Once Upon a Christmas

by Diane Farr

  She was startled from her reverie by a gust of wind rattling the windowpanes. The weather was turning dark and nasty. Celia rose and went to look out. The very thought of being out in that cold made her shiver. It was all very well to talk of leaving Delacourt, but until she had a place to go, she was well and truly trapped here.

  And then anger came to her rescue, stiffening her spine. Celia knew she was a nobody, but she was also a Delacourt. She would stay and fight the duchess on her own turf. At least she need no longer feel guilty for accepting Her Grace’s largesse! The duchess had an ulterior motive. It would serve her right if Celia smiled, and accepted gift after gift, and then refused to do her sinister bidding. What was the worst that could happen? Banishment from Delacourt? Her grandfather had survived it, and so would she. Dr. and Mrs. Hinshaw would take her in, as a last resort.

  Perhaps.

  At any rate, she would not panic. She was a Delacourt, and not a coward.

  Celia dressed for dinner in a martial frame of mind. The family gathered every evening in the drawing room, punctually at half past seven, to await Munsil’s summons. Tonight, Celia was deliberately late. She was well aware that a footman would be sent to her chamber to find her, so she readied herself early, buttoned herself into a warm pelisse, and then hid in the dark library. Let them search! she thought mutinously.

  When she heard the library clock chime again, signaling that it was now a quarter to eight, she crept out and went quietly up to the drawing room. She still did not go in. She lingered in the passage, hugging herself against the chill and watching the stairs, until she saw Munsil rounding the corner of the hall below. Then, and only then, did she paste an unconcerned expression on her face and enter the drawing room.

  The duchess had spent many hours drilling Celia in how to hide her thoughts and emotions. It was time to put her training to the test, and see how the duchess liked it! Celia did not think the duchess would like it at all.

  A fire roared in the grate and the room was warm. Lady Winifred and Lady Caroline sat side-by-side on the sofa, their heads bent over a copy of La Belle Assemblee, arguing in hissing whispers over its contents. Lady Augusta slouched discontentedly in a chair, scowling vacantly into space. Lady Elizabeth, poised and elegant as usual, sat with her mother before the fire. The only servant in the room was Hubbard, standing motionless behind Her Grace’s chair. The duke, whose labored breathing could be heard across the room, was stuffed into a suit of dinner clothes that his bulk had long since outgrown. He was huddled in the corner of the room, sneaking some dark liquid from a decanter as surreptitiously as if he were stealing it.

  It was Lord Lynden, however, who irresistibly drew the eye. He stood before the fire, conversing with his mother and eldest sister, wearing an ensemble more appropriate for performing at Astley’s Amphitheatre than dining at Delacourt. He was clad, correctly enough, in knee breeches—but the knee breeches were of lilac satin. And his coat was so covered with gold and silver lace, braid, and ornaments of various types, it was impossible to judge whether it matched the breeches or not. If this evidence of his dementia had not been so pitiful, Celia might have been hard pressed not to laugh out loud.

  The duchess was obviously in a rare temper. She normally showed so little emotion, it was rather frightening to see anger glittering in her eyes. The anger seemed at first to be directed at her son, but her head swiveled when Celia entered, and her gimlet gaze fixed on the new arrival.

  “You are late,” snapped the duchess.

  “Yes,” said Celia. She crossed calmly to the chair opposite Lady Augusta and seated herself gracefully upon its edge.

  Yesterday, Celia would have been scarlet with distress. Yesterday, she would have apologized profusely. Yesterday, in fact, Celia would not have been late at all. But this was today, and everything had altered.

  The duchess visibly swelled with wrath. “In future, Celia, you will be punctual.”

  Celia smiled brightly. “Oh, yes! I daresay I shall.”

  A brief, electric silence fell. All eyes fixed upon Celia, with varying degrees of fascination. The duchess looked both baffled and enraged. “Why are you wearing a pelisse?” she demanded. “Where have you been?”

  “In the library, madam. It was cold.”

  “Do not force me to send you to your chamber like a child, Celia. You cannot wear a pelisse at table.”

