by Linda Banche
The note was from the cobbler. “One pair ladies’ half boots, custom made. Deliver to Mr. Charles Gordon”.
She dropped the message as if the paper burned.
Charles had given her the boots! Did he feel sorry for her, with her fallen so low since their parting, and he risen so high?
But—he hadn’t gloated at the sight of her pitiful old boots, although he could have. And he had kissed her not once, but twice. He might still harbor some shreds of love for her.
Like a phoenix, her own love flickered back to life from the ashes.
She reread the note. Aunt Lydia had propriety on her side when she said Penelope couldn’t accept the footwear. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t claimed the gift.
She tapped the paper on the chair arm. She should return his present. But unless she wanted to walk outside barefoot, she couldn’t. In this case, necessity overruled everything else.
Still, whatever Charles’s motive, she must thank him, but she couldn’t afford to purchase a gift in return. She rose to dig among her meager possessions.
In a side pocket of her battered satchel, her questing fingers brushed against a layer of soft fabric. She drew out an ivory silk handkerchief, embroidered in the corner with a capital “C” cradling a lowercase “p”, both picked out in dark blue thread. Five years ago, she’d embroidered this as a Christmas present for Charles. When he spurned her, she’d hidden the gift away in the remotest place she could find.
And now the handkerchief came back to haunt her with what might have been.
Hot tears pricked her eyes. She couldn’t give him this. She dropped the handkerchief and made another frantic search among her belongings.
After going through everything twice more, she gave up. The handkerchief was her only choice.
Hands shaking, she tucked a note which said only “To Mr. Gordon, Happy Christmas” inside the folded handkerchief, and then secured the paper with a red hair ribbon tied in a bow. She would leave this outside his door, as anonymous a present as his. Even with the monogram, he would never guess the handkerchief came from her.
By the time she left her chamber, the short winter afternoon had waned to a gloomy dusk. The servants hadn’t yet lighted the corridor wall sconces, and shadows covered her passage. Her house shoes silent on the carpets, she hurried to the bachelors’ wing.
Her heart thudded. If anyone caught her, her reputation would be in tatters.
Luck smiled on her. No one was abroad. Yesterday, she had helped Jane reassign bedchambers, so she knew which one belonged to Charles. The rumbling of his voice from inside the room confirmed she had the right one.
She placed the gift on the floor outside the door, tapped on the wood panel, and then ran down the corridor. As the door swung open, she ducked behind a large potted camellia.
A man she didn’t know stuck out his head. Forehead creasing, he looked both ways and then down. “Something for you, sir.” He scooped up the handkerchief and then the door shut behind him with a soft click.
Quiet descended. Penelope hastened back to her chamber, again without incident.
Chapter 11
Charles, smiling and greeting others, waded through the crowd at the ballroom entrance.
Music, laughter and the clink of glasses lifted in toasts drifted to his ears. Close-packed couples filled the dance floor, and guests occupied every chair lining the wall. Both friends from the surrounding estates and family filled the room.
The Christmas Eve ball was in full progress.
All the blasted greenery they had gathered today festooned the place, here as in the rest of the manor. Bouquets of holly and ivy decorated the refreshment table beside the entry. Pine and rowan boughs graced the mantels above the fireplaces at both ends of the room. Juniper swags adorned the tops of the window frames. The gentlemen wore holly in their lapels, and the ladies had entwined ivy in their hair. The pine’s pungent odor mingled with the sweet scents of beeswax candles and the ladies’ season-inappropriate floral perfumes.
Above the center of the room hung a three-tiered crystal chandelier. From the lowest tier dangled a huge kissing bough, the mistletoe’s shiny green leaves and snowy berries luminous in the candlelight. In such a position, that kissing bough guaranteed that every lady in attendance would receive at least one kiss before the night was out.
He narrowed his eyes. The kissing bough was the only mistletoe in evidence. With several gentlemen taking kisses as they swung their dancing partners below the decoration, the mistletoe had to be real.
