Season's Regency Greetings

by Carla Kelly

  “Poor woman,” Mary said, and felt her own tears prickle her eyelids. Joe tightened his arm around her, and she gradually relaxed into his embrace.

  “Those were hard years,” Mr. King said. “After five or six years, Myrtle seemed to come back to herself again.” He sighed, as though the memory still carried too much weight. “Except for this: every year near Christmas, she looks at me and says, ‘Frank, it’s time to seek David.’ ” He spread out his hands. “And we do. For nearly ten years we’ve done just that. We set out from Sheffield with a post chaise and driver.”

  “What … what do you do?” Mary asked.

  “We pick a route and drive from place to place, spend the night in various inns, ask if anyone has seen David King. Myrtle has a miniature, but it is fifteen years old now. One inn after another, until finally she looks at me and says, ‘Frank, take me home.’ ” He shook his head. “He would be thirty-five now, but I don’t even know what he looks like anymore, or even if he is alive.”

  Mary felt her throat constrict. What a fool I am for imagining that I have been given the cruelest load to carry, she thought. “Where were you going this year?”

  “Myrtle got it in her head that we should go to Scarborough and drive along the coast up to the Tyne. ‘Maybe he’s on one of them coal lighters what ships from Newcastle,’ she’s thinking, and who am I to tell her ‘No, dear woman’?”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. King,” Joe said, his voice soft.

  “I love Myrtle,” he replied simply. “We’re all we have.”

  Mary took a deep breath. “You’re stranded here now, and this is better?”

  She was relieved to see the pleasure come into his eyes again. Mr. King pocketed his handkerchief this time. “It is, by a long chalk, miss! You see how busy she is. She’s going to make Christmas biscuits and buns with the little girls. There will be a whacking great roast going in the oven as soon as I get back in the kitchen to help her lift it. Wait until you taste her Yorkshire pudding!” He reached up to take Joe’s hand. “Thank’ee, sir, for giving us a room when there was no room anywhere else.”

  It was Joe’s turn to be silent. Mary leaned forward. “Oh, Mr. King, he’s pleased to do it. I think Joe is a great host.” She laughed. “Didn’t he let me drink up all his smugglers’ brandy last night? I think we have all stumbled onto a good pasture.”

  She had struck the right note. Mr. King laughed softly, his hand to his mouth. “I have to tell you, Mr. Shepard, Myrtle was nearly in a rare state, thinking that you and little Josh were doomed to eat sausage and eggs all through the holidays. ‘It’s not fitting, Mr. King,’ she told me, ‘especially since his cook left this full larder. Thank God we have come to the rescue.’ ” He held out his hand. “Do you understand my debt now?”

  “I do,” Joe said. “And you understand mine, as well.” He smiled. “Mr. King, you had better help your charming wife with that roast. I like to eat at six o’clock. Does she stir in all those little bits of burned meat and fat into her gravy?”

  “She does, indeed!” Mr. King declared. He stood up. “I do not know when she will tell me it’s time to go home, but I know you will keep her busy until then.”

  “You can depend upon it, sir.”

  With a nod in her direction, Mr. King left the stairs and went into the servants’ hall again, closing the door quietly behind him. Joe stayed where he was, his arm around Mary. He tightened his grip on her. When he spoke, she could tell how carefully he was choosing his words. “Do you know, sometimes I feel sorry for myself.”

  “You, too?”

  They looked at each other. “Did you ever see two more certifiable idiots?” he asked her.

  “Not to my knowledge, Joe,” she replied, and let him pull her to her feet on the narrow stairs. She dusted off her skirts. “Did you find me some garish decorations?”

  “I did, indeed.” He started up the stairs. “They proved to be a major disappointment in one respect.”

  “Oh?”

  “They are not nearly as vulgar as I had hoped. I do not think they will cause my dear brother any distress at all.”

  “That is a disappointment. By the way, where is your brother?”

  Joe sighed. “He asked me where the mail coach stops, and walked there to see if the road is open. He says he is expecting correspondence from his firm.” He shook his head. “Too bad that a man cannot just enjoy a hiatus from work. I always do.”

