An Enchanted Christmas

by Barbara Metzger

  “Of course I do. We shall be singing those very carols, and the Sunday school children will be reenacting the Nativity in the barn. Their instructor, Mrs. Jessel, was delighted.” Mrs. Jessel was also delighted to have a wider audience for her young charges than ever attended the Reverend Mr. Chalfont’s tedious church services. Laurel did not say that. She did consult the watch pinned to her gray gown, hinting that the vicar had overstayed his welcome.

  The vicar reached for a macaroon, not his favorite, but it would do. Holding it in the air, he sneered. “The barn? The children’s pageant is in the barn while the decadent, debauched, and most likely drunken partygoers dance in your ballroom? Sinful, that is what it is.” He swallowed the pastry in one gulp.

  Laurel moved the dish out of his reach as she tidied the tea things. “The Christ child was born in a barn, or have you forgotten, sir? And I cannot agree that our neighbors, most of whom are your own congregants, are such transgressors. Nor would they entertain the devil’s spawn in their own homes. The solemnity of the occasion will be preserved, as will the spirit of celebration.”

  “With magic? You might as well invite a warlock into your home, a druid, a heathen witch doctor. How could you think to debase this holy day with such ungodly entertainment? Magic is anathema to true religion.”

  “Rubbish. I am not planning any pagan rites or bacchanals, merely a merry night’s entertainment. You make it sound as if I were sacrificing maidens to appease volcanoes, trying to awaken the dead, or predict the future. You are far wide of the truth. I assure you, my only wish is to see the children laugh and clap in wonder.” Mr. Chalfont eyed the distant dish of macaroons, then his hostess. “I fear it is you who is mistaken and misguided. Mrs. White and I agree. You are too young to know what is proper. You need a man to direct you from this immodest levity onto the path of righteousness. Mrs. White hinted that you might be amenable, now that your mourning period is over.”

  Outraged, and determined to confront her sister-in-law over this latest interference, Laurel stood up, indicating the conversation was at an end. The vicar did not stand. Instead, he sank to his knees and grabbed for her hand. “I am prepared to be that guiding man.”

  Good grief! Laurel was not in the least prepared for a priestly proposal, although she should have been. Chalfont was nearing fifty, with no use for sons. He had innumerable uses for the widow’s wealth. Laurel tugged on his hand to raise him to his feet. “Please cease, sir. I do not intend to remarry.”

  “You see how far you have gone astray from the Lord’s will? All women are meant to marry, to be protected and sheltered from the chaos of their own wayward emotions by a man. It is a woman’s duty to marry. I am offering to be your earthly guide as well as your spiritual leader.”

  Laurel tugged harder. “I am honored”—she gasped as she pulled his leaden weight—“but fear we would not suit. What you find unseemly levity I see as seeking the joy in life. Now please get up before we are both embarrassed.”

  Instead, Chalfont began kissing her fingers.

  “Sir, you forget yourself!”

  “No, I am remembering the appetites of my youth, seeking that joy of which you spoke. I do not want you thinking that I am too old to enjoy conjugal relations.”

  Laurel thought he was a slobbering old goat, with a vise-grip on her now dampened hand. She tried to pry his fingers loose with her other hand, while she prayed none of the servants came into the room to witness this mortifying spectacle. “You forget your calling, then.”

  “No, I am devoted to my church and my vocation. That was what made me decide to take a wife after all these years of celibacy. Your good deeds, my dear, have made me see what a fine helpmeet a woman can be. Think of all that we can accomplish, working together. We can transform St. Jerome’s chapel into a magnificent edifice, one the bishop would commend. Who knows how high I might rise in the church hierarchy with you at my side?”

  Her money, his ambition. Laurel had heard enough. She made one last attempt to free her hand from his hot, fleshy fingers and his wet kisses, then reached for the plate of macaroons.

  “No, thank you, my dear. Later, perhaps, after I have had your answer and we can celebrate.”

  “My answer is no, you…you…” Laurel could not think of a word suitable for a jackass in collars, one a lady might use. So she hit him over the head with the dish instead.

