Lord Calne's Christmas Ruby

by Jude Knight

  “Not mine, uncle, more’s the pity. Even if we can recover some of the stolen rent money, I’ll be in no position to take a wife for a long time, perhaps years. Especially if I choose to keep this estate, which I suppose I must. How can I ask her to wait?”

  “Why should you wait? Miss Finchurch is a considerable heiress, and can well afford any level of comfortable living she requires.”

  “That makes it worse. The first time we met, she told me she would not marry a fortune hunter under any circumstances.”

  Lord Henry stopped, and regarded Philip solemnly. “Are you a fortune hunter, then?”

  “Of course not! I wish she were of modest means, or even without a penny. She might consider me then.”

  Lord Henry strolled on, his hands clasped behind his back, his attention seemingly on the hedgerow on his side of the lane. “So, is it her pride that stands in the way of your marriage, or yours?”

  It was Philip’s turn to stop. “Pride?”

  His uncle kept walking, looking back over his shoulder. “Of course, pride. You love each other, as is plain for all the world to see. You are not after her fortune, any more than she is after your title, which she is not, if that thought crossed your mind.”

  Philip denied it with a hasty gesture. “Of course, she is not after my title. If anything, she regards it as a hindrance.”

  “Just as you do her fortune. Think about it, Philip. You are both young, healthy, single, and in love. Between you, you have the means and social position to do and be whatever you want, as a couple and as a family. What can be keeping you apart, if not pride?” He carried on down the lane, clearly having said all he meant to say, for he turned the subject to the grandchildren who would be waiting to see him when he arrived for Christmas.

  Philip was not required to do more than listen, which was just as well, for his mind was elsewhere, occupied in taking apart his set plans for his future and shuffling them into a more pleasing pattern. Uncle Henry was right. Or, at least, he was right about Philip. Lalamani was worth humbling himself for, and if he could not be as certain of her response as Uncle Henry seemed, he would at least put it to the test.

  He would have returned to the house that very night, but he and Uncle Henry were promised to dinner at the squire’s. Tomorrow would be soon enough, even if every minute between now and when he saw Lalamani again would be a lifetime.

  Philip did not have, had never had, a valet. Except for his one excursion into London Society with his uncle, Philip happily dressed himself without assistance. He had done so, he told those who felt the dignity of an earl required a manservant, since he first went to school, and intended to do so ever more. But fashionable ball attire required a helper. And so, Philip found, did courting wear.

  As they had on the night of the ball, Uncle Henry and his manservant hovered, advised, corrected, and occasionally took a direct hand in fitting him into his finest shirt, an intricately tied cravat, his best pair of moleskin pantaloons in a soft faun he could never wear on a building site, and an embroidered waistcoat he had regretted buying at the moment of purchase since he would never have a day occasion formal enough to require it. But today he was glad of it.

  Next came boots polished to the highest shine they’d had since he brought them home from the bootmaker, and the jacket his friends had talked him into the day he bought the waistcoat. It took Uncle Henry and the manservant, working together, to coax his shoulders into the jacket.

  The two of them exchanged a whisper, and the manservant left the room, to return a few minutes later with Uncle Henry’s trinket box. Despite his protests, Philip found himself fitted with a gold cravat pin set with a small emerald and three dangling belt fobs.

  Uncle Henry handed him his beaver top hat, and put on his own. Philip stood a moment more at the mirror, hoping he looked calmer than he felt. Turning to the door where the manservant waited with his great coat, he felt a momentary pang that it was such a workaday garment, which was silly, since he’d be removing it as soon as he arrived. Still, what would it have hurt to have allowed the tailor to add the extra capes he had suggested?

  Uncle Henry’s coach was already loaded; the horses harnessed and waiting. They were dropping Philip at the house on the way out of town, both Uncle Henry and his servant having forbidden Philip to walk in his finery. In moments, the trinket box had been restowed, and they were on their way.

