But they would still have to go back eventually.
Mary took a sip of tea, smiling as she listened to Ginny play ‘Oh, Little Sweet One.’ No matter what, it had been a perfect Christmas. And it was about to get even more perfect, she thought as she glimpsed Dominick’s reflection in the glass. He walked towards her, his bright hair tousled from the after-dinner dancing, his cravat loosened.
He sat down in the chair across from hers, reaching for her hand. She had discarded her gloves, and their bare skin touched. He took away the teacup, setting it on the table and replacing it with a small ribbon-tied box.
‘You missed one of your gifts,’ he said, with a smile that quite melted her heart.
‘You have already given me the book of poetry,’ she said. ‘And I fear I have nothing for you at all.’
‘Oh, Mary, believe me—you have given me a multitude of gifts this Christmas.’ He folded her fingers over the box. ‘Open it.’
She carefully untied the bow, lifting the lid. There, on a bed of black velvet, was a pair of amethyst earrings. Drops of the deepest, richest purple, suspended from two perfect, creamy-white pearls. They were the loveliest jewels she had ever seen. ‘I—Dominick, they are beautiful.’
‘I did hear purple was your favourite colour.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I ran into Charlotte and her little daughter outside a jeweller’s shop just before we left London so precipitately, and she told me. And these were in the window, just waiting for you. I wasn’t sure then how I would ever give them to you, but somehow they seemed meant for you.’
‘And you carried them with you all this way?’ Mary asked. She traced the facets of the stones with the tip of her finger and seemed to feel their purple fire on her skin. Just like the fire that burned, hotter and brighter than ever, between her and Dominick. ‘It is the most beautiful gift I have ever been given.’
‘I know it is not a ring,’ he said. ‘But until I can return to Town and buy one, could these be a betrothal gift?’
Betrothal? Mary suddenly could not breathe, could not believe the moment was really happening. After all this time, all the broken dreams and new hopes …
‘Are you making me an offer, Lord Amesby?’ she whispered. She stared into his eyes, hoping to read all his true thoughts there. And his gaze was open to her, blue as the sky, filled with all the fear, hope, excitement and love she carried in her own heart.
‘I am asking you if you would be my wife,’ he said. ‘I am no better a match than I was when we were young. I’m a rake and a careless rogue, or so they say. But I love you, Mary Smythe, with everything I am. I’m sorry I left you before. Won’t you please let me spend the rest of my life making that up to you? Let me be your husband. Let me try to earn your love again.’
Mary looked back down at the jewels. The tears she tried so hard to hold back fell from her eyes, splashing onto the beautiful amethysts. ‘You don’t have to earn anything from me, Dominick. I could not possibly love you any more than I already do. You are my white knight, and I have been waiting for you for so, so long.’
Dominick seized her hands in his, the box tumbling to her lap. ‘Then you will marry me?’
And she said the words that had been hidden in her heart for years, waiting to be said. ‘Yes, Dominick. I will most definitely marry you.’
She could say nothing more, for he was kissing her, and she kissed him back as if she would never, ever stop.
Epilogue
Christmas, One Year Later
‘What a fine, handsome husband you have, Mary,’ Charlotte said. ‘Not as handsome as mine, of course, but definitely second-best.’
Mary laughed, and left her gift-wrapping to join Charlotte at the morning room window. They gazed down at the wintry garden of Mary’s new country house, where Drew and Dominick were teaching Charlotte’s daughter Anna how to ride her Christmas pony. It looked as if it was a merry start to the Christmas holiday as they laughed and called encouragement to Anna and her little face glowed.
Mary lifted her own baby daughter, Genevieve, from her cradle, so she could watch the happy scene. She gurgled and smiled, reaching out with her tiny hand to grab for Mary’s new amethyst necklace.
Mary laughed, and kissed Genevieve’s precious tiny fingers. ‘That is very kind of you, Charlotte, but I fear I must disagree. My husband is surely the most handsome man in all of England.’
