by Hall, Karen
He dare not think of the last one. Cheeks burning, he left the empty stage. Behind the same boards where he had hidden himself he heard a giggle and then a whisper and then—Merciful Heavens!
“Oh no,” Priscilla Honeywell whispered, breaking her kiss with a wide-eyed astonished Matthew Timmons.
“I say, Grayson, be a good fella and don’t betray us,” Matthew pleaded.
At first Grayson could only stare. “B--but Miss Honeywell. I thought that you—”
“I’m sorry to break your heart, Grayson, but I had to pretend I was in love with you until my birthday because Grandpapa would never have permitted me to marry Matthew.” Priscilla’s words came out in a rush. “But now that I’m twenty--one and have come into my own money and--”
His heart beating in wild exaltation, Grayson held up his hand to stop her. “You may marry and still inherit. I quite understand. You plan to elope? Right now?” The pair nodded and Grayson said, “What about your grandfather, Miss Honeywell?”
“He’s singing solo at all the services at St. Alban’s,” she said. “He’ll be too busy to notice I’m not there until it’s too late.”
“Then go quickly, and may God bless you both,” Grayson said with his best pulpit voice.
The couple hurried away and hope returned to Grayson’s heart. Returning to the parish hall, he scanned it for Holly, who was of course, standing with Theo. For a moment, the look she gave the barrister nearly changed Grayson’s mind, but a man must do what he must. Spying Clara talking with Oliver, he hurried to join them and said, “A private word with you, Miss Clara?’
He tugged at her sleeve and pulled her into a corner before she could answer. Eyes wide, she said, “Whatever is the matter, Mr. Clark?”
“I need your help on a matter most urgent,” he said. “What time does Miss Holly get up on Christmas Day?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Right around six to prepare her Papa’s special breakfast. The bread has to soak in the milk and sugar mixture before we cook it. Why?”
“Because—” and Grayson leaned over to whisper in her ear.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, sir,” she whispered. “That’s the most romantic—”
“Hush,” he whispered back. “Do you understand what you need to do?”
She nodded and after making sure Holly’s attention was on her coachman Harold-- who had grown out old- fashioned mutton chop whiskers to play their Fizziwig-- Grayson hurried backstage, found his coat and hat and left St. Martin’s for Chestnut Street.
Chapter Seven
“‘Merry Christmas, Miss Holly,” Clara greeted softly as Holly entered the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas, Clara,” Holly echoed, taking the traditional cup of cocoa. She quickly drank it and asked, “Is the milk for the bread pudding good and cold?”
“Yes, Miss, but before we start, could you go and hang up the stockings on the mantle? Some have fallen down, and I can’t find the hammer.”
“It’s on the mantle, but I’ll go do it,” Holly said, giving her the cup. She headed toward the parlor and from behind the slightly open door, saw the glimmer of candlelight.
Candles? She pushed open the door, and gasped.
Two candelabras filled with shimmering candles, stood on either side of the mantle, from where five embroidered stockings hung, each bearing an initial of her name. She stumbled forward and saw each held a scroll of paper. Hands trembling, she took out and unrolled the paper from the H stocking. She gasped again as her own handwriting greeted her. Since the moment of our first meeting… Grayson Clark. From O to the second L, all the stockings contained the letters she had written to his dictation, and all signed by him. Her beloved Grayson.
Tears running down her cheeks, she pulled out the remaining scroll, remembering their laughter at his ‘friend’ borrowing lines from Jane Austen’s Persuasion and one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Oh, how I faint, when I of you do write, for you pierce my soul. One glance from you and I am half hope, half despair. For I have loved and will always love none but you.
Yours alone, Grayson Clark.
Grateful she always changed into her clothing before preparing Papa’s breakfast, Holly dashed for the hall closet and her coat, and she was out the door, where miracle of miracles—for Christmas is after all, all about miracles--the family coach waited and driver were waiting. A smiling Harold helped her inside before climbing back on the box and setting the horses into motion.
And because it was a miracle, Holly didn’t even have to tell him where to go.
The greenery hanging from the communion rail and pulpit scented the empty church. With a heavy heart, Grayson finished lighting the candles and returned to the sacristy. Christmas Day was here, and within minutes, the sexton would unlock the front door for the seven o’clock service. In the bell tower, the ringers had already gathered, waiting for the clock to strike the hour.
He’d always associated the scent of evergreen with hope, but it was foolish to hope that writing love letters to Holly Chamberlain would make a difference. By this afternoon, she would be engaged to Theo Barrett and that would be the end of it. After all, Grayson was only a clergyman and—
“Grayson.” A beloved voice called from the doorway. Its owner hovered there as if unsure if she should enter or flee. But the light in her eyes outshone all the altar candles, and Grayson opened his arms to her. She ran to enfold herself against him and he buried his face in her glorious unbound hair.
“You found the stockings?” he asked.
