by Jo Beverley
Yes, he probably had been. He seemed honestly warm to his family, but the Dark Marquess was still there. It had been he who’d crossed swords with Ashart, and she couldn’t forget that he had killed.
“Thalia, do you know what Rothgar and Ashart were talking about down there? About truth, and explosives?”
“Oh, no, dear. How could I? It’s a very shifty sort of thing, though, truth.”
“Explosives aren’t. Look at Guy Fawkes.”
“But he was stopped, dear, so that was all right. You mustn’t worry about these matters. Men sort them out for themselves. Now, I’m going early to bed, but you must rejoin the company and enjoy yourself.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Now, now, this matter of you being a companion is mostly fiction. You’re here to have pleasure and,” Thalia added with a romantic smile, “you will want to spend more time with dear Ashart.”
Dear Ashart, my foot! “I’m tired, too, Thalia. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Thalia pouted. “Oh, very well, but I will not have you hiding away! Or hovering over Callie and me.”
“I won’t.” Genova meant that. She’d pay guineas for moments alone.
“What is that lovely box, dear?”
Genova turned to look. “It holds my presepe. That’s an Italian Nativity scene—the stable and figures. My family always set it up for Christmas wherever we were.”
We. An entity that was gone forever.
“Then you must set it up here, dear!”
Genova smiled at the dear lady. “I admit, I had hoped to.”
Despite her former claim of tiredness, Thalia bounced out of her chair and over to the box. “Excellent. I long to see it!”
She waited, eager as a child, as Genova turned the key and raised the lid. As always, Thalia’s open pleasure was contagious and drove away lingering concerns.
Genova took out the folded cloth on top and opened it. “My mother called this the flowers-in-the-snow. It was very grand once, but it’s sadly shabby now.”
She used Hester’s word deliberately. Sometimes wounds needed to be opened for them to heal. “I have a new one, the one I’ve been embroidering.”
She smoothed the new cloth on a small, square table. She’d managed to set the last stitches today without her frame, including the ones necessary to hide the damage done that morning in the fight with Ashart.
That fight.
That kiss…
“Oh, I see now what you were doing.” Thalia compared the two cloths, then touched the old one. “Well-worn, but it was lovely work once.”
A knot inside Genova loosened. She folded the old cloth gently and put it aside, then took out the first rag-wrapped bundles and began to undo them. “These are the pieces of the stable. I must set this up first.”
“What fun!”
Thalia took over the unwrapping, watching as Genova slotted together the pieces of wood. Genova set it up on the cloth on the table, but then she looked at the fireplace.
“We’ve always put it on a mantelpiece when possible,” she said.
“Then you must here, too!”
Thalia moved the gilt, lyre-form clock to the end of the mantelpiece, and Genova spread the cloth in the center. Her work was not as fine as the original, but the gold shone in the candlelight, and the flowers bloomed afresh. Then she set the assembled stable in the center.
Regeanne returned with a restoring tisane. With cries of alarm and scowls at Genova, she tried to get Thalia back into her chair. Thalia took the tisane but brushed the rest aside.
“See, Regeanne. We are going to set up a Nativity scene. A presepe, Genova calls it.”
“Une creche.” Regeanne nodded, mellowing a little. “It will be very nice to have. If you do not need me, milady, may I visit the nurseries to see how the petit ange goes on?”
Thalia gave her blessing, and Regeanne left. Thalia returned to the box, clearly longing to discover it all. She reminded Genova of her own excitement as a child, bringing a smile and some of the old magic.
“Yes, we can add some of the figures. You unwrap, and I’ll put them in place.”
Thalia set to. “Oh, an ox! How very well made. And a sheep and lamb. How lovely!” She exclaimed with delight at each discovery, banishing every taint and shadow.
“What’s that song, dear? A carol?”
Genova realized she’d been humming the song she and her parents had always sung as they set up the presepe. She hesitated because she didn’t have a strong voice, but then began to sing.
