A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  His lordship, the Earl of Charlesworth, after carefully depositing his love in her wheelchair, had already straightened and was advancing purposefully toward his scapegrace younger brother, younger, that is, by a mere four minutes. Maggie saw his arm go back and heard the crunch of a fist coming in contact with what gave every indication of being a very hard chin. Then he had turned, and, rubbing the knuckles of his good right in the palm of his left, he bent to retrieve Maggie once more from her chair.

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  '"Now," he said with every appearance of immense satisfaction, "where were we?"

  Maggie grinned, twin imps peeping out in her cheeks.

  "You, my dear Lord of Misrule, were about to return me to my room before we are discovered in similar circumstances to your brother's/'

  "Somehow that is not quite what I had in mind," he replied reflectively. "Still, no doubt you are in the right of it. Not, however, before I have your answer."

  "I begin to believe, Lord Charlesworth, that you are something of a tyrant. I warn you I am not at all good at taking orders. Very likely I should prove a most unconformable wife."

  "And I, my dear, shall prove a most accommodating husband — after we are wed. You will promise to marry me, Maggie Willoughby, or I swear I shall lock the door and throw away the key."

  "You would not dare."

  "Oh, would I not?" he answered, taking a determined step toward the doorway. "Either you give me your answer now, or we wait until someone thinks to come looking for us."

  "Well then, since you would appear to leave me no choice," she said before he could kick the door shut, "I think it only fair to tell you that I am not in the least good at waiting."

  An exceedingly dangerous glint ignited in his eyes. "And neither, I warn you, am I," he said in tones that left her little doubt that he would not be put off a second longer. 'Tell me, Maggie. And don't say you have any doubts as to who I am, for I promise I shan't believe you."

  "Oh, but I haven't the least doubt who you are." Laying her head against the broad shoulder conveniently placed for that very purpose, she gazed up at him with shining eyes. "My dearest Milton Crandall, Lord Charlesworth, you are undeniably the man I fell in love

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  with at first sight beside the skating pond. And, yes. Oh, yes, I will marry you—just as soon as I can walk again. The breaking of the withes, notwithstanding, nothing, absolutely nothing, will persuade me to proceed down the aisles in that odious wheelchair!"

  @^> W/Uld/ma^ oTC/ua^

  Amanda was standing at the windows that looked out toward the drive when she saw the carriage arrive and discharge its single passenger, a slender fair-haired man wrapped in a greatcoat who ran quickly up the long shallow stairway toward the house. The leaded-glass panes, a relic of the original fifteenth-century building, turned the wavering shapes of the rain-drenched garden into something seen underwater, while the rain-drenched man, whose outlines were also blurred, seemed by his purposeful movement an alien presence, an explorer perhaps, a figure bent on adventure and discovery. Amanda smiled at this conceit and opened the door to the man who now stood on the threshold, dripping rain and clutching a packet wrapped in oilskin.

  He had been an age in getting to Ludlow. In the ordinary course of things there was no one Amanda would rather see than Owen, and now, with so much to tell him, she could barely conceal her excitement and relief. "T&ke Mr. Thorn's coat," she said to the young footman who had made a hasty entrance into the hall, "he's quite thoroughly wet. And tell Lord or Lady Windham he's arrived. We'll be in the library."

  Owen surrendered his greatcoat but refused to part with the packet, and Amanda, knowing that the packet was at the heart of the puzzle that had disturbed her all the morning, held her tongue until they were in the pri-

  vacy of the dark-paneled library, a room so far shunned by the other guests. The most extraordinary thing has happened," she said, drawing him toward the fireplace where the burning logs were giving off a welcome scent of pine, "and jou must tell me what it means, for I'm sure I have no idea myself. Senhor Ribeiro has gone, and in the most peculiar way, before seven this morning and with nothing but the hastiest of notes to Charles, and he only arrived yesterday, and I quite understood that he had come expressly to meet you." She looked up into Owen's eyes, hoping to find the explanation there, but he was clearly as startled as she. "Why would he refuse to meet you?" Amanda went on. "He came all the way from Portugal so you could return his book because he didn't want it entrusted to the mails, and he left just on the day you're expected to arrive. I call that distinctly odd. If he'd taken you in dislike, he wouldn't have agreed to meet you in the first place, though he had to, didn't he, if he wanted to collect his book."

