Holly and Hopeful Hearts

by Caroline Warfield

  Felicity’s eyes met Sophia’s in the mirror. “That looks lovely, Theodosia,” Felicity said. “Do you not agree, Hythe?”

  Hythe barely glanced at her. “Yes. Very pretty. Go ahead downstairs, Felicity. I need to talk to Sophia.”

  “Soph?” Felicity asked.

  “Go on, Felicity. I will just see what Hythe wants and join you. Theodosia, we can manage for ourselves from now on. Go and enjoy the festivities in the servants’ hall. We won’t expect to see you again until tomorrow.”

  Hythe fidgeted while Felicity found her shawl and Theodosia Nethercott tidied the dressing table, folded down the sheets on the bed, and lifted the pillow then looked at Hythe and replaced it. Even though Hythe was Sophia’s brother, Theodosia had been raised in a vicarage and would not lay out her ladies’ nightrails with a man in the room.

  Hythe moved from one foot to another, picked up the brush on the dressing table and replaced it, shifted a couple of roses in the bowl on the table under the window, lifted aside a curtain to look down into the garden outside, straightened a painting, and moved farther along that same wall to line up the book Sophia had been reading with the corner of the table on her side of the bed.

  Sophia wondered briefly how he was coping here at Hollystone Hall. One of the reasons Hythe hated house parties was that other people’s servants shifted his things when cleaning. In Belvoir Abbey and at their London townhouse, his bedchamber and study were perfectly ordered. The maids knew better than to leave anything out of its place, and Hythe’s valet was either as fussy as his master or had adapted to give that impression.

  Whatever had sent him racing up here, the delay had given him time to reconsider blurting it out. Even after Felicity and Theodosia left, he said nothing, instead circling the bed to straighten another picture on the wall opposite the window.

  Sophia sat in one of the fireside chairs. He wanted to talk? Let him speak first. She began idly folding her shawl into pleats, smoothing it, then pleating it again.

  Hythe took the other chair, stretching his long legs to the hearth and looking at the banked fire. His voice was mild, even meditative, when he said, “You let the imposter walk you home from church.”

  “If by ‘imposter’ you mean Lord Elfingham, then yes, he was in the party with whom Felicity and I went to church.”

  “You and Felicity walked with him. That is what I was told.”

  “Had you attended church yourself, Hythe, we could have walked with you.”

  Hythe flushed but did not allow her distraction to work. “I will not have him dangling after Felicity, Sophia. You have to put a stop to it.”

  “The duchess has accepted him as a guest, Hythe, and as Viscount Elfingham. I have no intention of being rude to the man. He does not flirt with Felicity, if that is what you are fear.”

  Hythe leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, examining his clasped hands as if for inspiration. “Who knows what a man like that will do? He is a half-breed, a barbarian. They say his father was a bandit king, Sophia. He made his fortune robbing caravans on the Silk Road. Even if this man is not a bast… Even if the Lords find in the Earl of Sutton’s favor, how could we put Felicity in such a man’s power? They have harems in the East, you know. Felicity would not want to be part of a harem; you can be sure.”

  “Elfingham is a Christian, Hythe. Surely Christians have only one wife wherever they live. Most brothers would be pleased to see their sister the wife of an heir to a dukedom.”

  Hythe shook his head. “Major Whitemann has lived in the East. He knows what they’re like. The things he told me last night… I am certainly not going to repeat them to my sister, but trust me, Sophia. Elfingham, if he is Elfingham, is not the man for Felicity.”

  Major Whitemann had been a company man in India, many kingdoms distant from the mountains between Persia and Turkmenistan on the Caspian Sea where Sutton had been lord of his mountain kingdom. India had made Whitemann rich, and wealth made him acceptable even to high sticklers like Lady Stanton, but Sophia could not like the man.

  “Do not cross me on this, Sophia. Felicity is my responsibility, and I will not let her marry Lord Elfingham. Major Whitemann thinks he might try to abduct her. Lady Stanton agrees.”

  Sophia looked up from the shawl she was pleating, startled. “Surely not! What would be the advantage, Hythe? Once his place is secure, he will have his pick of debutantes eager to be in line to be Duchess of Winshire.”

  Hythe’s head shake was impatient. “The Privileges Committee will not meet to consider the evidence until February, and Winshire is not expected to see out the year. Lady Stanton says Sutton and his son want a Belvoir to secure their position. We are one of the oldest families in England and related to nearly everyone of importance, one way or another.”

  Hythe and Sophia exchanged smiles of satisfaction. Theirs might not be the oldest title or the wealthiest, but for untold generations the Belvoirs had been stable, sensible, devoted to their land and their people, and fortunate enough to back the winners in political upheavals, or at least not to draw attention by openly backing losers.

