by Hall, Karen
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” a voice thundered from the wings. “Are there really good boys and girls here?” The massive figure lumbered on stage, waving to the shrieking children. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Come here, Miss Barnwell, and help me pass out these gifts,” Father Christmas said, as he set his bag down. “I’ll just fetch that chair from the corner. “
He slapped his belly and added, “I just hope it will hold my weight. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
The room rocked with laughter as he dragged the chair forward, sat and opened his bag. For the next hour, he presented tagged gifts, made jokes and patted heads. After the last child had skipped off the stage, he turned to Cassandra. “Well, Miss Barnwell,” he boomed. “Is there anything else before the children have their tea?”
“No, Father Christmas, that’s all.”
He waggled his eyebrows at the children. “Don’t you children think I have a very pretty assistant?”
“Yes!”
“What should I do to thank her?”
“Kiss her,” shouted one boy.
“Kiss her! Kiss her!” The other children took up his cry.
“But we haven’t any mistletoe,” Cassandra shouted over their voices. “We can’t have a kiss without mistletoe.”
“I’ve got some.” A little girl darted for the stage and mounted the steps. Plucking a sprig of the Christmas plant from her elf’s hat, she held out to the costumed figure. “Here you are, Father Christmas. Now you can kiss Miss Barnwell.”
“Thank you my dear, “Father Christmas said, taking the spring and getting to his feet. “Well, Miss Barnwell, we can’t disappoint them. “He held the sprig over her head, gently pulled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers.
The world disappeared at the taste of his lips, sweet and soft, and the sound of her heart roaring in her ears all but drowned out the cheering of the children. His arms about her were warm and strong, and she knew if they were trapped forever beneath the dome of a snow-globe, she would be forever happy.
He pulled back, but kept his arms around for bit longer. She was grateful the beard hid his face but there was no mistaking the light shining in his eyes. He cleared his throat before he said loudly, “Happy Christmas, Miss Barnwell.”
“And to you, Father Christmas.” Blinking back her tears, Cassandra stepped out of his arms and waved to the children. “Who’s ready for tea?”
***
By all the gods, Cassandra Barnwell was beautiful. Brandon stared at the woman approaching him from across the ballroom of Halstead House. Only a woman of Cassandra’s coloring could wear a bronze and flame colored gown and get away with it. It made the other women’s attire seem insipid, and put them all in the shade. Brandon imagined her hair billowing around her bare shoulders like a russet cloud, and his groin tightened. He really should have not kissed her this afternoon. The taste of her had stamped itself on his mouth, lingering like a promise of things to come.
But it was a promise that could never be fulfilled. Their was a business transaction, no more, no less, each getting what they wanted.
Or would they?
She reached him and offered a smile. “Good evening, Lord Brandon,” she said formally.
“Good evening,” Miss Barnwell. I see your family has come as well.”
“Yes,” she said without turning around. “Thank you for including them.”
“Not all. I believe the dancing is about to start. Shall we add to the speculation of our impending engagement by waltzing?”
A shadow flickered over her face but her smile remained. “Of course,” she said gaily. “I do believe our scheme has been most successful.”
Music began from the gallery overhead, and Brandon offered her his arm. Once in the ballroom he swept her out onto the floor and tried to ignore the knowing glances and nods as he wove her between the other dancers. As far as London was concerned, they were a nearly engaged couple.
If only it were true. But Cassandra Barnwell would never consider him as a matrimonial prospect. He had taken her money to play out this charade. Telling her he had fallen head over heels in love with her would only gain him a laugh. He could not of course, expect her to believe it.
Or would she?
The dance ended, and duty obligated him to dance with others. It wasn’t until after the buffet supper, that he had the chance to speak with her again. It was one thing to be seen with her in the company of her family in public, quite another to flout convention by wooing her openly at a ball for his sister.
Because underneath Miss Barnwell’s unconventional philosophies, Brandon suspected beat the heart of a true romantic.
And by Heaven, he was going to find out one way or the other.
He found her talking to a dowager and politely asked for a moment of her time. The older woman smirked and stepped away. Cassandra looked up at him, her dark eyes full of question. “Brandon?”
“Join me on the balcony?”
“Let me fetch my shawl.”
She returned in moments, the lacy garment draped around her shoulders. Outside the November air was strangely mild and they were alone. Moonshine covered the balcony with a day-like radiance and in the soft, light, Cassandra’s face shone with something like expectation.
“So,” she said.
“So. “ Brandon drew a long, slow breath before saying, “Cassandra-”
“Well, damn all, if I’m not a winner.” Freddie Vandergild staggered out of the shadows . He gave them a lopsided grin. “And if I haven’t found you at the very moment of proposing. You’ll be glad to know Russell old man, your winnings from the bet will be at least five hundred pounds. That should keep you supplied for a long time, don’cha think?”