  Mr. Chalfont left, rubbing his head and blowing overheated gusts of steam into the cold winter air like an irate dragon. His last words, however, were cold and mean: “May you live to rue this day, when you are leading apes through the fires of hell.”

  *

  A maiden, a mischief-maker, a malevolent curse—where the devil was the hero? What kind of fairy tale had no dashing knight on a white charger riding to the rescue? A poor one indeed.

  The damsel’s desires aside, a flurry of gentlemen sought the role of hero as soon as the invitations to the party were delivered. Lady Laurel Mumphrey was out of mourning. She and her bank account were available for wooing.

  As Bettina had predicted, the suitors brought floral tributes and false compliments. They also brought their mothers, their motherless children, their financial statements, and their pedigrees, anything to convince her of their need and their worth.

  Viscountess Thaxter accompanied her second son. The lad was two years Laurel’s junior, and two inches shorter. He had no fortune, no career, and no chin. No matter. His mother thought he would make Laurel the ideal husband. “No backbone,” the doting parent whispered in Laurel’s ear. “You’ll be able to lead him around by the nose.”

  Laurel could have found herself a dog if that was what she wanted. A dog might have had more intelligence than Mr. Thaxter.

  Squire Hildreth brought his brood of unmanageable, motherless brats to tea, to prove that Laurel’s inability to bear children was unimportant to him. If all children were as unpleasant and unruly as these, Laurel was glad of her lack. Now she was missing two matching teacups, the antique urn in the hall, and one footman, who gave notice after the little beasts poured glue into his gloves.

  A dog? Laurel could have taken in a litter of puppies if she wanted her house and her peace of mind destroyed.

  Lord Brownwell arrived with an invitation to a private luncheon, and a leer. A London buck down on his luck and down in the country, he put the other callers to shame with his elegant apparel, sophisticated gallantries, and town gossip. He flashed his practiced smile while his eyes darted from framed masterpiece to priceless jade figurine.

  Laurel decided she’d rather adopt a wolf.

  Sir Harold Canaday was a connection of Lady Montrose’s, supposedly come to court her granddaughter. Laurel was the bigger prize, of course, so he brought her a bigger bucket of Spanish coin. He also pinched one of the maids.

  A tomcat would be a more loyal companion.

  Laurel told herself she was content as she was. She did not need a husband, or a pet, or even a magician. That evening, though, while a sudden storm came up to obscure the full moon, Laurel put down her book and went to close her opened bedroom window before the pounding rain could come in. She could not help looking out at the wild night and the wind-tossed trees, wishing she had someone to share it with. All she had was a boring treatise on agriculture. Perhaps she ought to get a dog after all.

  With her luck, she thought, she’d find a mongrel that hid under the bed at the first clap of thunder.

  Laurel was awed by the violent storm, not frightened. Her house was made of stone and had stood on its hill for centuries. The trees had weathered worse. Her friends and neighbors and servants should all be safe in their beds, although she was not certain of Sir Harold or Lord Brownwell, or that maid Lizzie.

  Then, as she stayed watching, all that power of the thunder and lightning, all that fury of untamed nature, made her feel small, dull, alone. She wished— Oh, she was not going to wish for anything as foolish as eternal love or happily ever after. That was the stuff of picture books and b
roken dreams. All she wished for was…a bit of real magic in her life.

  Chapter Three

  An old gamekeeper’s cottage had been struck by lightning and an ancient oak had been felled by the wind. That appeared to be the storm’s only damage, thank goodness. Laurel went out with her bailiff to check on the progress in removing the tree from the lane so deliveries could be made, and to inspect the cottage to see if it was worth repairing. While she was there in the woods, she made note of the stands of holly, the evergreens, and the high vines of the mistletoe she would have her grooms and gardeners cut for decorations soon. The woods seemed quiet to her, with no birdsong or scampering squirrels, and the air was still, as if the raging tempest had left the very earth exhausted. She was exhausted, too, after a sleepless night.

  She had to rub her eyes when she returned to the Hall. No, she was awake. She had not dreamed up the figure that waited in the carriageway. She was no magician to conjure up the tall, handsome stranger or his stomping, snorting black steed. He obviously was. A magician, that is.

