A Christmas delight

by Anthea Malcolm

  He would have been quite surprised, however, had he been able to fathom her thoughts at that moment, because Eugenia was giving her image in the mirror a good talking-to. It was a week before Christmas, and the nearer that date approached, the more difficult it was to ignore the pain of a very special anniversary. Two years before, at Christmas, she and Will Stanfield had exchanged a vow that had inscribed itself indelibly upon her heart, and

  time had done nothing to ease the heartache of knowing that that vow could never be fulfilled. Over the course of time, she had learned to hide her feelings with a show of high spirits and ready humor, and she had found a certain solace in the bluestocking interests so deplored by Charles. Yet the sadness still lingered whenever her thoughts grew quiet, and the image of her lost love would rise before her, making a mockery of her efforts to forget.

  Before that notion could once more fill her eyes with tears, she turned to Charles with a smile that trembled almost imperceptibly. "I am in the mood for a party tonight," she declared brightly. "December is such a dreary month, and I think everyone could use a bit of revelry."

  Charles groaned audibly. Lady Wellthorpe's genteel gathering was scarcely to be considered a risky venture, but where his sister was concerned, anything was a possibility.

  "Jen, I beg of you, do not do anything rash," he pleaded. "I suppose it is my own fault for telling you that the Reverend Pankhurst had asked my permission to pay you his addresses; I should have known that you would try to kick up a dust."

  Her smile was genuine now as she reached out to tweak a fold of his neckcloth, a gesture that would have appalled his meticulous valet. The two of them were both of the same moderate height, and although his coloring was more subdued than hers, his hair being more brown than red, no one could ever have mistaken their relationship.

  "You have to admit, Charles, that there is method in my madness. You know very well that if I ever did wish to marry, which I do not, the Reverend Pankhurst would be the last man suitable for that honor. I'd have him in Bedlam before a month was out!"

  Charles coughed, reluctant to agree. "I simply feel that if you insist upon refusing this latest in your string of eligible offers, you could do it more discreetly than by kicking up a lark in public!"

  "Don't worry, Charles," she reassured him. "Much though the idea tempts me, I will do nothing to embarrass the House of Foxworth. But neither will I be the wife of the Reverend Pankhurst, and the sooner he realizes it, the sooner I pray he will leave me in peace. And much as I love you, Charles, I rather wish that you would do the same and stop pushing the poor man in my direction."

  "It would be a suitable match," he defended. "The Reverend Pankhurst is of good family, comfortably situated, and of admirable character, and if you were to treat him with the least degree of consideration it is likely he would cherish a lasting tendre for you."

  She uttered a laugh that to his sensitive ears sounded rather rude. "I will grant that he is a paragon, but for that very reason, I would think you should find him completely unsuited to me! You are forever harping upon the failings of my own character. Besides, I do not consider you to be a particularly good judge of such matters in view of your own betrothal to Priscilla Preston-Smythe. I will never comprehend how you could do such a thing and without the least warning to me beforehand!"

  His color heightened slightly. "Miss Preston-Smythe is a young woman of excellent character, and I am of the age when it is my responsibility to marry and settle down."

  "Settle down?" Eugenia riposted, the green ribbon in her hair glinting as she shook her head. "Charles, you have been settled down all of your life. What you need is to be shaken up and taught to enjoy yourself, which you will never do if you are leg-shackled to Miss Preston-Smythe."

  "Eugenia, you are going beyond the line of what I can allow!"

  She sighed. "I loathe it when you call me 'Eugenia' in that tone. Very well, Charles, I apologize to the estimable Priscilla and beg that you will forgive me. But quite frankly, she is not the right woman for you, just as none of the men you keep foisting

  upon me could ever be right for me."

  Charles looked away from her, letting his gaze fall upon the portrait of their deceased parents that hung over the marble mantelpiece. Their somber visages often served him as a reminder of the heavy responsibility he now bore as head of the household. "I am sorry, Jen. I suppose I do rather push things a bit in that regard, but it is for your own good. I want you to be happy."

