Christmas is in the Air

by Cary Morgan-Frates

  “Yes,” Amanda agreed, praying it would be so. “Why don’t you stay and help me put the final touches on the church decorations I have planned for this Sunday?”

  “I would love that!” Perdita clasped her hands together. “May I, Cam?”

  “I’ll send Quinn round later to fetch you,” St. Cloud said. “But not too late, Perdita.”

  “There’s no need to bother your staff, my lord,” Stephen said. “Amanda and I can drive Lady Perdita home.”

  “Thank you.” St. Cloud said. “May I ask about the decorations, Miss Fleming?”

  “You may not,” Amanda said. “It’s a surprise.”

  Chapter Eight

  That’s the surprise? Cam stared as old Josiah Hawkins, All Souls’ venerable verger, raised the torch and lit a purple candle in the evergreen-covered wreath that hung from the church ceiling. Candlelight flickered from miniature wreaths placed on all the windowsills, filling the church with additional warmth. Behind him came a wave of soft gasps and murmurs.

  An Advent wreath. So that’s what Perdita and Miss Fleming were doing yesterday after tea. Cam stared at his sister in the choir at the front of the church, but she was too caught up in her singing to notice. And it was hard to discern whether her pleasure was in the music only or her part in the decorations.

  An Advent wreath. For as long as Cam could remember, All Souls had hovered somewhere between “low” church with very little ceremony, and a middle ground with enough ritual to keep others happy. Incense was never used and he vaguely recalled some fuss long ago about the choir wearing robes as being too “high” church. Ritual mattered little to Cam. A man’s relationship with God-with ritual or without it-was his own business.

  And from some of the stern expressions and rapid whispers around him, it appeared that some members of the congregation—including Hiram Baker and Samuel Tarwater—felt a new heresy had been thrust upon them. But many of the others smiled and nodded in obvious pleasure, especially the younger members.

  He turned his head and found Miss Fleming watching him. She gave him a brief nod, obviously aware of the displeasure swirling around them. Did she not even care what her brother’s congregation thought? Cam withheld his sigh and prepared himself for the service to come.

  Later during the sermon, Tarwater and Baker’s displeasure was stamped on their faces. The Reverend Stephen Fleming in precise but eloquent language, urged his congregation to remember—especially at this time of year—the lesson of the widow’s mite and her unhesitating and generous giving. The man must be as naïve in choosing his sermon topics as Perdita was at recognizing snobbery, for his expression radiated nothing but joy as he preached.

  At the social hour after church, Hiram Baker lost no time in cornering Cam. “A word with you, my lord?”

  “Yes?” Cam’s grip on his teacup tightened.

  “I’m not of the mind to hear sermons preached about how much I give or don’t give to the church!” Anger tightened Baker’s features, turning his mouth into a thin line. “I do my bit for All Souls, and I don’t come to church to be told otherwise! And since when does All Souls have such trappings? An Advent wreath? What’s next, stained glass in our windows?”

  The greatest cathedrals in Europe have stained glass windows, Mr. Baker,” Cam said calmly. “Chartres Cathedral is a fine example of such. So is Notre Dame in Paris.”

  “I’d expect that fussiness from the French,” Baker said stiffly. “I can’t control what they do, anyway. But that Advent wreath, that’s something else. Mister Smythe didn’t go in for such things. And we got along with him just fine.”

  “Why didn’t you like the Advent wreath, Mr. Baker?” Miss Fleming’s voice broke into their conversation. Her gloved hand curled around her prayer book, and the set of her mouth suggested she was preparing for battle with the Senior Warden.

  “It’s too fussy,” Baker argued. “We’ve never done such things at All Souls.”

  “Where’s the harm?” Miss Fleming asked. “It’s a very old, Christian custom. Both of Stephen’s last churches had Advent wreaths at Christmas. I suppose that next you’ll say you won’t support the Sunday school for the tenants’ children we hope to start so they can learn to read and write.”

  “Sunday school for the tenants’ children?” Horror widened Baker’s eyes to an alarming size. “So they can learn to read and write?”

  “Why, yes.” Miss Fleming’s tone was a degree short of an outright challenge. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea that all children should be able to read the Gospel?”

