Her Mistletoe Kiss: A Regency Christmas Novella

by Deborah Hale

  Frost took far more than usual care choosing his clothes for the day, including a waistcoat the color of well-aged burgundy shot with gold threads. Once dressed, he headed for the breakfast room with a brisk stride, humming a Christmas carol.

  Mrs. Wilton and her son were already seated at the table, though they had not yet been served.

  “A very good morning to you both!” On an impulse, Frost seized Christabel’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I hope you slept well for we have a busy day ahead.”

  His unexpected gesture seemed to ruffle her composure, but in a pleasant way. Her dark eyes sparkled when she glanced up at him through her lashes and a mysterious little smile played on her lips.

  “You must have enjoyed sweet dreams, Mr. Frost. I have never seen you in such high spirits.”

  A dish of buttered eggs was served from which Frost took a liberal helping. “I hope you approve.”

  “Very much so. The other day when you said it was good to hear me laugh again, I was going to observe that it was good to hear you laugh at all.”

  “Impudence!” Frost feigned an unconvincing frown and the menace of his growl was quite ruined by a chuckle.

  But one person at the table was fooled. “Please, Mr. Frost, don’t be angry with Mama! I’m sure she didn’t mean to vex you.”

  “Nor did she, sir!” Frost felt a trifle ashamed of himself to laugh at the poor little fellow’s dismay, but he could not help it. Besides, it might help convince the child he was not truly angry. “I was only teasing your mama back for teasing me. That sort of thing is permitted among old friends. And she was quite right—I do not laugh often enough. It is a fault you are helping me correct this very moment.”

  As Christabel spooned some eggs onto her son’s plate, her gaze caught and held Frost’s. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  Was she grateful to him for reassuring the boy, Frost wondered, or for calling her a friend? Whatever he had done to merit that luminous smile and glowing gaze, he must be sure to repeat it—soon and often.

  “Will Miss Fanny be joining us?” asked Christabel.

  Frost shook his head, his good cheer dampened a little. “She takes breakfast in the nursery... I mean... her rooms. Mornings are often difficult for her. Once we get busy decorating, no doubt she will be eager to join in the merry making.”

  Christabel seemed to sense his mood, and was quick to distract him with talk of their plans. By the time Aunt Fanny joined them, they were tacking swags of holly and bay to the walls with bows of scarlet silk. Later they decked the great sideboard in the dining room with ivy and gold paper stars and fashioned a matching centerpiece for the table. At her insistence, they hung sprigs of mistletoe over several of the doorways.

  Later with the help of Cook, Frost compounded a wassail mixture of ale, roasted crabapples and nutmeg, which Christabel sampled and pronounced altogether delicious. It was ready none to soon, either, for parties of men and boys began to arrive from the village. Before long, the great entry hall of Candlewood rang with rustic carols, laughter and applause. To Frost, it all sounded as sweet and joyful as any chorus of angels.

  Christabel could not recall ever spending a more congenial Christmas Eve, not even during her affluent, carefree girlhood back in Somerset. As she watched her son cut a little caper to one of rollicking Christmas tunes, then fetch wassail cups for the thirsty carollers, she reckoned she must have caught some of his infectious enjoyment of the holiday. Or perhaps the deprivations of recent years made her savor the comforts and pleasures of Christmas at Candlewood.

  With all the company that afternoon, they missed their tea altogether, but savored an early dinner of Cook’s succulent game pies followed by poached pears in custard for a sweet. Then they sat around a roaring fire in the drawing room hearth in which Mr. Frost helped Colly and Miss Fanny roast nuts. Meanwhile Christabel read to them from a book of poetry.

  She had just concluded a passage from Spenser’s Faerie Queen when Mr. Frost announced, “We have two sleepyheads here, who had better get off to bed soon if they hope to enjoy the festivities tomorrow.”

  “Oh, please!” Miss Fanny caught his hand. “Can we not stay up another quarter hour on account of Christmas Eve?”

  “Very well.” Frost fished out his pocket watch. “If you can both go the next two minutes without yawning, I will allow that you are not tired enough to go to bed yet.”

  Though they made a determined effort, neither Miss Fanny nor Colly were able to go a single minute without yawning, much less two. Frost summoned Mrs. Penny and Jane to take them off to bed.

  After they had gone, Christabel closed her book and laid it on small table beside her chair. “It has been a most enjoyable day. Thank you.” She rose to follow her son.

  “Must you go as well?” Frost called after her. “I did not catch you yawning with the others.”

  She turned and took a few tentative steps toward him. Her pulse quickened to the brisk, lively tempo of a wassailer’s carol. “That was a fine parenting trick, just now. I must remember it for future use with my son.”

  Frost closed his pocket watch with a decisive click. “It hardly ever fails. Nothing makes a person want to yawn so badly as trying to keep from doing it.”

  “I expect that is true of a good many things.” Christabel proved it by breaking into a self-conscious grin when she did not mean to.

  Such as yearning for her host in a way she had no business doing? Such as constantly finding something new to admire about him? Such as wondering again and again what her life might be like now if only she’d had the good sense to marry him when she had the chance? To linger here with him after the others had retired would only encourage her fruitless preoccupation.