  Eugenia touched his hand in quick sympathy. Before Capt. William Stanfield had gone off to fight in the war against the French tyrant, he and Charles Foxworth had been the closest of friends. That was of course how Eugenia had first met him. Then, after Will was reported missing in action from a distant Portuguese battlefield, it was Charles who had borne to her that terrible news. He had shared her suffering later as well, when the final word came that Will was dead. It was not surprising that he hoped his sister had forgotten her love of long ago; judging by her outward behavior, Eugenia had long ago cast aside any appearance of mourning. He could not know the painful truth, that Will's image still burned so brightly in her heart that the faces of living men were faded by comparison. As she could never admit to that, however, she hid once more behind her mask of eccentricity.

  "Your apology is accepted, Charles. And trust me, if I ever meet a man who truly believes that he and I are the equals of one another and who agrees that females should be permitted to hold political office, I will march him right up the steps of St. George's. Now, let us be off to Lady Wellthorpe's. I declare, the evening beckons me with a siren's call!"

  The carriage was summoned, and moments later they were rumbling the short distance from their home in Brook Street to Lady Wellthorpe's elegant mansion in Grosvenor Square. It had been a mild winter so far, but the gray chill of a London December discouraged all but

  the most hardy souls from strolling more than a few blocks. As she listened to the horses' clattering hooves, Eugenia struggled once more against the lowness of spirit which drove her in search of outrageous distractions. Tonight she would as ever be the ebullient character she played in public until the time came to return home to her heartache.

  The memory of that fateful Christmas Eve two years before rose vividly to her imagination, and for a brief moment she allowed herself to linger over it. Eugenia had fallen in love with Charles's tall dark-haired friend almost from the first moment of meeting those deep brown eyes smiling down at her. For many months, whenever they met at the Foxworth home, Eugenia concealed her infatuation behind teasing and jokes, and it was obvious that Will enjoyed his relationship with Charles's "little" sister, despite the fact that she had already turned nineteen and had made her debut into society. Suddenly, however, it seemed as though the easy laughter had stopped, and the humorous glint in Will's eyes had disappeared. Eugenia was ready to despair, wondering how she had offended him, until the night that the three of them prepared to depart together for a Christmas party. Will had stepped forward to help her into the carriage, taking hold of her hand, but instead of moving to assist her, he had simply stood and looked down upon her, all the while clasping her gloved hand in his own. For a moment her heart had pounded wildly, and she was terrified that her feelings must surely show on her face, but she could not look away.

  And that night everything changed. They danced together as if for the first time, and every look, every brief touch was magical. Eugenia could never remember afterwards whom she saw or what she said at that party, because after her dance with Will, nothing and no one else existed for her. It was upon their return that night, when Charles had excused himself briefly, that Will had closed

  the door of the study and taken her into his arms with a passion she would never forget. A few moments later he had released her abruptly, murmuring apologies: he was sorry, it was his fault, she was too young, he should never have lost his head, it would never happen again. And it was then that Eugenia flung herself into his arms and drew
his head down, her hands buried in his hair, bringing his lips back to hers.

  But the happiness was short-lived. They exchanged words of love when at last they could speak, but Will steadfastly refused to become formally betrothed. Some months before, he had purchased a captaincy in a line regiment and would be leaving all too soon; furthermore, he believed that Eugenia was too young to know her heart, especially since he had practically swept her off her feet. When he returned from his tour of service, he promised that if her feelings were unchanged, as he knew his own would be, then he would announce their love for all the world to know.

  No amount of Eugenia's pleading could sway him, and for that, she knew herself to be partly to blame. Anyone who knew her in the lighthearted guise she had affected could be forgiven for believing that it reflected her true character. The serious side of her nature had been well-hidden for fear that her deeper feelings would be revealed in an unguarded moment. Moreover, her orphaned status gave further weight to Will's reluctance to take the slightest advantage of her vulnerability. Because she lacked the protection of a parent, having only the guardianship of a brother not much older than she, a hasty engagement might give rise to unpleasant gossip.

