Once Upon a Christmas

by Diane Farr

  More than one young lady in this very house, I’d wager, thought Celia resentfully. And I am not your dear. But she said nothing. She was learning fast.

  The duchess was a difficult woman to fathom. She was hardly a warm-hearted individual, and did not seem to have an altruistic bone in her body, so her staggering generosity to Celia was baffling. To give her a home—and such a home!—and to take a personal interest in training her to occupy the position thrust upon her, was definitely an act of kindness. On top of that, she had forced Celia to accept the ministrations of the hairdresser, dressmaker, and dancing master employed for her own daughters. These gifts should have caused Celia to glow with gratitude. Even affection. But, somehow, they did not.

  Celia continually reminded herself how kind, how extraordinarily kind and generous, the duchess was being. It was strange, and rather sad, that she had to remind herself—but the thought refused to come unbidden. Kindness and generosity simply did not sit naturally upon Her Grace’s shoulders. There was a missing piece to this puzzle, and Celia could not make sense of the picture.

  Her Grace had just said something clearly meant to be kind, for example, and yet her affect was as detached and indifferent as ever. She was eying Celia in a decidedly calculating manner. Celia schooled her own features to mirror Her Grace’s inscrutability, and waited.

  “Have you been taught to revere frankness, Celia?” asked the duchess suddenly. “Do you admire it?”

  Celia blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I wondered if that might be so. Your habit of speaking your mind is very firmly entrenched.” Her Grace paused, still studying Celia with her lips pursed in consideration. “I trust, then, that you will not object to a little plain-speaking on my part,” she said at last.

  Celia tried to look neither relieved nor eager, although she felt both. “No, ma’am,” she said woodenly. When Her Grace still did not speak, she ventured to add: “I would welcome it.”

  Her Grace inclined her head. “Very well.” She frowned at her hands suddenly, as if finding it easier to speak truth when not looking directly at Celia. “I am displeased that my daughters have so far forgotten themselves as to express themselves unbecomingly within your hearing—or, indeed, at all. You need not tell me which of them you overheard. Neither Augusta nor Elizabeth would demean herself by openly displaying such a degree of spite. However, I have often been disappointed in the tone of Winifred and Caroline’s conversation. I do not doubt that it was one, or both, of them who indulged in a feeble witticism at your expense.”

  Her Grace was, as usual, correct. But, also as usual, there was no need to tell her so. Celia remained silent.

  The duchess looked up again, her expression unreadable. “Nevertheless, their characterization of you as ‘Cinderella’ is more apt than they know.”

  Celia stiffened, and Her Grace smiled humorlessly. “I do not mean to imply that you are dirty, or pitiable, and I trust no one here has asked you to perform the tasks of a servant. But I am hopeful—I put it no higher than that—I am hopeful that you will achieve a similar fate.”

  “Oh,” said Celia, relaxing slightly. “Is this the end for which you are grooming me? That I might marry a prince and live happily ever after?” This time, her chuckle sprang from genuine amusement. “Thank you, ma’am, for wishing me so pleasant a future! I hope you do not have your heart set on it, however. I am an unlikely choice for a prince. And—” she stopped, fearing that her tongue was running away with her again, but the duchess looked inquiringly at her. Thus encouraged, Celia plunged ahead. “Forgive me, ma’am, but—but I must have mistaken your meaning. If a prince is available, surely he would be better matched with one of your own daughters. The stepmother in the story certainly thought so.”

  The duchess moved impatiently. “You and I do not dwell within a work of fiction, Celia. The partner I have in mind for you is not literally a prince, and he is rather too closely related to my own daughters.”

  For a brief instant, Celia wondered who the duchess meant. Then she guessed. One could not help guessing. But her guess was so startling, she felt her mind first shy away from the idea, then dance round it in morbid fascination. Surely Her Grace did not mean—it was, it must be, impossible—absurd—oh, no, she couldn’t mean—

  “I am speaking of my son John,” said the duchess, banishing all doubt.

  Celia felt almost as if the breath had been knocked out of her body. “You say that so calmly!”