  He took her down the hall to what was eventually going to become the library, when the plastering on the ceiling was finished. When she stopped, he looked up at the ceiling with her. “The former owner had several well-bosomed nymphs doing scurrilous things around that central curlicue,” Joe said, pointing up to the bare spot. “I didn’t want questions from Joshua, so I am replacing them with more acceptable fruit and leaves.”

  “Coward,” she teased.

  “Wait until you are the parent of an inquisitive eight-year-old, my dear,” he said.

  “That is unlikely in the extreme,” she told him as she opened up one of the boxes and pulled out a red silk garland.

  “Oh? Your children are going to go from age seven to nine, and skip eight altogether?” he asked, pulling out another garland.

  She laughed. “Joe, you don’t seriously think any men of my acquaintance are going to queue up to marry a woman of such questionable background. Even one with two thousand a year?”

  He surprised her by touching her cheek. “I will tell you what I think, Mary McIntyre. I think you need to enlarge your circle of friends.”

  “You are probably right.” What had seemed just right last night seemed too close this morning, but she made no move to back away from him. You would think you wanted him to kiss you again, she scolded herself.

  She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or chagrined when he patted her cheek and went to the door. “I’m off to find my son and nephew and go hunt for the wild greenery. Can you decorate a wreath or two? I’ll ask Mr. King to put a discreet nail over the mantel in the sitting room and another on the front door.” He stood in the doorway a moment. “It may be time for Joe and his boy to consider Christmas again.”

  “A capital notion, sir,” she told him. A few moments later, she heard him calling the boys. Why is it that more than one boy sounds like a herd, she thought. There was laughter, and then a door slammed. A few minutes later, Agatha Shepard stood in the library doorway, smiling at her. “Could you use some help, Mary?”

  More than you know, she thought. Please take my mind off the molehills I am rapidly turning into mountains. “I am under orders from your brother-in-law to create some Christmas.” She knew her face was rosy, so she looked into the box of decorations. “What a relief to know this is not a forlorn hope, my dear. I do believe our late mill owner had some notions of a proper Christmas. Look at this beautiful garland.”

  By the time the boys returned, red-cheeked and shedding snow, Agatha was positioning the last star burst on the window while Mary observed its hanging from the arm of the sofa. “Mama!” Tommy shouted. “Look! Joe says we are holly experts!”

  The boys carried a holly wreath between them. “Father tied it for us, but we arranged the holly,” Josh said. He looked at Mary. “He said you were to be the final arbiter, whatever that is.”

  Mary helped the boys carry the wreath to the box of decorations. “It’s marvelous, Joshua. If we tie this red bow to the top, it will answer perfectly here over the fireplace.”

  “See there, Josh, I knew she would know just what else it needed.”

  She hung the wreath, then turned around to smile at Joe, who held a larger wreath shaped from pine boughs. “And this for the front door?” she asked.

  “Yes, indeed, after you and Agatha give it the magic touch.” He looked at the room. “Boys, I believe the ladies were busy while we stalked the greenery.” He touched his son’s shoulder. “Perhaps you and Thomas can convince Mrs. King that you are in the final stages of starvation. She seems like a humane woman.
” He looked at Agatha, and must have noticed something in her expression. “Do let Tommy have lunch belowstairs. I would not feel right in asking Mrs. King to serve us upstairs. She is my guest, too.”

  “Mama, please!” Tommy begged. “I know Clarice has been belowstairs making Christmas treats. We could smell them the moment we opened the front door!”

  “You may go belowstairs, Tommy,” Agatha said quietly. “These are special circumstances.” She turned to her brother-in-law. “Thank you for asking, Joe.”

  He hugged her, and waved the boys off. “My dear sister, loan your shawl to Mary. I need someone to make certain I do not hang this wreath cockeyed.”

  Mary stopped him long enough to twine a gilt cord through the boughs and tie it in a bow at the bottom. Agatha secured some smaller star bursts scavenged from the bits and pieces remaining in the box, then threw her shawl around Mary’s shoulders. “I will go belowstairs and see what wonders Mrs. King has created.”

