by Jane Feather
“A bantam?” Chastity glared at him, thunderstruck by such a patronizing comparison.
“Yes,” he said, stroking his angular jaw. “Small, well feathered, very assertive, and more than a little combative.”
“Oh, let me pass,” she said in disgust, pushing him aside with a flat hand to his chest as she marched to the door.
Chastity went straight to her own room, too shaken to face anyone until she had decided for herself what had just happened. He was insufferable, worse even than Max and Gideon had been on first impression. She paced her bedroom, following a circular path since the room was too small to give a satisfactory length for one march, and she only stopped when it occurred to her that she must look like a fuming caged tiger. She thumped down on a small armless chair beside the fire and reflectively chewed a fingernail. What an absurd mess to find herself in. Her personal inclinations were so far at odds with her professional obligations.
A knock at the door brought her to her feet with a startled jump. It was followed by her sisters' entrance and she wondered rather aridly as her heart rate slowed somewhat exactly whom she had been expecting.
“Is everything all right, Chas?” Prudence asked.
“You look as if you've seen a ghost,” Constance said.
Chastity shook her head. “No, I was just contemplating how the best-laid plans oft gang awry.”
“Douglas,” Constance hazarded.
“Tell all,” Prudence demanded.
Chastity sighed, took a deep breath, and explained what had just happened. “And the worst of it is,” she concluded, “I didn't even try to stop him.” She tucked a red curl behind one ear with an air of distraction. “Actually, that isn't the worst of it. The worst of it is that I enjoyed it and I want to do it again.”
“Oh, Chas,” Constance said, sitting on the bed. “I thought you didn't like him.”
“I don't,” Chastity said helplessly. “Well, that's not strictly true. Sometimes I like him, until he says or does something to put my back up—like calling me a bantam, for God's sake,” she added with remembered annoyance. “But . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “I desire him. It's as simple—and as complicated—as that.”
“What a pickle,” Prudence observed, taking off her spectacles.
“Yes, it is,” Chastity said almost in despair. “It's all so dishonest. If he knew about the Go-Between . . . that I was the one he met in the National Gallery. Can you imagine how he'd feel? And apart from that, we can't have him distracted from his courtship of Laura.”
“But maybe he's not really interested in Laura,” Prudence said thoughtfully, polishing her glasses on her skirt. “If he's decided he's not, and there've been no promises or even vague murmurings on either side as yet, then he probably thinks it's perfectly reasonable to turn his attention elsewhere. And here you are.” She gestured towards her little sister with an open palm.
“Yes, but he can't,” Chastity said. “Apart from the whole deception business with the Go-Between, he has to marry for money, otherwise he won't be able to afford his mission. I couldn't possibly ruin his chances to do that just because I fancy a little dalliance.”
Prudence put her spectacles back on. She wondered if her baby sister really meant dalliance, or something more serious. But it was not a question she thought she could ask, since it was possible Chastity herself didn't know. “Well, we can put him right on the money score,” she said. “I'll let him know casually that you're as poor as a church mouse, and if that doesn't work, then Con and I will just have to protect you from him.”
“From temptation more like,” Constance said. “Sorry, Chas, I don't mean to make light of this but it does have its ironical side.”
“I know,” Chastity said with a heavy sigh. “Here am I trying to set him up with a suitable bride, one who fits his very precise specifications, and he's going off on frolics of his own. It would be fine if he found another bride other than Laura who would fit the bill, but he can't be distracted by me.”
“Well, Prue and I will hammer home the poverty nail and at the same time try to keep ourselves between him and you,” Constance declared. “We'll stick to him like glue and never give him a chance to be alone with you. How's that?”
Chastity shook her head. “He's going to think it very strange.”
“It doesn't matter what he thinks,” Prudence stated. “For the rest of the holiday one of us will be at his side at every waking moment.” She stood up from the deep window seat. “We'd better hurry and change for the evening. The carolers will be here soon. What's everyone wearing?”
