Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  “Like Loki?”

  Ash started at the apt reference to the Norse god of discord and destruction.

  Rothgar spread his hands in apparent invitation. “Please, tell me first. I will follow the Bible and pluck them out. That excepts, of course, my family, especially my wife.”

  At last, the blade. “My grandmother thought Lady Arradale would be an ideal wife for me.”

  “The Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, as always, was wrong, but at least her taste is excellent. You should not let her ride and spur you, you know.”

  “I’m her only surviving descendant.”

  “She has grandchildren in Scotland and a daughter in a French convent. And of course,” Rothgar added, “she has me.”

  This surprised a laugh, which Ash instantly regretted. He took a step back, a physical disengagement. “I’m welcome to stay?”

  “You were invited, Cousin, but an invitation was never necessary. My relatives are always welcome in my homes.”

  “Perhaps I should encourage our grandmother to come here, too.”

  Ash expected at least a twitch of resistance, but Rothgar appeared completely unperturbed. “I would be charmed if you could arrange it.”

  Thwarted, Ash turned and went up to his room. Rothgar had revealed nothing when he’d seen the baby and Miss Smith, nor when Ash had tossed a hint of the threat he held at his throat. It was frustrating, but exhilarating. He hadn’t known until now how he’d hungered to bring the contest into the open.

  He had been raised to see the Mallorens as his enemy, as a cunning evil to be destroyed. In his grandmother’s eyes they were not only the cause of her daughter’s death, but of her husband’s, and possibly of two sons. She’d blame Aunt Harriet’s death from smallpox on them if she could.

  It had burgeoned out of all reason, but suggestion of softening threw his grandmother into a tempest of rage and hurt, and certainly Rothgar was no long-suffering saint.

  Could his apparent moves toward peace be trusted? The proof of that could be his willingness to clear away Molly’s mess, but that alone would require negotiations as complex and delicate as the Peace of Paris.

  Which, as John Wilkes had remarked, “is like the Peace of God. It passeth all understanding.”

  Bryght Malloren came out of the Tapestry Room to find his brother in an unusual state of contemplation. “He escaped unharmed?”

  “Of course.” Rothgar led away from the hall to his office. Once the door shut, he asked, “Why do you think he came?”

  “A chance meeting with his great-aunts?”

  “If I’d known he merely needed an excuse, I would have provided one years ago. No, there’s been a change of some sort. The question is, how do we use it to reform him?”

  “Struth, you plan to turn him virtuous?”

  “I have little interest in his virtue. I plan to turn him into a proper cousin.”

  “Bey, some family rifts cannot be healed.”

  “With a Malloren, are not all things possible?”

  “No,” Bryght said bluntly.

  Rothgar smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps, but this is worth an attempt. So, what do we have that can hold him?”

  “Whatever reason brought him here. What was all that about truth?”

  “Interesting, wasn’t it? I suspect he holds some evidence that he believes could be a mistletoe branch.”

  “Don’t you mean an olive branch?”

  Rothgar shook his head. “I did try to have you educated well. Balder, Norse god of light, was impervious to all weapons except those made of mistletoe. When Loki, god of discord, discovered his weakness, he used it to kill him.”

  Bryght’s hand twitched to where a sword might be. “You think Loki comes bearing weapons that could slay you? What?”

  “An interesting question.”

  “Bey!”

  Rothgar smiled at him. “I merely seek to spare you anxiety. He will not succeed.”

  “Ashart’s a ne’er-do-well in some ways, but he doesn’t make idle threats.”

  “I should hope not. Since I have no desire to destroy him, we shall have to convince him to love us.”

  “For Zeus’s sake!”

  “What do you think of Miss Smith?”

  Bryght frowned at the switch of topic. “You think she’s Ashart’s ally?”

  “If so, she acts the opponent well. I thought it a most interesting exchange. Shall I play Cupid?”

  “Ashart and a paid companion?”

  “She’s the daughter, apparently, of a naval officer.”