  So Eugenia agreed, albeit reluctantly, to keep their betrothal a secret. But on one point she had remained adamant: the small ring of gold and seed pearls which Will gave her as a token of their bond would never be removed from her hand. Like the other vows they had made, that promise had not come true in the strictest sense; a year

  after his death, she had taken it from her finger in response to the pleadings of her brother that she should not waste her youth in mourning. No one knew that she wore it still, upon a slender golden chain around her neck.

  The carriage drew to a halt before Eugenia realized that her brother had been as silent as she on the brief journey and that a small frown was creasing his brow.

  "What is the matter, Charles?" she teased lightly. "Are you still afraid of how I intend to frighten away the good reverend?"

  "No, no," he shrugged a shade uncomfortably. "I was thinking of something else, that's all. Just a rumor that I heard; nothing to concern you."

  Eugenia eyed him suspiciously as he handed her down from the carriage. "Whenever you say that, you tend to be plotting something that is 'for my own good.' "

  "I wish I knew whether it was or not," he replied cryptically, but then the door was opened to them, and the chance for further conversation was lost as their cloaks were taken from them and their arrival was announced to their hostess.

  Lady Serena Wellthorpe had been close friends with Mrs. Foxworth for many years until that lady's unfortunate demise, and she had been happy to sponsor her goddaughter's debut into society. It had always been a source of regret to her that Eugenia had not "taken"; in fact, at times she harbored the suspicion that Eugenia had deliberately resisted all her efforts to arrange a suitable match. It was all the more vexing because her daughter Frances had recently made her own debut, and some of Eugenia's ridiculous ideas about female emancipation seemed to be rubbing off upon the younger girl, who had begun to show a marked lack of enthusiasm for her own potential suitors. Nevertheless, Lady Wellthorpe greeted her two young guests with genuine pleasure, although she could not resist making rapid mental calculations about the various eligible men in atten-

  dance with whom Eugenia might be partnered.

  "Hello, my dears," she breathed, bestowing lavender-scented kisses upon their cheeks. "I am so delighted to see you. And if I am not mistaken," she added, glancing significantly at Eugenia, "my sentiments are shared by someone else here tonight."

  "Aunt Serena, you are incorrigible," Eugenia laughed, using the fond nickname by which she and Charles both addressed her ladyship. "I wish that you would give up trying to foist me off upon some poor man whose life I should undoubtedly make into a misery."

  Lady Wellthorpe could not help but be struck by the likelihood of such an outcome, but her strictly conventional nature prevailed. "My dear, it's a good thing I know you so well, else I might not realize you were making a jest."

  At that moment, Charles uttered a muffled laugh, earning a look of reproach from her ladyship which soon softened into a beam of pride. The Honorable Charles was turning into just such a young man as she would have wished to have as a son, and she viewed his recent engagement with favor. Not that one could be precisely fond of Miss Preston-Smythe, his intended, but Charles was assuming his social responsibilities in an admirable fashion. If only Eugenia could be induced to follow his example!

  Further reflections in that direction were interrupted by the arrival of her daughter, Frances. With a quiet word of greeting, she accorded Charles a shy smile as they shook hands and then was promptly borne away by Eugenia, who recognized an escape route when she saw one. The two girls strolled away arm in arm, and Lady Wellthorpe, even while she conversed politely with Charles about his approaching nuptials, mused once more upon the contrast between Eugenia's striking vivacity and Frances's more subdued charms. Attired charmingly in a pale pink gown, Frances had her mother's own soft brown hair and gentle blue eyes, although at the moment, unseen by her fond

  parent, those eyes were lit with laughter.

  "You cannot mean it, Eugenia," she breathed, caught between amusement and dismay. "Why would you want to shock the Reverend Pankhurst?"

  "Because if I do not, I'm afraid he means to make me an offer," Eugenia replied.