Finally.
The window behind the refreshment table shuddered in a blast of wind, and fat flakes of the snow which had threatened all day swirled against the pane.
Charles pulled out his new silk handkerchief to mop his brow. Snow might cover the frozen world outdoors, but the inside, with all the candles and warm bodies, could rival the tropics.
This handkerchief, with its “C” and “p” embroidery, had arrived at his door this afternoon, delivered by an unknown messenger. With such a monogram, the gift must have come from Miss Ward. What a daring creature she was, to invade the bachelors’ wing. He never would have expected this—she was always so proper. Perhaps this was a new, exciting side to her rather prim personality.
The problem was, he didn’t care.
He had accepted this invitation for the sole purpose of offering her marriage, but now, he was unsure. She was a lovely girl and would make a suitable wife. But, all of sudden, “suitable” wasn’t enough. He wanted the world and the stars in his arms when he held the woman he loved.
He’d had that with Penelope. He doubted he would with Miss Ward.
For years, his mother had chided him to wed. She recently became acquainted with Lady Henderson, and championed that lady’s daughter. Miss Ward was unexceptional, but better than the other candidates his mother had wanted to foist on him.
He always fobbed Mother off by saying he was too busy, until the day she rang a peal over his head to stop pining over Penelope, and both his sister and brother echoed her.
That stopped him in his tracks. He did not pine over Penelope. Never had, never would. He hadn’t yet married because of his business. His work took so much time, he had none left over for women. So what if there hadn’t been any lady since Penelope.
But, after all his efforts, his business prospered and the multitude of tasks that required his attention had eased. Now was a good time to seek a wife. So, he’d reluctantly promised to offer for Miss Ward.
He traced the embroidered “p” with his finger. Gads, but Penelope haunted him. Every time he saw her, his emotions jumbled more and more. This afternoon he’d almost punched Bray. The man was an out-and-outer, but he had the right to try to attach Penelope’s affections.
He stuffed the handkerchief into his inside coat pocket. He needed a drink to help him forget her.
At the refreshment table, the waiting servant ladled out a hefty cupful of punch redolent of apples, cinnamon and cloves.
The sweet liquid coursed down Charles’s throat and he almost choked. No alcohol in this batch. Unless he found something stronger, he couldn’t drink himself into oblivion as he’d planned.
Wrinkling his nose, he took another sip of the atrocious punch. Devil take it, he had kissed Penelope! Not once, but twice. Today’s kiss was perfect—the apples and the memories…until that damned Bray showed up.
And then there was the midnight kiss in the passage. Try as he might, he couldn’t blame that on relief at protecting her from harm. He wouldn’t have kissed Miss Ward in the same situation.
He almost dropped the glass. Did he require any additional proof that he and Miss Ward didn’t suit?
And both times Penelope had kissed him back. His love for her, which had never died, burst forth. Maybe there was hope for them.
With a shaky hand, he deposited the half-full cup on a nearby table.
The music slowed and then stopped, ending the current set. The dancers clapped as they shuffled
off the dance floor. A servant wheeled in a small cart containing bouquets of red roses and several small bottles, which he placed on a table on the musicians’ dais.
Edward, his smile as wide as ever, climbed onto the dais. “Attention, all! Now that everyone is here, I will award prizes to the group that gathered the most greenery today.”
A cheer went up.
“I thank you all for joining into the spirit of the holiday, and for finding so many greens. Everyone did a splendid job, but one band was outstanding. They brought back so much greenery, they could barely walk under their loads. And now, without further ado, the winning group is—Lord Baring’s!”
Amid applause and more cheers, Lord Baring, two ladies, Bray, and the young, black-haired man gathered beside Edward.
“And here are the prizes.” Edward gestured to the table. “Brandy for the men, and flowers for the ladies. Or vice versa, if you wish.”
“No vice versa for me.” Lord Baring accepted one of the bottles. “I do like brandy.”
“As if we didn’t know!” some wag called out.
