Marry Christmas (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jane Goodger

  “The baskets are all prepared. I’ve put the names of the tenants on each one. The old Duchess used to just scrape all the leavings, desserts and all, into one large pile, but since she’s been gone we started arranging it a bit more nicely.”

  “How wonderful,” Elizabeth said, meaning it. Something to do. Some meaningful thing to do to keep her mind off her hateful husband and his awful visits. She’d bar the door if she thought it would keep him out. He continued coming to her even though he knew she hated him, hated the way he released himself with a grunt and then left her lying on her bed wishing for her own release. She lay there like a statue, refusing to look at him, refusing to touch him, refusing to let him do anything but empty his seed into her. She prayed to become pregnant, but just that morning her monthlies had begun again and she was beginning to despair that she’d ever become pregnant. She’d been married for two months already. Surely that was enough time to have become pregnant.

  “Let me get my wrap and muff,” Elizabeth gushed, rushing off to her room to fetch a suitable hat. Tisbury apparently had been alerted to Mrs. Stevens’s mission, for he stood at the door holding her coat and muff.

  “Thank you, Tisbury,” Elizabeth said happily. Oh, she was so glad to be out of this mausoleum even if it was only for a few hours.

  As they headed out of the long drive, Mrs. Stevens filled Elizabeth in on who they would be visiting. Most were widows, with or without children, who were left to fend for themselves with little income coming in. But more than a few were families who could hardly afford the little food they needed, never mind the rents they owed the duke.

  “The new duke has been a savior, as I’m sure you know. I think they’re planning to write to the Pope to nominate him for sainthood and they’re not even Catholic,” Mrs. Stevens said, giving off a hearty laugh.

  Elizabeth didn’t know what she was talking about, but sat back enjoying the sound of a voice that wasn’t her own. She didn’t even care that a fine drizzle fell from the gray, heavy sky. To her it was the most glorious day.

  “We’ll stop at the Gibbons’ house first. It was a sight before His Grace came back, but now it’s the coziest little cottage in all of Bellingham.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the small cottage, thinking it looked like the perfect little English cottage. In the spring it would be covered with roses, no doubt, if the multitude of dormant rosebushes were any indication. The roof looked new, the outside walls freshly whitewashed, and the multipaned windows sparkled as if they’d just been polished.

  “It’s lovely,” Elizabeth said, smiling as Mrs. Stevens handed her down a basket heavy with food.

  “There’s Mrs. Gibbons now,” the housekeeper said with a nod toward a woman who was hurriedly smoothing down her skirts and patting her hair to make certain it was neat.

  “Mrs. Gibbons,” Elizabeth said. “You are the first of my husband’s tenants that I’ve met. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Your home is lovely.” Elizabeth didn’t care if she wasn’t acting like a duchess might, and from the shocked face Mrs. Gibbons was giving her, she probably wasn’t. Or perhaps it was simply her American accent that was so enthralling the woman.

  Mrs. Gibbons gave a quick curtsy. She was wearing a stained apron over her blue flower-print dress, which she hastily removed, throwing it somewhere behind her. “So glad to meet you, Yer Grace,” she said, smiling widely. “Please come in.”

  Elizabeth followed the older woman into the house, expecting it to be as cold as her own house when she noted the empty fireplace, but was pleasantly surprised when she was greeted by warmth.

  “Don’t need a fire ’cepting on the coldest nights now,” she said, seeing where Elizabeth looked. “His Grace put in heating. And indoor plumbing.”

  “You have a toilet?” Elizabeth asked, purely surprised given that she had been using a chamber pot since she’d come to England.

  “A flush toilet,” Mrs. Gibbons said, beaming. “Come an’ see.” Elizabeth followed Mrs. Gibbons into a room that had obviously been recently added to the house to accommodate a sink, toilet, and, heaven above, a bathtub. Mrs. Gibbons proudly flushed her toilet, then turned on the hot water. “It’s like a little bit of heaven right here in my own house,” she said.

  “It certainly is.”