  Celia’s smile never wavered. “Thank you, ma’am, but, on the contrary, I can easily wear a pelisse at table. There is no need for your kind concern. I rarely become overheated.”

  Lord Lynden abruptly began coughing. Celia thought at first he was covering a laugh, but of course that was impossible—wasn’t it? Before she could decide, Munsil appeared in the doorway and announced dinner.

  Everyone rose like a herd of obedient sheep. The duchess was still pale with anger, but Munsil’s entrance had struck all expression from her features. She calmly delivered a few words to direct the disposition of the party. All fell meekly into place at her bidding. Hubbard silently arranged Her Grace’s shawl, then slipped out of the room.

  Lord Lynden was ordered to take Celia down on his arm. This was alarming, but Celia hadn’t the heart to use the unfortunate young man as an instrument of her rebellion. She was certain that the poor, mad thing had had no part in his mother’s schemes. The duchess had even told her as much. So she took his arm and suffered herself to be led to dinner.

  Dinner was ghastly. The duke, who was generally impossible to distract from his meals, was inspired by the presence of a fellow male at the table to lift his eyes from his plate and bark out a remark from time to time. He asked his son a question or two—apparently about sport; Celia did not understand the questions and the marquess was given no opportunity to reply. The duchess deftly intervened each time her husband spoke, and turned the conversation into paths she deemed appropriate for the dinner table. She was ably assisted by her eldest daughter; between them, Her Grace and Lady Elizabeth almost managed to maintain an illusion of normal dinner conversation.

  Almost, but not quite. Winifred and Caroline poked each other whenever their mother was not looking, and snickered each time their father was squelched. Augusta never spoke unless directly addressed, and then replied in a monotone; she was sulking over something. Celia was likewise silent, as was her habit when in the company of her newfound relatives.

  It was a terrible thing, she thought as she glanced round the table, that she felt no affection for a single one of them. Terrible, and terribly sad.

  The duke generally disappeared after dinner. Tonight, the heir’s presence changed the routine somewhat. The duchess gracefully withdrew, all the females trailing in her wake, so that the gentlemen might enjoy their port in solitude. Her Grace led the petticoat parade slowly back to the drawing room.

  So long as servants hovered, serving the meal and then lighting the ladies’ way, so long did the duchess’s forbearance toward Celia last. The instant the door closed behind the departing footmen, Her Grace ordered Celia, in a voice of steel, to join her by the fire. Her daughters disposed themselves at a tactful distance—Winifred and Caroline with obvious reluctance; they were fairly quivering with curiosity.

  Celia waited until the duchess had seated herself, then sat nervously across from her. The ubiquitous Hubbard had reappeared and stationed herself nearby. Celia hoped that the duchess’s dislike of plain speaking, especially before servants, might shield her somewhat from the brunt of her anger. However, one look at Her Grace’s face told her that her hope was vain. The duchess never bothered to hide anything from Hubbard, and disapproved of frankness only in women other than herself. Her eyes glittered in her masklike face, and she wasted no time in polite fencing.

  “I am extremely vexed with you, Celia,” she snapped. “What is the meaning of your extraordinary conduct this evening? And, for heaven’s sake, take off that pelisse!”

  Hubbard glided forward. Celia rose, her cheeks burning, and allowed the duchess’s henchwoman to remov
e the offending pelisse. Beneath it, she was correctly attired in a dinner dress of black velvet—a gift, of course, from the duchess. She sat stiffly back down, but was unable to maintain the pretense of being unaffected by Her Grace’s displeasure. She had always dreaded making people angry, and found she had to swallow hard before she could speak.

  “It is not my desire to vex you, madam.”

  “I am glad to hear it. You could scarcely have chosen a worse time to arrive unpunctually, and unsuitably dressed. I had already been sorely tried by—” she abruptly stopped speaking, and Celia saw her lips compress into a thin line. “By something else. Well, never mind. I shall address that later. But as for yourself, I own I was astonished to witness such behavior in you. I honored you with my confidence because I deemed you worthy of it, and because I require your assistance to achieve my object. An object which, you know well, is entirely in your own best interests! And yet tonight, of all nights, you embarrass me—and embarrass yourself!—with wayward and peculiar behavior such as I have never seen in you before. Had I not known better, I might have fancied that I perceived defiance. Defiance! But such a thing must be impossible. I am sure you know your duty better than that—do you not?”