  For the few minutes of the trip, Philip kept his mind off the coming interview by sending messages to his cousins, but as the coach pulled up at the gate, Uncle Henry reached out to clasp his hand. “I will not get down, my boy, but will be on my way. You know I wish you every success. I like your young lady very much, and I am confident your father and mother would have approved. Write me a letter and tell me what she says, and I will expect an invitation to the wedding.”

  Lalamani was dusting the window ledge in the front room, watching the road because she hoped Philip would call in before he went to the work site. She stilled the duster as Lord Henry’s coach pull up outside. After a moment, Philip descended. A transformed Philip, dressed as finely as a town buck. Where could he be going?

  In here? Really? He opened the gate, and his face, looking up at the house, was anxious. Behind him, the carriage continued down the lane, so this must be his destination, all spruced up as if he was going courting.

  At the thought, she dropped the duster and flew into the hall. “Milly,” she called. “I need you.”

  How could he arrive in all his splendour and her in an old gown with a handkerchief to protect her hair and an apron tied around her twice because it was one of Aunt Hannah’s.

  Aunt Hannah and Addy had appeared at her call, as well as her own maid.

  “Tell Lord Calne I will be down shortly,” Lalamani instructed Addy, and hurried up the stairs, with Milly on her heels. “The rose morning gown. No. What if he wants to take a walk? The light green, and put out the forest green pelisse and the matching bonnet. My hair! You must do something with my hair. Oh hurry, Milly.”

  What if he wasn’t planning to propose? What if he had come to say goodbye, and Lord Henry was merely walking the horses until he had said his farewells? But the horses had been at a trot when they left, and in a direction that led out to the main road west.

  What if he was all dressed up to visit one of the many gently-born maidens who had been trailed before him since he arrived? No. He had shown no signs of interest. But he wouldn’t, would he? He was far too polite to make a show of courting one woman in from of another he had kissed.

  While she fretted, Milly helped her out of her simple wool gown and into the fashionable silk, its vertical stripes alternating a soft green and a cream figured with embroidered sprigs of blossom in shades of lemon, with darker green leaves and stems.

  How embarrassing if he guessed why she had changed. She almost told Milly to reverse the fastening she had just completed, and get her back into her working dress. But Milly was now brushing her hair, then combing it and pinning it into an elegant but simple twist at the back of her head. In the small mirror, she looked—not elegant, she was too short and curved for elegance—but at least armoured for an early call from the man who haunted her every waking thought.

  A knock at the door heralded Aunt Hannah, broadly smiling. “Lalamani, you look lovely. Here. I would like you to wear this.” She fumbled at her neck, undoing the cross that was one of the three pieces of jewellery she always wore. A locket with a picture of each of her brothers. A mourning brooch with locks of hair from her departed husband. And the cross Uncle Thorpe had given her as a wedding present.

  “For luck, dearest.” She dropped her voice. “He wants to see you alone. Oh, isn’t it exciting? I could not be more pleased.”

  “Do you think he means to…” Lalamani let Milly fasten the chain around her neck, and stood to slip her feet into the slippers that matched the dress. “He said he could not court me; he could not live off his wife.”

  Aunt Hannah snorted.
“What nonsense. Well, if he is not here to propose, I much mistake the matter. He loves you. That has been plain as the nose on my face since he first came running to the shop to see you before he had even washed away the dust of his journey.”

  Strengthened by her best morning dress, and Aunt Hannah’s reassurance and warm hug, Lalamani made her way down the stairs, turning Aunt Hannah’s parting advice over in her mind. “If he does not ask you to wed him, dear, you just ask him.” She couldn’t. Could she? Why not?

  Philip was waiting in the parlour, standing by the mantelpiece looking into the fire. But he turned and straightened as she entered, and the devouring heat of his look made her suddenly shy, so that she retreated to formality. “Good morning, Lord Calne.”

  His smile faded. “Not Philip?”