‘And the best father, too?’ Charlotte said. She softly smoothed the fluff of the baby’s flyaway dark hair. ‘Next to Drew, of course.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Mary held Genevieve close and remembered the night of her birth. There had been a terrible storm, and the doctor had been late in coming. Her pains had grown closer and more intense, the servants had been scurrying about madly, but she had not been afraid. Dominick had been with her every moment, holding onto her, keeping her fear at bay even as she saw his own hidden worries in his eyes. The old, terrible memories.
But just at the dawn Genevieve had been born, safe and whole, shrieking at the top of her lungs. And the look on Dominick’s face as he had held his newborn daughter, so full of unutterable joy, had been perfect. They were a family, and nothing could ever part them again.
And now it was Christmas again—the best part of the entire year. And Genevieve’s first. Mary’s heart seemed full to bursting.
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘The best of fathers.’
‘In a few years Genevieve will be ready for her own Christmas pony. If she’s anything like Anna she will be a bruising horsewoman, and—oh!’ Charlotte’s eyes widened, and she pressed her hand to the bump of her belly under her muslin gown. The next family equestrian grew there. ‘And this one, too. He kicks like the very devil.’
Mary laughed and bounced Genevieve lightly in her arms. ‘My mother would say it is a boy, then. When I was pregnant with Will … ‘
Her voice trailed away as her heart gave a sweet-sad pang. Will, her dear little boy. She would never, ever forget him.
‘He kicked, too,’ she said softly. ‘While Genevieve was sweet and quiet even then.’
Charlotte gently touched Mary’s arm, her eyes full of concern. ‘Oh, Mary, my dear.’
‘No, Charlotte, I am not sad. Not now. He seems so close at this time of year, as if he watches over us and his little sister. Your children have a part of him, too.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Charlotte said. ‘The mischievous part!’
Mary kissed Charlotte’s cheek, making her smile again, and disentangled Genevieve’s hand from her necklace once more. ‘No tears, Charlotte! Especially now. Christmas is the time for wonders and all manner of happy things, is it not?’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Indeed it is. Speaking of which, when are your sisters arriving?’
‘At any moment—so we must finish wrapping all the gifts.’ Holding Genevieve against her shoulder, Mary went back to the table piled high with packages and ribbons. Toys and sweets were scattered in an enticing, colourful display. She held up a doll meant for her sister Cynthia’s daughter. ‘Not that these pretty wrappings will last long. Cyn’s brood is a wild one—my mother is always quite appalled when they trample through her house. It’s fortunate Elizabeth’s twins are such models of good behaviour. I’m hoping Genevieve chooses to emulate those cousins, but I fear naughtiness is so much more alluring.’
Charlotte gave her a teasing grin. ‘As we well know. Look at our husbands, after all.’
Mary laughed, thinking about last night in their bedchamber, when everyone else had been fast asleep. ‘I know. Dreadful, isn’t it?’
‘Appalling.’ Charlotte tied off a fluffy bow atop one of the boxes. ‘What of Ginny, then?’
‘She is busy planning her wedding now that Captain Heelis has a commission in a regiment leaving for India soon and they can finally marry. I fear we will hear of nothing but wedding clothes and cake from her this Christmas!’ Mary held out the box of embroidered linens meant f
or Ginny’s trousseau chest. ‘But I will miss her so much when she is gone to Bombay, and so will her goddaughter.’
‘It won’t be for long, I’m sure.’ There was a sudden clatter on the stairs, a shout of laughter. ‘It sounds as if the riding lesson has finished.’
Mary laughed, and hurried over to swing open the morning room door. Even after months of marriage, the prospect of seeing her husband filled her with a rush of warm excitement and joy.
Dominick was running up the stairs, Anna holding tight to his hand.
‘Auntie Mary!’ Anna cried, and dashed over to throw her arms around her aunt’s waist. ‘Did you see me from the window? I was riding all by myself. Papa says he has never seen anyone learn so fast.’