  “It’s your brother’s job to preach it to them,” Baker insisted. “They don’t need to read it, or anything else. Reading will give them ideas above their station and it’s sinful for them to try and move out of it.”

  “Is it really?” Miss Fleming bristled. “Perhaps you should ask my brother exactly where in the Bible it says that before we precede, since he is in agreement of starting the school.”

  “My lord St. Cloud? What say you?” Baker’s tone suggested that man-to-man, they could put a stop to this nonsense.

  “Yes, my lord. What say you?” Miss Fleming’s gaze at Cam wavered between hope and defiance.

  Why can’t you be like all the other young ladies of my acquaintance, conventional and even-tempered, instead of stirring up a commotion every other minute? From the first moment I saw you coming out of the mists, I’ve hardly known a moment’s peace.

  And I can’t get you out of my mind.

  “My lord.” A red-faced Samuel Tarwater joined them. “Since when do ladies who are not on the Altar Guild provide the after-service refreshments?”

  Cam glanced at the long table loaded with a variety of food before looking back at Tarwater. “I don’t understand. Is there a problem with the refreshments?”

  “My wife and Mrs. Baker always provide them,” Tarwater snapped. “It’s the responsibility of the Altar Guild, no one else’s. It’s been that way for years. Why are those other women doing it?”

  “I asked Mrs. Tidwell and Miss Sylvester to prepare some repast for after the service,” Miss Fleming put in.

  “You did?” Tarwater’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yes,” Miss Fleming said crisply. “Your wife, Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Hopewell all sent notes ‘round to the rectory late yesterday afternoon, saying they were unwell and would be unable to attend services this morning. Please tell them that Stephen can call on them this afternoon if they wish and provide whatever spiritual comfort they might need. But we had to have some kind of refreshment, so I asked Mrs. Tidwell and Miss Sylvester as well as Mrs. Crawford from the rectory to help.”

  Tarwater’s frown deepened. “You should have asked my wife who she would have preferred to prepare the food. My wife’s biscuits—”

  “—are as hard as rocks.” Squire Beecham’s booming voice declared as he joined them. “You could break your tooth on ‘em if you didn’t have a cup of coffee or tea to dunk them in. Them cheese scones today and them little cakes are what I call a real treat. It’s ‘bout time we had a change from the same old thing. And that Advent wreath was a fine thing. Whose idea was that?”

  “Cam, there you are!” Perdita scurried up, with a slightly breathless Lucy Pembroke in tow and Miss Fleming stepped back. An entirely different light entered her eyes and her expression settled into one of grave attention.

  Perdita placed her hand on his arm. “Cam, wasn’t the Advent wreath just beautiful? Didn’t you think so, Mr. Baker? Mr. Tarwater? Amanda let me do most of the work. Did she tell you about the school for the tenants’ children she and Stephen—Mister Fleming, that is—are going to start after Christmas? They said I could help, if I wanted. Doesn’t that sound like a bang- up good idea?”

  “B-bang-up good idea?” Tarwater sputtered while the color drained from Baker’s face. Cam had never seen men faint before, but watching the men’s expressions at Perdita’s use of a beau’s cant might provide him with just such a spectacle. Choking back his laugh, he said, “I
think the school is a marvelous idea, Perdita.”

  “Oh, good!” Perdita clapped her hands. “I think this is going to be a cracking good Christmas season, the best one ever! An Advent wreath, a new Sunday school and a special midnight service on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t that sound lovely, Squire Beecham?”

  “If it means I can hear your sweet voice sing, I’ll stay up all night,” Beecham praised. A broad grin crossed his face and he winked at other men. “What do you gents think? Don’t it sound like a happy Christmas season to you?”

  The men muttered what might be any kind of answer before bowing and exiting the parish hall. From the corner of his eye, Cam watched Miss Fleming’s mouth tighten in an attempt to hold back her silent laughter. Fearing his own mirth might escape him, Cam looked back at Perdita, whose pretty features were knotted into a mask of confusion.

  “Did I say something wrong, Cam?” she asked.

  “Not at all, dearest,” he said, making sure to avoid Miss Fleming’s twinkling eyes. “Not at all.”

  “Oh, good.” Perdita’s smile returned. “Lucy says her papa arrived home late last night, and he wants us to come to dinner. May we go?”