  One of the duchess’s finely etched brows lifted. “Why, how should I say it? There is no cause for alarm or excitement. I have a son, the only son who will survive me. He shall be Duke of Arnsford one day. I mean to provide him with a duchess who will not disgrace the family. One who has been groomed, as you put it, by me.”

  Celia experienced an odd, dreamlike sensation that they had somehow slipped from reality into the realm of fantasy. She swallowed hard, and managed to speak. “But, Your Gr—Aunt Gladys, there must be any number of well-bred women who are far more qualified than—”

  “Do not speak to me of well-bred women!” said Her Grace sharply, raising one hand to cut off Celia’s speech. “There are, as you say, a number of women who would cut off their right hands to be the next Duchess of Arnsford. Many of these ambitious females would, in fact, be admirable choices. However, my son is already acquainted with the majority of them, and none of them has, to date, struck his fancy.”

  The tale of Cinderella swirled again in Celia’s dazed brain. “Perhaps you should give a ball,” she murmured, suppressing a mad urge to giggle.

  The duchess, who always sat ramrod-straight, somehow straightened further in her chair. Her eyes snapped fire. “Do you mean to disoblige me in this, Celia?” she demanded. “Are you opposed to the idea?”

  Celia could not help shrinking a little. Fear hammered at her. She had seldom felt more powerless. Of course she could not disoblige the duchess. For one thing, what would become of her? For another, oh, how ungrateful she would seem! It would be shabby treatment indeed. Shameful, in fact.

  A dizzying picture flashed across her mind of all the gifts she had accepted since she had come to Delacourt. The clothes that had been ordered for her were doubtless worth more than the whole of her inheritance. She had no hope of repaying the duchess. She was in no position to argue. Speechless, she shook her head.

  “I should hope not, indeed,” said Her Grace crisply. “I have given you many things, Celia, and I shall give you many more, but marriage to my son is the greatest gift I can bestow upon any young woman. I am extremely vexed to see it received with so little gratitude.”

  Celia plunged into a morass of stammering, incoherent disclaimers, but the duchess cut her off impatiently. “I see that you are Richard Delacourt’s descendant after all. You have been stuffed full of nonsense, I daresay—romantic claptrap and vulgar ideas fit only for the stage! You must abandon such notions, Celia. They are beneath you. You are no longer among the unwashed hordes who choose a partner the way beasts choose partners, with no regard for family, duty, or posterity. Persons of our rank choose carefully, and choose well.” Her Grace’s eyes blazed wrathfully, and her knuckles whitened where she gripped the arms of her chair. “I do not understand this modern tolerance for romantic love as a foundation for marriage. It is preposterous to base a decision that effects every aspect of one’s life, and determines not only the quality of life but the very identity of every generation to follow, on a mere emotion—or, worse yet, on nothing more than animal attraction! What basis is that for earthly happiness? What basis is it for happiness in the hereafter? It is beyond foolish. It is vulgar.”

  Celia had never seen the duchess so moved. Her face had gone quite pale, with two spots of color high on her cheekbones, and her breathing had started to come in short, panting, gasps. As she finished her last sentence, she actually fell back against the cushions of her chair. It was the first time Celia had seen the duchess’s back touch the back of any chair she sat on. Alarmed, Celia moved f
orward to assist her.

  “Madam—Aunt Gladys—are you unwell?”

  The duchess glared impatiently at her, but seemed unable to speak. Celia reached quickly for the bell, but the door communicating between the morning room and the duchess’s apartments had already opened. Hubbard glided swiftly forward, a glass full of some medicinal draught in her hand. Celia stood helplessly by as Hubbard, murmuring soothing sounds, forced a little of the liquid past Her Grace’s lips. Her Grace seemed unwilling to receive these ministrations, and as soon as she was able she sat upright again and shook her henchwoman off.

  “There is nothing in the least wrong with me,” said Her Grace pettishly. “Thank you, Hubbard, but pray take yourself off. I don’t want you.”