  "It's not his book." Owen's smile, so sweet-tempered she could hardly take offense, told her she had got the story rather muddled. "It belongs to his nephew, Euge-nio Ribeiro, who inherited it from his grandfather who was a collector of sorts and had a really splendid library. Has, I should say, for the library passed intact to his son and then to his son, Eugenio. If I make myself clear."

  Amanda frowned. "That part's clear enough. But who is our Senhor Ribeiro?"

  "One of the brothers. The father's brothers, that is. I believe it's a large family. And therefore an uncle of Eugenio, my Senhor Ribeiro."

  "Owen, you're being difficult."

  "Not at all. I was given an introduction to the family when I went to Lisbon last year. Eugenio was the only one at home, and we quite hit it off. We're much of an

  age, and though he doesn't share my passion for books, he quite respects what he owns. I was struck absolutely dumb when he showed me the Caxton book"—Owen glanced at the packet which he was still holding—"and he insisted that I borrow it, but naturally he wants it back. He wrote that his uncle, Raimundo Ribeiro, was coming to England on business and would I meet him, which of course I would. The thing was, I was promised here at Ludlow for Christmas, so I asked Charles if I could bring another guest. Charles had met Eugenio when he was stationed in Lisbon, and he said by all means Uncle Raimundo must come as well, and so he did, and no, Amanda, I have no idea why he left." Owen's eyes, serious and not a little worried, belied the lightness of his words.

  "Then you don't actually know him."

  "That's right. Whyever he left—and I can think of a dozen reasons, none of which are any of our business — it was not for fear of meeting me."

  "Still, he was our guest, and one can't but help feel . . ." Amanda shrugged, not sure how to continue.

  "That one should do something. Of course, and we will, though there's precious little we can do. I'd like to see the note he left for Charles, and then I want to talk to any of the servants who saw him before he left." His hand flicked lightly against her cheek. "Don't worry, Amanda, I daresay we'll hear from the man himself before too many days have passed."

  His words were reassuring, as was his touch, and Amanda, who accounted Owen her very dearest friend, forced herself to smile. "Is that the notorious book?" She indicated the packet.

  "Notorious? I should hope not, though it was French originally. Caxton had it translated for English tastes." He laid the packet on the writing table which stood against the wall and was beginning to unwrap it when

  his eye was caught by a nearby object. "What an exquisite piece of work. Is it yours?"

  Amanda nodded, feeling pleased and embarrassed all at once. Owen was looking at a silver inkstand, a closed box with a hinged central handle, very plain save for a design of shells on the borders and feet and an engraving of a great seabird on the top.

  "May I?" Owen asked. He opened the front compartment which contained a silver inkpot and a sand-caster, each with a shell and bird design, and a small compartment at one end for wafers. The rear half of the box was a single compartment and contained an assortment of quills and a knife. "It's quite the best thing you've done," he said with obvious sincerity.

  "It is rather good, isn't it? Much better than the first one I trie
d, which I gave to Papa. I made this one for Charles."

  "Fortunate brother. I'd say it's much to his taste. Did you bring anything else with you?"

  "No," Amanda said, too quickly, and then, "that is, just one small piece. I'll show it to you later." Perhaps, she added to herself. She was not a proper apprentice, but she had haunted Mr. Mclver's workshop since she was thirteen, and Mclver, a well-known silversmith in Edinburgh and a friend of her father's, had finally agreed to teach her what he knew. Unlike her parents, Owen thoroughly approved of her efforts. He was a discriminating critic, and she owed much to his observations, but for a reason she could not name, she was reluctant to put her latest work before him.

  Owen must have sensed her discomfort, for he suddenly changed the subject. "What was he like, Raimundo Ribeiro?"