Laughter bubbled over the room as Edward presented the ladies their bouquets, and Bray and the young, dark-haired man their bottles. When he finished, one bouquet remained. “We have extra flowers. I shall give—”
The young man placed his bottle back on the table. “I would rather have the bouquet.”
Edward handed him the flowers and the brandy. “Keep them both. Happy Christmas.”
Everyone clapped as the winners descended from the dais and then merged back into the throng. The orchestra played a few bars, signaling the start of the next set.
Miss Ward, clad in a lilac dress that displayed too much bosom for an unwed miss, strolled along the far wall with her mother.
Lady Henderson, her head swiveling to and fro, almost sniffed like a hound on the scent of a fox. She saw Charles and her eyes lit up. She waved him over.
Charles barely prevented himself from grimacing. He liked Miss Ward. He truly did. But he no longer wanted her as his wife.
However, politeness dictated that he thank her for her gift.
The young man with the flowers stopped before Miss Ward and her mother. He bowed and proffered the bouquet.
Both women turned their backs on him and started toward Charles.
Miss Ward’s face, so smiling a moment ago, closed up.
The young man stared after her for a long moment. Then, shoulders slumped, he walked away.
Poor lad. Something was going on there, but he had no idea what.
“Mr. Gordon, how happy we are to see you.” Lady Henderson patted his arm as if he were already her son-by-marriage. “Look, there is Mrs. Tighe. I must speak with her. If you will excuse me for a moment?” Her look that of the cat in the cream, she departed, leaving him alone with her daughter.
On purpose, no doubt.
Miss Ward’s sweet smile had returned. “Good evening.”
“Good evening.” He cleared his throat. “I wish to thank you for your Christmas present. I must say, you did a masterful job of embroidery.”
Miss Ward’s features blanked. “But I have not yet given you your gift. How could you have it?”
He pulled out the silk square, monogram up. “Did you not leave this handkerchief outside my door this afternoon?”
Miss Ward splayed dainty fingers on her too-expansive bosom. “Me, venture into the gentlemen’s wing? I would never do so fast a thing.” She prodded the handkerchief with a finger and sniffed. “My embroidery is much better.”
Charles had never seen her sewing, however much she praised her efforts. That she disparaged this fine piece of work was another mark against her. “My mistake.” He tucked the silk square into his pocket. Who had given him this?
Miss Ward tilted her head to the side. Her eyes rounded. “Everyone says you see mistletoe over a certain lady.” She spoke loud enough to drown out the orchestra. Again, she leaned around him, and then she fluttered her eyelashes. “Am I the lady you see?” She used a coy voice he had never before heard from her.
“The tale is much exaggerated. The house is named Mistletoe Manor, and many of the carved wall decorations are of mistletoe. I mistook them for the real plant. Nothing more.” The back of his neck prickled. Was she was talking to him or to someone else?
The dark-haired young man, still holding the bouquet, stepped forward. He looked up, over Miss Ward, and his eyes narrowed.
Charles coughed. “But if I did see mistletoe over a lady, I am sure that lady would be you.”
She preened, and cast a smug glance around him. At the dark-haired young man?
“May I have the next dance?”
“I am sorry, but Mr. Gavin asked for that, and Lord Baring the dance following. But I am free for the country dance after that one.”
“Then the country dance it is.”
The young, black-haired man strode toward them.
Miss Ward flushed. “I must find Mr. Gavin.” She tossed her head and flounced away just as the young man reached her.
A smiling Gavin met her and led her onto the floor.
The lad stared after her, his face a careful blank. Then he bowed to Charles and made his way to the ladies seated at the side of the room. He presented the bouquet to one of the dowagers.
***
Penelope entered the ballroom three steps behind her aunt. If they had lived a century earlier, she probably would have carried her aunt’s train.
Aunt Lydia, the ostrich plume in her hair wagging like a dog’s tail, led the way to the side wall. She plopped her ample bottom onto a cushioned, throne-like chair halfway down the room where she could see everything without craning her neck.