  Hubbard immediately curtseyed and withdrew. Celia watched her go in some bewilderment, then glanced dubiously back at the duchess. Her Grace certainly seemed herself again. She had recovered her strength almost immediately. The entire episode had passed so quickly, it was almost as if Celia had imagined it.

  There were still two spots of color on the duchess’s cheeks, but if Celia had to guess, she would guess they stemmed from embarrassment. Her Grace looked extremely uncomfortable. “I beg your pardon,” she said at last. “I must be careful not to upset myself.” She glanced sharply up at Celia, who still hovered anxiously near her chair. “Sit down, child. These spells are nothing new. I have been subject to them since girlhood.”

  Celia obediently sat, although she wasn’t entirely sure she believed Her Grace. Something in the duchess’s words rang false.

  “John will come home for Christmas,” announced Her Grace, returning to the subject at hand as though nothing were amiss. “You will have an opportunity to become acquainted with one another. It is a pity that you will still be in mourning, but that cannot be helped. You will support my efforts by being on your best behavior. It will please me very much if you exert yourself a little to entertain him. We do not often see John at Delacourt, and I rather fancy it is because he finds the society of his family—irksome. You will provide some diversion.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her Grace’s nostrils flared, as if scenting rebellion beneath Celia’s meek demeanor. “You will do your duty, Celia.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Celia hesitated, then decided to ask. “Is he coming here because—that is—does he know about me, Aunt?”

  The duchess’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of her chair. “No,” she said finally. “He is coming home for Christmas. That is all. And that is why, Celia, you must put yourself in my hands and do as you are told. I mean to do my utmost to bring about this match, but John is of age, and it will not hurt matters if you—assist me a little.”

  By the time Celia left the duchess, her mind was whirling with conjecture and alarm. She desired nothing more than to hide somewhere for a time and think, but as she closed the door behind her she saw Delacourt’s elderly butler loitering in the passage. Munsil was a fatherly soul who had taken her under his wing almost immediately after her arrival. His manner was very correct, and he bowed the instant he saw her, but Celia could tell that he had been waiting for her to emerge. His eyes were twinkling in a most un-butlerish way.

  Celia was uncomfortably reminded of the scolding she had just received for her familiarity with the servants. Rebellion stirred in her heart. She didn’t care what Her Grace thought. Why, Munsil was worth ten of that useless duke!

  They were still within earshot of the duchess, so she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “What is it, Munsil?”

  Munsil’s twinkle became pronounced. He addressed her in the measured tones of the starchiest of butlers, but with a self-conscious primness that added humor to his delivery.

  “I regret to inform you, miss, that your cat—er, that is, his lordship’s cat—has run afoul of Monsieur Andre. Again.”

  Celia’s troubles immediately receded. She stifled a laugh with one hand. “Oh, dear. How bad is it?”

  “Thus far, the encounter has not proved fatal. To either of the combatants.”

  “Well, I’m glad of that, at any rate! What happened?”

  “A slight dispute arose regarding a certain guinea fowl. Each was of the opinion that the bird fell under his jurisdiction. And neither could be convinced that the other had any claim to it whatsoever. A battle of wills naturally ensued.”

  “Munsil, you terrify me! Do not leave me in suspense, I beg you. Who won?”

  Munsil paused, as if considering. “I would call it a draw, miss.”

  “A draw! Did they split the bird?”

  “No, miss. Not intentionally, at any rate.”

  Celia choked back a giggle. “It split of its own accord, I suppose.”

  “Eventually, miss, yes, it did. It being the nature of poultry to tear apart when subjected to vigorous tugging.”

  “Why, then, I would say that Manegold won the day.”

  “Well,” said Munsil cautiously, “he succeeded in destroying the bird, which was certainly an object with him. But it failed to provide the satisfaction he expected. Monsieur Andre managed to douse the carcass with red pepper at the very moment when Manegold believed himself to have triumphed. The result was unhappy for the cat.”

  “I hope it did not make him ill,” said Celia anxiously.

  “Oh, I do not mean to imply that Manegold ate the bird. He was merely—surprised. He fell into a sort of fit, and while he was occupied with sneezing and yowling, Monsieur Andre was able to gain the upper hand.”