  “We’re expecting several other guests from town to join us late this afternoon,” Lucy added. She looked rather stunning in her white coat and matching hat. “Do say you’ll come, Cameron. Papa wants our advice on a horse he saw at Tattersal’s.”

  “Of course,” Cam agreed. “We’d be delighted to join you. Is your Aunt Adelaide among your guests?” If she were, perhaps tonight would offer the occasion to sound out the old lady about asking for Lucy’s hand in marriage.

  “No, not yet,” Lucy said serenely. “Come let us find Mama and tell her you have accepted. But then of course, we really didn’t expect you to refuse.”

  She paused and looked at the still silent Miss Fleming. “Your Advent wreath was most interesting, Miss Fleming. I’m sure

  Papa will come by tomorrow to see what he thinks of it.”

  The light of challenge returned to Miss Fleming’s eyes, but she only inclined her head. For once, she mercifully kept her opinions to herself.

  “Ah, there’s Mama waving at us.” Lucy put her hand on Cam’s arm. “She was saying only this morning that Mrs. Owens, our cook, has one or two ideas she wants to share with yours about the menu for the Winter Ball, especially since it’s Perdita’s first time being its hostess. Shall we go see what Mrs. Owens has in mind?”

  And without waiting for his reply, Cam found himself led across the parish hall with Perdita at his side, leaving Miss Fleming behind.

  ****

  “The black or the dark blue, my lord?”

  Cam stopped preparing his shaving soap to stare at Higgens’s reflection in the large wall mirror as he held up Cam’s two sets of evening clothes. “The dark blue,” he said.

  “Very good, my lord.” Higgens said. “Anything special about your cravat for tonight?”

  “It’s just dinner with the Pembrokes, Higgens,” Cam told him as he applied the soap to his face. “Nothing I’ve not done many times before.”

  “I only ventured to ask, my lord, because when I went into Huntingdown yesterday to pick up your boots, I heard that the Marquess of Graham as well as Viscount Osborne are to be among the expected dinner guests, and that they are bringing the new horses they purchased for the race.”

  “Really?” Cam considered this bit of news. Victor Graham and Thomas Osborne always came to Huntingdown to take part in the race. Both were excellent whips, and could boast of several past triumphs, but they had yet to beat any St. Cloud in Huntingdown. The thought nearly made him smile.

  But along with their titles, both Graham and Osborne had the money, manners and good looks to make them attractive prospects for any matchmaking mama.

  Was the appearance of Graham and Osborne a not-so-subtle warning to Cam that he wasn’t the only fish in the sea when it came to Pembroke’s only daughter? Did Lady Pembroke think a little healthy competition for Lucy’s hand might speed up Cam’s proposal, even without the presence of Aunt Adelaide? Cam slid the razor down one side of his face. “Is there anyone else of equal importance among the guests?”

  “Not that I have heard, my lord.” Higgens stepped back into the closet and Cam continued his shave. It was one thing to have Higgens help him dress for important occasions or trim his hair, but he refused to let another man shave him. Such things were best left for the Regent. Cam studied his face in the mirror and reflected on Higgens’s news.

  The arrival of Osborne and Graham put a new spin on his matrimonial—or lack of—situation. But did they know about Lucy’s great Aunt Adelaide? He would have to watch their attentions to Lucy tonight. Lucy’s dainty flattery and past regard for him certainly would have him think they offered no serious threat.

  And it wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy Lucy’s company. She was pretty, accomplished and always conducted herself like the perfect lady that he knew her to be. Not like—

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Oakley spoke from the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but there’s a problem.”

  Catching Oakley’s tight expression in the mirror, Cam put his razor down on the vanity top. “What is it, Oakley?”

  “Mr. Fleming is in your study, my lord,” Oakley said. “He asks you to join him at once.”

  Cam checked his sigh of impatience. Did Miss Fleming not ever talk to her brother? “Tell him I have another engagement. I’ll call on him tomorrow.”

  Oakley cleared his throat. “It seems his sister, Miss Fleming has gone missing, my lord.”

  “Missing?” Cam gripped the edge of the vanity. “Since when?”

