a certain flair that told Sir Waldo volumes about his young friend’s dining habits. “I like it, though, and suppose that others should, too.” He deposited the cheese on a plate next to a slice of toast and handed it to Sir Waldo. “And excuse me, sir, but Madeira is for old men.”
Sir Waldo took the plate, relishing the fragrance of the cheese. “This is the perfect antidote to last night’s dinner,” he said. It was good, he decided, and as plain and ordinary-seeming as the man sitting on the floor.
“You’ve been dining in London, I’ll wager,” James said. “Visiting Louisa?”
“Indeed, yes,” he said. “I have left Lady Hannaford there.” He lowered his voice. “Louisa has just been through a confinement and finds her mother’s presence to be a comfort, even if this is our fifth grandchild. A son again, Louisa’s third.”
“Congratulations, sir,” James said. He forked another wedge of cheese onto Sir Waldo’s plate, and nodded for his man to pour the beer. He turned his attention to the fireplace again. “And the rest of your family? What do you hear from Charles?”
“Still in Paris, and hoping—along with all Europe, I believe—that this Second Treaty of Paris will put an end to French trouble.”
He fell silent then, thinking of his second son, dead at Coruna, who would be alive yet if N
apoleon had not adventured where he was not wanted. To his gratification, James seemed to understand his silence. He leaned back and touched Sir Waldo’s leg, giving it a little shake. The gesture was as intimate as his earlier kiss, and Sir Waldo’s heart was full. This is the only man for my beloved Olivia, he told himself.
“I miss Tim,” James said simply. “I am twenty-eight, dear sir, and I look in the mirror and see lines and wrinkles that were not there a year ago. But Tim is forever twenty-one and young.”
“So he is,” Sir Waldo managed to say. He took a deep drink from the mug in his hand. I cannot fault his ale, he thought. He may live like a student still, but he knows his victuals.
“We have all been too long from each other,” James said after a bite of cheese and a quaff of his own. “I did not come around because I did not wish to give you added pain.”
Straightforward like all the Enders, eh? Sir Waldo thought. You say what you think—rather like Olivia—and somehow, it is the right thing.
“There was a time,” he began, but could not continue. They ate in silence then, raising their glasses in tribute to the one who was not there. In his own book of life, Sir Waldo felt a page turn.
“Charles hopes to be home for Christmas,” he said, handing his plate to the valet. “Louisa and her family, too, if she and the baby are strong enough to travel.”
“How nice for you,” James said. “I suppose I will go to London and Papa, although it would be nice to see Charles.” He waited then, expectant without appearing nosy, for Sir Waldo to explain his visit.
Sir Waldo hesitated. As right as he is for Olivia, I have no business pronouncing this scheme I hatched, he thought. I could merely say something about wanting to see him after all these years, and it would be right enough. I could extend one of those meaningless invitations to visit us for Christmas, and leave it at that. He sighed. And I could throw Olivia onto the Marriage Mart with all the other hopeful girls, and pray that one man in ten thousand will see and understand her special qualities and even love her for them. Or I could speak. He cleared his throat.