“Go to hell, Vandergild,” Brandon ground out.
“Thas not very sporting of you,” Freddie protested. “After all, a bet’s a bet, and you didn’t exactly say no. Old Bertie’s gonna be most put out knowing he’s lost. Course, it’s not as if you need more money. Freckles here can give you all you need. That is if you can actually stand to marry her.”
Cassandra’s face paled. “You bet on whether you could convince me to marry you?”
“It ‘s not like that,” Brandon protested. “I told them--”
“And what better way to get more money for your work than to agree to my proposal,” she continued flatly. “How very convenient.”
“She proposed to you?” Freddie gasped. “Damn, she is a bluestocking, ain’t she?”
“Shut up, Freddie. Cassandra--”
But she had backed away with a surprising speed and fled back inside the ballroom. Brandon grabbed his betrayer by the collar and dragged him to the wall. “I hope you like thorns,” he snarled, heaving Vandergild over the side into his sister in law’s prize winning rose bushes twenty feet below. Vandergild’s yelp as he landed among the thorns gave Brandon only a thimble of satisfaction when what he really wanted to do was break all four of Vandergild’s limbs, one by one. But this was his sister’s night and he would not spoil it. He would finish his business with Freddie Vandergild and the entire membership of the Four In Hand Club later.
Right now he had to find Cassandra.
***
“She’s not here, sir.” The housemaid who had opened the door to Brandon wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Not sure where she’s gone. Out early, even for her.”
“Perhaps she went to the Barnwells?”
“She would have told Mrs. Mason that, sir,” the maid said. “ But she did look a bit pale. Perhaps she went walking in Hyde Park. She sometimes does that if she has a lot on her mind.”
“Thank you,” Brandon said, giving her his card. “If she come home, please tell her I need to see her immediately.”
If Elizabeth had not gone into labor in the middle of the ball, trap
ping him for hours until he knew the outcome, Brandon might have escaped Halstead House and found Cassandra by now. Explain he had no part in that damn stupid bet and give back her check. Report he had telegrammed Cairo with news the dig was indefinitely cancelled. Tell her his new twin nephews had arrived and he was off the dynastic hook.
Tell her he loved her.
How had it happened? When had it happened? He racked his brain for the moment but memory failed him. He only hoped he was not too late. Returning to the waiting cab, he directed it to Hyde Park and minutes later it was approaching the entrance. Hordes of people pushed and jostled one another as they fled out of it their voices raised in panicked terror
Brandon kicked open the door and jumped out. Grabbing a passing man, he shouted, “What the hell is going on?”
“Riot,” the man gasped, pulling free. “Some damn woman--”. He ran away, clutching his bowler.
Cassandra! Please God, no. Brandon shoved his way through the escaping crowd and plunged into the madness filling Hyde Park.
“We’ll have a demonstration after New Year’s I’ll be arrested for disturbing the peace.” Cassandra’s voice echoed in his head. Damn it, couldn’t she have waited?
He spotted a crying woman talking to a uniformed bobby and Brandon hurried forward. “Officer can you tell me what’s happened?”
“Some woman favoring trade unions went and started a riot,” the officer barked. “This here lady has lost her child in the ruckus.”
A trade union activist. Brandon heaved an inner sigh of relief. Not Cassandra after all. She’d never do anything that might harm a child.
“He’s only four,” the woman wailed. She grabbed at the officer. “You gotta help me find my boy!”
“Lady, I’ve got ‘alf a dozen missing people already--”
Brandon held out his hand “Come with me, madam. I’ll help you find him.”
Still sobbing, the woman put her hand around his arm and together they began their search. People continued to stumble past but it looked as if most of the crowd had made good their escape. Frantically Brandon scanned the opening space before them. How hard could it be to find a woman and a small boy?
“Peter!” his companion screamed and dashed in the direction of a large oak tree. Brandon spied the duo seated under it and followed her.
Cassandra sat on the ground, holding a small boy in her arms. They were chatting as if neither had a care in the world, though her squashed hat and unbound hair showed things might have been lively a bit earlier.
“Hello, Mama!” the little boy called.
“You see, Peter? I told you she would find us if we just sat here and waited,” Cassandra said.
Peter’s mother’s only answer was a heart-wrenching wail as she scooped up her son and carried him away. Cassandra waved and called, “Goodbye, Peter!”
Then as if she had just noticed him, she frowned and looked up. “How can I help you, Lord Brandon?”
“You can take back your check for starters,” he said, helping her to her feet. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“Find another backer?” Her sarcastic tone lashed him “Someone prettier and more desperate than me?
“Whether you believe it or not, Cassandra, I had no part in those bets.” Brandon took her check from his pocket and stuck it among the flowers of her hat
“The Russells never bet unless it’s a sure thing. And even if I had agreed, how could I be sure you’d say yes ? I had only met you that morning. I’m not that charming.”
