A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  So intent were they on each other, that neither noted Oliver Crandall bend a suddenly penetrating glance on the two of them.

  "Well, I — " Maggie began, confusion flooding her cheeks most becomingly with color.

  "Why, she no doubt agrees that is a capital notion," Mr. Crandall unexpectedly finished for her. The next thing she knew she had been swooped up into a pair of masculine arms and was being carried down the stairway. "Bring the chair, will you, old boy?" called Mr. Crandall cheerfully over his shoulder. "Miss Willoughby and I shall be waiting for you in the Hall."

  Maggie, after glimpsing the earl's face, white-lipped with anger, hardly knew what she feit. One thing was for certain. She was careful not to look back again. She was filled with an even greater confusion, however, a few moments later, when she was borne, protesting with laughter, into the presence of her parents' houseguests. For a moment she had a sinking feeling of deja-vu as she looked up to find the dowager duchess's magnified eye regarding her through an ivory-handled quizzing glass. Maggie swallowed.

  "Mama," she pronounced, singling out the one in the room most likely to be sympathetic, "Mr. Crandall, as you see, has been kind enough to bring me down. And here is his lordship with my chair, so you need not worry that I am likely to do any further injury to my ankle. I do hope I am not too late."

  "On the contrary. Miss Willoughby," purred Lady Gwendolyn. Waving her tortoiseshell fan gently to and fro, she watched as the two handsomest men in the room went to great pains to see the little Willoughby comfortably seated. "I should say you have your timing down to perfection."

  Fortunately, the clamor of voices and the sounds of hilarity issued just then from the foyer.

  The door burst open to admit Mr. Willoughby at the forefront of a jovial band, ranging in age from Uncle William, Grandfather Willoughby's younger brother, all the way down to little Jeremy Brewster, who was not above five. Into the room they marched, bearing with them a barrellike log, having a girth greater than the arm-span of a sizeable man.

  "Mrs. Willoughby, honored guests," announced the lord of the manor, his face rosy-cheeked from the cold. "Let the bowl of cider be brought in honor of a truly magnificent log. Hazel it is, circled by nine bands, one each for the unmarried maidens who wait to see who shall be the first to the altar. And for the consolation of the gentlemen, my vow of a new bowl of cider for each snapping of the withe."

  A shout of approval shook the ceiling beams at that pronouncement. Mr. Willoughby bowed, then, lifting his arm, signaled the promenade to begin.

  "Thrice around the room, merry band," he commanded, filling his glass from the bowl of cider mixed with brandy, which the footman had brought. "Thrice around and then into the hearth."

  When the march about the room had been accomplished with a great deal of hilarity and the yule log had found its place on the flagstones of the fireplace, Mr. Willoughby poured over it the libation to the spirits of those who had passed away. At last, little Winifred, the youngest of Maggie's sisters, was brought forward. With a brand from the previous year's log clutched tightly in

  her freshly washed hands, she knelt to light the yule log.

  Maggie, her eyes rapt on the flames leaping up to ignite the withes that bound the sticks of hazel to the log, found herself wondering who would be the lucky girl to claim the band that broke first. Not that she placed the least credence in what was only an absurd superstition. The order in which the bands succumbed to the flames could not possibly predict the sequence in which the single females would be married. It was simply that it was traditional. And waiting for the bands to break, with a loud crack that could be heard all over the house, added a spice of excitement to the evening.

  "Oh, Maggie, isn't it marvelous?" exclaimed Charlotte, coming to grasp her cousin's hands. "I have drawn the thinnest of the bands. There, that one near the end. It is almost certain to go first. Caroline Guthrie, who has only just had the banns announced, was simply devastated at drawing the fourth one from the left."

  "Oh, dear, and who can blame her?" Maggie said, entering into the spirit of the thing. "It is clearly the widest, save for that one, nearest the middle."

  "You will be happy to know, dearest Maggie, that we have saved that one especially for you," Lady Gwendolyn informed her as she inserted herself neatly between Charlesworth and Oliver Crandall. "Miss Willoughby," she confided to the two gentlemen, "has made it plain that she is not the least interested in matrimony. She once informed me herself that she would far rather remain here at Willoughby."