  Celia’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I hope I do, ma’am. Indeed, I hope I know my duty.”

  The firelight burned against the planes of the duchess’s face, throwing into bold relief the cheekbones, the high-bridged, aristocratic nose, and the finely arched brows. Half in light, half in shadow, she looked beautiful, regal, and deadly. Her sharp eyes missed nothing, Celia was certain. No mealy-mouthed skirting of the question would satisfy her. Sure enough, the duchess’s white, ringed fingers clutched the arms of her chair and she leaned forward in a way that struck Celia as nothing short of menacing.

  “I have told you your duty, Celia,” she said, the eery flatness of her tone somehow worse than a raised voice would have been. “You will obey me in this, or I promise you, you will regret it. You will rue the day you ever dreamed of crossing me. Do you understand?”

  Celia shrank back against her chair, staring at the duchess in frightened amazement. “Yes,” she whispered automatically. “Yes, ma’am.”

  But she did not. She did not understand at all. She did not understand what the duchess would do, nor why she would want to do it. Why was it so important to her, to control and bully Celia? Why was it so important to her, to arrange this marriage with her son? She seemed as mad as the marquess, and far more dangerous.

  Bewildered, Celia watched as the duchess regained mastery over her features, resumed her sphinxlike expression, and straightened in her chair. “It is well,” said Her Grace shortly. One finger moved, in an almost imperceptible signal, and the devoted Hubbard stepped out of the shadows and slipped something into the duchess’s hand. Celia could not tell what it was.

  The duchess dismissed her and she curtseyed shakily, then moved off to join the other ladies. But she was not cowed. No, indeed, Celia told herself firmly. If anything, she was more determined than ever to escape the silken noose she felt tightening round her neck.

  Chapter 6

  When the gentlemen entered the room, Lady Augusta was strumming moodily at the pianoforte, Lady Caroline and Lady Winifred were engaged in a game of checkers, Lady Elizabeth was pensively studying her sisters’ discarded copy of La Belle Assemblee, and the duchess, still seated by the fire, was resting her eyes. Celia longed for her sketchbook to pass the time, but, lacking this diversion, sat curled on the sofa, resting her cheek against her hand and listening to the meandering melodies issuing, one after another, from the pianoforte. Her mind was so busy considering and rejecting various means of escape from her predicament that she had entirely forgotten the gentlemen. The duke rarely joined the ladies after dinner—or, indeed, at any other time—but the presence of his son altered this habit. Celia was caught completely off guard by the opening of the door. She looked up, startled, and then hastily sat up and placed her feet on the floor, twitching her velvet skirts into place.

  If the duke had come to the drawing room hoping to enjoy the refreshment of a man-to-man conversation with his heir, he was destined for disappointment. The duchess opened her eyes at their entrance, and straightened in her chair. “Ah, John, there you are,” she said, stretching out one hand so that her son must, in common courtesy, walk forward and take it. “You have met your cousin Celia, of course, but I fancy you are unacquainted with her. Celia, dear child, come and sit with us for a moment.”

  She spoke as cordially as if she had never been annoyed with either of them a day in her life. Bemused, Celia rose obediently from the sofa and came hesitantly forward.

  Lord Lynden seemed to be as wary of her as she was of him. They stood, one on either side of the duchess, and eyed each other askance. Her Grace’s voice droned gently on. “Celia is the granddaughter of Lord Richard Delacourt, John. I am sure you have heard your father speak of his Uncle Richie.”

  The marquess flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Oh, aye! The infamous Uncle Richie. Ran off with one of the tenants, didn’t he?”