  “Even so.”

  Rothgar tut-tutted. “You in particular should know that the right wife is more valuable than rubies, that personal qualities matter more than aristocratic bloodlines and a large dowry.”

  “Says he who married a peeress who owns a large bite of the north of England.”

  “You think that was an easy choice? Next year, by the way, we Christmas in Yorkshire.”

  Bryght shuddered. “In that case, my family will celebrate the season in our own, southern home.”

  “As you will. According to Lady Thalia, Ashart and Miss Smith are already betrothed.”

  Bryght stared. “She is somewhat dotty.”

  “I suspect she’s as dotty as she cares to be, but it’s true that they don’t seem besotted. It has, however, provided Ashart with an excuse to stay. Is that its sole purpose? Another mystery to amuse us over the holidays. Delightful, wouldn’t you say?”

  Instead, Bryght Malloren said something rude.

  Chapter Seventeen

  W hen Genova and Thalia reached their room, the old lady sat rather heavily. Regeanne rushed to put a footstool under her feet and fuss.

  “Are you all right?” Genova asked.

  Thalia sighed. “In prime twig for my age, dear, and delighted with the company. Dear Beowulf. I gave him the apricot crisps and he was touched that I remembered.”

  Yes, he probably had been. He seemed honestly warm to his family, but the Dark Marquess was still there. It had been he who’d crossed swords with Ashart, and she couldn’t forget that he had killed.

  “Thalia, do you know what Rothgar and Ashart were talking about down there? About truth, and explosives?”

  “Oh, no, dear. How could I? It’s a very shifty sort of thing, though, truth.”

  “Explosives aren’t. Look at Guy Fawkes.”

  “But he was stopped, dear, so that was all right. You mustn’t worry about these matters. Men sort them out for themselves. Now, I’m going early to bed, but you must rejoin the company and enjoy yourself.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Now, now, this matter of you being a companion is mostly fiction. You’re here to have pleasure and,” Thalia added with a romantic smile, “you will want to spend more time with dear Ashart.”

  Dear Ashart, my foot! “I’m tired, too, Thalia. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Thalia pouted. “Oh, very well, but I will not have you hiding away! Or hovering over Callie and me.”

  “I won’t.” Genova meant that. She’d pay guineas for moments alone.

  “What is that lovely box, dear?”

  Genova turned to look. “It holds my presepe. That’s an Italian Nativity scene—the stable and figures. My family always set it up for Christmas wherever we were.”

  We. An entity that was gone forever.

  “Then you must set it up here, dear!”

  Genova smiled at the dear lady. “I admit, I had hoped to.”

  Despite her former claim of tiredness, Thalia bounced out of her chair and over to the box. “Excellent. I long to see it!”

  She waited, eager as a child, as Genova turned the key and raised the lid. As always, Thalia’s open pleasure was contagious and drove away lingering concerns.

  Genova took out the folded cloth on top and opened it. “My mother called this the flowers-in-the-snow. It was very grand once, but it’s sadly shabby now.”

  She used Hester’s w
ord deliberately. Sometimes wounds needed to be opened for them to heal. “I have a new one, the one I’ve been embroidering.”

  She smoothed the new cloth on a small, square table. She’d managed to set the last stitches today without her frame, including the ones necessary to hide the damage done that morning in the fight with Ashart.

  That fight.

  That kiss…

  “Oh, I see now what you were doing.” Thalia compared the two cloths, then touched the old one. “Well-worn, but it was lovely work once.”

  A knot inside Genova loosened. She folded the old cloth gently and put it aside, then took out the first rag-wrapped bundles and began to undo them. “These are the pieces of the stable. I must set this up first.”

  “What fun!”

  Thalia took over the unwrapping, watching as Genova slotted together the pieces of wood. Genova set it up on the cloth on the table, but then she looked at the fireplace.

  “We’ve always put it on a mantelpiece when possible,” she said.

  “Then you must here, too!”