“Really?” Hope replaced the anger in her face. “You didn’t place a bet?”
“Cross my heart .” He traced his fingers over his chest. “ I no longer need to hope for my brother’s generosity, even though he offered after the Duchess gifted him with twin sons early this morning. I’ve no plans on returning to Egypt anytime soon.”
“You don’t?”
“Not unless you’ll come with me as my wife.” He sank to his knees and took her hands in his. “Think of the fun we’ll have. Camel races, playing in the world’s biggest sand box--”
She giggled. “You heard about that, did you?”
“Yes. Somehow I don’t think a Razzle-Dazzle girl would like the desert. The sun might give her freckles.”
“I have freckles,” she said proudly.
“Which is why you’ll make the perfect wife for an archeologist.” Brandon kissed her hands. “Other than the fact I love you madly and will probably die before morning if you don’t say ‘yes’ to my proposal.”
“You’re as bad as Great-Aunt Tilda, “ she scolded, pulling him to his feet..
“I suppose I must save your life and marry you. But only because I love you madly and would probably have died before morning if you hadn’t proposed.”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her far more thoroughly than he had the day before. “Then you can withdraw your original proposal, my love,” he murmured, as he feasted on her lips. “My love is yours for the taking.”
“A Christmas engagement,” she said and sighed. “Great Aunt Tilda will be so pleased.”
He raised his head, linked his arm through hers and began to walk them back through the park. “Shall we go tell her?”
Her smile banished any of his remaining fears. “Only if we stop to buy smelling salts first. I think she’s going to need them.”
The Comet that Came for Christmas
Karen Hall
The Comet that Came for Christmas
Copyright 2011
Karen Hall
For information on the cover illustration and design, contact [email protected]
First eBook Edition –December 2011
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
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Acknowledgement
To my friend Deborah Ledgerwood with love. See, Skunk. I can write a “Southern” romance.
Other Historical Romance Stories by Karen Hall
The Proposal
Christmas Stockings
Chapter One
Tyler, Tennessee December 12, 1910
“You’ve invited who to spend the Christmas holidays with us?” Mary Hawthorne’s usually pleasant alto voice soared an octave.
“Now, now, my dear,” James Hawthorne soothed. “It’s not exactly the Christmas holidays. Cyrus Higginbotham is coming a few days before Christmas to inspect Tyler as a possible location for his next Haley’s Emporium. It could be a gold mine for Tyler! Think of the jobs it would create!”
“But Cyrus Higginbotham is a millionaire,” Mary protested, her voice returning to its normal range. “We can’t possibly accommodate him.”
“Of course we can,” James coaxed. “He’ll only be here for three days. Besides, we have the largest house in town and the best staff. The children won’t arrive until the day before Christmas Eve and you of course, are the town’s best hostess and cook.”
His wife of nearly thirty years smiled at his praise. “Do really think Mr. Higginbotham might open a Haley’s Emporium here in Tyler?”
“I do,” J
ames said, excitement thrumming in his chest. “I’ve met him many times over the years on buying trips to New York and corresponded with him so regularly that he invited me to call him by his Christian name. And he has hinted he might make me General Manager if he does decide to open a store here.”
“And with your experience, you are of course, the logical choice.” Mary tweaked his collar with a wife’s loving gesture. “Very well, my dear. We shall open our home to Cyrus Higginbotham, millionaire and entrepreneur. Will he be traveling alone?”
“I imagine he’ll bring a personal assistant or secretary and a valet,” James said. “I’ll telegraph him before I go to the store. Thank goodness we had all those children and have enough empty rooms to accommodate him and his party, eh?”
He winked at her, and Mary blushed. “Really, James,” she scolded. “The things you say!”
Laughing, James kissed her cheek. “I’m off to town then,” he said. “Has Victoria already gone?”
“Our only daughter left early,” Mary told him. “She’s holding a special rehearsal at the school for the Christmas pageant before the day starts.”
“I’ll see you this evening then, my love.” After kissing her again, James left the parlor. A minute later the front door clicked behind him.
Mary proudly looked around the large room with its comfortable chairs and sofas and piano. Theirs had been one of the first houses in Tyler to install electricity and have the most modern plumbing. And all modesty aside, Mary was a good cook, even though she had a kitchen staff.
“How does one entertain a millionaire?” she wondered aloud. “Will Mr. Higginbotham want to join us in such simple pleasures as our hunt for the perfect Christmas tree and reading of A Christmas Carol and. . . Good heavens!” Mary slapped a hand over her mouth. “What in the world does one feed a millionaire?”
***
December 19
It can’t be. Not Tyler, Tennessee. Jackson “Jake” Dillon, stared at the rapidly approaching sign from the window seat of the train. Images long buried, first of a laughing girl with golden curls and merry green eyes, and then of the same girl weeping, flooded his memory.