Penelope, after arranging the elder lady’s skirts so they wouldn’t crease, sat on the unpadded, straight-backed chair beside her.
Like the chair, the night would be long and uncomfortable.
Directly in front of her, laughing couples lined up for the next set.
Penelope couldn’t stop a sigh from escaping. She loved to dance, but hadn’t in a long while. No one would partner her. Her aunt always scared off any man who dared to ask.
Aunt Lydia tapped her shoulder with her fan and nodded toward the crowd. “Now there is a gentleman for you.”
Mr. Bray wove his way through the guests toward them.
Penelope’s stomach tightened. “I cannot like Mr. Bray. He makes me uneasy.”
“Fustian. He is young, wealthy and handsome.” Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “Need I remind you that you live with me by sufferance? If such an eligible gentleman singles you out, I expect you to encourage him.”
Penelope caught herself before she uttered a remark that would earn her aunt’s wrath. In most cases, Aunt was annoying but harmless. But she knew better than to argue when her aunt worked herself into a tizzy. “Yes, Aunt.”
Mr. Bray bowed to them both, and then kissed her aunt’s fingers.
Aunt Lydia reddened and fluttered her eyelashes like a young miss.
Mr. Bray smiled as he released her aunt’s hand. His smile stretched as he turned to Penelope. “Miss Lawrence, may I have this dance?”
What Aunt Lydia wanted was of no account. Mr. Bray set her skin to crawling. For once, she was thankful her aunt didn’t permit her to dance. “I thank you, sir, but—”
“She will be delighted.” Aunt Lydia nudged her foot with her own. “Now, off you go, you two, and enjoy yourselves.”
Penelope gaped. Then, having no choice, she stood. “Thank you, sir.” She took Mr. Bray’s proffered arm and allowed him to lead her toward the forming set.
Merciful God be praised, the two dances of the set were country dances. A long line of men stood opposite an equally long line of ladies, with couples parading down the length of the line in turn. The figures allowed little time for intimate conversation.
Charles was in the men’s line, opposite Miss Ward.
Too bad he wasn’t her partner. She always felt safe with him.
What speech she did have with Mr. Bray was brief and polite. But the set was so long!
Mr. Bray’s grin was that of a cat toying with a bird before he devoured the tasty morsel.
Their turn to promenade down the line arrived, and Mr. Bray clasped her hand. “You are a good dancer, Miss Lawrence.”
She inclined her head. “As are you.”
“I enjoy dancing with you very much.” He grasped her hand more tightly. “I think I could enjoy dancing with you for a good, long time.” His eyes heated.
Her skin crawled again. Gracious, what did that mean?
She passed Charles. She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
Her heart lightened. Still smiling, she and Mr. Bray reached the end of the line and separated.
Then she scrubbed her palm on her skirt. Even through their gloves, his touch made her shudder. The temporary lift Charles’s smile produced faded away.
At long last, the interminable set ended, and he squired her back to her aunt. “A very enjoyable dance, Miss Lawrence. Dare I ask for another?”
“Of course you may have another.” Once more, Aunt Lydia accepted for her.
Sporting a triumphant grin, he sauntered away.
Her aunt patted Penelope on the knee. “A good sign, his asking for another dance. Encourage him a little, and you could be Mrs. Bray.”
“I do not care for him.”
Aunt Lydia cast a gimlet eye her way. “Do not be missish. Mr. Bray is a fine catch for any woman, and for one in your situation, a positive godsend. Do not dismiss him.”
Penelope’s throat constricted. What did Aunt Lydia plan?
***
Penelope’s delicate apple blossom perfume lingered in Charles’s nostrils.
The set had ended, and now she was halfway across the ballroom, so perhaps he imagined the scent that only she wore.
No matter. The slightest whiff of her perfume, real or not, brought her near.
His heart had soared at finding her a mere few places down from him in the dance, and soared even higher when she smiled at him.