A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  "I wish he hadn't left so early this morning," said David, adding an orange to a basket. "The other one, I mean. We missed all the fun parts."

  "I thought there was something rum about the friar last night," said the elder Lydgate boy thoughtfully.

  "You didn't!" His younger brother rounded on him indignantly. "You're just saying that now you know the story."

  A spirited quarrel ensued which Amanda did her best to ignore. Verity was right, she hadn't got much sleep last night, but that wasn't the reason for her uncertain temper this morning. No, the problem was that, in spite of the real Senhor Ribeiro being identified and the book safe and the valuable letter recovered, the entire episode had left her with more questions than answers.

  The opening of the door interrupted her reflections. Amanda looked up, expecting Nicola or Elizabeth or Helena, and instead saw Lady Duffield standing in the doorway, a charming look of apology on her face. "I'm so sorry." Lady Duffield smiled at the company in a way that reminded Amanda that, however much unlike

  a mother Pamela Duffield might look, she had five children of her own. "I was hoping I might have a word with Miss Berwick, but I didn't realize you were engaged in such serious business. May I help?"

  Amanda hadn't the least idea what Lady Duffield wanted to say to her, but an extra pair of hands was a great help, and Lady Duffield proved surprisingly successful at diverting the children. Amanda was both grateful and annoyed. It seemed a bit unfair that a woman as beautiful as Lady Duffield and as adept at charming grown men should be equally popular with children. Still, they managed to finish filling the baskets with no more quarrels or stolen gingerbread. When the children had gone off in search of other amusements, Amanda faced Lady Duffield across the basket-strewn room and waited for her to speak.

  Lady Duffield was staring at her hands and Amanda could have sworn the woman was nervous. "I asked to speak to you, Miss Berwick, because I think it is important that you understand Owen, and I don't believe this is something he would ever tell you himself."

  "I don't," said Amanda, treading carefully, "see how Owen is any concern of mine."

  Lady Duffield looked up and gave a faintly mischievous smile. "You know the answer to that better than I, Miss Berwick. As to my own interest in the matter, it is very simple. Owen is my son."

  It was an astonishing revelation, and yet it so exactly made sense of all that had happened in the past two days that Amanda did not think to question it. She sat in silence for a moment, the words repeating themselves in her head. Then she looked at Lady Duffield, uncertain how much she could ask, unwilling to let the matter end there.

  "You are very young, Miss Berwick," Lady Duffield said, "but I do not think you shock easily."

  "No," Amanda agreed, "I most certainly do not."

  "I'm so glad, for Owen could not—But never mind about that. You want to know about Owen. It's a simple enough story." Lady Duffield had regained her customary composure. "Not long after my marriage, I suffered a miscarriage and went abroad to recuperate. My sister accompanied me, but my husband remained in England. He was some twenty years my senior and ours was not a love match, so I parted from him without regret. In Rome, I met a young Englishman and—" She smiled and gave an expressive shrug. "I was twenty, he was twenty-three. There was a girl at home to whom he was to be betrothed, and his parents were very eager for the match. But he was young and impetuous and ready to abandon all for love. In some ways, I was a great deal older than he. When he asked me to run off with him I knew it was impossible. We quarreled, quite bitterly." Tb Amanda's surprise, a shadow of pain crossed Lady Duf field's face. "It was only after I returned to England that I realized I was with child. Not a pleasant predicament for a young woman whose husband could not possibly be the father. Eventually I had no choice but to tell my husband and he agreed to stand by me. There was no question, of course, of the child being accepted into our household."

  Amanda heard the note of genuine regret in Lady Duffield's voice and for the first time fully understood that this woman had had to give up her child. And that Owen had had to grow up without his mother. Amanda was not sure precisely what Lady Duffield could have done differently, but it seemed shockingly unfair that Owen had in effect been abandoned by both his parents. "What happened?" she asked bluntly, her compassion for Lady Duffield diminished by her concern for Owen. "To Owen, I mean."

