Once Upon a Christmas

by Diane Farr

  Just what? she wondered, confused again. It wasn’t only Lady Augusta’s word she had for it, after all. Her heart sank as she recalled Jack’s demeanor and behavior yesterday. And even this morning at breakfast, she had to admit, he had not seemed quite right in the head. She was hardly qualified to make a diagnosis, but anyone could see that there was something wrong with him.

  And then there was his mother, who was taking great pains to arrange his marriage—a duke’s heir!—to a penniless orphan. Strong evidence, indeed, that something was amiss, either with Jack or with the duchess!

  Perhaps his madness was of the sort that ebbed and flowed, changing from day to day. Perhaps she had just spent a few hours with him during a phase of clarity, but his befuddlement could return as swiftly as it disappeared. She had heard of such afflictions. Perhaps—

  Jack interrupted her train of thought. “Are you going to tell me, or aren’t you?”

  “What?” stammered Celia.

  He looked exasperated. “Very well,” he said, picking up the rope again and beginning to drag the sledge down the path.

  Celia trotted after him, contrite. “I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t mean to be secretive. Was I—was I staring at you?”

  He shot her a wry glance. “First you looked as if you were afraid of me. Then you talked to me as if I were still in short coats, and blushed when I asked you why. Then, when I tried to discover what you were thinking, you asked me about my health. And then you studied me for several minutes, as if I were a beetle on a card! I can’t force you to confide in me, cousin, but I do wish you would.”

  It seemed impossible to ask him outright: Jack, do you know you’re mad? And yet Celia wished she could, in fact, ask him about it. Whatever his condition, he seemed such a forthright person at heart. If any madman could talk about his own disorder, he could.

  As she wrestled with this problem, Jack stopped so suddenly that she slid into him. He caught her, steadying her on the slick path, and gazed intently into her eyes. “I know what it is. And I know why you won’t tell me.”

  “You do?” said Celia faintly. Jack was still gripping her arms. His hands felt large and powerful. She had to tilt her head back to look at his face. A sudden, overwhelming impression of his size and strength rushed along her nerves. The sensation was not unpleasant, but it made her feel—strange.

  “I think we should be honest with each other, cousin,” said Jack slowly. “You and I have good reason to keep each other at a distance, haven’t we? But I think…I think I’ve changed my mind about you. You’re no more a fortune hunter than I am.”

  Celia almost gasped aloud. “A fortune hunter? Is that what you thought me?” She pulled herself out of his grip, shaken. He must know about the duchess’s plans after all. How humiliating. Unless—she glanced again at him, uncertain. Maybe he simply thought her a fortune hunter because she was accepting charity. “You mean—you thought me a fortune hunter because I came to live at Delacourt?” she asked cautiously.

  “No. Because—” To her surprise, Jack’s face was reddening. He looked completely nonplussed. “That is—I thought you were part of—or at least I thought you knew about—” He turned and walked a few steps away, clearing his throat. “Confound it! If she doesn’t know, it’s not my place to tell her,” he muttered.

  Celia had heard him quite clearly, but it behooved her to pretend she hadn’t. Indignation helped to hold her silent. Had the duchess lied to her? She had definitely been told that Jack knew nothing of this ridiculous marriage scheme. But he obviously did know of it, and thought her a fortune hunter! Which, by the by, lent credence to the idea that he was unaware of his own illness. He must fancy himself quite a prize, Celia thought, far above being matched with the likes of me! Well, if he were sane, he would be. She felt torn between exasperation and pity.

  He turned to face her again. “At any rate, whatever I thought of you, I don’t think it now,” he said firmly. “You may have my hand on that, if you wish.” He walked back to hold out his hand to her and she hesitantly took it.

  “Thank you, cousin,” she said stiffly.

  He reached out his other hand and enveloped her hand in both of his, smiling down at her. She could feel the warmth of his hands even through the thickness of their gloves.

  “I like you,” he said simply. “I hope we will be friends.”

  All uncomfortable emotions fled, and Celia flushed with pleasure. What a dear man he was. It was impossible not to respond to such frank good will.