‘I did see, darling.’ Mary kissed the top of Anna’s head, smoothing her tousled brown hair so like Charlotte’s. How fast she grew—and Genevieve, too! Soon they would not be little baby girls any more, but young ladies. ‘You did marvellously well.’
‘I’ll be ready for a horse just like Papa’s soon.’
‘Well, let’s just stay with ponies for the moment, yes?’ Charlotte said, taking her daughter’s hand and leading her to the fireside, so she could warm up from the chilly day outside.
Mary went to her husband, wrapping her arm around his shoulders as she went up on tiptoe to meet his kiss. His skin was cold from the winter wind, but his lips were deliciously
warm. Their baby laughed and kicked between them, their little family complete.
‘Merry Christmas, Lady Amesby,’ he whispered, holding her close.
And it was indeed. She had her family, her home, and her true love at last and for ever. She had thought last year’s Christmas was the best, but, no—this was the merriest Christmas ever. And next year’s would be even better.
Author Note
It is always a challenge to write Christmas stories in the Regency. It’s a historical period where the holiday is defined as much by what they didn’t have as by what they did. Many of the trappings we consider traditional are actually Victorian. Without carols, cards, trees and Santa, a Regency Christmas looks more like a big house party. And that can end up looking like any other Regency house party, but with the addition of bad weather.
When I began studying the problems in the north of England during 1811, the task became even harder. The workers were in revolt. At one point there were more British troops there than were fighting Napoleon. Mill owners were hamstrung by embargoes that kept them from selling their cloth to countries allied with France. That included America, which had been a major source of income. There was an antiwar sentiment that is rarely mentioned in our largely patriotic stories.
The problems I was finding as I researched resonate today as much as they did then. There was a desperate need for compassion and understanding between labor and management.
And that thought led me to a story which was completely out of period, but the best primer anyone can hope for on the reflection, redemption and charity that can be found at the heart of the Christmas season.
I hope you enjoy it.
A REGENCY
CHRISTMAS CAROL
Christine Merrill
With thanks and apologies to Charles Dickens.
And a question. Why did the spirits do it “all in one night”
when Marley is so specific about needing three?
That’s always confused me.
Chapter One
December 1811
Barbara Lampett ran down the lane at the edge of the village of Fiddleton, feeling the crunch of icy mud beneath her feet and the stitch in her side from the cold air in her lungs. Lately it seemed that she was always running after something or other. She wondered if the lack of decorum on her part was the first sign of a life spun out of control.
It was really no fault of her own. Had she the choice, she’d have been in a seat by the parlour fire, staring out at the changing weather and pitying those forced to go about in it. But Father paid little heed to his own discomfort when he was in one of his moods, much less that of others.
And she could hardly expect her mother to go. Mother’s volatile nature would add warmth to the day, but it would do nothing to cool her father’s zeal. Nor was Mother young and strong enough to face the crowd that surrounded him when he spoke, or to extricate him from the hubbub he created.
The new mill lay almost two miles from the centre of the village. It was too short a distance to harness a carriage, but longer than a pleasant walk—especially on such a chill December day as this. Barbara found some consolation that the ground was frozen. She had decided to forgo pattens in favour of speed, but she did not wish to ruin the soft boots she wore by walking through mud.
And much mud there would have been if not for the cold. Ground that had once been green and lush was now worn down to the soil, with the comings and goings of wagons and goods, and the tramp of growing mobs that came to protest at the gates of the new buildings of Mr Joseph Stratford.
A crowd gathered here now. Another of the demonstrations that had been occurring almost daily thanks to her father’s speeches. Mixed amongst the angry weavers were the curious townsfolk. They did not seem to care either way for the plight of the workers, but they enjoyed a good row and came to the gatherings as a form of entertainment.