  But she owed him so much. If her company would help him while away a lonely hour or two, how could she be so ungrateful as to refuse? “Do you wish me to stay?”

  “I do. But not if you truly prefer to retire. I do not want to overtax your strength.”

  “You seem to think me quite frail.” Christabel resumed her seat. “I assure you I am perfectly recovered. Shall I read some more?”

  “I fear it might strain your eyes.” Mr. Frost settled back on a low stool by the fire.

  He had earlier removed his coat. Now the white sleeves of his shirt billowed out from his richly colored waistcoat and his cravat fell in loose folds from his neck. Christabel’s fingers tingled to untie it, and to graze over the springy softness of his side-whiskers.

  “There you go again!” Her flustered feelings vented in a nervous bubble of laughter. “I promise you I am not apt to collapse at the slightest exertion.”

  “Could we not just talk?” He gave a rueful shrug. “Or would you find that too tiresome? Some time has passed since we first knew one another and since you arrived at Candlewood we have not had many opportunities to catch up.”

  “We have not,” agreed Christabel, “and I would find your conversation anything but tiresome.” There was much she wanted to know about him. “Tell me, has your aunt long been as she is now?”

  “The condition of her mind seems to have settled somewhat since I brought her to Derbyshire. Before that...” A mild shudder went through Frost. “There were times I feared for my own sanity, especially before it became evident there was something wrong.”

  And he’d had no one with whom to share that burden. No one to distract him from his worries. No one to reassure him he was doing the best he could in a most difficult situation. Now Christabel urged him to confide in her, though she knew it was too little, too late.

  “We have neither of us had an easy time of it, have we?” said Frost at last. “You have made a brave show for your son these past few days, but I imagine you must feel the loss of your husband more keenly than usual at this time of year.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to profess the conventional sentiments when something made her reply instead, “I cannot deceive you, sir. My son is the greatest joy of my life, but he is one of the few m
y marriage afforded me.”

  Her frankness clearly took Frost aback. “Forgive me for asking. I did not mean... that is... I’m sorry.”

  “I do not deserve your compassion.” Christabel stared down at her hands as they moved in restless agitation upon her lap. “It was my own fault, I know. I should never have been so willful and foolish as to elope with Monty before getting to know him better and learning his character.”

  “Did he mistreat you?” Frost’s tone was sharp and urgent as he rose abruptly from his seat by the fire.

  “No, never!” Even to secure his sympathy, Christabel would not malign her son’s father that way. “He was not a bad man, but we were ill suited and our slender means did not help matters. I believe that was why he gambled—in a desperate effort to secure our fortune. But it only encumbered us with debts that I am still struggling to repay.”

  “By going cold and hungry to honor the long-forgotten turn of a card? That is infamous! You must let me help you!”

  Help her? She had taken far too much from him already. That debt of the heart would cripple her worse than the shillings her late husband had wagered at cards. “I do not think Monty believed my father would disown me for wedding against his wishes. To the end, he was convinced Papa would eventually relent and help us.”

  “I believe he would if his final illness had not come upon him so suddenly.” Frost knelt by Christabel’s chair and took her hands. “And I feel certain he would have been as distressed as I am had he known of your situation. You must believe I never wished you anything but the most sincere happiness in life.”

  “I do believe it.” She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. “For that is the kind of good man you are. It is I who have never been able to forgive myself. For humiliating you, for encumbering Monty with a penniless bride, for never reconciling with my father... for dooming my son to a life with such limited prospects. You must admit, it is a great deal to answer for.”

  Even with all the allowances he had so far made for her, surely he would have to agree. Any deprivations she had suffered were just desserts for her folly.

  He raised one hand to tilt her chin gently with the knuckle of his forefinger. “You take too much upon yourself. I doubt it was ever your intention to cause anyone harm. You made a mistake in judgement at an age that is prone to such errors. Forgive that impulsive girl who fancied herself in love. You have punished her far too long.”

  It made such compassionate good sense, especially coming from him. Part of Christabel wanted very much to heed him. But it was difficult to look back on everything that had happened to her since she’d eloped with Major Wilton and not see the stern hand of divine punishment at work.

  Her one comfort came from the certainty that Jonathan Frost had not loved her any more than she’d loved him at the time she jilted him. To have injured his heart as well as his pride would have been too great a regret to bear.

  Chapter Nine

  ONCE UPON A time, Frost had knelt beside Christabel and held her hand. Then he had stammered out what must have been the baldest, least romantic proposal in the history of matrimony. The wonder was not that she had run away to marry another man, but that she had accepted his offer and stuck with their engagement for as long as she had.

  Was it love that had prompted her to elope with Major Wilton? Frost wondered. Or had her growing aversion to the prospect of marrying him pushed her into an unwise decision made in the haste? If that had been the case, then he was the one with much to answer for.

  But he must heed his own advice to her and not torment himself with blame. He had never meant to injure her, after all. If she had approached him then, seeking an end to their engagement, he would have released her from it. Not happily, perhaps, but without reproach or bitterness.

