Christmas is in the Air

by Cary Morgan-Frates

  A shimmering light entered Amanda Fleming’s eyes, eyes that sought his approval, and one Cam would give if could just get the words past his throat.

  “You look very well indeed, Miss Fleming,” Cam said solemnly. “You’ll have no shortage of partners at the ball.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said. “Thank you, Perdita.” Turning to Mrs. Carey, she added, “I’ll take it if you’re sure the lady will not return and ask for it.”

  “Ha!” Mrs. Carey exclaimed. “That’s not likely.”

  “Very well, then. If you will all excuse me, please?” Miss Fleming headed for the dressing area.

  “You see, Cam?” Perdita said happily. “I knew bringing Amanda to London was a good idea. She and I will both shatter hearts at the Winter Ball. Just you wait and see!”

  Watching Miss Fleming vanish behind the curtain and into the safety of the dressing area, a strange heaviness gathered around in Cam’s chest. “You will indeed, dearest,” he said at last. “You will indeed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday before the Third Sunday of Advent

  “My lord St. Cloud. A word if you please!” Wilfred Hopewell burst into Cam’s study without so much as a knock on the door.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” A tight-faced Oakley managed to get past the angry Hopewell and plant himself like one of Heart’s Ease ancient oaks in front of Cam’s desk. “I did not tell you his lordship was home.” He addressed Hopewell in the tone that had put terror into a generation of footmen in training and should have made Hopewell shiver in his boots.

  “It’s quite all right, Oakley.” Cam shoved aside the final proposed menus for the Winter Ball and rubbed his temples. Even though they had left London well before dark yesterday—after he finalized the purchase of the new horse for Perdita at Tattersal’s—it had started to drizzle, and the temperature dropped. By the time they were halfway home, the ice on the roads slowed the return to Heart’s Ease to a near crawl. Never had the familiar journey seemed so long or exhausting. Sleep should have come quickly and easily, but it did not.

  For every time he turned over, Amanda Fleming’s image in a green ball gown danced before Cam’s eyes, keeping sleep as far away as the moon.

  “I think I can guess what this is about,” Cam said.

  “Oakley, would you please wait outside and be prepared to assist

  Mr. Hopewell back to his carriage when I call?”

  Oakley’s lips curved into a grin of delighted malice. “Very good indeed, my lord. Yell if you need me.” Then he scowled at the still fuming Hopewell. “You watch yourself,” he warned. “Remember to whom you’re speaking.”

  The door had hardly shut behind him when Hopewell leaned over and put his hands on Cam’s desk. “That man you hired to be rector has appointed Arthur Nichols as verger! A tenant’s grandson!”

  “You mean Mr. Fleming?” Cam picked up his quill and ran his fingers over it. “That rector?”

  “Tarwater told me I could have that position!” Hopewell snapped. “And that there Mr. Fleming goes and gives it to—”

  “Arthur Nichols. Yes, I know. It is one of the rector’s duties to appoint someone for verger as he sees fit,” Cam said dryly. “Not the Senior Warden. If Mr. Fleming feels Arthur Nichols is qualified to be verger, I see no problem with his decision.”

  “But you gave Fleming the living at All Souls!” Hopewell argued. “You have the right to—”

  “I may have given Mr. Fleming the living at All Souls, but I have no authority to dictate to him who he appoints to be verger or sexton or any other position at the church.” Cam pulled the menus back. “If there is nothing else, Mr. Hopewell, I really need to continue preparing for the Winter Ball. Good day to you.”

  He lowered his head in dismissal but from under his eyelids watched Hopewell’s visage turn from bright red to purple. The man hesitated, then turned on his heel and exited the room, slamming the door. Raised voices in the hall indicated Oakley was using Hopewell’s bad manners as an excuse to exercise his authority to give Hopewell a lesson in manners. Another door slammed and Cam began silently counting. He had only reached five when the study door opened and Oakley came inside. “Will you be needing anything, my lord?” he asked. “Some coffee? A brandy? Or perhaps a whiskey?”

  “Only if you’ll have one with me,” Cam said. Oakley enjoyed spirits on rare occasions, but in all the years he had worked at Heart’s Ease, Cam had never seen him in his cups.