  "Once—a long time ago," Maggie answered, wishing she might scratch the older girl's eyes out. How like Lady Gwendolyn to dredge up something she had said as a mere child in the heat of anger! "And, indeed, I should never deny that I love my home."

  "But of course you would not, my dear. No one would expect you to. After all, the country suits you so well. I, on the other hand, fear London has absolutely spoiled

  me for more rustic pursuits. One grows so used to having the opera, the theatre, and Bond Street, of course, close at hand, not to mention the society of one's own friends. Do you not find it equally so, Lord Charles worth?" she inquired of Charles worth.

  Maggie's hands clenched with resentment. Lady Gwendolyn had managed with her usual adroitness to turn the knife. This time she had made her out to be a positive looby in the eyes of everyone present. That she might be concerned about one particular pair of eyes did not occur to her. She merely reacted out of hurt.

  "Indeed, Lord Charlesworth, tell us," she said. "No doubt you find us as quaint at Willoughby as does Lady Gwendolyn. We are so terribly provincial, are we not?"

  "If by that you mean you demonstrate at Willoughby a charming appreciation of the simpler things, such as ice skating and a traditional observance of Christmas, then, yes, Miss Willoughby," he answered, the blue eyes unwavering on her face, "I should say you and your family have managed, happily, to remain untouched by the cynicism of many of your contemporaries."

  Maggie blinked, while Lady Gwendolyn blanched, the green eyes hardening to frosty points.

  "Here, here," applauded Oliver Crandall, grinning. "Couldn't have expressed it better myself, Milt. And now that that is all settled, I propose, Miss Willoughby, that you allow me to take you into supper."

  Maggie, still a trifle dazed at his lordship's tribute, was not given time to answer, as Oliver Crandall swept her in grand style off to the dining room.

  Dinner was a merry affair. Oliver Crandall, seated to her right, kept up a steady banter with Maggie and with Charlotte, who sat on his other side. Indeed, he kept her so well entertained that Maggie was only occasionally conscious of Lady Gwendolyn and the earl sitting across the table from her. The one time Maggie let herself look at his lordship, he appeared wholly engrossed in conver-

  sation with the blond beauty. She did not look again. Consequently, she was not to know how often the nobleman's glance strayed her way, to linger speculatively there.

  Lady Gwendolyn, however, noticed it. Indeed, by the time Mrs. Willoughby rose to signal it was time to leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, the young beauty's smile appeared peculiarly frozen on her lips.

  "Faith," whispered Maggie to Charlotte as they watched the Ice Queen sweep from the room. "What could have happened to send her into the glooms, I wonder."

  "If you were not such an innocent, Maggie Willoughby, you would realize that you are the cause of Lady Gwendolyn's ill temper. You can hardly expect to monopolize the attentions of the two most eligible bachelors in the company without incurring the wrath of the reigning beauty, after all. If I were you, I should watch my back from now on. She is not likely to take this lying down."

  "I wish you will not be absurd. Mr. Crandall was only being kind, and as for Charlesworth, he paid no attention to me at all."

  Charlotte, who thought she detected just the slightest pique in Maggie's final words, hid a smile. "Then you must be blind," she said, positioning Maggie in front of the fire. "His lordship ap
peared noticeably distracted to me."

  "Indeed, he did to me, too," Maggie countered snappishly. "With Lady Gwendolyn. Now, no more of such talk. I haven't the least interest in Charlesworth—or Lady Gwendolyn either, for that matter. Tell me about Felix and your ride this afternoon."

  "Yes, do tell us, Charlotte," murmured an insinuating voice at Charlotte's elbow. "I understand felicitations are in order. I confess I was surprised. A man like Felix Dor-sey, after all. But then he naturally is well enough off not to require a bride with a marriage portion."

  "My dearest Gwendolyn," said Maggie with exaggerated sweetness, "I think you will never cease to amaze me."

  "Quite possibly not," agreed the duke's sister, waving her fan tranquilly in front of her face. "I should think it remarkable if I did not loom beyond your powers of comprehension."