  Mrs. Gibbons flushed, as if suddenly aware how she was going on about indoor plumbing. “I’m certain you’re used to such luxuries.”

  “No, indeed, Mrs. Gibbons. In fact, you have far more indoor plumbing than Bellewood. I’m quite jealous,” she said, laughing a bit. “His Grace wanted to make certain his tenants’ homes were brought up to date first, you see.”

  “His Grace is a saint,” the woman said, meaning every syllable. “Why, I see him at a different house every day, making sure the workers are doing their jobs, inspectin’ the goods that come in. He even helps out some, and no duke I’ve ever known would do that. It’s a miracle.”

  Elizabeth let the woman gush on, feeling none of the charity toward her husband that everyone else did. She had to stop herself from telling the woman that the money her “sainted” husband was using was her own. No doubt, the woman knew that. She felt rather catty just thinking such a thing, but he had been so wretched to her lately she couldn’t stop herself, even if such a thought made her immediately feel guilty.

  They made their way from the new bathroom to the kitchen, where again a new sink and faucets had been installed. “Makes me feel like a queen,” Mrs. Gibbons said.

  Elizabeth looked around the small cottage, smiling at its quaintness. It was obvious they were poor, but the cottage was neat, the floor spotless, even if the furniture was a bit worn or covered with blankets, no doubt to hide something unsightly. Above the mantel, Elizabeth spied a lovely collection of carved figures that seemed out of place in such a humble home. They appeared to be costly works of art that would look far more appropriate in an expensive home than in this tiny English cottage.

  “These are lovely,” Elizabeth said, picking up one figure of a woman sitting on a chair knitting, a small cat at her feet playfully batting a bit of yarn. She realized, with a start, that the woman look remarkably like Mrs. Gibbons. The detail, given the piece was carved from wood, was nothing short of remarkable.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” a man said from behind her. Elizabeth whirled about to see a man sitting in the shadows in a corner. He was covered from head to toe with a blanket, and only his head with its three tufts of hair—on top and on each side—were showing. He hadn’t gotten up or said a word when she’d entered before, so Elizabeth hadn’t realized anyone else was in the house.

  “Oh, my manners,” Mrs. Gibbons said apologetically. “This is my husband, Nathaniel. Those help him pass the time.” She said it rather dismissively, or apologetically, which completely baffled Elizabeth.

  Pass the time? They belonged in a museum, Elizabeth thought. It took her only a few moments to realize why Mr. Gibbons hadn’t gotten up. The poor man had lost his legs from the knee down.

  Seeing her notice, he said gruffly, “Boer War.”

  Elizabeth nodded her understanding and turned back to the carvings. “Mr. Gibbons, these are the finest carvings I’ve ever seen,” Elizabeth said.

  “They’re just to pass time,” Mr. Gibbons said, repeating his wife’s words, but Elizabeth could tell he was pleased.

  Elizabeth looked back at the carvings. There were perhaps twenty of them, all different subjects, all completely charming. She knew people who would pay dearly for carvings as lovely as these.

  “Mr. Gibbons, could I have one of these?”

  The man looked completely startled, as if puzzled why she could ask such a thing.

  “I’d like to send one to my mother in New York City.”

  “To America?” The idea had completely flummoxed him.

  “Yes. I think she would love it,” she said. And, Elizabeth was certain a great many of her mother’s friends would also love such a carving. If she was right, Mr. Gibbons would be abl
e to make some sort of living from his art.

  “Of course. Take two, if you like.” The man was beaming now.

  “Imagine,” Mrs. Gibbons breathed, “all the way to America.” She looked at the carvings as if she hadn’t seen them before.

  “I’ll just need the one for now,” Elizabeth assured him.

  Soon after, Elizabeth and Mrs. Stevens left the Gibbons to themselves and headed for the other cottages.

  “That was very kind of you, if I’m not being too forward, Your Grace.”