  “It’s a bit early in the day, my lord,” Oakley said. A smile hovered around his mouth as he added, “Has Mr. Fleming really appointed Arthur Nichols as verger at All Souls?”

  “Were you listening at the door, Oakley?”

  The butler stood even straighter. “Certainly not, my lord. But you’ll have to admit one can always hear anything Mr. Hopewell has to say without any problem at all.”

  Cam chuckled. “True enough. Do you have any objection to Mr. Fleming’s decision?”

  “No, my lord. Arthur Nichols is a hard-working, honest young man. If he’d been born a gentleman, he might have taken holy orders. And it’s nice to see—”

  He stopped, as if trying to decide if he should continue his statement. Cam waited, and when his servant still hesitated, he prompted, “Nice to see what, Oakley?”

  “It’s nice to see that someone recognizes that one doesn’t have to be one of the gentry or the ton to help out at All Souls,” Oakley said. “Arthur Nichols will do the job well and make us proud. I’m glad you offered Mr. Fleming the living there, my lord. He’s a breath of fresh air, and if I may be so bold to say, so is his sister.”

  More like a whirlwind, stirring up trouble every time I turn around. “I think, Oakley, that after dealing with Mr. Hopewell, I could use a pot of strong tea after all.”

  “Very good, sir. Are you at home to anyone else?”

  “No.” And assigning Amanda Fleming to the back of his thoughts, Cam took up the menus for the Winter Ball.

  ***

  “You mark my words, Amanda Fleming is behind this,” Amelia Baker fumed. “The nerve! She probably went to her brother after asking us to tea to ask for advice on Christmas at All Souls and convinced him to appoint Arthur Nichols as verger! It’s a deliberate insult to us. I’ve a good mind to write to the bishop about it.”

  “It’s unheard of!” Grace Hopewell wailed, twisting her handkerchief into a rope. “A tenant’s son being appointed as verger! How can I show my face at All Souls? Everyone knows that your husband promised Wilfred that he would be verger, Cecily! He’s so angry that he’s threatening to go to another church!”

  “Oh, stop sniveling, Grace,” Cecily said, rising from her chair to pace the length of her parlor. “You sound like a girl who’s just been denied entrance to Almacks. This is Amanda Fleming we’re talking about, not a member of the Royal Family! I’ve dealt with her kind before. Let me think.”

  The other women watched Cecily continue to pace before the window. “Writing to the bishop won’t help. He’ll just say it’s Fleming’s choice. But you’re right, sister. I’ve no doubt that little Miss Busy-Body Fleming went straight to her brother after our tea at the rectory to suggest he appoint Arthur Norris verger instead of your husband, Grace. What else would have given him the idea?”

  “Wicked, deceitful, girl,” Grace whined. “Who does she think she is?”

  “I don’t know what the Earl was thinking, giving a living to such a young unmarried man,” Amelia complained. “It’s a shame that the earl seems so fond of Mr. Fleming. He’s hardly likely to dismiss him unless he did something so outrageous they would forced to leave.”

  “And so many of the families seem to like Miss Fleming,” Grace added. “Getting people excited about that Sunday school, or putting out Advent wreaths without even asking us, the Altar Guild! Miss Fleming is a troublemaker!”

  “You’re still upset because she asked Hattie Nichols to mend the altar linens instead of you,” Amelia said. “Though much as I hate to say it
, Hattie did do a good job.”

  “Are you siding with Amanda Fleming now?” Grace whined again. “It’s my job to mend the linens, not anyone else! Amanda Fleming is a troublemaker !”

  “Say that again, Amelia.” Cecily said abruptly.

  “I said Grace was still upset—”

  “No, before that.” Cecily turned and crossed the room to sit across from them. “About Stephen Fleming doing something so outrageous the earl would have to dismiss him and they would be forced to leave Huntingdown.”

  “But Cecily,” Amelia said. “Mr. Fleming’s conduct has been beyond reproach since his arrival. It’s Miss Fleming’s doings that have us upset. And as much as I hate to say it, she hasn’t exactly caused a scandal. Not a real one.”

  “Perhaps.” Cecily tapped her chin in thought. “But it would only take the suggestion of a possible scandal to make them leave. You know how St. Cloud dislikes scandal.”