  Thalia moved the gilt, lyre-form clock to the end of the mantelpiece, and Genova spread the cloth in the center. Her work was not as fine as the original, but the gold shone in the candlelight, and the flowers bloomed afresh. Then she set the assembled stable in the center.

  Regeanne returned with a restoring tisane. With cries of alarm and scowls at Genova, she tried to get Thalia back into her chair. Thalia took the tisane but brushed the rest aside.

  “See, Regeanne. We are going to set up a Nativity scene. A presepe, Genova calls it.”

  “Une crèche.” Regeanne nodded, mellowing a little. “It will be very nice to have. If you do not need me, milady, may I visit the nurseries to see how the petit ange goes on?”

  Thalia gave her blessing, and Regeanne left. Thalia returned to the box, clearly longing to discover it all. She reminded Genova of her own excitement as a child, bringing a smile and some of the old magic.

  “Yes, we can add some of the figures. You unwrap, and I’ll put them in place.”

  Thalia set to. “Oh, an ox! How very well made. And a sheep and lamb. How lovely!” She exclaimed with delight at each discovery, banishing every taint and shadow.

  “What’s that song, dear? A carol?”

  Genova realized she’d been humming the song she and her parents had always sung as they set up the presepe. She hesitated because she didn’t have a strong voice, but then began to sing.

  In the stable, in the wild,

  Came the mother, Mary mild.

  Came the star as bright as day,

  Came the angels, lutes to play.

  Lutes to play, joy a-ringing,

  At the sound of angels singing.

  Joy, joy, joy, joy….

  She smiled at Thalia. “It’s a round that works well with three voices.”

  “Teach it to me.”

  Genova had never heard Thalia sing before, but she had a sweet if thin voice. She soon learned the song and they wove their voices together as they put in more animals. Genova and her father had sung it with just two voices last year, missing the third voice, her mother’s….

  Thalia stopped singing and took her hand. “My poor dear. Sad memories?”

  Genova couldn’t deny it. Tears were blurring her vision. “Just two Christmases ago, we were all together. Now everything is changed.”

  She managed not to say that she was alone, which might offend, but that’s how she felt. Thalia was a dear, but she wasn’t family. Genova’s only real family was her father, and he wasn’t hers anymore now that he’d remarried.

  Thalia patted her hand. “There, there, dear. We all miss a mother’s love, but soon you’ll be a mother yourself. That will fill the void, and Ashart needs that, too.”

  Create a child with Lord Ashart? Horror collided with something else.

  Thalia opened the locket that she always wore pinned to her gown. “I understand loss, dear.”

  Genova looked at the miniature of a gentleman in the age of the long, full wig. He was upside-down to her, but he would be right side up to Thalia whenever she opened it. Thalia’s Richard looked young and merry. Genova had known a number of young, merry men who were now dead.

  “I’m very sorry, Thalia.”

  “It’s long ago now, dear, and Richard did so enjoy going to war. He idolized the Duke of Marlborough. Such a splendid man he was. Marlborough, I mean, though Richard would have been, too, had he lived. Twenty-six,” she sighed. “At the very beginning of life. The same age as Ashart.”

  Genova hadn’t known the marquess’s age, and would have thought him a little older. The price of a wicked life.

  Thalia looked at the picture again, then snapped the locket closed. “You probably both feel old enough to be past folly, but you’re not. You have your lives before you. Please don’t take the wrong path.”

  Genova guessed what Thalia meant and distracted her with more figures. What would Thalia do to promote her scheme, though? Genova told herself she couldn’t be trapped. All she needed to escape was open disagreements, and judging from their exchange downstairs, that would be easy.

  Soon the presepe was at the stage her family had always created on December 13—an ordinary, ramshackle stable with farmyard animals in and around. At the far end of the mantelpiece, Joseph and Mary-on-the-donkey were on their way to Bethlehem.