  He had ink-black hair and a straight nose, a cleft chin, and eyes of midnight blue. He was coatless, with white shirtsleeves billowing against well-muscled arms. Laurel would have been enthralled by the stranger’s devastatingly masculine beauty even if he had not been juggling balls of fire between his hands. Suns, stars, streaking comets flew over his head, seemingly without effort. Her stable men were fascinated, too, keeping their distance from the dangerous-looking stallion while edging closer to the performer. Mobcapped heads were at every window that overlooked the drive, and footmen crowded the front doorway. Now here was a magician worthy of Mumphrey Hall’s Christmas Eve birthday ball.

  Laurel clapped her hands in delight. The man gathered his flaming balls into a scarlet silk pouch, then made her an elegant bow. “My lady. I am Cauthin and I have answered your call.”

  His accent sounded foreign to Laurel, but she could not identify its origin. Then his words registered in her mind. “My call? Oh, you must have heard that I was looking for a magician to entertain my guests on Christmas Eve.”

  The man raised one dark winged eyebrow. “A…magician?”

  “Yes, I adored magic shows when I was a child and was hoping to give the tenants’ children that pleasure. You know, pulling rabbits from hats, naming hidden cards, that type of thing. You can do that, can you not, Mr. Cauthin?”

  Cauthin snapped his fingers and a book appeared in his hand: Elementary Prestidigitation. He thumbed through the pages and nodded at Laurel. “I can amuse the children, yes. You did not want any of them to disappear, did you?”

  Laurel laughed, but with a tinge of uncertainty. She was not sure that the children’s parents would enjoy Mr. Cauthin’s humor. There was something about the man’s handsome dark visage that was unsettling, like looking at a fallen angel. “Ah, have you performed anywhere nearby, or for someone who might vouch for you? Not that I mean any disrespect, of course, but one of your brethren turned out to be a thief. I have to be careful what manner of man I invite into my home.”

  Cauthin bowed again. So did his horse. “A wise woman, besides beautiful. I assure you, my lady, that creature was no brother of mine. Your valuables and your guests will be safe.” He produced a cascade of gold coins that fell into a neat pile at Laurel’s feet. “I do not need your money.”

  A chill went up Laurel’s spine. “Then what do you wish in payment for your time and efforts?”

  “Your firstborn son, of course.”

  Laurel gasped. “That is not amusing. Everyone knows that I was not able to give my husband an heir.”

  While Cauthin adjusted his shirtsleeves, he stared at Laurel, leaving her colder than ever. “Yet you shall bear a child. Three healthy infants. Two will be boys. I would claim one.”

  Laurel was shaking. “Please leave. I find that I do not require your services. Perhaps a magic show was not a good idea.”

  Cauthin sneered. “It is never a good idea to dabble in what you do not understand, madam.”

  For a moment Laurel worried that the lunatic would not leave, that he would threaten her or her staff. His brute of a horse could trample any number of them. She looked down at the gold coins at her feet, but where they had fallen were only pebbles. “Go, sir. Go now. Or I shall be forced to call—”

  “Whom? Your cowering servants? Your pompous vicar? The magistrate?” He laughed now, an ugly sound, made worse coming from such a stunningly handsome face. “I obey no laws except one: My minions must be willing.” With those cryptic words Cauthin vaulted onto his horse’s back, causing the stallion to rear up, sending stones and sparks in all directions as he thundered off.

  Laurel wiped at a tiny cut on her cheek from a flying pebble. She shook her head, wondering what she would have done, in fact, if the madman had not ridden off. She left the grooms staring down the carriageway and went inside, hoping no one could tell that her knees were shaking and her palms were wet.

  Her butler met her inside the front door with a glass of sherry.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I need that.”

  The butler looked longingly at the drink he’d been about to swallow, then mopped at his sweating brow. “There are more of them,” was all he said.

  “More of…?”

  “Magicians, if that is what you would call them. Unnatural, that is what I say, ma’am. One started a fire in the Gold Room, where no logs had been laid. The two in the library keep fading into the wallpaper. As for the one who insisted on bringing that, that dog into the house…” He shuddered.