“An Oxford scholar asks such a question?” she whispered. “You got Clara and Harold to help you, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted sheepishly. “It was the only way. Dare I hope you’re here--”
“Because I love you?” She lifted her head and in her eyes was the promise of love, tomorrows yet to come and all the happily-ever-afters one could dream of. “So much for you’re being a scholar. Yes, silly man, because I love you. Only you.”-
“And here I was thinking you loved Theo,” Grayson sighed in relief.
“And I thought you were in love with Priscilla,” Holly said. “It nearly broke my heart thinking those letters were for her.”
“Good thing they weren’t, or Matthew would have killed me,” and Grayson told her about the by now newlywed couple.
She laughed. “So there we were, writing and dreaming of the one we loved when they were just across the desk. A fine pair we made.”
“A fine pair we’ll make,” Grayson corrected, brushing his lips across her forehead. “What about Theo?”
“He’ll have to find someone else,” Holly said. “Is it a sin to kiss in the sacristy?”
“I’ll have to ask the bishop,” Grayson said, pulling her closer. “But it’s a good place for a proposal.”
She pretended to pout. “But I was going to propose to you.”
“Then let’s ask each other together. On the count of three. One, two…”
“Marry me, Grayson?”
“Marry me, Holly?”
“Yes,” they chorused and at that moment the bells began to peal out Joy to the World, spreading the news to all of London that Christmas Day was indeed finally here.
But Grayson and Holly, wrapped in each other’s arms, were too busy enjoying the first of a lifetime of kisses to notice.
A Christmas Proposal
Karen Hall
A Christmas Proposal
Copyright 2011
Karen Hall
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First eBook Edition –November 2010
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Acknowledgement
This story is dedicated with love to the memory of my parents, Bill and Norma Seaton who taught me how to read.
A Christmas Proposal
London December 1897
“You said no to a proposal from Viscount Ramsfield’s son?” Great aunt Tilda Mason’s shrieked words rivaled a banshee’s cry. “Quick, Hildegarde. My smelling salts!”
From her place by the fire, Cassandra Barnwell watched the lady’s maid rush forward, the ever-ready bottle of Crayfield’s smelling salts in her hand. It was a great pity Cassandra had never invested in Crayfield’s. With the number of times her great aunt called for them each day, Cassandra’s fortune would be twice as large at it was.
Of course if Aunt Tilda would just loosen her stays and get more exercise, her old friend the vapors would probably leave on a permanent holiday.
“There, there, ma’am,” Hildegarde soothed, waving the bottle below Aunt Tilda’s nose. “You’ll soon be as right as rain.”
“I’ll probably die from palpitations by tomorrow,” Aunt Tilda wailed. “Tell me why, Cassandra. Why did you say no?”
Feeling like a Jane Austen heroine, Cassandra said, “Because in spite of being a Viscount’s son, Edward Ramsfield has nothing else to recommend him. He is quite opposed to women winning the vote and said if suffragists had husbands and homes to attend to, they would give up the notion of voting. Ergo, my refusal.”
“Mercy, you didn’t try to speak Latin to him?” Aunt Tilda clutched at her lace-covered bosom.
“If I had, I doubt he’d have understood a word of it,” Cassandra said matter-of-factly. “Edward Ramsfield may be a Viscount’s son, but he’s a perfect dunce, and that’s being kind. I’m surprised he finished at Harrow, much less university.”
“Cassandra!”
Holding back her sigh of impatience, Cassandra said, “Hildegarde, why don’t you make Aunt Tilda a tisane or something that will calm her?”
“Yes, Miss Barnard.” The maid pocketed the bottle, gave a quick curtsey and left the room.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Aunt Tilda fretted, sitting up on the enormous horsehair sofa. “Christmas is only weeks away and announcing your engagement then would so romantic. I do my best to introduce you to eligible young men, and you always find something wrong with them.”
That’s because they’re all fortune hunters, my dear Aunt, with no interest in me except the number of zeros in my dowry. “Uncle Bob says they’re making bets at all the gentlemen’s clubs on whether I’ll ever accept a proposal. Of course, they’re just wasting their money. I don’t think I shall ever marry.”
“Cassandra Yvonne Barnwell!” Her aunt’s banshee wail returned. “Look, here’s Hildegarde back again.” Cassandra said with more cheerfulness than she felt. Were the clubs really taking bets on her matrimonial prospects? Or the lack of them?
The maid’s speedy return with the tisane suggested it was already made with its usual dose of Lydia Pinkham’s Cordial added to it, a remedy that always put Aunt Tilda to sleep.
And as usual, soon after drinking it, Aunt Tilda’s head began to droop, and within minutes the snore she always denied was thundering through the room. Hildegarde pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over the tiny form. She flashed her familiar grin at Cassandra and said, “I think she’ll sleep at least until tea, Miss.”
“You’re an angel, Hildegarde,” Cassandra praised. “If anyone calls, I’m going to see Aunt Laura.”