  The other two women stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. “Cecily,” Amelia said at last. “You can’t do something to anger St. Cloud. It would ruin all of us!”

  “I have no intention of any of us being ruined.” Cecily sat back and smiled at her sister and friend. “Do you remember what Lady Perdita told us the night we dined at the Pembrokes? That they were late because Miss Fleming had gone missing and St. Cloud went to look for her. . .”

  ***

  The Third Sunday in Advent

  “Oh come, all ye faithful. . .” Beside Amanda, Hattie Nichols dabbed at her eyes as she watched Arthur light the third candle in the suspended Advent wreath and the choir sang the traditional hymn as they processed in. Perdita’s soprano soared as she sang the descant and the choir took their places.

  The church was far more crowded than the week before. People sat nearly shoulder to shoulder and Amanda guessed the surge in attendance was due to Stephen appointing Arthur to be verger. Word of it had gotten out the day she went to London with the St. Clouds, and had spread like wildfire in the surrounding countryside.

  And judging from the joy on not only Arthur’s thin face, but Mrs. Nichols’s too, naming Arthur verger was the right thing to do. From under her bonnet, Amanda flickered a look at the ladies of the triumvirate and their husbands. The three couples sang the words to the old hymn with gusto, their expressions suggesting nothing but joy for the season and not a care in the world more than what they might have for the midday meal.

  And considering her encounters with the ladies, that made Amanda nervous. Mr. Hopewell, Stephen told her, had been very angry at not being named verger. Yet, here he was, singing away, one arm around his wife, who sent Amanda a smile. Amanda’s pulse hitched a bit. The game, as Shakespeare told them long ago, was definitely afoot.

  Don’t be so suspicious, she scolded herself, turning her attention to Stephen’s sermon. He urged them to remember the command to ‘love thy neighbor as thyself’, not just at this time of year, but all year long and that ‘one’s neighbor’ meant everyone.

  Lord, help me to remember that the triumvirate are my neighbors too, even if I don’t like them. Give me a Christmas heart and not the suspicious one your very unworthy servant currently possesses. Amen.

  At the coffee hour, Amanda watched people, including the triumvirate and their husbands, congratulate Arthur, and her sense of guilt increased. Perhaps the spirit of the season had finally touched their hearts.

  Now all she had to do was make it through the week’s activities and the Winter Ball. She looked around the room and spotted Lucy Guest and her parents talking to Perdita and St. Cloud. Funny how her brain, depending on the circumstances, could change which of his names she used when thinking of him. Perdita had told her at the last planning meeting for the new Sunday school that Lucy’s great-aunt Adelaide was expected any day, and then Cam could approach the viscount about marrying Lucy.

  “She’s going to settle a great deal of money on Lucy,” Perdita explained to Amanda. “And Lucy says she won’t do it if she’s not consulted on who Lucy marries as well.”

  Lord, I know it’s Christmas, but could you somehow delay Lucy’s Aunt Adelaide until after the holidays?

  “Amanda!” Perdita called and beckoned to her from across the room.

  Plastering on a smile she didn’t feel, Amanda crossed the room to join them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day before the Winter Ball.

  “The devil take it.” Cam stared at the letter from Martins, his steward at Hope Springs, his estate in Dowling, a village outside of Guildford and a good five hour drive from Huntingdown. “Martins thinks he’s dying and ‘wants to see me one last time.’”

  Oakley stifled a laugh with a cough. “How many times has he claimed this since you became St. Cloud, my lord? Two? Three?”

  “This will make four. But this time he wants me to bring Mr. Fleming. Listen to this, Oakley.” Cam leaned back in his desk chair and adopted Martins’s slightly nasal voice. ‘Having been told of the talented young clergyman to whom you gave the living at All Souls, I beseech you to bring him with you as quickly as possible, my good lord, so I may make my final peace with you and God.’”

  This time Oakley couldn’t stop his laughter. “He sounds as though he could give Edmund Keen’s Shylock at the Lyceum a run for his money. Is that Shakespeare he’s quoting, my lord?”