  “I like you, too,” she said warmly, and meant it.

  Chapter 10

  A brief silence fell. Elizabeth looked more than appalled, she looked stricken. “Mother, how could you?” she uttered, and covered her face with her hands.

  The duchess’s brows twitched together in an exasperated frown. She had been forced to witness too many emotional scenes lately, she thought irritably. First Celia, then John, and now Elizabeth. She was tired and unwell, and disliked displays of strong emotion to begin with. Elizabeth was her favorite child, but she could not refrain from snapping at her. “For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth! I have not acted out of spite. I have acted in your best interests.”

  Elizabeth, pale with agitation, rose from her chair as if compelled and crossed swiftly to the window, where she stared sightlessly at the snow-dusted lawns. Her hands, held stiffly at her sides, clenched, unclenched, and clenched again.

  Since her daughter seemed incapable of speech, and was obviously making a praiseworthy effort to control herself, Her Grace addressed her in a milder tone. “I did not speak of this to you earlier, because there was no point in doing so until I knew what the outcome of my efforts would be.”

  “You might have consulted me, however!” cried Elizabeth. “You might have ascertained my wishes in the matter. Before you acted!”

  “To what purpose?” asked Her Grace, her voice sharp with exasperation. “You would have been on tenterhooks these three weeks and more. I sought to protect you from disappointment. It seemed, to me, unlikely that Blenhurst would accept my invitation. And if he did, I certainly thought to receive word prior to today.” She flicked the creased paper lying open on the escritoire before her. “It was most unfortunate that his letter was delayed. However, that cannot be helped.”

  Elizabeth drew a shaky breath. “When do you expect him?”

  “Possibly this afternoon. No later than tomorrow.”

  “Then he might arrive at any moment!”

  “I suppose he might. Pray calm yourself, Elizabeth! You will not be sent to open the door.”

  Elizabeth’s only reply was an inaudible exclamation. She paced the room, her hands still jerking spasmodically. The morning room, although high-ceilinged, was not a large apartment. Five swift strides brought her to the fireplace. Five strides back and she was at the window embrasure again. The movement seemed to help her regain some measure of calm, however. She returned to face her mother, her eyes glittering like flint-hard sapphires.

  “You had better tell me all. I will not, I cannot, face him unless I know in advance where I stand in this. I set my cap for him years ago—at your direction, ma’am!—and was humiliated for my pains. And the lessons I learned last Season at Kilverton’s hands are still quite fresh in my mind. Painfully so! I’ve no desire to play the fool a third time. Why is Blenhurst coming here? His wife has been dead less than a year—only eight or nine months, surely. What is his purpose in spending Christmas at Delacourt, of all unlikely places? He is no connection of ours.”

  The duchess met her daughter’s eyes levelly. “Precisely. I am sure he found my invitation surprising, and I am sure he recognized that there is only one reason why I would invite him. His Grace of Blenhurst is not a stupid man. His acceptance of my invitation, therefore, must indicate that he is considering making you an offer of marriage.”

  Elizabeth seemed once more bereft of speech. Her mother calmly watched the various emotions chasing themselves across her eldest daughter’s face. Among them, s
he recognized hope—and the fear of hope. Whatever the rest of Elizabeth’s feelings, they could be sorted out later. It was enough, thought the duchess, that Elizabeth hoped. Hoped so much that it frightened her.

  “Sit down, my dear. Let us contrive a little.”

  But instead of sitting, Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly on the high back of the chair before her. “I do not wish to contrive,” she said, her voice shaking. “I have done nothing but scheme and contrive and plot for the past eight years, and it has achieved nothing. I am done with contrivance, Mother. I do not wish to speak disrespectfully to you, but I must tell you that I am mortified that you wrote to Blenhurst and invited him to spend Christmas at Delacourt. As you say, he will easily guess why you have done so, and what purpose you have in mind. If this should become known—” Elizabeth’s voice broke, and she pressed her knuckles against her mouth.

  “Nonsense,” said the duchess bracingly. “Blenhurst is no gossip.”