  Lady Duffield smoothed a crease from her flounced

  jaconet skirt with great care. "I went to Ireland for the birth, and then an aunt of mine agreed to take him in. She was a kind woman, but her health was not good and Owen was left to the care of nursemaids. I saw him occasionally, though of course he did not know who I was. My aunt died when he was five, but fortunately one of my cousins said she could look after him. She and her husband were charming people, but they had three sons of their own, and though Owen was always treated well, I'm afraid he never quite felt he belonged. When he was twelve, I finally told him the truth about our relationship. I must say he took it remarkably well, especially as I would not tell him anything about his father."

  Lady Duffield sighed, as if acknowledging that perhaps she had been in the wrong. "We had quarreled so very badly, you see—Owen's father and I—and he was married by this time and had a family of his own. But it was time for Owen to go to school, and while I'd been able to give my cousin a little now and then to help with the housekeeping, school fees were quite beyond me. I'm afraid I'd rather put off thinking about it and finally my cousin's husband sought out Owen's father and told him the whole. He was —he was not pleased with me for having kept the truth from him. But he had a large income and he was able to put Owen through Eton and Cambridge, and eventually he told Owen he was his father. I'm afraid," said Lady Duffield with a faint frown, as if only just realizing how true her words were, "that it hasn't been at all easy for Owen. And this house party has been exceptionally difficult."

  "Because of Senhor Ribeiro?" Amanda asked. "I can see why you decided not to come when you learned he would be here, but what made you change your mind?"

  "Senhor Ribeiro? Raimundo?" Lady Duffield gave a

  light, silvery laugh. "Oh, no. I own his presence was a bit awkward—especially when he turned out not to be Raimundo at all —but I decided not to come to the house party because I did not wish to meet Owen's father."

  Amanda's eyes widened. "Owen's father? You don't mean Lord Mul—" She bit the words back, for if she were wrong they were quite unpardonable.

  "I very much mean John Mulgrave," Lady Duffield said with another mischievous smile. "You've no notion how ardent he was at twenty-three."

  "Oh." Amanda digested this information with difficulty.

  "When I learned he was to be among the guests at Ludlow—it was quite bad of Isabel not to warn me, though I imagine she had her reasons—my first instinct was to avoid a meeting that would be painful for both of us. But then I began to think about the fact that we were both now free, and I wondered if there was any chance—I never really got over John, you see."

  "So at the last minute you decided to come to Ludlow after all."

  "I did. And," Lady Duffield said, her mouth curving into a smile of pure girlish delight, "the wonder of it is that he was glad to see me. I thought it might all come to nought when he found out about Raimundo, but I told him everything this morning, and I think that gave John the push he needed. So you see, after twenty-seven years Owen is finally going to have parents who are properly married."

  Amanda, whose feelings toward Lady Duffield had improved steadily in the course of the interview, gave her wholehearted congratulations, but Lady Duffield waved them aside. "I did not come here to talk about myself. I hope you understand Owen better now, Miss Berwick. What you decide to do with the

  information is, of course, entirely up to you." Amanda left the room in a thoughtful frame of mind. Owen's mother had made two things very clear: Owen was interested in Amanda, but if Amanda wanted that interest to lead to anything more
than their present friendship, she was going to have to do something about it herself.

  Owen walked slowly down the Bath-stone steps which led to the lower terrace of the back garden, mulling over the interview he had just had with his father. When he realized John and Pamela were going to spend Christmas under the same roof, he had been prepared for fireworks. Instead, they had become betrothed. His parents never ceased to surprise him.

  A rattle of glass diverted his attention, and he turned round to see Amanda emerge through one of the French windows from the summer parlor. She wore a cloak of scarlet wool, but the hood was thrown back, and her bright hair streamed over her shoulders and down her back as she ran toward him. "It's all right," he called, amused by her precipitate dash, "I'm waiting."

  Amanda descended the stairs at a more moderate pace, which was a mercy, for though the day was fine and crisp, the stone was still damp and slippery from yesterday's rain. "May I walk with you?"

  Owen grinned at the sudden formality. "I gathered that was the general idea. Are the baskets finished?"