  “This afternoon, sir. She went riding shortly after three o’clock and hasn’t returned. And my lord. . .”

  Tension began to coil at the base of Cam’s spine. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Fleming says that both he and Miss Fleming have a great deal of trouble seeing in the dark,” Oakley said solemnly. “Indeed, it quite incapacitates them, so he had Thomas drive him over here. Mr. Fleming is worried that—”

  “I understand.” Cam wiped the remaining soap from his face. “Tell Mr. Fleming I’ll join him shortly, and then ask Quinn to ready Socrates. Ask Mr. Arwine to join me.”

  “Yes sir.” With a nod, Oakley left, concern speeding his usual steady tread down the corridor. Higgens stepped out of the closet and waited.

  “Higgens, get out my oldest riding clothes, please.” Cam peeled off his dressing gown and tossed it aside.

  “But, my lord!” Higgens protested. “What about dining with the Pembrokes?”

  “It’s only half past six o’clock,” Cam said. “I’ll instruct George to take Lady Perdita to the Pembrokes if I’ve not returned in an hour. There’s no reason to arrive before eight. We won’t dine until nine, so there should be plenty of time.”

  Worry drew Higgens’s eyebrows together. “Do you suppose Miss Fleming has met with some kind of accident, my lord?”

  “I have no idea.” Cam managed to get out the words through gritted teeth. “Let us pray not.”

  Because if she hasn’t, and this spoils my chance to observe Osborne and Graham with Lucy, I just might wring Miss Amanda Fleming’s pretty little neck.

  Chapter Nine

  Mandy, didn’t I ask you to try to get along with the ladies of the Altar Guild? And don’t tell me that I didn’t mention their husbands. Amanda fought the urge to dismount Daisy and ride her astride at a good hard gallop to dispel her self-annoyance, but settled for a canter. If the triumvirate caught her riding astride, they’d probably demand she and Stephen pack up and leave by next Sunday, but at this moment she really did not care. Such a fuss about the Advent wreath and who prepared the after-service refreshments! It was ridiculous. At Saint Bartholomew’s, even with all her problems there, there had never been a to-do about a wreath!

  But there had been other battles, and at Good Shepherd as well. Recalling them, Amanda’s frustrated mood became one o
f gloom. The graying afternoon sky matched her mood, and a breeze cut through her white cloak, ruffling the thick ribbon wrapped around her matching hat. She shivered under the mounting breeze’s bite and considered turning back. It would be dark soon.

  But not just yet. Having Stephen gently scold her—again—during lunch only made her feel worse.

  “If there are any complaints from the congregation, then tell them to talk to me,” he urged just before he left to see Squire Beecham about a horse and sleigh for the upcoming race. “I’m a bit more diplomatic than you are, Mandy. Please, please let me handle it.”

  “Diplomatic, my left foot,” Amanda muttered as they traveled into a grove of trees. The huge gnarled limbs wove a canopy overhead and she tried to imagine what it would look like in the summer when leaves covered the branches. Would they shut out the light, making the grove a dark and fearful place, hiding every possible danger? Could robbers be hiding here? Wolves? Ghosts?

  “I need to stop reading Gothic fiction,” she told Daisy, pulling her to a walk by a stream. “I’ll have Beowulf creeping out of his cave to drag me away if I keep thinking like this.”

  Daisy whinnied a soft answer before lowering her head to drink from the stream. Amanda slid off and spying a large boulder, went to sit before it to think.

  At least Stephen would be pleased when she told him that she had invited the triumvirate to tea as he asked and they all accepted. She would have to discuss tomorrow’s menu with Mrs. Crawford after dinner.

  “I’ll ask them about All Souls particular Christmas traditions,” she yawned. “How they decorate the church on Christmas Eve, about baskets for the local poor, and the like. I’ll use Mama’s best tea service and silver. Surely, asking for their help should appease them. Then perhaps—” her eyes grew heavy and she tried to keep them open as she yawned again— “their husbands won’t stay so cross at me. . .”

  Her eyes fluttered open with a start to utter darkness and no horse. Good heavens, how long had she slept? Scrambling to her feet, she called, “Daisy? Daisy, where are you?” Her eyes tried to pierce the gloom but it was too dark. How long had she slept?