Visions of Mistletoe: A Ridlington Christmas Novella

by Sahara Kelly

  There was no warmth there between husband and wife, but Michael received many affectionate caresses from his Mama. Her smiling face was always the last thing he saw at night, and that memory had never faded, even after the tragedy of her death.

  She was there now, eyes lit with delight, staring at him. Her dark curls were rioting around her face as they always did, soft and springy. He recalled the many times she let him tug on them and laughed with him as they sprang back to her head.

  They might easily have been gypsy curls, he mused, wondering if Ariadne’s son’s hair had the same tendency.

  “Find your name.”

  Michael frowned. Who had spoken? Had anyone spoken? The room was nearly pitch black, the silence profound. But he knew those words had echoed from somewhere.

  “Find your name. You need to find your name.”

  “I have a name,” he mumbled.

  “’Tis not your rightful name.”

  “So what?”

  He didn’t need a name. He had chosen a perfectly good one, thank you. He was just becoming accustomed to it. Most of the time. Occasionally he stumbled, but those moments were fewer these days.

  But then again, he hadn’t really spoken much to anyone for a while. Except that strange gypsy and…Ariadne.

  His mother’s face appeared in his mind as he heard the command once more.

  “Find your name.”

  There it was again. That damned phrase that came out of nowhere to pester him. His eyebrows creased into a frown, and his hands clenched to fists. He was lost, turning in the darkness, unable to find anything familiar to tell him where he was.

  And he was tired. So very, very tired.

  Tired of hiding his pain, his fear. Tired of injustice and cruelty. Tired of wandering, at loose ends, not sure of where he would end up, or if he’d die alone in some remote part of a desolate forest, his departure from this life unnoticed and unmarked.

  “It’s in the Vale, Michael. Go to the Vale.”

  Tears stung his eyes as he recognised the sound of his mother’s voice. “Mama…” he cried.

  And woke himself up.

  Feeling foolish, he brushed a hand across the moisture on his cheeks. “Stupid dreams,” he muttered to himself.

  The fire was all but out, so he shivered his way out from under the covers and put another couple of logs on the embers, stoking them until they caught. Once there were flames, albeit little ones, he crossed the room to the window and pulled a thick curtain to one side.

  It was near dawn; the sky had already lightened a little. Snow fell, and the landscape was little but a white blanket bulging with lumps that were shrubs, and tall trees sheathed now by a heavy coating, their branches hanging low.

  Another shiver reminded him that bare feet and an old nightshirt weren’t sufficient for a morning like this, so he slipped back into his bed and pulled the covers up around him as he gazed at the fire.

  Ariadne.

  His thoughts turned immediately to her and her situation.

  The solution—on the surface—was simple. He would stay, marry Ariadne, and accept both her and Joshua as his family.

  Doing so would assure them both of a secure future and give him a place he could call home.

  But there was one rather big obstacle to this simple plan. He had no name to give them.

  He called himself FitzDoone now. But that was a made-up word, based on the Irish phrase for nobody…duine ar bith.

  His experience with families had taught him one thing for sure—if there was anything of value involved they’d go after it, no holds barred. His own family had ripped his name from him and given a title to his half-brother. His father could easily have deeded over a small portion of the estate. He’d not have missed it, and Michael would have had a home of his own.

  But greed had prevailed. Liam had it all and Michael nothing.

  How would Ariadne’s family take the news that she was to wed a nameless bastard? Would that fulfil the terms of the will sufficiently to keep them away? He was a gentleman, but of good birth? That would have to be decided upon and he had a horrid feeling it would not be in his favour.

  One hint of his own status and they’d be there demanding the house and the land, on the grounds that he’d not qualified as an acceptable husband.

  And he, Ariadne and Joshua would all be on the road.

  They’d be together, of course. And that was something that Michael knew he would find most attractive and appealing.