  “My word! Then I suppose Monsieur Andre won in the end.”

  “Well,” said Munsil, with the same cautious delivery, “he succeeded in thwarting the cat, which was certainly an object with him. But—”

  Celia choked. “But it failed to provide satisfaction!”

  “Precisely, miss.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Monsieur Andre’s wounds are being salved by the kitchenmaids, and Manegold is enjoying a period of solitary reflection in the buttery.”

  Celia was startled. “The buttery! Oh, you must be mistaken. Only think how dangerous!”

  Munsil coughed. “The animal, miss, was first confined within a small crate. I believe he was persuaded to enter the crate against his better judgment, but Monsieur Andre’s assistant had the happy thought of placing an unpeppered portion of the guinea fowl in the back of it, thus overcoming Manegold’s initial objections.”

  “Dear me. We shall have to rescue him post-haste. It might occur to Monsieur Andre to replace the ruined guinea fowl with roasted feline.”

  Munsil led her to the buttery, where they discovered the prisoner. The crate might easily have held a lesser beast, but Manegold was the largest cat Celia had ever seen. Since he was boasting his winter coat, and was currently fluffed with both anger and cold, he completely filled the makeshift cage. He no sooner saw his friend Celia than he hailed her, in a loud and insistent voice. He was obviously explaining his predicament and requesting an immediate release, but Celia thought it prudent to postpone that for the time being. She carried the crate away, with Manegold still hotly protesting within it, to her own chamber. Once there, and with the door firmly shut behind her, she placed the crate before the fire and opened its hinged end. Manegold stalked coldly out, turned his back upon Celia, sat, and began washing his face.

  “Yes, but I had nothing to do with it, you know,” Celia told him. “There’s no use your taking it out on me. Besides, I need your advice. Who is to counsel me if you will not?”

  Manegold ignored her.

  “Very well. Two can play at that game,” said Celia severely. She crossed to the bed, knelt beside it, and pulled a large sheaf of papers and a box of jumbled charcoals and pencils from their hiding place behind the wooden step unit. These she took to the window seat. She then wrapped herself in a thick shawl against the December chill, hopped up on the seat, tucked her feet beneath her, propped her well-wrapped shoulder against the cold window, and sear
ched through the papers for a clean sheet. She found one, and took out a pencil. A dreamy expression softened her features as she tapped the pencil against her lower lip for a moment. Then she began to sketch.

  This proved irresistible to Manegold. When he heard her pencils rattle in the box, he swiveled his head to watch. A few swift, sure strokes of Celia’s pencil and his image began to take shape: the enormous ruff of thick, golden fur, the absurdly sweet pink triangle that was his nose, his round eyes like molten amber, their expression wise and wild as a hoot owl’s. Soon Manegold left the fireside and sprang onto the window seat, graceful despite his bulk, to stare, fascinated, at her pencil darting over the page. When he reached out a paw and gently patted the side of it, she smiled.

  “You great, soft, hulking thing,” she murmured. “Are you ready to be friends again?”

  Manegold looked expectantly at the pencil. His tail twitched. “No, I am not playing with you,” she informed him. “I’m thinking.”

  She set the pencil down and reached for the cat, who stretched his neck obligingly toward her, eyes half-closed, and permitted her to scratch his chin. “What’s your master like, Manegold?” she whispered. “They tell me you’re his cat. What’s he like?”

  Manegold closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. “Yes, all right, then! But you haven’t answered me,” complained Celia. She sighed. “It’s not that I mind the idea of living in luxury the rest of my days. And, heaven knows, I had no other plans for my future! But—” she grabbed the big cat and hauled him into her lap. “There’s something rather horrid about arranged marriages, in my opinion.” She frowned. “I can’t help having opinions, Manegold, try as I might! And I do think this says something about the duchess, don’t you? Imagine! Bringing me here to whip me into shape for her boy John. It’s perfectly medieval. And she doesn’t seem to think he’ll fall in with her plans, either, or why would she ask me to behave any particular way? She’s afraid he won’t like me.”