“Another suffragists’ meeting?” Hildegarde guessed.
“Not today. We’re going to see a new exhibit at the British Museum. “But we’ve already started to plan a large rally in Hyde Park for after the New Year.”
Hildegarde’s grin broadened. “Your Aunt Laura is a caution.”
Cassandra smiled in return at the thought of Laura Barnwell, her beloved Uncle Bob’s wife of two years and president of the local chapter of Women United for Equality. “She is indeed. Aunt Laura says all women need to be involved in the suffrage movement. After all, the laws Parliament passes apply to us, so why shouldn’t we have be able to vote for them?”
“Or against them,” Hildegarde said earnestly.
“Or against them,” Cassandra agreed. “If Aunt Tilda asks, I took a cab to Aunt Laura’s instead of walking. She’ll have another ‘fit’ and I think that was the last bottle of smelling salts in the house. But I’ll be back by teatime.”
Going to the door, she peeked into the foyer to be sure it was empty of any servant activity before fetching the coat and hat she kept in the front closet. Before putting them on, she stopped at the wall mirror long enough to be sure her barely controlled auburn hair had not escaped its pins and frown at her reflection. Despite a twice-daily application of fading cream, the long detestable freckles still dotted her cheeks and bridged her nose. Not even buttermilk had done the trick.
“With a face and hair like that, of course my money is the only reason men want to court me, “ She sighed and crammed on her hat. “Only a man in the most desperate of situations would even consider such a thing.”
Cassandra shrugged into her coat, opened the door and stepped outside the Grosvenor Square mansion. A light snow whispered around her, covering the ground with a fine, white powder. In the distance, a carillon chimed I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day and from near by wafted the scent of roasting chestnuts. All signs that Christmas was not far away.
“A Christmas wedding,” she sighed again and a curious wistfulness settled around her heart. “Even if I’ve been very, very good, that’s about as likely as a visit from Father Christmas.”
Lengthening her stride, she headed for the corner.
***
“Ah, Brandon, here you are at last.” The bearded man behind the desk clambered to his feet. “Welcome home from Egypt, my lord.”
“Since when do you stand on formality, Albert?” Lord Brandon Russell crossed the artifact-cluttered room in the British Museum to shake his university friend’s outstretched hand. “And you can save the ‘my lord’ for my brother. I got off the boat from Fort Said an hour ago.”
Albert Graham, the Museum’s curator of Asian antiquities waved Brandon into a chair. “Home for Christmas, are you?”
Brandon sank gratefully into the chair’s upholstered depths and crossed his legs. “That and my younger sister Gwendolyn’s wedding on New Year’s Day.”
“I remember seeing the announcement in the London Times,” Albert said, “The sister of a duke marrying another duke’s heir. I’m sure His Grace is pleased.”
“That alone would have made the Times,” Brandon said dryly. “Considering how seldom Trevor is pleased by anything.” Albert’s eyebrows rose. “Is the Duke of Halstead still annoyed at you for-how did he put it-‘digging up crockery in the desert’ instead of taking your rightful place in Society?”
“Something like that,” Brandon admitted. “Communication between us is sparse at best. Gwendolyn keeps me informed of family matters.”
“His Grace has very particular ideas about your family, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.” Brandon said wearily. “And they don’t include me living in the Egyptian
desert ten months out of the year or funding my expeditions. Thanks to my father’s will, the bulk of my inheritance is tied up until I turn thirty-two or marry. I have no intention of the latter, which is why I must rely on funding from the British Museum. What contributions Trevor makes hardly get me to Gibraltar, let alone Egypt. As he so frequently reminds me, until Mother Nature takes a hand, and gifts him with a son, I am his heir and should act accordingly. Which includes getting married.”
Albert shot him wicked grin. “The younger brother of a duke-particularly one with only daughters-would be considered quite a catch for many a wealthy young woman.
“How many young women do you know who would willingly live in a canvas tent with sand and camels for companions?” Brandon made no attempt to hide his sarcasm. “Let’s not even talk about the windstorms or the snakes.”
“There’s something to be said for bachelorhood,” Albert agreed. “No one to tell you what to do, how to do it, and when to come home.”
“My point exactly,” Brandon said. “Speaking of Gibraltar, did you get the telegram I sent? The one about next year’s funding?”
“Ah, well- Yes. Yes I did.”
Albert’s expression switched from one of pleasant bonhomie to that of a man just force-fed a lemon. Brandon leaned forward. “What is it?”
“All this talk about weddings,” Albert hedged. “Who’d have thought . . .”
Suspicion coiled Brandon’s stomach into knots. “What do weddings have to do with next year’s funding?”
“I suppose you’ll hear about it at one of your clubs,” Albert said and sighed. “Old Reggie Cheswick got himself married to a chorus girl last week. And she has made it quite clear that any extra monies he has to spend are to be spent on her, not some expedition half way across the globe.”