In the stable, in the wild,
Came the mother, Mary mild.
Came the star as bright as day,
Came the angels, lutes to play.
Lutes to play, joy a-ringing,
At the sound of angels singing.
Joy, joy, joy, joy…
She smiled at Thalia. “It’s a round that works well with three voices.”
“Teach it to me.”
Genova had never heard Thalia sing before, but she had a sweet if thin voice. She soon learned the song and they wove their voices together as they put in more animals. Genova and her father had sung it with just two voices last year, missing the third voice, her mother’s…
Thalia stopped singing and took her hand. “My poor dear. Sad memories?”
Genova couldn’t deny it. Tears were blurring her vision. “Just two Christmases ago, we were all together. Now everything is changed.”
She managed not to say that she was alone, which might offend, but that’s how she felt. Thalia was a dear, but she wasn’t family. Genova’s only real family was her father, and he wasn’t hers anymore now that he’d remarried.
Thalia patted her hand. “There, there, dear. We all miss a mother’s love, but soon you’ll be a mother yourself. That will fill the void, and Ashart needs that, too.”
Create a child with Lord Ashart? Horror collided with something else.
Thalia opened the locket that she always wore pinned to her gown. “I understand loss, dear.”
Genova looked at the miniature of a gentleman in the age of the long, full wig. He was upside-down to her, but he would be right side up to Thalia whenever she opened it. Thalia’s Richard looked young and merry. Genova had known a number of young, merry men who were now dead.
“I’m very sorry, Thalia.”
“It’s long ago now, dear, and Richard did so enjoy going to war. He idolized the Duke of Marlborough. Such a splendid man he was. Marlborough, I mean, though Richard would have been, too, had he lived. Twenty-six,” she sighed. “At the very beginning of life. The same age as Ashart.”
Genova hadn’t known the marquess’s age, and would have thought him a little older. The price of a wicked life.
Thalia looked at the picture again, then snapped the locket closed. “You probably both feel old enough to be past folly, but you’re not. You have your lives before you. Please don’t take the wrong path.”
Genova guessed what Thalia meant and distracted her with more figures. What would Thalia do to promote her scheme, though? Genova told herself she couldn’t be trapped. All she needed to escape was open disagreements, and judging from their exchange downstairs, that would be easy.
Soon the presepe was at the stage her family had always created on December 13—an ordinary, ramshackle stable with farmyard animals in and around. At the far end of the mantelpiece, Joseph and Mary-on-the-donkey were on their way to Bethlehem.
That had been another problem for Hester. The presepe had two Marys. One was the heavily pregnant figure on the donkey. The other was slender and formed to kneel by the manger. Genova had always loved that magical transformation on Christmas Eve, but Hester had pursed her lips and said that such an obviously fruitful Mother of God was not suitable for her grandchildren.
And Genova’s father had not said a word.
Thalia, blessed Thalia, only said, “How hard it must have been to travel in that condition. I have always been thankful n
ot to be a saint. So demanding.”
Genova chuckled.
“There are still some figures to unwrap.” Thalia was hovering near the box and Genova remembered how she, too, had always found it hard to ration out this treat. This time there was no need. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
“If you unwrap the rest,” she said, “we can set them along the mantelpiece, waiting.”
Thalia plunged in, and Genova took shepherds, angels, and extra animals, ready to talk of what this meant to her.
“My parents bought the presepe in Naples just before I was born. My father always says that if I’d been a little speedier, I might have been called Napolia.”
“Genova is much prettier, dear.”
“Perhaps that’s why I waited. Then, when I was born, one of the sailors carved a little lamb to add to the Nativity scene. It started a tradition. Every year on Christmas Eve my father would add an animal.”
Just in time, she managed not to say that it was a birthday gift. The last thing she needed was the attention that might bring.