  Since they were alone and he was already on his knees, Frost flirted with the notion of proposing to Christabel again. But the capricious magic of Christmas had not overturned his natural sense and restraint to that great a degree.

  They had only been reacquainted for a few days—not nearly long enough to show her the small but significant changes he had undergone in the past several years that might recommend him to her. Having endured the pain of one unhappy marriage, Christabel might be justly skittish about contracting another. Then there was the whole matter of his aunt. Christabel must know her condition could not improve and her decline would surely place a greater strain upon his household. Could any financial advantages of their union compensate for that?

  If he asked her now and she refused, as he was convinced she must, he could not hope for a third chance to win her. This second one was a rare and precious gift enough. He must not squander it with undue haste.

  Before the urge could overwhelm him, he released her hands and scrambled to his feet. “You must forgive me. I have kept you from your... bed for far too long.”

  This time Christabel did not protest the strength of her constitution as she rose from the chair. “I should not have burdened you with my troubles.”

  Nothing she shared with him could possibly be a burden. Frost yearned to tell her so. But would such a declaration betray his feelings and intentions toward her—both of which she might not yet welcome?

  As he stood there mute and awkward, struggling to decide what he should say, Christabel Wilton suddenly seized his hand and lifted it to her lips. “I fear your broad shoulders invite confidences whether you wish them or not.”

  Before he could stammer a coherent reply, she released his fingers and hurried away, leaving him gaping after her. In a daze, he raised his hand to his cheek as if he might affect a transfer of Christabel’s kiss. It was, without doubt, the most treasured Christmas gift he had ever received.

  Neither time nor misfortune had altogether tempered her impetuous spirit. A wave of embarrassment overwhelmed Christabel when she remembered the hasty but ardent kiss she had pressed to Frost’s fingers, and the look of shock it had provoked from him. At least she’d cultivated enough self-control to kiss his hand, rather than his lips as she’d so badly wanted to.

  When he had knelt beside her, fixed her with his earnest gaze and entreated her to forgive herself, she’d longed to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him breathless!

  At breakfast the next morning she was too embarrassed by the whole incident to meet his gaze or mutter more than a word or two of conversation. Fortunately, Colly had enough to say for both of them and Mr. Frost, with his accustomed courtesy, gave no sign that anything untoward had taken place.

  Though Christabel knew she should appreciate his forbearance, she feared such cordial indifference could only mean he felt no more for her than he ever had. She must not be so foolish as to mistake his generosity for any fonder attachment. She no longer had any advantages to attract a man in his position, least of all one she had used so ill when she’d had the opportunity of securing him.

  After breakfast the three of them drove to church in Mr. Frost’s carriage. Throughout the Nativity service, Frost’s words from the previous night kept repeating themselves in Christabel’s thoughts. Forgive that impulsive girl who fancied herself in love. You have punished her far too long. The familiar prayers, lessons and Christmas hymns all seemed to echo his appeal with their assurance of divine mercy.

  Was it possible the hardships of recent years had not been intended as punishment, but rather a necessary lesson to cultivate her better virtues and help her appreciate the simpler gifts of life?

  Out in the churchyard after the service, Christabel sensed many curious gazes upon her. When the colonel of the local regiment stopped Mr. Frost for a word, she was grateful to spy the vicar’s sister approaching her, wreathed in smiles.

  “What a pleasant surprise to see you here this morning, Mrs. Wilton, with your charming little boy! Did Mr. Frost fetch you all the way from Bishopscote?”

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Jessup. As it happens, Colly and I are spending Christmas at Candlewood as guests of Mr. Frost and his aunt.”


  “How lovely, I declare!” cried Miss Jessup. “And to think neither of you might ever have had any idea of the other residing so nearby if it had not been for me. Why, I feel quite an instrument of good fortune!”

  “So you were.” Christabel did not grudge the lady a particle of her obvious satisfaction. “I thank you with all my heart for your intervention. I do not deserve such kind friends as you and Mr. Frost have proven yourselves, but I am truly grateful for you both.”

  For too long she had kept to herself, refusing help of which she felt undeserving, yet conversely was too proud to accept. Seeing Miss Jessup’s keen pleasure at having been of service, Christabel vowed that from now on she would not deny people the satisfaction of helping her if they wished.

  On the drive back to Candlewood, Mr. Frost announced, “Colonel MacLean tells me he means to host a ball at the local assembly on New Year’s Eve. He says his people in Scotland make quite a celebration of the New Year. I never was much of a dancer... and have not kept up whatever small skill I might once have had. But I wondered... if you might do me the honor...”

  Christabel hated to see him so flustered on her account. “Why Mr. Frost, are you asking if you may escort me to Colonel MacLean’s ball?”

  “Would you allow me the honor?” He looked strangely anxious as to her reply.

  “You are generous to call it such considering the disparity in our positions, but I would be honored and pleased to accompany you if you wish.” Perhaps her trunk at home she might still hold an old ball gown, gloves and slippers that could be pressed into service for the occasion.

  “Splendid.” Mr. Frost’s solemn tone and countenance belied the fervour of that word.

  “Can Miss Fanny and I go to?” asked Colly.