  "Maggie . . ." Charlotte muttered, giving her cousin a warning nudge.

  "No, no, Charlotte. You must not interfere. I believe Maggie had a point to make."

  "Only that once before you tried to get at me through my cousin. I think I should warn you not to try it again."

  "Or you will do what?" Lady Gwendolyn laughed. "Poor Maggie, apparently you have allowed your momentary popularity to turn your head. It pleased Charles worth to be kind to you. And why would he not when you appear so charmingly helpless? Really, Maggie, only you would think to use a wheelchair to win the attention no one would dream of paying you otherwise. And I must admit, if you are going to feign a wrenched ankle, a wheelchair is an inspiration. A limp is so very unattractive, is it not? And quite utterly lacking in grace."

  Smiling, she started to turn away, only to pause and glance back again.

  "Oh, yes. Do not fool yourself into believing you have made a conquest in Mr. Crandall. To him you are nothing but a new toy of which he shall soon tire. As for Charles worth, my dear. I warn you. He is mine. I suggest you keep your distance."

  Just then, simultaneous with the earl entering the room a little in advance of his brother, a thunderous crack rent the peace and quiet.

  "Faith, would you look at that!" exclaimed Charlotte, pointing with no little excitement to the fireplace. "It was

  yours, Maggie. The very first to break. Who would ever have believed it?"

  "Not I," said Maggie with a straight face, though her eyes on Lady Gwendolyn's were brimful of laughter. "But then, stranger things have happened, I must suppose."

  Lady Gwendolyn drew in an audible breath. Then, sending daggers in Maggie's direction, she turned with her head in the air and went to intercept his lordship.

  "Miss Willoughby," smiled Oliver Crandall, who had wasted little time in working his way across the room to Maggie. "And Miss Fenwick. How fortunate I am to find two lovely ladies unattended."

  "Only one, I fear, Mr. Crandall," demurred Charlotte, giving Maggie a knowing wink. "I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me. I see Felix has been cornered by Mrs> Winterbottom."

  "A ghastly fate," agreed the gentleman, observing Mr. Dorsey in the company of a matronly lady of mammoth proportions, made more daunting still by orange curls and a beaked-brimmed bonnet fully twenty inches or more in height..

  Maggie giggled.

  "Quite so," murmured Crandall. Unaccountably, his gaze, swinging back to her, made her catch her breath. The next moment, however, he was smiling again, the engaging grin that had ever the effect of disarming her. "I am almost disappointed," he said, "to find I am apparently not required to rescue you from some unforeseen peril. I can hardly be content, after all, to rest on my laurels when my brother is one up on me, can I?"

  "Oh, but how can you say so?" Maggie replied, her eyes dancing with pleasure at his teasing. "You, sir, have already saved me from what might well have been a very dull evening. And, besides," she added, her glance straying unconsciously to Lady Gwendolyn, who appeared in rapt conversation with his lordship, "in spite of the fact that the children have been sent to their beds, the night is

  still young. Who knows what trouble I may yet get myself into?"

  "Ah, the Ice Queen, is it?" remarked the gentleman, then laughed at Maggie's startled glance. "No, infant, it is not so obvious as that. It is just that I know her so well. Well enough, in fact, that I should never let her throw dust in my eyes, and neither, might I add, should you."

  Maggie wrinkled her nose at him. "How very easy that is for you to say. You, however, have not had to put up with her for as long as you can remember. When we were children, the duchess used to have us — Charlotte and me, that is—to Brierly to serve in the way of entertainment for her darling daughter. Perhaps you will understand better when I tell you there are seven years separating Lady Gwendolyn and the duke, her elder brother."

  "She is, I believe, rather used to having her own way," Crandall observed sympathetically.

  "She used to order us about as though we were servants. I did not mind so much for myself. I was well able to give as good as I got. But, Charlotte — " She stopped herself, realizing how close she had come to divulging a good deal more than she had intended. "Forgive me. How very silly of me. You cannot possibly be interested in anything so mundane as my childish feuds with Lady Gwendolyn."