“Chas needs to find something utterly frumpy and unappealing,” Constance said with a chuckle.
“I don't have anything,” Chastity said. “Unless Prue has that dreadful dress she wore when she first confronted Gideon. You know, that dun-colored one that made her look like some dreadfully prim and dour spinster schoolteacher.”
“It smelled of mothballs,” Prudence said reminiscently. “Poor Gideon, he didn't know what to make of it.”
“Well, do you have it down here?”
Prudence shook her head. “Even if I did, Chas couldn't wear it. Gideon would know immediately that we were playing some game and he'd be bound to say something that would ruin the effect.”
“I suppose you're right,” Chastity agreed with a reluctant nod. “I'll have to make do with what I've got.”
“We'll see you downstairs, then.” Constance went to the door. “Coming, Prue?”
The two sisters left the room and Chastity opened her wardrobe to survey the contents. She didn't actually possess a single garment that wasn't attractive. There wasn't really any incentive to spend money on clothes that didn't suit one. She didn't want to outshine Laura but that would be difficult to avoid since Laura seemed to favor only the most modest cuts and dull colors for her wardrobe. Whereas Chastity's clothes were almost universally as bright and vibrant as her hair.
With a shrug, she selected an evening dress of a rich chocolate-brown velvet. No one could call brown a vibrant color, she thought, but without much conviction. This gown had a wonderful luster to it and deeper shades rippling in its generous folds. When she surveyed herself in the mirror before going downstairs she saw an elegant woman in a glowing gown that fitted her body in all the right places. The richness of the color and the material imparted a bloom to her complexion and a luminous light to her hazel eyes that even the most critical self-examination couldn't deny.
She tried to pull her hair back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, hoping that would counteract some of the effects of the gown, but as usual the bright curls were uncooperative and escaped the pins in an unruly and quite charming cloud around her face. Even the scattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose seemed to have disappeared completely. On the one hand it was infuriating to know that despite all her efforts she looked at her very best, but on the other, shamefully pleasing to her vanity.
Oh, well, she thought, vanity's only human. She would have to rely on the protective wall of her sisters.
The party was already assembled in the great hall when she came down the stairs, and her gaze was immediately and unwittingly drawn to Douglas, who stood talking to Max and Gideon, who must have just arrived. As if Douglas sensed her look, he turned towards the stairs and a slow, appreciative smile curved his mouth. He made as if to move towards the stairs and Constance stepped quickly in front of him.
“You and Laura will enjoy a Boxing Day ride through our Hampshire countryside, Douglas.” She smiled at him over her sherry glass.
“Yes,” he agreed vaguely, watching over her shoulder as his quarry was lost in the embraces of a pair of elderly ladies at the bottom of the stairs. She seemed to shimmer in that lustrous velvet dress, he thought. “Uh, yes,” he said. “I'm sure.”
“I believe Laura is a most accomplished horsewoman,” Constance persevered. “I only hope we can find a horse in our stables that will suit her exacting standards.” She turned to include Laura Del
la Luca in the conversation. “Laura, I seem to remember your saying you had an Arabian mare, I believe.”
“Yes, indeed. I am very fond of riding. Of course, the Italian countryside, particularly in Tuscany, is wonderful. Such delightful hill towns to explore and of course the vineyards of Chianti. Utterly unparalleled.”
“Of course,” Constance said. “But I like to think that the New Forest has its own delights.” She turned to give Douglas an assessing glance. “I think one of my father's hunters will be up to your weight, Douglas.”
“Oh, it will be lovely to ride out together,” Laura said, with a gracious smile at Douglas. “A delightful excursion, Dottore. And we can discuss decorating. I am determined to look at your apartments on Wimpole Street as well. I'm certain they would benefit from a woman's touch.”
Douglas's eyes snapped back into focus. He blinked at Laura. This was assuming a little too much. “I find them quite satisfactory as they are,” he stated.