  That had been another problem for Hester. The presepe had two Marys. One was the heavily pregnant figure on the donkey. The other was slender and formed to kneel by the manger. Genova had always loved that magical transformation on Christmas Eve, but Hester had pursed her lips and said that such an obviously fruitful Mother of God was not suitable for her grandchildren.

  And Genova’s father had not said a word.

  Thalia, blessed Thalia, only said, “How hard it must have been to travel in that condition. I have always been thankful not to be a saint. So demanding.”

  Genova chuckled.

  “There are still some figures to unwrap.” Thalia was hovering near the box and Genova remembered how she, too, had always found it hard to ration out this treat. This time there was no need. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

  “If you unwrap the rest,” she said, “we can set them along the mantelpiece, waiting.”

  Thalia plunged in, and Genova took shepherds, angels, and extra animals, ready to talk of what this meant to her.

  “My parents bought the presepe in Naples just before I was born. My father always says that if I’d been a little speedier, I might have been called Napolia.”

  “Genova is much prettier, dear.”

  “Perhaps that’s why I waited. Then, when I was born, one of the sailors carved a little lamb to add to the Nativity scene. It started a tradition. Every year on Christmas Eve my father would add an animal.”

  Just in time, she managed not to say that it was a birthday gift. The last thing she needed was the attention that might bring.

  “Over time, they became stranger and stranger. How my mother laughed at the tiger! This one,” Genova said, holding up the gaudy Chinese dragon, “was the last before my mother died. A Chinese dragon is supposed to bring good fortune….”

  Thalia patted her arm. “Your mother is happier in a higher place, dear, and watching over you.”

  Genova smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering what Mary Smith thought. She pushed bitterness aside. She knew her mother would be delighted that her dear William had found new comfort.

  Then all the animals were around the stable, and the shepherds, angels, and glorious kings stood ready at a distance. Thalia picked up the baby Jesus and moved to put him in the manger. Genova took the figure and tucked it out of sight behind the stable along with the Mother Mary figure, the slender one.

  “Not until Christmas Eve,” she said, remembering her mother doing and saying the same thing to her. Act and reaction had become a ritual along with so many other steps of this tradition.

  Thalia peered into the box, clear
ly hoping for one more treat, but then closed it. “All done.” She stepped back and cocked her head. “It looks very well and is a delightful tradition. Now, dear, as you’re going downstairs again, you must dress.”

  Genova had hoped she’d forgotten. “I’m tired, Thalia.”

  “Nonsense. Ashart will be missing you!”

  Genova tried to argue, but then noticed that her friend did look worn yet seemed unable to rest with company around. This shared room was going to create many problems, but she could solve this one by leaving for a while.

  As if to settle the matter, Regeanne returned and took Thalia’s side. Genova allowed the two women to arrange her as if for a play. Regeanne went into the dressing room and returned with a blue gros de Naples gown.

  It was three years old, but Mrs. Rimshaw, the Trayce ladies’ mantua maker, had refurbished it quite magically with embroidery and seed pearls. It was open from the waist down to reveal a new petticoat of white figured silk.

  Genova had four new shifts, as well, each with ruffles to show at the neckline and elbow. They were in addition to three entirely new gowns that were gifts from the Trayce ladies. Genova had protested, but they had insisted, saying that they were return for her kindness in agreeing to be their companion on this visit.

  “The embroidered net ruffles tonight,” said Thalia, picking a shift. “Nothing too grand for a family evening, dear. But your hair must be redressed in a more relaxed style.”

  Genova hadn’t known that Regeanne was a truly skilled lady’s maid until she went to work on her. Her hair was rearranged and paint delicately applied to her face.

  Genova had never learned skill with maquillage, and she stared, impressed by the effect.

  Regeanne smirked. “Me, I have not forgotten how to make a young lady look her best.”

  “No, you haven’t. Thank you, Regeanne.”

  The maid inclined her head. “Some young ladies use the heavy paint. It is folly. The old use the paint to look like the young!”