  Ariadne had touched something inside him that he thought he’d buried deep. Her beauty aside, it was more her charm, her natural ability to be herself without any kind of prevarication. Aware of who and what she was, yet refusing to apologise for any of it.

  He was glad she didn’t. Her circumstances were not of her own making any more than his.

  But the voice that had whispered in his dreams had it right.

  He had to find his name. His birthright, if he had one. Only then would he know for sure if he had anything to offer Ariadne. If he could build them a home. If they could become a family.

  He ached at the sound of the word. Both he and Ariadne had lost their families through no real fault of their own.

  Could they start over? Rebuild? Would they be able to surmount the obstacles which seemed to confront him? He knew there was now a thin line separating him from starvation. Ariadne and her son were housed and fed, but all too soon she might end up standing next to him looking at that line as well.

  Was finding his real father that important? According to that voice it was.

  But what the hell had it meant when it directed him to go to a vale? Which vale? Where? And how could he find out?

  He brooded, pulling the covers to his nose, frowning at the fire, lost in thought. His mother had been barely twenty when he was born. And if his father was indeed an English Baron, then he’d have to have been in Ireland…

  No, wait. His mother had been in London.

  It would have been April, and he doubted she’d stayed too long. Being Irish and Catholic in the metropolis…well, trouble always followed religion and religious fanatics.

  However, he was born in January, so the timing was plausible.

  Memories unfolded, stories she’d told him of dancing at an elegant ball in London. Of meeting so many fine people, of making friends, one in particular.

  “It was so gay and bright, Michael”, she’d said, her lips curving into a smile. “So much music, and laughter. London can be a fine place, indeed…” she’d paused. “You weren’t born yet, so I didn’t know how happy I’d be with my fine young man. But I made so many friends. People who were kind to me when I needed it.” Her face had glowed. “I danced, my dearling. Until my feet were so tired. And still I danced. With him.”

  How I miss you, Mama.

  Michael closed his eyes, focussing, concentrating… him. Could that have been his father? Try as he might, he could not recall any other details except the delight on his mother’s face as she’d shared her recollections of such an exciting evening. He couldn’t recall a name or any details that might have helped. His memory was as skimpy as the diary she’d written at the time.

  However, he was sure that this had to be the time she met his father. He turned his thoughts to anything he could recall in the way of other comments about that London trip. The weeks during which he would have been conceived.

  But there was nothing. They’d not taken their own servants…he remembered that, because Mama had told him of the rough young maid who had pulled at her hair to make it lie down flat.

  He imagined her as she might have been…a vibrant and beautiful Irish girl, hair as dark as night and eyes that could light up a room. She was slender, vivacious and laughed readily—London would have been entranced, even though she was a Catholic and wife to the flagrantly Irish O’Donnell.

  Michael’s mind wandered as the day dawned and the snow fell softly outside the window. Finally he could lay abed no longer. He had an idea, a plan
, but it remained to be seen whether Ariadne would agree to it. He’d just have to be his persuasive best and seduce her into it.

  The mere thought of seducing her led to other thoughts which led to a potentially painful personal discomfort, so he sighed and kicked his way out of bed.

  Time to start a new day. And possibly grab a chance at a new life.

  Chapter Six

  Ariadne went about her morning routine, dressing, checking the fires, and then hurrying down to the kitchen for a pot of tea and whatever Winnie had drummed up for breakfast.

  Her body performed most of these functions without conscious thought, since her mind couldn’t shake free of the warmth she’d found in Michael’s arms.

  “Yer not thinkin’, lass.” Winne took the sugar bowl off the shelf and replaced the butter dish with it.

  Ariadne stared at the tray. “No, it would seem I’m not.” She sighed and slid onto the well-worn bench that fronted the ancient kitchen table. “I sleepwalked last night, Winnie. Michael found me and took me back to my room.”

  Winnie paused for a moment or two, then grabbed a cloth and took the kettle off the fire, pouring hot water into the teapot. “And?”