  Hythe went on, “If Elfingham marries Felicity, the committee might be more inclined to accept the evidence Sutton says he has. That’s what Lady Stanton says. Weasel says we don’t even know if Sutton’s offspring all have the same mother. Some of them look Chinese, he says.”

  “Mr. Winderfield is hardly a disinterested witness, Hythe.” If Sophia had to pick between Weasel Winderfield and Lord Elfingham as heir to the Winshire title, she would not be picking Weasel.

  “You have to sympathize, Soph. He has spent his life thinking he was Winshire’s heir, and then Sutton turned up with all these children. Sutton has six sons, you know. He left two of them back in the East. If the Lords find for Sutton, then Weasel is out on his ear.”

  “And four daughters,” Sophia said, resisting the urge to ask how Weasel had imagined himself as Winshire’s heir when Winshire had three sons, and the eldest had a son of his own. No one, least of all the current Lord Sutton, expected the second son to inherit. How, then, could Weasel, who was only a distant cousin, have thought himself in line for the ducal coronet?

  Hythe was off on a tangent of his own. “Weasel thinks that it is you that Elfingham is after.” He laughed. “As if anyone would look at you when Felicity were around. No offence, Soph, but you have to admit, Felicity is pretty.”

  Which meant, Sophia concluded, that she was not. “Thank you, Hythe,” she murmured.

  “I do not mean to offend you, Soph, you know I don’t. But even Michael….” Hythe must have decided mentioning her first fiancé was injudicious because he changed tack. “Anyway, I told him he does not have to worry. Even if Elfingham were interested, I know you have more sense.”

  “It is just as well I have sense, since I do not have good looks.”

  Hythe gave her an indignant glare. “You are a very fine looking woman, Sophia Belvoir, and I did not say otherwise. And you have learning, which will probably be of more use to you than being pretty, since you will not marry.”

  “I am grateful to you for your analysis, Hythe,” Sophia lied. “My good sense suggests it is time for us to go down and join the house party for Christmas dinner.” Whereas her less sensible self was itching to upend the water jug over her brother’s precisely coiffed head. He might be quite correct, but she did not wish to hear him say it!

  Chapter 7

  James had come up for a wash after the late breakfast left out for the churchgoers. The servant Miss Grenford had assigned to his care had done wonders with his meager wardrobe, managing somehow to launder and dry his spare shirt overnight and brush off and press everything else he had managed to fit into his saddle bags, tightly rolled and firmly packed.

  Having retied his cravat, James shrugged into his one waistcoat and then the coat that fitted him closely enough, if not as tightly as fashion dictated.

  The knock on the door was likely to be the servant. James had expected him a while ag
o, but he had undoubtedly been waylaid by one of the other single gentlemen on this hallway. Not that it mattered. James was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

  “Come!” James called.

  The door opened to disclose not only the servant carrying a large leather bag, but Miss Grenford herself plus a gentleman James had not before seen.

  “Lord Elfingham,” the lady began, “may I present Mr. Halevy… I hope you do not mind, Lord Elfingham, but Her Grace thought… that is, we have so many guests, and the bedrooms…” She shrugged, a delicate lifting of the shoulders.

  James held out a hand, and the other man grasped it, firmly. “So you are to be company for me, Mr. Halevy? Welcome.”

  “If you do not object, my lord,” Halevy said. His intonation and pronunciation was not English. French, perhaps? Something from the Continent, in any case, from the color of his skin and hair.

  “Not at all.” Though Halevy might, when he knew what was being said about James. Would the duchess have warned him?

  “That is good, then.” Miss Grenford smiled. “I will leave you gentlemen to become acquainted.”

  “I will just unpack your bag then, sir, shall I?” the servant asked.

  “Thank you. I shall manage,” Halevy said. “If you could fetch me hot water for a shave, though, I would appreciate it.”

  “I can do that, sir, but we being that short today, and you with no valet, it may be some time before I can return to shave you.”

  “Not needed. I manage to shave myself daily.”

  James quirked a smile as the footman withdrew. He and the footman had conducted a very similar conversation just this morning. “They do like to make us helpless, do they not?” he asked. “As if a man cannot see to his own needs.”

  Halevy busied himself unpacking a few items. When he placed a Torah on the shared desk, he looked to see if James intended to comment. James was tempted pull his own Bible from under his pillow and place it beside the Torah, the Farsi titles more fluid and less angular than the Hebrew.

  But Halevy would find out soon enough how scandalous a bedfellow he had been given.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sophia was escorted into Christmas dinner by Lord Jonathan Grenford, who greeted her with delight.

  “I don’t know half the people here, my lady, but I used to pull your hair when we were both in the nursery.”

  She curtseyed. “Lord Jonathan. Have you been back in England long?”

