A Christmas Gambol

by Joan Smith

  She was modestly attired in a green and black striped flannel gown that did its best to conceal a rather buxom figure. Her chestnut curls were bound in a bun, from which a few wayward curls escaped to bounce over her ears. She might have been a vicar’s daughter—or an anonymous lady who se­cretly penned wildly romantic tales to enliven her quiet days. Yes, she would do very well. He remem­bered her as a romping lass, but he hadn’t seen much of her during the two years since Meg’s marriage and removal from the abbey. She was now suitably ladylike, with her prim lips and down­cast eyes.

  But when he put his plan to her, those modest eyes turned to dark and stormy cauldrons of wrath. “The authoress of Chaos Is Come Again!” she ex­claimed. “I would not claim to have written such drivel for all the money in the mint. It is a horrid, silly story. I despised Eugenie.”

  He was abashed at her forthright condemnation. His pride felt a sting as well. It was one thing for the author to condemn it, but for a chit who lived with her nose in a marble-covered novel to show her contempt was doing it too brown. Surely Chaos was not that bad! Even as his resentment sizzled, his sharp mind took note that she had read it.

  “I didn’t realize you had set up as a critic, Sissie,” he said through thin lips.

  “I quit reading chapbooks some years ago, milord,” she retorted.

  “Who did write the book, and how does it come that you are seeking a lady to masquerade as its author, Montaigne?” Miss Caldwell asked, peering up from her stitchery.

  “It was written by my aunt,” he said, omitting any Christian name.

  “Lady DeVigne!” Cicely exclaimed. “I don’t believe it. She is much too sensible.”

  “No, not Lady DeVigne. Another aunt. Mama’s spinster sister. From Cornwall,” he added, to put a few hundred miles in the way of the young ladies’ discovering that this aunt did not exist.

  “Your mama is from Surrey,” Cicely said at once. “How does it come her unmarried sister has re­moved to Cornwall?”

  Her question signaled him he must be a little more careful what lies he told. The Caldwells had been neighbors to the Montaignes for aeons. Sissie might be a young provincial, but she was sharp. “She was sent there as companion to an elderly rela­tive several decades ago,” he replied.

  It was Miss Caldwell who first saw the advantage to the scheme of Cicely’s going to London. “You would like to see Meg again, Cicely,” Anne said. “And while it would be acting a lie, there is no real harm in it. It is the motive, you know, that consti­tutes the harm. The proceeds are to go to charity. You would meet Mr. Murray,” she added with a meaningful glance at her sister.

  Montaigne saw the flash of interest in Sissie’s stormy eyes. Meg was right, then. Sissie was writ­ing something herself. What on earth could she find to write about, living so cribbed and confined as she did? He began to outline the temptations inherent to a struggling writer in the visit.

  “Mr. Murray has invited some of his writers to this dinner he has planned. A few of the literary re­views wish to interview the author as well.”

  Cicely considered the matter for about sixty sec­onds, then spoke. “I shall do it on one condition, Montaigne. You must allow me to show Mr. Murray my own book. He will pay some attention to it when he thinks I wrote Chaos Is Come Again. Not that the books are anything alike,” she added indignantly.

  Montaigne felt a spurt of interest to discover Sissie had finished a whole novel. He disliked the idea of her showing it to Murray under his auspices. She would have written some dreadful, juvenile thing, but then Murray didn’t know Montaigne had written Chaos. He looked at her firm chin and said, “I have no objection to it.”

  “What would I have to do, exactly?”

  “Just go to Mr. Murray’s dinner party at the Pulteney.”

  “Alone?” she asked, her eyes staring in horror.

  “No, no. I would accompany you. Murray might wish to discuss your writing another book along the lines of Chaos. My aunt, of course, would write it. You have only to listen to him and agree. The critics will discuss literature a little, but then that will be no difficulty for an ardent reader like you.”

  She didn’t catch the hint of sarcasm in his tone. “And it is for a good cause,” she said, nodding.

  He spoke on persuasively about the poor orphans, mentioning the sum the book had earned thus far.