  "Oh, I see," Miss Wellthorpe said, and she did, at least in part. As Eugenia's dearest friend, she knew better than anyone else the sorrow that Eugenia had learned to hide, and she understood more than even Eugenia herself supposed. "But he is such a worthy gentleman."

  "Worthy be damned," Eugenia said calmly, prompting Miss Wellthorpe to utter a gasp of shocked protest. "Besides which, Fanny, I have a reputation to live up to!"

  "Live down to, rather," her friend replied drily. "What have you got planned, dare I ask?"

  "I am not certain yet; I am waiting for, shall I say, divine inspiration. Oh, dear, here comes Miss Priss; no doubt she has something edifying to say to me, as usual. How do you do, Miss Preston-Smythe?"

  "I am very well, thank you, Eugenia," replied the tall blond woman whose rather sharp features were arranged into a polite smile. She and Eugenia maintained a mutual dislike that was couched in the utmost cordiality; in Miss Preston-Smythe's opinion, her future sister-in-law was little short of a hoyden and in need of a firm rein.

  "I scarcely need any assistance identifying you, my dear," Miss Preston-Smythe added with a touch of condescension. "One should never dream of wearing colors that make one's hair stand out like a beacon, but then, you have always had your own quaint notions, haven't you?"

  "Good evening, Miss Preston-Smythe," Miss Wellthorpe hastened to intervene, correctly interpreting the martial light in her friend's eye. "I see that you have guessed Eugenia's scheme: Christmas colors of red, gold, and green. You yourself look like a veritable goddess this evening."

  The diversionary tactic succeeded, as Miss Preston-

  Smythe preened ever so slightly. It was one of her private conceits that she bore a resemblance to Aphrodite, and she had a penchant for wearing white gowns in the Grecian mode.

  "How charming," Eugenia smiled. "You look like a girl in the first flush of youth."

  "As Miss Preston-Smythe was older than Eugenia by several years, this compliment met with less favor, but its recipient prided herself upon her diplomacy. "That is very kind of you to say, Eugenia. Perhaps when Charles and I are married, I will be able to persuade you to follow my lead in matters of fashion."

  Charles approached as she spoke, and the three ladies' facial expressions were very different. Miss Preston-Smythe came as close to a simper as her very proper upbringing would allow; Miss Foxworth eyed her brother with fresh irritation at his stupidity in choosing such a bride; and Miss Wellthorpe went slightly pink before dropping her eyes in shyness.

  "Good evening, Priscilla, good e
vening, Fanny," he said, bowing over the ladies' hands with the brisk ease of familiarity. "You are both in exceptional looks tonight."

  Miss Wellthorpe's color deepened, but before she could utter a reply, a new diversion was created at the doorway by the arrival of a portly figure, whose short stature was more than compensated for by the booming voice with which he greeted his hostess.

  "Reverend Pankhurst!" Miss Preston-Smythe exclaimed archly, recognizing the suitor of her soon-to-be sister-in-law. "No doubt he has come here tonight expressly to see our Eugenia, hmm?"

  But Miss Foxworth had spied deliverance in the shape of her old friend Henry Talbot and was engaging in a bit of discreet hand-signaling. Mr. Talbot, a lanky blond young man with mild pretentions to dandyism, responded by approaching Charles and the ladies with a bow and a suave greeting, and showed admirably little surprise when

  Eugenia seized his arm and, with a hasty apology to the others, propelled him toward the dancing area.

  "You were heaven-sent, Henry," Eugenia exclaimed as soon as they were safely out of earshot. "I'm afraid I was on the verge of saying something quite unladylike to Miss Preston-Smythe."

  Mr. Talbot was unimpressed. "When have you eVfer done otherwise?"

  "Not at all! I am studiously polite, as well you know, but that creature has a way of vexing me beyond what is tolerable."

  "In my experience, the words vexatious and female are one and the same. Why any man would consider leg-shackling himself to one of your sex is beyond my com-prehension."