  Her own anxiety sank at the need to smooth the worried crease between his brows. “Of course, Philip. Let me start again. Hello, Philip. How nice to see you. I thought you would be at the Hall this morning.”

  “I have given my work crew a few days off. Until after St Stephen’s Day. You look very lovely in that gown.”

  “You are rather smartly turned out yourself, today.”

  Philip looked down at himself, and chuckled. “I gave my uncle and his man their heads. You have guessed why, perhaps?”

  Lalamani could feel herself blush, but Philip did not expect an answer, rushing on to say, “I prepared a speech. I spent the whole night rehearsing, I think. I may have slept a little, but only in snatches. And now I cannot remember a single word.”

  “I am sure it was excellent, but I do not need a speech,” Lalamani told him.

  He sank to one knee and took her hand. “I love you, Margaret Lalamani Finchurch. Would you do me the enormous honour of consenting to be my wife?”

  It was speech enough, saying everything needed, and Lalamani’s response needed only one word, but for a moment she could only stand looking down at his dear face, smiling. He beamed in return, but his smile slipped as the moment dragged on. “Lalamani?” he prompted.

  “Yes. Oh yes, Philip. Oh Philip, I love you, too.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday was Christmas Eve. Philip was at the house early enough to escort his ladies to church, having once again hired the inn’s gig. The curate from the next parish undoubtedly did an adequate job of the service, but Philip sailed through the morning in a dream, conscious of little but his betrothed.

  He did notice the stir when he escorted Lalamani to take her rightful place beside him in the Calne box at the front of the church. Aunt Hannah, too, resplendent in the new gown Lalamani had made from the material they had been buying the day he came across them in the village shop.

  Yes, and the even greater rustle and murmur when the curate read the banns for the first time.

  After church, they ran the gauntlet of well-wishers, some sincerely delighted and others wanting the favour of their future countess. Philip hovered, but he need not have worried. Lalamani managed them with grace, and Aunt Hannah, who had known most of them since they were in swaddling, was at her elbow to support her.

  A welcome flurry of rain, cold enough to hint at snow, sent everyone on their way. Yes, and would discourage afternoon visits, so he would have Lalamani to himself, but for her aunt and the two maids.

  Still, as they decorated the house that afternoon, he found plenty of opportunity for tender moments under the bunches of mistletoe he helped to hang, and less holiday-sanctioned kisses whenever he could get Lalamani alone and unobserved for a moment.

  The shabby house quickly took on a Christmas gaiety, with evergreen swags and wreaths, kissing boughs, and hanging bunches of ribbons. Lalamani fetched some strings of glass beads to twine around the swags on the mantelpiece in the parlour, where they would sparkle in the candle-light.

  “Pretty,” Aunt Hannah declared. “Do you have any more?”

  “Wait here,” Philip commanded, and went to fetch his father’s pirate chest from the cellar.

  “Bring a sheet to put down on the parlour carpet,” he suggested to Milly, as he passed her in the kitchen, and a few minutes later he deposited the chest in the middle of the sheet.

  “These should clean up to be very pretty,” he said. “Even the metal things.” He rubbed a crown, and the metal under the dust gleamed in the trail of his finger. Aunt Hannah and Lalamani were silent, and he looked around to see them gaping at the chest.

  “It cannot be. The Calne Treasure?” Aunt Hannah asked.

  “A jackdaw’s treasure most of it,” Lalamani said, “but some of it…” She knelt beside him and pulled a necklace of red beads from the tangle, to rub them on her apron and hold them up to the light. “Philip, these are rubies. Very fine.”

  “Lady Calne’s rubies!” Aunt Hannah touched them lightly, her face awed. “They went missing long before we came here to live. And all this time they have been in the cellar.”