  It took Amanda a moment to call up the man's face. "Quite charming," she said, "though rather somber, as though he'd had a great sorrow or perhaps as though he

  took the matter of sin rather too literally. But very handsome, with dark liquid eyes and thick black hair and a quite splendid moustache." She grinned. "An exotic flower for an English garden, particularly in the dead of winter. Though no more, I suppose, than the Arnquists, who are tall and incredibly fair. Charles knew them in Sweden. Nor Baron von Frisch, who's Austrian and round and funny and the most good-natured man imaginable. He's stationed in England now, as are the Arnquists, and Charles is returning their hospitality."

  Owen turned round. "Good Lord. Who else is here?"

  "Family mostly. Aunt Isabel and Aunt Fidelia, and Nicola's brother Jeremy and her sister Helena and their broods. Then there's Lord Mulgrave, an uncle of Helena's husband who lost his wife last year and had no place else to go. And the Lambton-Hills. They're the young couple Nicola and Charles helped get married against their parents' wishes, which means that they're still estranged from their respective families and had no place to go either."

  "Quite a gathering of lost lambs."

  "Christmas is the time to do it," she answered, a note of tartness in her voice. "That's the lot, I think, if you don't count the children. Nearly everyone has brought some. Lady Duffield was to come as well —she's a friend of Aunt Isabel's —but she cried off at the last moment."

  "Throwing Nicola's table sadly out."

  "Senhor Ribeiro threw it in again." Amanda looked sharply at Owen who had given a near imperceptible start at Lady Duffield's name. "Not that Nicola has ever cared whether her table is in or out."

  "Which is why your brother, who had the good sense to marry her, is one of my most cherished friends."

  They looked at each other in a moment of perfect ac-

  cord until Amanda, surprised by a sudden access of self-consciousness, turned to the writing table. "Owen, aren't you ever going to let me see that book?"

  Owen looked down at the table where the book lay in its half-opened oilskin wrapping. Quickly removing the last of the covering, he lifted out the volume, which was bound in leather that had darkened with use and age to a warm umber, and held it out to her. The binding had dried and begun to crack, and Amanda took the volume carefully. It must have been over three hundred years old, and it was a wonder that it had survived these many years. "May I open it?"

  "My dear girl, of course." Owen's smile was quick. "It won't crumble under your hands or anything of the sort. In fact, it's in remarkably good condition."

  Amanda moved to a chair where she could get the light from the window. Owen followed. She was aware of his presence, just behind her chair, and knew that his eyes were following the movement of her hands as she opened the book on her lap. " 'The Most Pleasant History of Blanchardyn,' " she read, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar form of the letters, " 'Son to the King of Fries; and the fair Lady Eglantine Queen of Tormaday, surnamed The Proud Lady in Love.' Why, it's a romance," she said, looking up in delight.

  "Did you expect sermons? All very well in their place, but not at all the sort of thing to take my fancy."

  "I suppose not," Amanda said, dismissing the matter as irrelevant, which it certainly was. "Did Caxton write it?" she continued.

  "No, the story's far older than that. It goes back at least to the thirteenth century. It appeared first in France, in verse and then in prose. Caxton's translation probably dates from 1489, and I assure you it was read as avidly then as it will be by you if I give you the chance."

  "You can't possibly know that."

  "What? Readers of the past or this particular reader in the present?"

  "Both." She stood up, turned to face him, and held out the book, trying to keep her face stern.

  "Oh, Amanda, I know you. You would never turn down a good story."

  "What story?" Neither of them had heard the door open, but they turned now to face the intruders. "We heard you were here," said Verity, advancing into the room. Nicola and Charles's foster child had grown rapidly these past few months and was now tall for her ten years. She was followed by Jeremy's stepson David who liked the company of girls and did not mind that he was only eight.

  "What story?" David echoed, coming to stand before Owen. "Is it in that book?"

  "It is, though it's a very long story so I don't think I'll be able to read it to you."

  "You could tell it to us," Verity said.

  "I could," Owen admitted, "though I rather think it's time I paid my respects to your mother and father. Have you any idea where they are?"

  The children regarded him blankly. "Then I think I'd better find them." Owen tucked the book firmly under his arm and prepared to leave the room.