  “That much!” Cicely cried, her eyes opening wide. “Did you hear that, Anne? And to think that horrid Mr. Egerton wanted me to pay him two hundred pounds to print my book. Well, I shall ask Papa’s permission,” she said, but her sparkling eyes told Montaigne she was keen for the adventure.

  Miss Caldwell cleared her throat. “I don’t think that is such a good idea, Sissie. Papa might balk at the notion of your deceiving the public. It would be better to tell him only that Meg has invited you for a short visit. He will not mind that.” She turned to Montaigne. “Mr. Murray does not plan to actually put Sissie’s name on the next book?”

  “No, no. He just wishes to meet her. The literary set in London will learn her identity, but there is a freemasonry among writers. When they discover she does not wish her identity known, they’ll keep it to themselves.”

  “Papa has no dealings with them,” Miss Caldwell said. “He’ll never hear a whisper of it. I think you should do it, Sissie. How else are you going to meet the sort of people who could do your writing career some good? And your Georgiana is really a very good book.” Anne looked hopefully at Montaigne.

  If they asked him to read the book, he would have to say something nice about it. Perhaps Meg would read it for him.

  “But if Papa does find out ... ,” Sissie said, and sat, worrying.

  Miss Caldwell looked commandingly at Mon­taigne. “Then Lord Montaigne will do your explain­ing and apologizing for you.”

  Montaigne foresaw the difficulties in this scheme. He was the perpetrator of the idea; he was older, a gentleman. If anything went amiss, he could end up with a fine mess in his dish. Not that anything was likely to go amiss, but why take chances?

  “No, I don’t care for this underhanded business,” he said firmly. “I shall speak to your papa and get his permission before you go. Where would I find him?”

  “At the oast houses,” Miss Caldwell said.

  Montaigne left, and the two young ladies immedi­ately began discussing the adventure.

  “Papa will never let me go,” Cicely said.

  “Montaigne will turn him up sweet. The orphans, you know. Now, what we must decide is what you are to wear to this dinner party. How fortunate we put new ribbons on your blue ball gown last week for the winter assembly. You must take Mama’s diamond necklace and my new fringed shawl. Meg will have a coiffeur in to do something stylish to your hair. Oh, I am so happy for you, Sissie. I know you will sell your book. You will be the next Frances Burney, mark my words.”

  “Hardly that famous!” Sissie demurred. “But it will be a wonderful opportunity for me to see how London Society goes on. I feel my writing is ham­pered by my lack of experience.”

  “Meg can help you there. Why, there is no saying who you will meet at her house. She is top of the trees. You might even meet an eligible parti,” Miss Caldwell added with a teasing smile.

  Cicely threw her head back and sighed luxuri­ously. “I don’t care if I never marry, if only I can get my novel published. We will grow old together, Anne, you keeping house and me writing. I can’t think of anything I should like better.”

  Anne looked at her askance. “I can! We have a pretty dull time here. I do think you might put just a little more romance in your next novel, Sissie. I’m not speaking of anything like that foolish Eugenie and her crystal tears and swoons, but perhaps a handsome hero and a slightly younger heroine.”

  “You know you were my heroine, Anne. I just added a decade to her age to fool the neighbors. I read in an article of advice to writers that we ought to write about what we know. What do I know about handsome heroes?”

  “I k
now it was my story, my dear, and I am flat­tered that you see me in such a glow of admiration, but one book about me is enough. I should not mind in the least if you had given me a husband at the end, instead of consigning me to watching my nieces and nephews.”

  “It’s not supposed to be a romance, Anne. It’s about real life.”

  “There’s such a thing as too much reality—in books, I mean. Romance is a part of life, too.”

  Cicely scowled. “I knew you liked Eugenie better than Georgiana.”

  “No, not better. Georgiana could have used just a touch of Eugenie’s emotion, and Eugenie could have used a good deal of Georgiana’s sound common sense. It might be interesting, in another book, to try a more varied cast of characters and a different background. That is why I think this trip to London will be such a help. London has everything from lords and heiresses to beggars and villains. You will see palaces as well as the worst slums there. I won­der how Georgiana would have behaved if she had been confronted with knaves and beggars, as Euge­nie was, instead of safe, rural neighbors.”