“Oh, that's because you don't see them with a woman's eye, Dottore,” Laura trilled, patting his arm, fixing him with her pale gaze. “When you see what I've done with your offices, you will know exactly what I mean.”
Douglas gazed rather wildly about him, looking for salvation. Chastity could not provide it. She had now inserted herself between her brothers-in-law and was talking animatedly to a child, who seemed to have a great deal to say for herself.
But it came in the form of her other sister. “Douglas, let me introduce you to Miss Winston, Sarah's governess,” Prudence said, coming up to them with a woman whose plain but pleasant countenance radiated intelligence and humor. “And this is Signorina Della Luca, Mary.” She gestured to Laura. “Miss Winston is a mine of information on Italian culture, Laura, I'm sure you'll enjoy talking with her. You speak Italian fluently, I believe, Mary?”
“I would hesitate to make such a claim, Lady Malvern,” Mary said quietly with a modest smile. “I speak it adequately.”
“Oh, well, one could only lay claim to fluency if one has lived there,” Laura said, regarding the governess with some disdain. “I don't imagine you've done that, Miss . . . uh . . . Winston, is it? Unless you were in service with an Italian family, perhaps?”
It was a very deliberate attempt to put the governess in her place and while Mary showed no obvious discomfort Douglas felt a flash of anger on her behalf. Disdain crossed his eyes as he looked at Laura, her rather small pinched mouth and colorless complexion not helped by a white taffeta evening dress that made nothing of her sticklike figure. Once again he caught himself wondering if the obvious advantages she would bring to a marriage of convenience were worth the irritations of her company. And once again he told himself that they need spend very little time in each other's company. Laura would not want a uxorious husband, just a useful one.
He was a shrewd judge of character and had met Laura's type many times before. She would be quite happy going about her own social business, arranging practical matters for him to suit her own purposes while leaving him to the total absorption of his work. A woman like Chastity Duncan, on the other hand, would demand much more of a husband. She would want an engaged partner, a sympathetic and stimulating companion . . . a passionate lover. His blood stirred at the reflection and he thrust it from his mind. He had had time enough in the last couple of hours to acknowledge that that impulsive kiss had indeed been an aberration. It merely muddled the clear-sighted vision he had constructed of his needs and his future. Chastity would be a good friend, and if there was a frisson of sexual attraction beneath the friendship, that would merely be a bonus. There was no room in his life for emotional entanglements—he'd learned that lesson long since.
But these reflections didn't dull his anger at Laura's discourtesy. He turned his shoulder to her and said warmly to Mary, “Would you say that there were any real similarities between Latin and Italian, Miss Winston? I'm an indifferent classicist, at least outside medical terminology, but I've always wondered if there's any connection. In the way that modern Greek is easily traced to ancient Greek.”
“An interesting question, Doctor,” Mary said.
“Oh, I don't believe there's any similarity at all,” Laura stated.
Douglas pretended he hadn't heard. He took Miss Winston's arm and drew away from Laura, engaging her in conversation. Laura looked a little surprised, as if wondering what had happened. Constance and Prudence exchanged a speaking glance and with a word of excuse abandoned their guest to her own opinions.
The sound of singing from the driveway beyond the front door provided welcome distraction. Jenkins crossed the hall with stately step and flung open the door, letting in a blast of freezing air. Caroling voices rose in the joyful verses of “Good King Wenceslas” and the house party trooped to the door to listen.
“Merry Christmas,” Lord Duncan said, flinging open his arms. “Come in, come in.” He was in his element, greeting the adult carolers by name, shaking hands, chucking children's chins. His daughters watched with pleasure. It seemed their father had at last returned to himself, embracing the ancient traditions of the lord of the manor with his old fervor.
Douglas stood with Mary Winston as they listened to the carols. The fine single malt in his glass was frequently replenished by Jenkins or one of his several assistants and the warmth of the occasion seeped into him. His suspicion bordering on contempt for these privileged English aristocratic traditions was blunted by the obvious good humor and general pleasure taken by both lord and tenants. He couldn't discern the slightest hint of social condescension on the part of the Duncan family. The daughters were helping to serve the carolers with mulled wine and mince pies, chatting cheerfully to everyone. It seemed as if they knew something personal about each one of their singing visitors.