There was a sudden blast of wind and she wrapped her shawl more tightly about her, unable to fight the feeling of dread that came with the exhilaration. While it pleased her to see the people attracted to her father’s words, the path he was leading them down was a dangerous one and his actions dangerously unwise. With each passing day he seemed to grow more reckless, speaking from the heart and not the head. He could not seem to understand what his comments would do to the local populous.
But she could feel them, caught in the crowd as she was, buffeted by the bodies of angry and fearful men. There was a growing energy in the mob. Some day a chance word or a particularly virulent speech would push them too far. Then they would boil over into real violence.
When the wind blew from the east you could still smell the burned-out wreckage of the old mill, where so many of these men had been employed. That owner had paid dearly for his plans at renovation, seeing his livelihood destroyed and his family threatened until he had given up and quit the area. That had left the protestors with no work at all, and even angrier than they had been before.
It seemed the new master would be cagier. When he’d built his new mill, like the pig in the old story, he had used bricks. It loomed before her, a blight on the horizon. Every element was an insult to the community and proof that the person who had built it lacked sensitivity for his neighbours. It was large and squat and altogether too new. He had not built in the wreckage of Mackay’s Mill, which might have given the people hope of a return to normality. Instead he’d placed it closer to the grand old house where he currently lived. It was not exactly in the front park of the manor, but plainly on the estate, and in a place by the river that the Clairemonts had allowed all in the village to use as common greensward when they’d lived there. It was obvious that Mr Stratford had thought of nothing but his own convenience in choosing this site.
Though he showed no signs of recognising the impropriety of the location, he’d built a fence around a place that had once been the home of picnics and fêtes, trampling the freshness to hard-packed mud. Barbara was convinced it demonstrated on some deep and silent level that the master of it knew he was in the wrong and expected to receive trouble for it. The wrought-iron border surrounding the yard separated it from the people most likely to be angry: the ones whose jobs had been taken by the new mechanised looms.
She pushed her way through the crowd to the place where her father stood at the foot of the stone gatepost, rallying the men to action. Though recent misfortune had addled his wits, it had done nothing to dull the fire in his eye or the clarity in his voice. While his sentiments might be unwise, there was nothing incoherent in the nature of his words.
�
�The Orders in Council have already depressed your trade to the point where there is no living to be made by an honest man—no way to sell your cloth to America and other friends of France.’
‘Aye !’
There were shouts and mutters, and the brandishing of torches and axe handles in the crowd. Barbara’s heart gave an uneasy skip at the thought of what might happen should any man think to bring a firearm into the already volatile situation. She was sure that the mill owner towards whom the ire was directed sat in the closed black carriage just behind the gates. From there he could listen to every word. Perhaps he was even noting the name of the speaker and any others preparing to act against him.
But her father cared nothing for it, and went on with his speech. ‘The new looms mean less work for those of you left and more jobs falling to inexperienced girls, while their fathers and brothers sit idle, dreaming of days past when a respectable trade could be plied in this country.’
The mutterings in answer were louder now, and punctuated with shouts and a forward surge of bodies, making the gates rattle in response to the weight of the crowd.
‘Will you allow the change that will take the bread from your children’s mouths? Or will you stand?’
She waved her arms furiously at her father, trying to stall what was likely to occur. The government had been willing to use troops to put down such small rebellions, treating their own people as they would Boney’s army. If her father incited the men to frame-breaking and violence they would be answered with violence in return. Mr Stratford might be as bad as her father claimed, but he was not the timid man Mackay had been. He would meet strife with strife, and send for a battalion to shoot the organisers.
‘Father!’ she shouted, trying to catch his attention. But the workers towered around her, and her voice was swallowed up by the din. Before she could speak a calming word the first shot rang out—not from the crowd, but from the door of the carriage in front of them. Even though it was fired into the air, the mob drew back a pace like a great animal, startled and cringing. Barbara was carried along with it, relieved all were safe and yet further from her goal.
A Christmas Betrothal Page 18