  He was still chuckling when he hung the wreath on the front door. “Mary, you must feel sorry for Thomas. He thought he was marrying a proper lady, only to find that she enjoys putting up her own decorations and will probably be rolling out dough when we go belowstairs. He will accuse me of ruining his efforts to be what he is not. Too bad there was no room for him at the inn. All right, Mary, what do you think?”

  I think that sometimes philanthropy is sadly misdirected, she told herself as she walked backward toward the front gate, her eyes on the wreath. “Move the wreath a little to the left. A little more. There. Excellent.”

  To her gratification, Joe walked down the path toward her, then turned around for his own look. “You didn’t trust me?” she teased.

  “I trust you completely,” he replied. “I am just wondering what you would think if we painted the trim white. Would that look right against the brick?”

  She glanced sideways at him, but his attention was on the façade of his house. You are doing it again, she thought. You are including me in your decisions, as though I were in residence at this place. Dear, lonely man, are you even aware of it? “Yes, by all means,” she said firmly. “And if you can arrange for a cat to nap in one of those windows this summer, that would be the final touch. Oh, flower boxes, too.”

  “Consider it done, madam. Pansies or roses?”

  “Joe, you don’t put roses in flower boxes!”

  “Pansies, then.”

  She looked around her at all the snow. Mr. King had shoveled the walks earlier, but there was no getting away from winter’s cold and stark trees and branches, with only the idle leaf still clinging. Not a bird flew overhead. “Joe, you speak of pansies and cats in windows,” she said softly, “and here we are in December.”

  He took her arm through his. “I told you last night that I deal in futures, Mary. And excuse me, but you’re the one who mentioned the cat. Do you deal in futures, too?”

  “Perhaps it’s time I did,” she replied, her voice soft. How do I do it? I wish I were not afraid, she thought. She wanted to ask Joe about the courage to carry on when things didn’t turn out as planned, but there was Thomas walking up the middle of the road, which had been cleared by a crew from the workhouse.

  “Tom, the roads are still open behind us, I gather,” he said. “Is that a newspaper?”

  Tom held it out to him. “There will be a road crew through here by nightfall. Apparently the road to York will be cleared by tomorrow afternoon, or sooner.”

  “Any mail for you?”

  Tom shook his head, but handed a letter to Mary. “It appears that Colonel Sir Harry Fox is in the country. Let us hope this is good news.”

  She took the letter, which had been addressed several times, as it went from Denton, then to Haverford, Kent, where Lord and Lady Davy had gone for Christmas, to her as-yet unknown grandmother’s farm. “I assured the coach driver that I was your solicitor, and would see that you got your letter,” Tom said. “I thought I would need to give a blood oath. What a suspicious man!”

  “Just doing his job, brother,” Joe said serenely. “Perhaps you and I can go to the house and wrangle over whether you must have luncheon upstairs or downstairs, and leave Mary to her correspondence. You are welcome to use my bookroom.”

  She watched them walk away, already in lively conversation. Poor Joe! Here he had thought to spend a quiet holiday with his son, eating eggs and sausage, and savoring the last of his smugglers’ brandy. The only guests with any merit at all are the Kings, she thought. I drank up his brandy and cried, and his own brother is too proud to eat belowstairs. Thank the Lord that we can at least choose our friends.

  Sir Harry had posted the letter from London, probably from the family town residence, a particularly magnificent row house in the best square. She had been there on several occasions, the last during a celebration of Wellington’s victory in Belgium, when he had danced more than three dances with her, and, face red enough to match his uniform, had declared that she was the finest lady present. After asking Lord Davy’s permission, he had corresponded with her through the fall, telling her nothing of interest, because she did not find troop movements or glum Frenchmen to her taste.

  In the bookroom, she opened the letter, took a deep breath, and starting reading. When she was finished, she was too astounded to do anything but stare into the fire, ashamed that she had ever written Sir Harry Fox.

  She looked up. Someone knocked on the door, but she made no motion to speak or rise to open the door.

  “Dearie, don’t you want something to eat?”