Chastity, he noticed, was particularly concerned with the children, often kneeling down to talk to them so that she was at their level. She was smiling her lovely glowing smile, her large green-gold eyes filled with warmth. And try as he might, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Once she looked up and caught him watching her. A slight flush tinged her cheeks, then she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and turned away, reaching a hand to another child.
It would be quite natural for him to go over and join her—she was his hostess, after all—but he couldn't leave Mary Winston without someone to talk to. It would be insensitive, particularly after Laura's discourtesy. The child he had seen earlier bounced across to them. “Hello,” she said. “I'm Sarah Malvern. I think you're Dr. Farrell.”
“You think right,” he said with a smile.
“Is this your first Christmas here? It's mine too. I think it's going to be wonderful. We have the carols this evening and then dinner, only I'm not to stay up for dinner, but Mary and I will have dinner upstairs, roast chicken like everyone else. And I'm not to go to midnight mass, but I don't mind that, I don't really like going to church anyway, but we'll have to go tomorrow after breakfast. And then we have presents before Christmas lunch and then everyone will play games all afternoon and there'll be a cold supper because the servants will have their Christmas dinner in the servants' hall, so we have to serve ourselves. I can be downstairs for supper because we'll play more games afterwards, Aunt Chas says. Sardines and murder in the dark.” The child gave a delicious shudder.
“And then the next day, Boxing Day, we're to have the hunt and I'm going to hunt with Daddy and Prue. And then all the neighbors will come in for the hunt breakfast, except that it's not at breakfast time but in the afternoon when everyone gets back, and then Lord Duncan will give the servants their Christmas boxes.” She paused and drew what Douglas thought was probably her first breath since the recital had begun. “That's why it's called Boxing Day,” she said.
“Sarah's excited,” Mary said unnecessarily. “This is her first real Christmas.”
“Well, we've had Christmases before,” Sarah said seriously now and suddenly rather less childishly exuberant. “But it's always been just Daddy and Mary and
me.” She smiled up at Mary. “Not that it wasn't lovely to be with you and Daddy, Mary, but a big party is different, isn't it? It's a real family affair. All these aunts and guests.” She waved an expansive hand at the assembled company.
“A real family affair,” Douglas agreed with solemnity, hiding a smile as he noticed Mary Winston was also doing.
“Have you had family Christmases before, Dr. Farrell?” Sarah now asked.
“Many of them,” he said. “I have six sisters, you see.”
“Six!” Sarah's eyes widened. “Are they older or younger?”
“All older.”
“Tell me about them,” Sarah demanded.
Mary Winston said gently, “You can't monopolize Dr. Farrell, Sarah. I'm sure other people would like to talk to him.”
“Oh.” Sarah glanced around. “I don't see anyone.”
And neither did Douglas. He still wanted to talk to Chastity; the longer he waited to restore their usual easy manner with each other, the more the awkward memory of that kiss would stand between them, but she was deeply involved with a circle of children and showed no inclination even to glance his way.
“Well, perhaps you should come and meet Daddy and Uncle Max,” Sarah said, taking his hand. “I'll introduce you.”
“I have already met them,” Douglas said.
“Then come and talk to them some more,” Sarah declared. “Mary will come too, won't you?”
“I hardly think that's necessary, Sarah,” Mary said. “You and Dr. Farrell go and talk to your father and Mr. Ensor. I shall go and talk to Lady Malvern's aunts.” She nodded at Douglas, a friendly nod that somehow acknowledged an understanding, and made her way over to the aunts.
“Come along, then, Dr. Farrell,” Sarah said, giving his hand the slightest tug. “Do you know Latin? I'm learning it and I find the grammar really complicated. The order of the subjects and verbs seems so illogical, it drives me mad sometimes.”