  David, not to be put aside, was in his way. "What's the story about?"

  "It's about a prince," Owen said with what Amanda considered admirable patience. "A prince who wants to be a knight. Unfortunately, his father has seen to it that he's been taught everything but how to joust and bear arms."

  "How very sensible," Amanda murmured.

  Owen raised his brows but kept his eyes on the child. "So he has to leave home to do so."

  David frowned. "What's his name?"

  "Blanchardyn."

  "Blanch—that means white, doesn't it?" Verity said. "Is he a white knight?"

  Owen looked thoughtful. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose. Heroes usually are."

  "Is there a princess?"

  "There's a queen. Her name is Eglantine."

  "The proud lady in love," Amanda contributed.

  "How funny. What does that mean?" Verity asked.

  Amanda looked at Owen, but he indicated that she should continue. "I rather imagine," she said after a moment, "that she doesn't want to settle for just any man, but only one who is very very special."

  "Like Blanchardyn," David said.

  "Exactly. And that's all we're going to talk about for now." Owen put his arm on David's shoulder, led him round the leather sofa which faced the fireplace, and urged him to the door. Verity followed, but as they left the room they became entangled with Nicola who was about to enter it, and with the ensuing questions and explanations it was several minutes before Nicola was able to send the children on their way and attend to her new guest.

  "You've been telling them stories," Nicola said, advancing into the room and offering her hands to Owen, "and it's on your own head—they'll never let you be."

  Owen took her hands. "I like stories."

  "So do I," said Amanda.

  Nicola's normally lively manner vanished. "I, too, but the one I have to tell you is more than a little odd. Charles is in the drawing room, talking to Senhor Ri-beiro."

  "He came back," Amanda said with heartfelt relief. "I'm so glad."

  "You'd best restrain your joy and set your wits to

  work." A faint frown marred Nicola's expressive face. "The Senhor Ribeiro who arrived today and is now drinking our very best sherry is not the Senhor Ribeiro who came and went yesterday." Amanda and Owen made sounds of disbelief. "I'd swear to it," Nicola insisted, though there is a distinct resemblance."

  "B
lack hair?" Amanda asked. "Soulful eyes?"

  Nicola nodded. "And a luxuriant moustache."

  "You can hide a lot of things under a moustache." Amanda was thoughtful. "It's an interesting problem, though I can't imagine why one would want to impersonate the other . . . Oh! Owen, the book."

  "Yes, it's awkward, that." Owen cast a vague glance around the book-lined walls, then walked purposefully to the darkest corner of the room and inserted the pleasant history of Blanchardyn into one of the upper shelves where, to Amanda's eye, it disappeared. "If you don't mind," he said, addressing Nicola. "At least until we know where we are."

  "You'd better come into the drawing room," Nicola said. "You'll have to meet him sooner or later, and perhaps you can tell us if he seems at all plausible. Amanda, come too and tell us what you think."

  Owen moved to the door and held it open for the ladies. "I don't suppose you've put the question to him directly."

  Nicola's hazel eyes gleamed with mischief. "It hardly seemed good form. And to tell you the truth, he left us both quite breathless."

  They said no more until they reached the drawing room, a large low-ceilinged chamber furnished with an eye to comfort and conversation. The rain had stopped and a wintry sun shone through the bank of windows that nearly filled one wall. Bars of light fell across the two men who stood there, one dark, one fair. Charles appeared to be pointing out some

  feature of the landscape to his guest.

  Nicola crossed the room quickly, her bright voice announcing to all that this was no more than the happiest of social gatherings. "Charles," she said to her husband, "here's Owen come at last. Senhor Ribeiro, may I present Owen Thorn, one of our dearest friends. He's acquainted with your nephew, Eugenio Ribeiro, and has been quite longing to meet you. And my husband's sister, Amanda Berwick." Nicola did not choose to explain that Amanda was only a half sister, and Amanda was grateful for this tact. She had not known Charles well during her childhood, but since his marriage she had begun to make long visits to the Windhams, both in London and in Devon, and she now felt closer to Charles than to her brothers in Edinburgh.