  It was Mrs. King. She got up quickly and opened the door. “Mrs. King, you did not need to do this,” she protested as the woman came into the bookroom with a tray.

  “That’s precisely what Joe said, but I told him I wanted to, and was he going to stop an old woman?”

  Mary made herself smile.

  “Now, sit back down there and I will set this tray beside you. There, now. May I pour you some tea?”

  She started to cry, unable to help herself, helpless to do anything except hold out the letter. Mrs. King’s face filled with concern. She closed the door, poured a cup of tea, and sat down, then handed Mary her handkerchief. “You cry until you feel better, dearie, and then you will drink this,” she ordered.

  Mary sobbed into the handkerchief. Mrs. King settled herself on the arm of the chair and rested her hand on Mary’s back. Mary wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and leaned against the other woman, grateful for the comfort, but missing Lady Davy—the woman she would always think of as her mother—with every fiber of her heart.

  “Joe told me about your difficulties, dearie,” Mrs. King said.

  “I think the entire world must know of them, Mrs. King,” she said. “I am glad he told you. I would not have you think I am a habitual watering pot.”

  “I think you’re rather a charming lady, and I know that Joe agrees with me,” Mrs. King said firmly. “But this is bad news, isn’t it? Mr. Shepard—Thomas—is even downstairs walking up and down, hoping that you have good news.”

  Mary looked down at the letter that she still held. “I suppose he would call this good news, then. Sir Harry has agreed to pay his addresses to me.” She thought of Mrs. King’s own trials, and tried to hide the bitterness in her words, even as she knew she failed. “He claims that he will not reproach me with my ignominious birth, should we decide to form an alliance.” She held out the letter again. “Mrs. King, he has asked all his relatives what they think, and they are united in their opposition to me!” She leaned back and closed her eyes as shame washed over her. “There are probably men taking wagers at White’s on what will be the outcome of this sorry tale!”

  “And still Sir Harry persists?” Mrs. King asked.

  “I suppose he does,” Mary said quietly. “Mrs. King, I do not love him. I never have.” She turned in her chair for a better look at the woman. “I have come with the Shepards this Christmas because they are to leave me with a grandmother I have never met … on a farm! Sir Harry is
my last chance to remain in the social circle in which I was raised.” She rested her cheek against Mrs. King’s comforting bulk. “Am I too proud?”

  Mrs. King’s answer was not slow in coming. “P’raps a little, my dear, but if you do not love this fellow, marrying him would be a worse folly than pride.” She laughed softly. “I think there are worse fates than farms. Didn’t Joe say you had enough income to do what you want, should the farm prove unsatisfactory?”

  “It’s true,” she agreed. She folded the letter, then looked at Mrs. King, who was regarding her with warmth and surprising affection, considering the shortness of their acquaintance. She took her hand. “It’s hard to change, isn’t it? I mean, I could have gone along all my life as the daughter of Lord Davy, but now the matter is different, and I must change, whether I wish it or not. Mrs. King, I do not know if I am brave enough.”

  She stopped then, noting the faraway look in the woman’s eyes, and the sorrow she saw there. “Here I am complaining about what must seem to be a small matter to you,” she said. “Do forgive me.”

  Mrs. King gave her a little shake. “It is not a small matter! It is your life.”

  She considered that, and in another moment took a sip of tea. “This will upset Thomas more than you can imagine. He places such emphasis on class and quality.” She stood up. “You say everyone is belowstairs?”

  Mrs. King nodded. “Thomas is there on sufferance, but Mrs. Shepard seems content to decorate Abby’s batch of Christmas stars.”

  “And Joe?”

  “He and Mr. King are playing backgammon.”

  “Are we a strange gathering, Mrs. King?” she asked. “I suppose that other than Joe and Joshua, none of us are where we really want to be.”

  Mrs. King rose. “I am not so certain about that, my dear. Are you?”

  She could think of no reply that would not involve a blush.

  The two of them went down the stairs. Mrs. King gave her a little push when she reached the bottom and stood there, the letter in her hand. Thomas’s eyes lighted up. “Do you have good news, Mary?” he asked.