  "Yes, and I think the best thing we can all do for Nicola now is to stay out of her way. Really, I don't know how anyone manages to enjoy the holidays after they have a family of their own, especially women."

  "I expect the answer is that a lot of them don't," Owen replied, "especially women."

  Amanda pulled a face at him. "What's going to happen to the letter?" she asked as they started down a

  winding gravel walk bordered by tall hedges.

  "That's up to Eugenio Ribeiro, but I expect he'll give it to a museum, which is really where it belongs. I don't know its monetary value, but to a scholar it's priceless."

  "Poor Jane Shore. It must have been beastly for her. I hope she wasn't separated from her child." Amanda paused, then added in the same conversational tone, "Speaking of children, I just had a talk with your mother."

  Owen stopped and stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or to curse. Amanda stared back at him, perfectly matter-of-fact. "Look," she said, "I can understand if you don't want to talk about it. But I want you to know that I understand, at least a bit. Parents who break the rules can make things rather awkward for their children."

  Owen felt a flash of anger at lone Berwick. "I'm sorry," he said gently.

  "I wasn't asking for sympathy," Amanda assured him. "I don't really blame them—parents I mean—for I'm a firm believer in breaking the rules. But the sad thing about my mother is that it didn't seem to make her very happy, at least, not any happier than she was before she left Charles's father, so it seems rather a waste to have gone through all that fuss, only of course I'm glad she did because if she hadn't I wouldn't be here. But that doesn't alter the principle of the thing. Ever since I was old enough to understand at all, I've been determined not to marry until I was sure I'd found exactly the right person."

  "A proud lady in love," Owen said lightly.

  "Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way." Amanda had been walking briskly, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. Now she stopped, withdrew her hands from the folds of her cloak and held out a bunched-up silk scarf. "I know at Ludlow they exchange gifts on New

  Year's Day," she said, speaking very quickly, her eyes lowered to her hands, "but I thought perhaps today would be a good time to give you this."

  Owen took the scarf which proved to be wrapped, rather hastily by the look of it, around a small object. Aware of Amanda's anxious eyes upon him, he carefully unwound the scarf and caught his breath. He was holding a small silver figure: a knight in full armor, drawn sword in one hand, as exquisitely fashioned as anything he had seen Amanda do.

  Seeking for words which would properly acknowledge such a gift, Owen looked into Amanda's eyes and realized she had offered him far more than the silver knight. And for the first time he knew, with complete, blinding certainty, that he had every intention of taking it. If only he could find the right words. "It's beautiful," he told her. "The finest gift I've ever received. Amanda—"

  "Yes?"

  Owen hesitated, conscious of the bright sun and the hint of freshness in the cold air. It was a good time for beginnings. "I never felt I had a family," he said slowly. "There were always people about who were kind to me, but I knew I didn't really belong to them. I had quite decent parents, but they weren't on speaking terms with each other. Lots of people's parents aren't, of course, but mine weren't married either, which rather complicated things." He smiled. "Now that I come to think of it, each of them asked me about the other suspiciously often. I should have realized where the wind lay. But you see," he continued, sobering, "I've always been disgustingly self-sufficient. I thought I liked it that way. I never thought about beginning a family of my own. At least, not until recently."

  "Until you learned your parents are getting married?" Amanda's blue eyes were at once grave and expectant.

  Owen shook his head and grinned suddenly. "Until I saw you flirting with Newfield and young Harewood last night. I felt the strongest desire to knock their teeth in. You can't possibly marry either of them, Amanda. They aren't remotely good enough for you."

  He heard Amanda expel her breath, as if a great weight had just been lifted from her shoulders. Owen wasn't sure which of them moved first, but the next thing he knew she was locked closely in his arms and he was kissing her, gently at first, then with a hunger he had scarcely known he felt until he allowed himself to admit that he wanted her. He raised his head at last, because it was still necessary to breathe, and looked down at her, dazed, shaken, and happier than he could ever remember being.