  “At least she would not have bawled.”

  They were still discussing heroines and the visit to London when Lord Montaigne returned half an hour later. Before he could speak, Cicely jumped up. His dashing smile told her that her papa had agreed to the visit. It struck Sissie, who was always on the lookout for new characters, that Montaigne would make an interesting one. What a life he must lead! Tip of the ton, probably with mistresses and all sorts of ladies on the catch for him. And she would soon have a glimpse of his life, with all its glamour.

  “You did it!” she cried, and ran forward to pitch herself into his arms. As Montaigne was a safe decade older than she and she had run tame at St. Albans Abbey forever, she felt no constraint until she felt his body stiffen. Over his shoulder, she saw Anne’s startled face. Then Sissie backed off with a little blush and added, “You talked him into it. How did you do it, Lord Montaigne?” She added the “Lord” to lend an air of formality to her indiscretion.

  “The orphans were helpful. So was the loan of my prize bull. He will be servicing Bessie when she is in season.”

  Montaigne would not have spoken so bluntly to ladies of the ton in London, but this plain talk caused no consternation to these farmer’s daughters.

  “And I will be going to London!” Cicely sighed. Her face wore the dazed look of a state lottery win­ner. “When shall we be leaving?”

  “Tomorrow morning, as early as you can get your­self ready. Don’t worry about gowns and things. Meg will give you a hand there. She’s very eager to see you. I wish you could come as well, Anne, but I know you won’t leave your papa alone—with only his valet and butler and cook and a houseful of servants to look after him,” he added with a rueful smile.

  “No, indeed. I am that indispensible creature, a widower’s spinster daughter, and well enough satis­fied with my fate. Will you have a glass of wine, milord?”

  “I must be running along. I shall have a ride about the estate while I’m here.” He turned to Ci­cely. “What time will you be ready to leave?”

  “Is eight early enough?” she asked.

  A tolerant smile moved his lips. “Nine will be fine. I don’t want to rush you. Or myself,” he added, un­der his breath. When he’d said “early,” his hope was to get away by noon, but he appreciated the early start.

  He took his leave of the ladies and drove on to the abbey, well satisfied with his visit. Sissie’s manners were rustic but rather charming. A London belle wouldn’t have pitched herself into his arms in that hoydenish fashion. He remembered the sudden thrust of her full bosoms against his chest and the resulting heat that suddenly invaded him. Sissie had certainly grown up in a hurry. It seemed only yesterday that she and Meg had been young girls, tearing through the meadows and coming home in tatters from their encounters with nettles and briars.

  He’d slip her the hint that pitching herself into a gentleman’s arms was not the mode in London. A kiss on the cheek was the fashionable greeting.

  He was happy for a restful evening without com­pany, away from the turmoil of the House, and Society.

  At Elmdale, delightful confusion reigned as the ladies rushed about, choosing gowns and bonnets and slippers. Mr. Caldwell asked Cicely into his study to warn her of the lack of morals that pre­vailed in London. His heart was not entirely made of flint, however. He also gave her fifty pounds, say­ing she might want to buy a new bonnet while she was there. In her reticule were another fifty pounds, the sum she and Anne had managed to scrape to­gether between them, with some help from the housekeeping money.

  The entire household came to the door the next morning to see Miss Cicely off in Montaigne’s ele­gant black crested carriage with its four matched horses. While her small trunk and a gift to Lady Fairly of a peck of apples from Caldwell’s orchard were stored in the carriage, Cicely took her farewell.

  “I shan’t forget to find you a pair of blue silk stockings, Anne,” she called. “And your graduated glass measuring vessel, Cook. I shall buy all the new fashion magazines, Anne, and take particular note of what sort of bonnets are the rage. Be sure to tell Miss Cooper why I cannot call on her this after­noon, for I told her I would. Good-bye, Papa.”