  It was a shock to hear this cavalier disparagement of her dear grandmama, but Celia remembered the marquess’s affliction and managed to keep her tongue between her teeth. Her Grace looked nearly as angry as Celia felt, and spoke sharply. “Pray recall to whom you are speaking, John! Your great-uncle Richard wed a vicar’s daughter. The match was far from brilliant, but there was certainly no scandal attached to their marriage.”

  He opened his eyes in mild surprise. “Really? Then why the deuce did the family banish him?” Lord Lynden then threw back his head and emitted an ear-splitting laugh. All conversation and music ceased. The entire assembly stared at him in startled amazement.

  Her Grace looked murderous. “There is nothing humorous in the situation, and no need to air the family’s differences here and now. Pray sit down, John, and mind your manners.”

  The duchess waved Celia and her son into chairs. They both sat, but neither looked comfortable. Her Grace looked keenly from one to the other. “My son has a lively sense of humor,” she informed Celia—by way of apology, Celia supposed. “When you have come to know one another, I am persuaded you will become great friends. Hubbard will take me upstairs now. I am fatigued. Do you sit here awhile and talk. You will find Celia a more interesting conversationalist than your sisters, John.”

  It was the sort of thing any hostess might say, but it sounded more like a command than a polite platitude. Celia felt that she had been ordered to be interesting, and supposed that the marquess had been ordered to find her so. Would the poor young man realize it, however?

  Celia watched in some trepidation as Hubbard assisted Her Grace with her shawl and reticule and escorted her from the room. It was rather terrible to be left alone with a lunatic. She had no notion how to go on. The presence of other people in the room, however occupied in other pursuits, was a comfort.

  The madman himself seemed disinclined to offer any help. With the departure of his mother he leaned back in his wing chair and crossed his legs, regarding her with a sort of cynical amusement. He said nothing at all. He seemed to be waiting for her to put herself forward. There was no indication that he had heard the veiled instructions in his mother’s parting remark. Really, it was most awkward.

  Well, she was under no obligation to be interesting, whatever the duchess might wish. In fact, she had no desire whatsoever to interest the marquess. She tried to recall the various strictures Her Grace had drummed into her head regarding polite conversation. The foremost of them was: never say anything in public that could not as easily have been said by someone else. Under the circumstances, that sounded like good advice. She found an innocuous remark, cleared her throat delicately, and began.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey from London, my lord.”

  “I didn’t. It was devilish.”

  A brief silence fell while Celia struggled to think of a response to this. “I suppose tr
avel at this time of year is always a bit of a trial,” she ventured.

  “Why do you suppose that?”

  “Well, it’s very cold, of course. And I daresay one encounters mud and snow and—and such. They do say the roads in England are shocking.”

  “Nonsense. The roads in England are kept as well as any other roads.”

  “Really? I have never traveled abroad.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Then how—” Celia broke off, with an effort, and pasted a smile on her lips. Mad as a hatter, she reminded herself. It was a pity, because he was a good-looking fellow; tall and well-proportioned, with a distinct resemblance to his mother and Lady Elizabeth. The strong, lean, well-bred features she thought so handsome in them seemed even more handsome in a male face. He had their unusual coloring, too: dark hair and blue eyes. Her favorite, she thought wistfully. Had he been blessed with a normal brain, she might have found herself strongly attracted to him.

  She paused for a moment, hoping Lord Lynden would introduce a topic of conversation, but he merely sat and regarded her fixedly. She began again.

  “I believe it has begun to snow.”

  “It will soon stop, however.”

  “Will it? This is my first visit to Oxfordshire, so I am not familiar with—”

  “It has nothing to do with Oxfordshire, you ninny.”

  Celia could scarcely believe her ears. “Wh-what?” she stammered.

  “Spring arrives everywhere. It won’t snow forever.”

  “I—I thought you meant —well, you said it would stop soon, and I thought you meant rather sooner than that.”

  “How soon did you think I meant?”

  “I don’t know—tonight, I supposed, or perhaps within the hour, or perhaps in a few days.”

  “Why did you suppose that?”

  “I—I’m sorry. I misunderstood you.”

  “Well, don’t let it happen again.”