  “I will be even more of a laughingstock than I am now.”

  Her Grace stiffened. “You, a laughingstock? You are nothing of the kind! I will not countenance such careless speech from you, Elizabeth. You must be well aware that you are an object of envy, with your birth, your breeding, your personal gifts—”

  Elizabeth gave a short, bitter laugh. “Envy! I have long been the target of cruel gossip, Mother. Perhaps, as you say, it originally stemmed from envy. Lately, however, people have begun to pity me. I find it intolerable. And now you, of all people, are providing grist for the gossip mill with this shameless invitation—”

  “Do you dare to criticize me?” Her Grace’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  Elizabeth’s face took on a sulky expression that made her look strikingly like Augusta. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  The duchess’s mouth tightened. “You may rest assured, Elizabeth, that I am as eager to avoid disgrace as you are. Who will gossip about this, pray? If he comes and goes without making you an offer, who will carry the tale to town? This is a family gathering, not a party of strangers.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in fresh horror. “Does Blenhurst know it will be a family gathering?”

  Her Grace’s eyes slid away from her daughter’s. “I did not mention the particulars,” she said evasively.

  “Good God, ma’am! He will naturally assume that it is, in fact, a party to which he has been invited! He may be very angry when he arrives to discover that there are no other guests!” Furious tears sparkled in Elizabeth’s eyes. “How could you make him so conspicuous? He will feel honor bound to offer for me.”

  The duchess smiled grimly. “Let us hope so,” she said shortly. “It would give me great pleasure to see you settled before—to see you settled, that is, so advantageously. His Grace of Blenhurst is a wealthy man, and sensible. His character is steady and his disposition mild.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” snapped Elizabeth, dashing the tears impatiently from her eyes. “And it has long been your ambition to thrust me into the arms of the only eligible duke in England!”

  “It has long been your ambition as well, has it not?” said Her Grace acidly. “Comfort yourself with the recollection that if you secure an offer from Blenhurst, the gossips will be silenced at last. Your ill-advised jilting of Lord Kilverton will be miraculously transformed from a shocking misstep to a clever gambit.”

  She had thought this might actually give Elizabeth pause, might cheer her and fortify her for the coming days. Once Elizabeth’s ambition was rekindled, Her Grace had little doubt that she would throw herself into this project with determination—and, this time, succeed. But Elizabeth’s shoulders were tense with misery, not eagerness. “It was a misstep, as all the world knows. Kilverton set a trap, and I stepped into it.”

  “Yes,” said her mother dryly. “You lost your temper—the very thing I had specifically warned you not to do. Had you heeded my advice, we would not be having this conversation today. But let us not cry over spilled milk. Perhaps in future, Elizabeth, you will follow my instructions more carefully.”

  Elizabeth shot her mother an angry glance. “Has it not occurred to you, madam, that there is a certain pattern to these setbacks we have suffered? On the very occasion when you warned me not to lose my temper with Kilverton, you also warned me that you had observed him at Almack’s, dancing with the lady who is presently his wife! It was this observation which prompted your advice, was it not? Blenhurst, also, was very near the sticking point—or so we believed!—when he met Esther Joyce. Once he had done so, his retirement from the list of my admirers was disconcertingly abrupt.” Her face was suddenly haggard. “You have taught me that a man of breeding does not require, does not even desire, romantic love in marriage. Yet twice I have been discarded by men of breeding who apparently not only desired love, but refused to marry without it.”

  The duchess snorted. “You are reading far too much into these events, Elizabeth.”

  “Am I? Am I, indeed? I have had a great deal of time in which to reflect, of late, and my reflections have not been—comfortable.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I think it possible that you and I have been wrong.”

  The duchess stared at her daughter in disbelief. A sharp stab of pain wracked her, the inevitable result of surprise. The unexpected always ruined her concentration, breaching her defenses. She automatically pressed her hand to her abdomen—then, with an effort of will, removed it and placed it back on the arm of her chair. When she spoke, her voice sounded thin but controlled.