  "You might be surprised how interested I am in anything which concerns you, Miss Willoughby."

  He said it with such spellbinding seriousness that Maggie was quite taken aback. It suddenly struck her that Mr. Crandall was not at all as her initial impressions had led her to believe. Indeed, she suspected there was a deal more to him than the charming rogue he pretended to be.

  Almost as if he realized he had slipped out of character, he immediately laughed and chucked her playfully under the chin.

  "You must not frown, infant," he teased. "Besides making wrinkles, it is wholly out of keeping with the spirit of the evening."

  Maggie, who was reeling under the impression that his touch had sent a small shock wave coursing through her, could only be glad that her mama chose just then to command their attention.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, it is Christmas Eve. How fitting it must be, then, that two of the young ladies have agreed to entertain us with music. Lady Gwendolyn, dear. Perhaps you would be so kind as to start us off with a few selections on the harp?"

  "But of course, Mrs. Willoughby." The young beauty smiled up at Charles worth, quite obviously pleased with herself, Maggie thought wryly. "I should be only too glad."

  Maggie normally enjoyed the sweet tones of the harp, and she would have been the first to admit that Lady Gwendolyn played with more than a mere competence. She could not deny either that the blond beauty poised gracefully, her long slender fingers running effortlessly over the strings, and presented a perfectly stunning picture. When Lady Gwendolyn finished playing and rose to make her bows, Maggie applauded as heartily as anyone present.

  Her applause notably faltered, however, as Lady Gwendolyn, lifting her head, shot a look of cold triumph deliberately at Maggie.

  Suddenly it came to her that it was all true. Compared to Lady Gwendolyn, she was a plain little dab of a creature who because of her temporary disability had attracted a deal of unwarranted attention. And who had asked them to shower her with their pity? Not she, she told herself. She had never wanted them there from the first. All at once her mouth thinned to a firm line. Very well then, she thought, a rebellious glitter springing to her eyes. If it was an insignificant little songbird they ex-

  pected, she certainly had no intention of disappointing them.

  Lady Gwendolyn had been chosen out of deference to her rank to perform first. Maggie, as the eldest daughter of the house, was invited next. She coolly refused Mr. CrandalPs offer to convey her to the pianoforte, preferring instead to wheel herself there. A slight flush touched her cheeks at his suddenly searching look. Then giving a defiant toss of her curls, she left him staring after her.

  Having instantly discarded her planned program of Mozart, Maggie was careful not to look at her mama as she launched herself into a lighthearted rendition of "He
re We Come a Wassailing," followed without pause by any number of folksy Christmas songs, the earthier the better. Perhaps it was some slight sense of having sunk herself beneath reproach which prompted her to finish up with "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." Or perhaps it was only an instinctive realization that it was the only ending possible in the wake of what had come before. Having been carried, at any rate, on a wave of rebellion, she now came to the uncomfortable realization that she was about to be greeted with a stunned silence of disapproval.

  She could not have been more surprised, then, when, launching into the part about everyone singing praises, her clear, lilting soprano was joined as if on cue by a deep baritone. Startled, her eyes flew to the back of the room to Mr. Oliver Crandall, whose manly voice seemed perfectly to complement her own. But that was as nothing when compared to the chorus of voices that chimed in on the final refrain. Indeed, she doubted that the Great Hall had ever before reverberated with such resounding "tidings of comfort and joy!"

  She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry with relief as she bowed her head to acknowledge the enthusiastic applause.

  As she looked up, however, her glance happened to fall on a pair of indecently broad shoulders encased in a

  tightfitting coat of blue superfine as they left the room in the company of a gloating Lady Gwendolyn. Inexplicably, her mood suffered a sudden blight.

  So much so that she could hardly wait for the noise to die down that she might retreat to a quiet corner. Suddenly she felt inordinately drained and most unaccountably irritable. The last thing she was in the mood for was an impromptu game of "My Lady Coventry," which someone was trying to get up or any other card game, for that matter. She rather thought she would find Carleton and ask him to carry her upstairs.