  “It wasn’t kindness at all,” she said. “Those carvings are truly remarkable.” Elizabeth felt a fission of excitement for she had discovered her first project as duchess. It was a wonderful feeling to know she had the power to change someone’s life. If she got even a small order of carvings from one of New York’s finer shops, the Gibbons’ lives would be made so much better. Now she knew the power of money as she never did before. Of course she’d always been aware of her mother’s philanthropy, but to meet the person who would be helped made such a thing more tangible. Begrudgingly, she realized that Rand likely already knew that. He didn’t have to spend money on those houses the way he had.

  The tenants would have been satisfied with a new roof and small repairs. Instead, he was making them houses they could be proud of, houses with modern conveniences he didn’t even have yet in his own home.

  “There’s His Grace now,” Mrs. Stevens said, pointing toward another little cottage in the midst of repairs. He stood amongst several men, looking over a large piece of paper and pointing to the house. Even from a distance there was something about him that drew the eye, an intangible quality that made her want to look away because it hurt so much to see him. The noise from the carriage drew his attention away from the house and when he looked toward them, their gazes connected.

  Elizabeth immediately turned away and pushed back into her seat, not even lifting a hand to acknowledge that she had seen him.

  “Just four more houses,” said Mrs. Stevens, who rattled off names Elizabeth almost immediately forgot.

  She couldn’t think of anything at the moment, her joy of the day sucked away by one chance sighting of her husband. Why did he have to be so handsome? Why did every single person she met have to gush on and on about how wonderful, how charitable, how lovely the new duke was? She should tell them all that he was a horrid, horrid man who didn’t deserve their admiration. Even as she thought such a thing she knew she was lying to herself.

  Her heart was still beating madly simply from seeing him. He’d have a good chuckle if he knew how his wife was pining after him. He wouldn’t come to her tonight, thank God, because she had her monthlies. She wouldn’t see him or touch him, or smell him. Not that she wanted to. What they’d been doing in her bed, it was not something she enjoyed. Nothing had changed since that first time. No tender words were exchanged, no caresses that made her burn. She would look into his eyes hoping to see something, but was disappointed each night. She dreaded it and yet…it did give her the ridiculous hope that one night he’d come to her and drag her into his arms and tell her he loved her. Or maybe some night she’d get the courage to tell him she wanted more, she didn’t want a baby. She wanted him. She wanted him to love her.

  God, how she missed him.

  Chapter 23

  Elizabeth went on rounds twice a week on Mondays and Thursdays and spent the rest of the week wishing it was Monday or Thursday. Just as she was about to go mad from boredom, their furniture began to arrive. She hadn’t realized they’d ordered so much until wagon after wagon began pulling up to Bellewood. Decorating, apparently, was an inborn talent, she realized, gotten from a mother who had been incessantly changing their houses and furnishings to match the latest styles. While Elizabeth wasn’t as obsessed as her mother, she found her choices were perfect for the massive house. For the next week, when she wasn’t going on rounds, she was directing men where to put various pieces she’d picked out weeks ago. Huge carpets were rolled out, covering the cold marble floors and making the rooms instantly more welcoming. Massive tables were placed in the grand entry hall, towering gilded mirrors were placed on either side of the hall, making it appear even larger.

  Once in a while Rand would walk into his house and look around, his expression inscrutable. She never knew what he was thinking, whether he was pleased or disappointed in her choices, and she told herself she didn’t care. His visits had continued after her monthlies were over, but they had little contact other than that. When he did come to her, it was almost as if he didn’t want to, as if his visitations had become a chore—and an unwanted one at that.

  Nearly all the public rooms were filled with furniture, paintings, rugs, and expensive vases stuffed with flowers that arrived weekly, brought in from London. Elizabeth didn’t know why Rand had bothered allowing such a thing, for no one saw them but for her and the servants. She had mentioned casually that the house should have fresh flowers, and they’d begun arriving almost as soon as they had vases to put them in. She was quite sure the constant stream of workers hardly noticed the pretty blooms.

  Then, as the days grew a bit warmer with March, renovations on the main house began. It was a constant nightmare of dust, banging, crashes, and men shouting orders. Amidst this, the first post from America arrived.