  “I never thought to hear such rubbish from you, Elizabeth. I have endured Celia’s mewlings because I know her to be ignorant, and John’s because he makes a habit of opposing my will. But you! You have had the benefit of my teaching and my example all your life, and we have always thought as one. I have long been proud of your elegance, both of person and of mind. You have always behaved just as you ought. Your conduct has been above reproach since the instant you made your curtsey to the Polite World. It is nonsensical—it is heretical—for you to doubt yourself. It is an insult not only to you, but to me.”

  Elizabeth flushed. “Very well, ma’am. I shall not trouble you further with my thoughts on the subject. But if Blenhurst does not offer for me, I beg you to relinquish your ambitions. I have done so. Or, rather, I have tried to do so! But I cannot reconcile myself to spinsterhood while you continually burden me with false hope.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes looked suspiciously bright. Good heavens! Was she weeping? Before the duchess could recover from her astonishment, Elizabeth dropped a stiff little curtsey and vanished out the door.

  Her Grace felt her world tipping into chaos. Now that there was no one to see, she clutched her belly, panting, until the miasma of pain receded and her clouded vision cleared. Elizabeth, defying her! Elizabeth, doubting her! It was inconceivable. Why, it almost caused her to doubt herself.

  She gazed anew at Blenhurst’s carefully-worded acceptance of her Christmas invitation. So polite, so neutral. So brief. It had originally struck her as businesslike and unambiguous, a clear message of his intent. Now she felt less confident. Had she read more into his message than he intended? She banged her fist on the escritoire in a futile expression of frustration.

  Hubbard, who was never out of hearing now, immediately appeared in the doorway. The duchess waved her away impatiently. “Thank you, Hubbard, but I require nothing. Or—wait. Stay a moment. I would be obliged to you if you would arrange for Mr. Willard to pay me a visit. At his earliest convenience.”

  Uncertainty flickered in Hubbard’s eyes. “The solicitor, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, yes, our solicitor! Pray take care of it for me. Munsil or one of the footmen will know the best way to send a message to him.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Hubbard curtseyed and, with one last searching look at her mistress, departed on her errand.

  The duchess leaned her head against the back of her chair for a moment, exhausted. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, to have a thankless chi
ld,” she quoted bitterly. It seemed she had three thankless children on her hands, if one counted Celia.

  Well. They would all thank her one day.

  And now she would have Blenhurst to entertain. She had already sent a message to the housekeeper, and one to the stables. She had broken the news to Elizabeth. What else was there to do? Ah, yes. She forced herself to straighten in her chair, and blearily took up the menu Monsieur Andre had sent for her approval. It was entirely in French, and she was finding it difficult to concentrate. She made a few quick strokes, replacing one suggested sauce with another, vetoing tomorrow’s dessert course as too common—Blenhurst would almost certainly be present for that meal—and requesting a creme brulee instead. She lacked the energy to quarrel with the rest of it. Let Monsieur Andre decide. For heaven’s sake, she paid him an exorbitant wage to do so.

  The day-to-day management of Delacourt was becoming ever more difficult for her. High time she made use of Celia, she supposed. A pity that Elizabeth could not fill her mother’s shoes. Elizabeth was born and bred to the role; she would make an admirable duchess.

  Her Grace’s lips tightened. Elizabeth would, if all went well, make Blenhurst an admirable duchess. Delacourt would be handed to Celia, a callow girl who knew no more of running a great house than—well. No sense repining. This is why she brought Celia here, after all. Celia would learn, and she would teach her, thus ensuring the smoothest possible transition. Her management had made Delacourt perfect. Nothing must change.

  Celia’s training must begin without delay, and Elizabeth must marry Blenhurst. It was already apparent to Her Grace that she would not have the strength to travel to London for the Season, let alone engineer Augusta’s come-out. The child had been kept dangling in the wings, waiting for Elizabeth’s marriage before being allowed to make her own curtsey. Elizabeth’s marriage had failed to materialize, and Augusta had turned twenty now. Twenty! Her first Season simply could not be put off any longer. Once safely wed, Elizabeth could take on that responsibility, and the duchess could devote what remained of her energy to Celia’s training.