  Then she climbed into the carriage, where she im­mediately let down the window for another volley of noisy farewells. Montaigne did not try to hasten their departure. He smiled tolerantly at her excite­ment. This adventure would probably be the highlight of her life. Her debut and grand tour rolled into one. How her eyes sparkled! And what a healthy glow on her young cheeks. Probably the result of eating apples.

  He busied himself with John Groom, trying to de­cide where to store the peck of apples. Obviously they could not be tied to the basket or the roof, or they would bounce all over the road. In the end, the apples were stored on the floor of the carriage, be­tween him and Cicely.

  At last they were off. After a few hundred yards, Cicely stopped waving out the window and was available for conversation.

  “Are you much familiar with London?” Montaigne inquired, to get the conversational ball rolling.

  “Oh yes, I know it like the palm of my hand. We used to go every year when Mama was alive, and twice since then. We stay at Reddishes Hotel. I have seen the mint, and the animals at Exeter Exchange, and Hyde Park and St. Paul’s and everything.”

  “Ah, I see you are no tourist,” he said, then felt foolish, as it was precisely the tourist attractions she had mentioned.

  She took him up on it at once. “I am, really. Or have been until now. I’ve never stayed in a house. What I want to see this time is the rest of London. You know, the places the ton frequent, in case I ever want to write about them. I am particularly inter­ested in the slums,” she added.

  Lord Montaigne lifted his quizzing glass and studied her a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said the slums. It’s where the poor people live.”

  “I was not under the misapprehension that the ton lived there.”

  “And perhaps Bedlam,” she added, unoffended.

  “Where the lunatics live,” he said.

  “Just so. Anne feels my next novel should have a little more excitement in it.”

  “More like Chaos, in fact?” he inquired, arching a playful eyebrow at her. “So you have no objection to romance.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all. Chaos was more fairy tale than romance. It leads ordinary girls astray to imagine a white knight, all full of virtue, is going to marry them. More likely to debauch them. It makes them dissatisfied with the ordinary sort of man they might actually land. One not likely to be a lord, with a face like a Greek god and all the virtues of the twelve apostles on his broad shoulders.”

  “Ravencroft was not described as like a Greek god.”

  “No, but it was there, between the lines. Now that I know your elderly aunt from Cornwall wrote the book, I can understand why it is so unrealistic. It’s an old lady’s idea of romance,
dreamed up in her loneliness and embroidered while she sat alone, perhaps remembering some lover from her youth.”

  The young provincial’s condescension grated on Montaigne’s nerves. “The critics felt the heroine was particularly well drawn,” he mentioned. Ci­cely’s answer was a snort of derision.

  “You have some experience in romance, I take it?”

  “Of course I have. I’m twenty years old. I’ve had two offers.”

  “As you apparently refused them, there cannot have been much romance involved.”

  “You’re very much mistaken, milord. I was totally infatuated with Sir William Sykes. My heart was quite cracked when Papa rejected him. It turned out he hadn’t a feather to fly with, and he dressed as fine as ninepence. But I didn’t go into a decline—or swoon, or even cry much—except the day he left for London.”

  “What did you do?” he asked with mild interest. There might be a sequel to Chaos. He was inter­ested to learn from an avid reader.

  “Anne gave me her second-best bonnet and a box of bonbons. I ate the bonbons and was sick to my stomach. I felt much better in the morning. We went into town and bought new ribbons for the bon­net so everyone wouldn’t recognize it.”

  “Very romantic!” he said with a jeering look.

  “Better than going into a decline. Life’s too short to waste in tears. But it is mainly bored ladies who read a book like Chaos. I daresay your aunt wanted them to identify with Eugenie. What she ought to have done was set her book in the Middle Ages. That would have lent it at least a modicum of credibility. No lady today would behave as Eugenie did.”

  “Yet she appealed to several thousand of today’s readers.”

  “To simpleminded readers. Cook read the book to the servants. They all enjoyed it very much.”

  Montaigne could find no reply to this piece of condescension except to remark that he had seen it on the sofa table of many ladies of fashion. A chit hardly out of the schoolroom, who imagined she knew London like the palm of her hand because she had visited St. Paul’s, had undertaken to malign his extremely popular novel—and he could not even give her the setdown she deserved.