  Amanda smiled at him. Her cheeks were flushed with color, but her gaze was steady, and she managed to speak in her customary direct way, though she, too, was more than a little breathless. "If you have decided to start a family, Owen, I do hope you will consider me. I love you quite desperately, and I'm convinced there isn't anyone else who's remotely good enough for you!*

  Owen looked down into Amanda's upturned face, conscious of a growing wonder and delight. Amanda seemed quite content to do nothing but return his gaze. Neither of them heard the footsteps that must have been quite audible to anyone in his right mind. The hedges hid the rest of the walk from view, and they did not turn round until they heard Charles's voice.

  "Nicola wants you for something or other," Amanda's brother told her, "but I think I shall tell her you couldn't be found. If you want privacy, I recommend the summerhouse. Nicola and I found it remarkably convenient when we were betrothed."

  Amanda grinned. "You really are a capital brother, Charles."

  "I do my best. By the way," Charles added, looking from his sister to Owen, his expression grave but his eyes lit with humor, "I trust this is some sort of declaration. Amanda's an extraordinarily sensible girl, but I feel I ought to stand in for her father."

  "Oh, quite," Owen assured him. "Though frankly, old fellow, I have every intention of marrying her whether you approve or not."

  "And I have every intention of marrying him." Amanda looked at her brother with a smile of pure happiness. "You see," she said, snuggling against Owen and feeling his arms slide securely around her, "once we proud ladies in love make up our minds, there's no stopping us."

  Historical Note

  Jane Shore and Edward IV's child is a figment of the author's imagination. Though Jane Shore was literate, there is no evidence that she owned a copy of Blanchar-dyn and Eglantine.

  a&enuz'

  The Honorable Charles Foxworth eyed his younger sister with a degree of misgiving, not unmixed with a certain resignation. Eugenia was in particularly high spirits tonight, and in his long-suffering experience, this was an ill omen for her anticipated behavior at Lady Wellthorpe's soiree.

  It was not that Miss Eugenia Foxworth was lacking in good manners. On the contrary, her charm was widely renowned, and it was commonly held that no gathering could truly be considered a success unless the sparkling Miss Foxworth had appeared. Nor was she a flirt, despite her popularity; several astute
hostesses had remarked upon the fact that she was just as likely to be found chatting among the dowagers as to be seen dancing with one of the many eligible gentlemen who frequently professed their admiration.

  The problem, thought Charles, was simply that Miss Foxworth was not what most mamas would consider prettily behaved. She was a shade too outspoken for the demands of decorum, and she showed a most regrettable tendency to disregard the strictures of her elder brother. She tended to espouse views that made his conservative soul shudder, such as her frequent declarations that women should enjoy the same legal and social rights as men, or that they should be allowed to practice professions. Try as he might to warn her that most gentlemen

  would be put off by such views, she merely declared that eccentricity was in vogue and that she preferred to remain unwedded so that she could enjoy the independence of a widow without having to suffer the inconvenience of marriage. Perhaps if their mother had been alive and Eugenia had not been left to his own uncertain guardianship, she might have been a more biddable miss, but Eugenia had attained her majority several months ago, inheriting a considerable independence, and as she frequently reminded him, Charles had little choice but to accept her as she chose to be.

  It was also apparent that this evening she was seemingly inclined to startle the world with her dress, as she had done on more than one previous occasion. Miss Fox-worth, who was presently scrutinizing her image in the drawing-room mirror, was attired in a long-sleeved gown of gold-hued silk, accented at its high throat and wrists with emerald ribbons. Another ribbon was threaded through her flame-colored hair, accentuating the paleness of her skin. Fortunately for Miss Foxworth, she did not suffer from the freckles that so often plagued the true redhead; instead, she was blessed with a near translucent complexion that made her golden hazel eyes appear even more striking. She always wore strong colors, as opposed to the muslin pastels commonly deemed suitable for unmarried maidens, but Eugenia insisted upon her own style, and as several ladies of the Ton had recently taken to imitating her quirks of fashion, Charles had had to admit defeat on that point.