  Elizabeth joyfully grabbed the letters addressed to her and ran to her room, where it was blessedly quiet—or at least more quiet than any other place in the house. Even though Elizabeth knew all the noise meant eventually central heating and plumbing, she was getting rather weary of the constant disruption of the workers.

  The first letter she read was from her mother, detailing a new house she was building in the city, down to the type of Italian marble she was using for the mantel in her sitting room. Her letter was also filled with news about people she’d known all her life, little tidbits such as who was having baby, who was getting married, and even a rather risqué bit about a woman who was being shunned because she’d had the audacity to get caught with her lover by her husband. Elizabeth wondered blithely if that last story was true or simply a reminder from her mother for her to remain faithful to her husband. Elizabeth wondered if she should set her mother at ease by telling her the only men she’d seen since leaving New York were rough workers and a married man without legs.

  Maggie’s letters were simply wonderful. It was almost like talking to her old friend. She’d written three, which Elizabeth immediately put in order according to date. The first letter was written shortly after Elizabeth had left, for she could tell her friend had been truly hurt by her abrupt departure. The second was written after Maggie had received Elizabeth’s first letter home, detailing her horrendous crossing, which apparently Maggie found rather amusing. She laughed aloud several times, as Maggie talked about the Wright brothers and how Arthur in particular was making overtures that were getting more and more difficult to ignore. Elizabeth almost sensed that Maggie was actually coming round to the idea that Arthur might perhaps make a good husband. Her friend mentioned Lord Hollings only once, asking whether she had seen him since coming to England. Elizabeth had wondered if Maggie had developed strong feelings for Lord Hollings, but apparently she had not.

  She lay the second letter aside with a sigh. How wonderful it would have been if Maggie and Lord Hollings had married. Then she’d have a friend here in England and wouldn’t be quite so lonely.

  Maggie’s third letter had been written only days after the second, and was the briefest of the three.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  I pray this letter finds you well and happy. I had to tell you some news lest you hear it from someone else in passing. Henry has married Charlotte Grayson.

  Elizabeth lowered the letter and stared at the new carpet at her feet. Charlotte Grayson? Henry had married Charlotte Grayson? Charlotte was perhaps the most noxious person she knew both in looks and temperament, and she was also one of the wealthiest heiresses in New York. In fact, she was the second wealthiest,
other than herself. Her eyes went back to the letter, willing herself to finish it.

  Please brace yourself for the next and remember I am your dearest, dearest friend. I am not trying to hurt you but to give you a chance at a good life with a man who I believe may love you. Charlotte does not know I am your closest friend and she confided it to me, the hateful girl. She knows fully well that Henry married her for her fortune and doesn’t seem to care a bit (which doesn’t say much for her character). She is the most horrid girl I know. Oh, Elizabeth, Henry has joked about you with her, about your meeting in Tiffany’s, about how he was certain you could not go through with your wedding. Perhaps those feelings he professed to have for you were sincere, but I find it unforgivable that he made light of such a thing with Charlotte. I had to tell you, even at the risk of losing you as a friend, for you cannot hold out any hope that you can ever be together. I’m so very sorry.

  I pray I am still your very good friend,

  Margaret

  Elizabeth let out a short sob. “Oh, God,” she whispered. It had all been a lie, every word out of his charming mouth. She felt beyond foolish to have loved him, to have believed he loved her. All those hours yearning for him, all those heartfelt stolen moments, those ridiculous tender words. She’d worn that necklace, read those words and felt a bit of sick hope that some day they’d be together…And he’d been laughing at her the whole time. How Charlotte and he must enjoy talking about her, the silly little rich girl. All those hours crying and begging her mother to let them be together. All the wasted tears. What a ridiculous, naive girl she had been. Never before in her life had she been so filled with self-loathing.

  Perhaps the most unforgivable thing was that she’d hurt a good man because of her foolishness, thrown real love away because of some pretend emotion. Tears coursed down her face unchecked as she realized for the first time exactly what she had done to Rand. She did not warrant his love, was only getting what a silly, foolish girl deserved.