“Over time, they became stranger and stranger. How my mother laughed at the tiger! This one,” Genova said, holding up the gaudy Chinese dragon, “was the last before my mother died. A Chinese dragon is supposed to bring good fortune…”
Thalia patted her arm. “Your mother is happier in a higher place, dear, and watching over you.”
Genova smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering what Mary Smith thought. She pushed bitterness aside. She knew her mother would be delighted that her dear William had found new comfort.
Then all the animals were around the stable, and the shepherds, angels, and glorious kings stood ready at a distance. Thalia picked up the baby Jesus and moved to put him in the manger. Genova took the figure and tucked it out of sight behind the stable along with the Mother Mary figure, the slender one.
“Not until Christmas Eve,” she said, remembering her mother doing and saying the same thing to her. Act and reaction had become a ritual along with so many other steps of this tradition.
Thalia peered into the box, clearly hoping for one more treat, but then closed it. “All done.” She stepped back and cocked her head. “It looks very well and is a delightful tradition. Now, dear, as you’re going downstairs again, you must dress.”
Genova had hoped she’d forgotten. “I’m tired, Thalia.”
“Nonsense. Ashart will be missing you!”
Genova tried to argue, but then noticed that her friend did look worn yet seemed unable to rest with company around. This shared room was going to create many problems, but she could solve this one by leaving for a while.
As if to settle the matter, Regeanne returned and took Thalia’s side. Genova allowed the two women to arrange her as if for a play. Regeanne went into the dressing room and returned with a blue gros de Naples gown.
It was three years old, but Mrs. Rimshaw, the Trayce ladies’ mantua maker, had refurbished it quite magically with embroidery and seed pearls. It was open from the waist down to reveal a new petticoat of white figured silk.
Genova had four new shifts, as well, each with ruffles to show at the neckline and elbow. They were in addition to three entirely new gowns that were gifts from the Trayce ladies. Genova had protested, but they had insisted, saying that they were return for her kindness in agreeing to be their companion on this visit.
“The embroidered net ruffles tonight,” said Thalia, picking a shift. “Nothing too grand for a family evening, dear. But your hair must be redressed in a more relaxed style.”
Genova hadn’t known that Regeanne was a truly skilled lady’s maid until she went to work on her. Her hair was rearranged and paint delicately applied to her face.
Genova had never learned skill with maquillage, and she stared, impressed by the effect.
Regeanne smirked. “Me, I have not forgotten how to make a young lady look her best.”
“No, you haven’t. Thank you, Regeanne.”
The maid inclined her head. “Some young ladies use the heavy paint. It is folly. The old use the paint to look like the young!”
“Twenty-two is not so young as that,” said Genova, standing, “though perhaps I feel young at this moment.” She put her hand on her stomach, which felt full of flutters. “What do I do?”
“Don’t worry, dear. Good hosts take care of their guests, and I’m sure dear Beowulf and Diana are excellent hosts. And Ashart will take especial care of you.”
“Oh, Thalia…” Genova hated to live this lie.
“Now, now, dear, I doubt he’ll feel it a burden, and you cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy exchanging words with him! Your eyes sparkled, and your color was pretty without use of the rouge pot.”
Genova didn’t know what to say but tried to prepare Thalia for the future. “I do worry about our different stations in life. I’m not the sort to be a grand lady.”
“Oh, fie! Love doesn’t count such things. Beowulf and Diana seem quite as devoted as I would wish, and I want no less for Ashart.”
“Lady Arradale is rich and noble.”
“Which has nothing to do with it, dear.”
Genova slipped the ribbon of her fan onto her wrist. “You never call Ashart by his Christian name.”
Thalia pulled a face. “The dowager is quite ferocious about formality. She threatened not to let me see him if I called him Charles. Now, it doesn’t feel right.”
“Charles,” Genova echoed.
“The Trayce family has a tradition of using only Stuart names. No Hanoverian Georges or Fredericks among us. Thank heavens no one thought to put action to the thought and support the Jacobite risings. We were all in a quake at the time, I assure you! The Stuarts have always had a fatal charm. There is a rumor that Sophia’s father was Charles II. She does have the look, and Ashart has it, too.”