  “Why did you let them in?” Laurel wanted to know.

  “They said you sent for them. Besides, who am I to argue with a wolf?”

  If Laurel had felt alone before, she was positively quaking now, wishing she had a strong, forceful gentleman at her side. Or in front of her. With a pistol. She could not ask the servants to step into danger; she had to do this herself.

  The occupant of the Gold Room was a short, round gnome of a man. He grinned at her, showing a gap between his teeth, the ones that were not capped with gold. Laurel could see nothing to burn in the hearth, yet a merry fire was warming the room. She nodded politely and said, “I fear there has been a mistake, Mr.…?”

  “Sparky, my lady. Sparky will do. And there is no mistake. You called for real magic. Here I am.” He patted the Staffordshire pottery dogs on the mantel and tongues of fire flew from their mouths. Then he touched the bouquet of silk chrysanthemums and the orange and yellow and amber flowers burst into flames. He turned toward the draperies.

  “No! That is, you appear a very fine magician, Mr., ah, Sparky. But I find that I do not wish to engage one after all. I have, ah, decided to play charades instead.”

  His slightly slanted eyes lit up and he skipped in place. “I love parlor games! Here, what am I?” He got down on his hands and knees, wagging his rear end like a dog, but breathed out bursts of steam and fire.

  Laurel leaped back before the flames reached her skirts. “I am sure I have no idea. Please stop, though, before the rugs are scorched.”

  “A dragon, of course! Now look at—”

  “No!” she shouted before he could burn the entire house down.

  “No?”

  “That’s right, no. Now please leave.” She remembered Cauthin’s odd words. “I am not willing to pay your price, whatever it is.”

  Sparky seemed ready to weep, but he did drag himself from the room.

  Laurel understood what her butler meant about the two men in the library disappearing into the wallpaper. They were so thin, so pale, that she almost thought she could read the book titles on the shelves right through them. They introduced themselves as Agron and Agred, but she had no idea who was who, or where one ended and one began, for that matter. She was beginning to get a headache— No, she already had a headache, Laurel realized. She was beginning to grow weak from the pain of trying to delineate these tall visitors, like imagining elephants in puffs of smoke. Her guests were too real
, though, picking up books and taking on the hue of the leather bindings. No, she was simply ill, Laurel told herself, rubbing at her temples. She must have contracted an ague while standing at the window last night. Now she was suffering brain fevers. How else to explain such troubled, peculiar, waking dreams?

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen, but I have changed my mind about the entertainment at the party. In fact, I am feeling so weary, I might have to cancel all the preparations. I do not require your services.”

  She could not swear the Aggregates left via the window, but they did not pass her on the way out.

  Trembling from the tip of her head to the toes on her feet, Laurel made her way to the breakfast room and her last caller, the man with the dog. She liked dogs, and was thinking of getting one for company and protection. Perhaps this one did tricks, she tried to convince herself, like sitting up and begging or dancing on its hind legs wearing a tutu.

  It was too late to find Mr. Mumphrey’s old blunderbuss. This dog was not going to perform pirouettes in anyone’s parlor.

  Only crumbs remained of what was to have been her morning repast. A huge silver wolf was licking its lips while the man sat nearby, smiling vacantly at the empty dishes. The wolf growled until the man made a bow.

  “Good day, madam. Thank you for the fine repast. Traveling is hungry work,” the wolf said.

  The wolf said? Laurel blinked. Twice. “Ah, you are a ventriloquist. I have seen performers throwing their voices, but never one so proficient.”

  The wolf licked his foot. The man bowed again, with that same empty smile.

  “I have nearly decided not to have a magic show,” Laurel said, “but out of curiosity, do you have any other tricks?”

  The wolf licked his privates. The man smiled.

  “Yes, well, I, ah, do not feel that is suitable entertainment for the children I have invited.” Nor was a ravenous wild beast. “I am sorry you had to come all this way, but at least your stomachs are full.” And her shepherds’ flocks ought to be safe.