  “We talked. He’s very easy to talk to, I will say. He listens.” She took a breath. “And I told him my sad story.”

  “Is he packin’ ter leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, ’til yer do, I’d not worry much. Yer can’t be anything but honest, ’tis who yer are. An’ if he’s the right man, he’ll know it. If he ain’t, then best yer find out now.”

  “I agree,” she nodded. “But Winnie. You know what today is. It’s the twenty-second.”

  “Oh Gawd,” she frowned. “An’ yer think that miserable lobcock is gonna want more money?”

  Ariadne raised her head. “Well, he’s not having me…”

  “How much we got left?”

  “Barely enough to meet his demands, I’m thinking. But there’s always the hope that he’s found other prey.” She rose and paced the room, unable to remain still while her brain struggled with just about everything. “It wasn’t supposed to go on, Winnie. But I don’t know how to stop him. You know the estate refuses to give us a penny more than we’re entitled to by law.” She faced the older woman. “And it’s not enough to live on, let alone pay him off.”

  The kitchen door squeaked as Rodney peered around it at the two of them. “‘E’s up.”

  Ariadne took a breath. “Very well.” She moved to the tray.

  “Stop, gel. Yer get yerself to the parlour and put a log on the fire. Let Rodney bring up the tray. ’Tis proper.”

  Winnie was right, as usual. Ariadne smiled weakly. “As you say. I must be proper.”

  She turned and hurried from the kitchen, hoping to reach the parlour before her guest, wondering if he’d appear in his cloak, ready to leave.

  Fortunately, the room was empty. There was time to put a couple of logs on the fire and push the heavy curtains aside enough to let in the winter light. It was still snowing, but gently now, the worst of the storm having passed. In a few hours it would stop, she knew. A thought crossed her mind that perhaps he’d be unable to leave today. Where would he be able to go until the snow melted a bit?

  Cheered by that thought as much as the consequent thought that perhaps others couldn’t reach her until the snow melted a bit either, Ariadne whisked around the room, tidying it a little, and poking the logs into a nice blaze.

  Michael walked in, a smile on his face as he moved to the fire. He wasn’t wearing his cloak. “Good morning. You look…rested.”

  She dipped her head, hiding her relief. “Thank you, sir. For the compliment and for your kind help last night.”

  He held up a hand. “No, no thanks. We helped each other, I think. As friends should in time of need.”

  “Friends.” She spoke the word quietly. “It’s been so long. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have a friend.”

  He came to her side, took her hand and dropped a quick kiss on the back of it. “Then it will be my pleasure to refresh your memory.” He drew her to the table and they sat as Rodney entered with the tray.

  “Tea, Ma’am. Food’ll be up shortly.”

  “I confess that there’s little better than that first cup of tea,” grinned Michael. “Please. Pour one for me immediately lest I faint from the wanting of it.”

  “You’re full of jests this morning,” she commented, obediently pouring him tea.

  “I slept in a bed,” he answered calmly. “I had warm feet, a clean body and food in my belly. My horse is stabled and the snow fell on the roof, not me. All those things may seem unimportant to some, but to me they are beyond precious.”

  Rodney bowed and left the room.

  “Plus, I held a wonderful lady who honoured me with her confidences in the warmth of a chair that cocooned us both. It was one of the finest nights I’ve had in more years than I can recall.” He chuckled. “You might not realise it, Ariadne, but you’ve given me the first Christmas gift I can remember since my mother died.”

  Tears rose to sting her eyes as his words touched her heart and she busied herself with milk and tea. “You are very kind, Michael. And in truth I could say much the same.” Risking a glance at him, she saw his eyes, green flames in the flickering firelight. “’Tis the first time I’ve been helped through a bad night by a pair of comforting arms. I must tell you how pleasant it was.”

  She felt the colour rise in her cheeks, but kept her gaze steady. “I trust my revelations have not given you a distaste for my company.”