Sophia was the dowager Lady Ashart, Thalia’s sister-in-law.
“Royal blood?” Genova gasped.
“But safely on the wrong side of the blanket. Off you go and enjoy yourself, but behave! You can marry as soon as you wish, so there’s no need for impatience. Are you sure you want banns, dear… ?”
Regeanne was draping Genova’s merino shawl around her shoulders. Genova gathered it and escaped before Thalia pinned her down to day and minute.
Chapter Eighteen
As Genova shut the door behind her, shivering slightly in the cooler air, she realized that no footman waited. Perhaps she hadn’t been expected to return downstairs, or perhaps she should have rung for service. Whatever the cause, her reaction was delight.
She looked up and down the corridor. The coast was clear. She had freedom, which as Lord Rothgar had pointed out, was beyond price. Before it could be snatched away, she hurried off in the opposite direction to the main staircase.
Perhaps it was scandalously impolite to wander a house in which she was a guest, but she wouldn’t enter any rooms. She just wanted some peace and quiet in which to think.
She turned into another corridor where dim light suggested lack of current use. The light came from occasional candles well guarded with glass that provided only enough illumination to prevent accidents.
As a result, Genova felt she progressed into a mystery, but one blessed with solitude. And not only solitude but the opportunity for exercise! Even in Tunbridge Wells, constrained by Hester’s ideas of what was suitable, she had managed walks to shops, church, and the lending library. In the past few days her only walks had been from vehicle to inn.
She followed whatever turn took her fancy, setting a brisk pace and swinging her arms until she’d shaken the misery from her bones. Probably much of her blue-deviled mood had been simply need for this.
Heart beating, skin tingling, she paused to stretch, reaching out on either side to walls still far away, then up, up, to the shadowy ceiling. Then she carried on, regretting that tomorrow guests would pour in, filling the house.
She stopped. What an ingrate she was. She’d thrilled to the idea of a grand house party but
now wanted to be alone. She’d been desperate to escape Hester’s house, but now she almost wished she were back there, where the trials were familiar. She continued her walk, pondering this.
As she’d left childhood, she’d grown weary of the hardships of navy life. Even the best ships stank down below, where—if you were lucky—poor animals were confined to provide milk and meat for the voyage. Transporting cavalry horses was even worse.
On a long voyage food was often limited, and sometimes barely edible. Knocking weevils out of biscuits and scraping mold off cheese were everyday matters.
Weevils. She directed a baleful thought at Ashart, wherever he was.
In fine weather the sea could be beautiful, but in foul, it was hell. Then, no part of the ship could be completely dry, and those not needed to fight the storm huddled in misery in places awash with sloshing seawater and worse.
Life ashore had been a delight by comparison. With the thoughtless selfishness of youth, she’d sometimes prayed for battles, because then she and her mother were left in the nearest port. Often she’d wished for a permanent home back in England, and fate had given it to her. When her mother died, her father had retired, and they’d settled in a pleasant house overlooking Portsmouth.
Had she been happy?
No, but how could she be with her father so miserable? He’d seemed to need her company, perhaps as substitute for that of his Mary, but hadn’t welcomed guests. She’d made some friends, but had little opportunity to spend time with them.
Then Hester Poole, the widowed sister of a fellow officer, had come into their lives. Her father had found joy again. The move to Tunbridge Wells had not appeared to be a problem, since Genova hadn’t set down deep roots in Portsmouth.
Now, within months, she’d seized this chance to escape, and the thought of returning there filled her with panic. It wasn’t just that she found her new home oppressive; she feared what she would do. A screaming match with Hester would break her father’s heart. Her suppressed unhappiness was already wounding it.
After the distressing confrontation over the presepe, her father had helped her pack it away, trying to make light of the problem. As they’d closed the box, he’d said, “We always made a presepe wish, didn’t we?”