  It took them the rest of the afternoon to pull everything out, cleaning them under Lalamani’s direction and spreading them around the room. It was, as Lalamani said, the eclectic collection of a jackdaw, or an imaginative pair of boys, borrowing here and there, and interrupted before they could return what they’d taken. Some of the jewellery was genuine, and would bring a good price. A few items were antiquities in need of an expert appraisal. Most of the hoard was worthless, Lalamani said, but Philip disagreed. “Christmas decorations and children’s toys have their own value,” he said, draping a bright string of green glass beads across the mantlepiece.

  Philip insisted the house belonged to Aunt Hannah, so the valuables were hers, but Aunt Hannah said it was the Calne Treasure, undoubtedly deposited in her cellar by his own father, so it was his. And, besides, she had everything she needed for the remainder of her life. And Lalamani and Philip were her only family, so they would just take the treasure and put it towards the cost of restoring the Hall, and say no more about it.

  “So, Lord Calne,” Lalamani said, when they had packed all the real treasures away except the ruby necklace and its matching earrings, which she had agreed to wear to the Christmas morning service, “you are now wealthy enough to give away rubies for Christmas when all I have for you is those embroidered slippers.” She pointed to the comfortable knitted slippers she’d made with her own hands.

  Philip heard the slight undercurrent of tension, and bent to kiss it out of her. “I have been a wealthy man since the day you looked on me with favour, Miss Finchurch. ‘For your price is far above rubies.’ You are my love, and with you by my side, all of this is trumpery. You, Lalamani Finchurch-soon-to-be-Daventry are my Christmas Ruby.”

  THE END

  Jude Knight needs your help

  Book reviews help readers to find books, and authors to find readers. Please consider writing a review for Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby, even a couple of sentences telling people what you liked (or didn’t like) about it. Reviews can be posted on Goodreads and on most eretailers websites. For links to this book on those sites, see the Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby page on my website: http://judeknightauthor.com/books/lord-calnes-christmas-ruby/

  News and special offers

  Subscribe to Jude’s newsletter for information about publication dates and more. As a subscriber, you will receive advance information about release dates and special price periods as well as exclusive, subscriber-only special offers. Jude sends a newsletter six times a year. New subscribers receive a link to a page full of free short stories and novellas to download as ebooks.

  Subscribe to my newsletter

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my beta readers: Carol, Sue, Jocelyn, Tray-Ci, Sandy, Angie, Cathy, Elizabeth, and Doreen. Your comments and suggestions led to many changes that made the book stronger.

  As always, a special thank you to my husband, without whose support I would probably forget to eat when I get stuck in the early nineteenth century, and to my sister Sue, who is always my first reader.

  About the author

&nbs
p; Jude Knight has always loved telling stories, mostly for the benefit of children in need of entertainment. Her strong determined heroines, heroes who appreciate them, and villains you'll love to loathe first made their way into the covers of a book three years ago. A dozen books later, the wind fills her sails and many more plots jostle for daylight.

  Website and blog: http://judeknightauthor.com

  Subscribe to newsletter: http://judeknightauthor.com/newsletter/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JudeKnightAuthor/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/JudeKnightBooks

  Pinterest: https://nz.pinterest.com/jknight1033/

  Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Jude-Knight/e/B00RG3SG7I

  Regency books

  Candle’s Christmas Chair (A novella in The Golden Redepennings series)

  They are separated by social standing and malicious lies. How can he convince her to give their love another chance?

  Gingerbread Bride (A novella in The Golden Redepenning series)

  Mary runs from an unwanted marriage and finds adventure, danger and her girlhood hero, coming once more to her rescue.

  Farewell to Kindness (Book 1 in The Golden Redepenning series)

  Love is not always convenient. Anne and Rede have different goals, but when their enemies join forces, so must they.

  A Raging Madness (Book 2 in The Golden Redepenning series)

  Their marriage is a fiction. Their enemies are all too real. The truth will need all the trust Ella and Alex can find.

  A Baron for Becky

  She was a fallen woman. How could the men who loved her help set her back on her feet?