  He sipped his tea, swallowed and put the cup back on the saucer. “My dear Ariadne. It would take a great deal more than our conversation last night to have such a result.” He paused, tilting his head to one side as he watched her. “In fact, I can’t think of anything that would give me a distaste for your company. Truly.”

  She laughed, something vibrant coming alive within her. Perhaps it was his answering smile, or the knowledge that for a little while at least, she was not completely alone.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Michael. Most glad.”

  Rodney chose that moment to return with another tray, bearing several small covered dishes.

  “Thank you,” she said as he put the tray on one side of their table. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” said Rodney, bowing himself out.

  “He doesn’t talk very much, does he?”

  “No, but he and his wife have taken good care of me, so I don’t complain.” She lifted the lids and grimaced. “Although you probably will when you see our meagre fare.”

  There was toast, naturally. Winnie would have baked a loaf either last night or this morning. And butter to go with it, thanks to one of their two remaining cows. But after that…well, what eggs they had were scrambled, with some herbs and seasonings. No bacon or ham, since there hadn’t been a pig in the sty for almost a year.

  Ashamed, she turned to Michael. “I…”

  “Once again, Ariadne, stop.” He helped himself to toast. “Please remember I’ve wandered far and wide for so long that sitting down to breakfast with you, a real breakfast like this, is as if I’ve been invited to dine at Carlton House.”

  She huffed out a laugh. “I doubt His Royal Highness would be much impressed with such a minimal offering.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he’d be a damn sight better off with meals this size, rather than the Herculean feasts that are apparently part of his everyday routine.”

  He adroitly turned the conversation into such things, making her laugh at some of his stories about the goings-on of the elite aristocracy, and the absurd rumours he’d heard about the Prince Regent himself. A bottle of brandy for breakfast? Every morning? She found that hard to believe.

  An hour passed so quickly, she was unaware of it, and when finally the teapot was empty, she sighed, wondering if she should ask for another one.

  Then sat bolt upright as a loud bang on the front
door startled both of them.

  *~~*~~*

  Michael saw the colour drain from her cheeks at the sound. Since he knew the knocker was off, it had to be a fist that made such a racket.

  When Ariadne rose and he saw the muscles of her cheeks quiver as she clenched her teeth, a shiver of something protective shook Michael and he stood as well, moving to her side. “Who is it?”

  “Oh, ’tis…’tis nobody, Michael. Nobody at all.”

  He reached down and took her hand. “Ariadne. You’re lying. Whoever it is has made you afraid. I can feel it. Sense it.” He squeezed her fingers. “I am here. You are not alone.”

  “You can’t…you shouldn’t…”

  She didn’t get to finish her sentence, since the door burst open and a large man strode in, with Rodney right behind him.

  “I tried, Ma’am,” he said, his voice shaky.

  “Stupid idiot. Leave us.” The man stared at Michael. “Who the hell are you?”

  And those words were enough to bring Michael to attention, his spine straightening, and all the O’Donnell pride flooding his bones. He looked down his nose at this…this intruder.

  His clothes were of fine cloth, but could not hide the character, which Michael judged immediately. The man was a bully, a fierce and uncouth lout who would take what he wanted from those unable to stand up to him.

  “I am a guest in this house. You, sir, are not, and I do not recall you being invited to join us.” The ice-cold tones made Ariadne shift a little and try to withdraw her hand.

  Michael held it tightly.

  “A guest are you? A likely story. I am Martin Graymore. Of the Frome Graymores. Mrs Wilton is expecting me.” He grinned, an ugly expression that made Michael’s teeth clench with a need to wipe it off his face. With his fist. “And finding you here is fortunate.” He glanced at Ariadne. “It’ll cost you more from now on.”

  “I’ve never heard of the Graymores.” With that cutting phrase, he turned to Ariadne. “Were you expecting this man, my dear?”