  “No, damn all, it’s his own.” Cam folded the letter and dropped it onto the desk. “And just like our late, unlamented Mr. Smythe, Martins’s sense of timing is abysmal. I suppose I have no choice but to go to Hope Springs and take Mr. Fleming with me. I hope he has his Christmas Eve sermon ready.”

  Oakley’s eyebrows drew together. “Aren’t you supposed to dine at the Pembroke’s again this evening, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Cam sighed, pulling pen and paper forward. “I best send Quinn ‘round with notes to them and Mr. Fleming. Ask Higgens to come downstairs, please, and then ask George to get the smaller of the traveling carriages ready.”

  After the notes were dispatched with Quinn, and packing instructions given to Higgens, Cam rose and walked to stare into the flames crackling in the fireplace. Outside, a granite sky covered the horizon and a steady wind beat against the mullioned windows. Snow was coming. Cam sighed. He just hoped he’d make it back in time for the Winter Ball. Why did Martins have to choose today to think he was dying?

  Beginning with last Sunday, the past week had passed in a flurry of activities, involving Cam and Perdita in every one of them. Visiting tenant families and distributing their gifts, judging cattle and baking competitions took up their days while invitations to parties, dinners, and heaven help them, building snow forts by moonlight took up their evenings.

  And at every one of them, Lucy was there, looking more and more beautiful. As if by some unspoken agreement by their hosts, Lucy and Cam were always seated near each other at dinner and at cards, or put on the same teams for charades, not to mention appointing Cam page-turner for Lucy when she played the piano-forte and sang. A gentle conspiracy seemed to be brewing to hurry Cam’s proposal to her along, and it was nearly impossible to miss the winks and nods exchanged. The viscountess was nearly giddy with delight and her husband’s smile was one of smug self-congratulation. Their daughter to marry an earl! Cam could just imagine the announcement in The Times.

  But always in the background was Amanda Fleming. A strangely subdued Amanda Fleming. It was as if she had reigned in her natural exuberance, and dimmed the light that always seemed to shine from her. Cam found himself almost missing their verbal sparring. Her quiet behavior was a little unsettling,

  But then around Perdita, anyone might appear quiet. When not at the church rehearsing her solo for the Christmas Eve service, his sister spent a great deal of time at the rectory with the Flemings. She would return home, bubbling with excitement about their many plans, and what things she and “Amanda and Stephen” hoped to do in the spring. Cam had never seen Perdita so happy.

  A quick knock brought in both Quinn and
Higgens to announce that Mr. Fleming would be ready to travel in a less than an hour’s time and that Cam’s single piece of luggage was ready to be stowed in the carriage.

  ****

  “Mrs. Tarwater, Hopewell and Baker are asking to see you, Miss Fleming,” Alice announced from the library door.

  Surprised, Amanda put her book on the table and glanced at the clock. It was too late to invite the ladies to luncheon without giving Mrs. Crawford extra work in addition to what she was doing to help prepare for tomorrow night’s Winter Ball, and far too early for tea.

  Besides, Perdita had sent ’round a note, inviting her to spend the night at Heart’s Ease. A sudden summons had taken St. Cloud, and Stephen with him, to another St. Cloud estate, and Perdita didn’t want to be alone the night before the Winter Ball.

  Unease began to creep along her skin. The triumvirate had never called before without sending word first, and this sudden appearance was out of character for women who had mastered the art of always doing exactly what was expected and doing it correctly.

  And now here they were without invitation or warning. Unexpectedly, Amanda shivered, but managed to say calmly, “Please show them in.”

  Alice curtsied and quickly ushered in their guests before closing the door behind her. Amanda stood and gave them what she hoped was a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon, ladies. This is a pleasant, if unexpected, surprise. Won’t you please be seated?”

  “We won’t stay long,” Mrs. Tarwater said without preamble. Behind her, Mrs. Hopewell and Mrs. Baker stood at rigid attention, their expressions sullen. Amanda’s sense of foreboding turned her skin cold, and her fingers curled against her palms. “Is there a problem? Something at All Souls?”

  “In a matter of speaking,” Mrs. Baker said stiffly.

  “Oh dear,” Amanda said. “Stephen isn’t here right now. He had to go with the earl to check on a servant at Hope Springs.”