  “Call me Gren as you used to, and I will call you Soph, and I shall feel I’m back in England in truth. I have been kicking my heels in London this past week, trying to decide whether to go to Margate to see my father or here to see Mama, but Aldridge collected me, and here I am.”

  She had been betrothed to Gren’s friend Michael when last he was in England.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Michael, Soph. If only I had been there.”

  She had forgotten they’d joined up together, two younger sons eager to win glory and escape overbearing fathers. However, Gren’s father had bought him out, Gren had found another way to slip his leash, and Michael had died.

  The piercing loss had long since faded to a regret for the future she and Michael might have had.

  “Then you might be dead as well, Gren. Instead, here you are. How I envy you your travels. You have been to so many interesting places!” The duchess often read bits from Gren’s letters and displayed the presents he sent back from all kinds of out-of-the way corners.

  Not for Gren the fashionable destinations, most of which had been closed by the war with Napoleon. Instead, he had traveled down the coast of Africa, back up to fabled India, and then across mountains and deserts until he eventually arrived in imperial Russia.

  Sophia wondered if he had been in the Kopet Dag Mountains that Lord Elfingham had described so vividly. She shot a glance down the table and felt a jolt when he looked up from his conversation with Lady Somerton and his dark eyes met hers.

  “Who is that?” Gren asked. “The dark-haired man who just nodded to you? I don’t believe I know him.”

  “That is the new Viscount Elfingham,” Aldridge answered from his place on the other side of his mother, who sat at the head of the table. “Lord Sutton’s son.”

  “He’s here?” Gren took a harder look at Lord Elfingham and then bent forward so he could see down the table to Felicity. “Perhaps I wagered on the wrong…” He was taken by a fit of coughing.

  Lady Stanton spoke before he could recover himself. “It remains to be proven whether the man is Elfingham or just Sutton’s by-blow.” Her voice carried, and the table hushed, all eyes on Elfingham to see his response.

  “In this household,” the duchess announced calmly, “we shall assume that the Earl of Sutton speaks the truth and will give Lord Elfingham the benefit of that assumption.”

  Lady Stanton arched an eyebrow. “With all at stake? Sutton lies, of course.”

  Weasel Winderfield muttered, “Hear, hear.”

  “One must allow a lady her opinion,” Lord Elfingham announced. Then he narrowed his eyes at Weasel. “It is a brave man or a rash one, that gives the Mountain King the lie direct. But his critics are safe enough, I suppose. The most famous warrior in seven kaganates would disdain to acknowledge the challenge of a tame house cat.”

  Weasel found something interesting about the corner of the room furthest from his cousin, and Lady Stanton subsided with a disdainful sniff.

  The duchess gave the signal for the first remove to be cleared and the next placed, and the guests surrendered their hope of a spectacle and began to whisper furiously to one another.

  “What did you wager on, Gren?” Sophia asked, keeping her own voice low.

  “I should not have said anything,” Gren protested. “I beg your pardon, Soph.”

  “Tell me.” It was about Felicity, of course, but Sophia wanted Gren to confirm that.

  Gren capitulated, “In the clubs, they are saying that Elfingham wants to marry Felicity, but his grandfather wants him to marry Charlotte Winderfield, his cousin. I bet on the cousin, figuring Hythe wouldn’t—”

  “Hythe will not,” Sophia said sharply. She took a mouthful of syllabub, and it was tasteless. From the other side of the table, the Marquis of Aldridge regarded her, thoughtfully.

  “That’s good then,” Gren said with satisfaction.

  “I am astounded at the company that the duchess tolerates at her table, and as for that spectacle before dinner! I did not know where to look.” Lady Stanton referred to the prayer that Aunt Eleanor had asked Mr. Halevy and Miss Baumann to say, this being the eve of their Sabbath.

  Weasel was clearly encouraged by Lady Stanton’s support. “Shameful, is it not? Hythe had better watch his sister. That’s what I say. M’cousin is not to be trusted.”

  Sophia saw nothing, but some sort of signal must have passed between the duchess and Aldridge, for he stood suddenly. “Winderfield, while we await the Christmas pudding, may I beg a moment of your time? There is something my esteemed parent wishes me to share with you, if you will just step this way, sir.”

  “It can wait, surely,” Winderfield said dismissively.

  “No, Winderfield. Now, please.”

  Winderfield’s eyes showed white as he threw his napkin on the table and followed the marquis.

  “One is occasionally reminded that Aldridge will soon be a duke of the realm, one step behind royalty and two behind God,” commented his irrepressible brother.

  The duchess engaged Lady Stanton in a discussion of gardens, and Gren fell into a conversation with Lady Somerton.

  Weasel was wrong, of course. Elfingham was a gentleman to the core. But nonetheless, Sophia had to agree with Hythe. The young viscount was the wrong man for Felicity. If the House Committee did not find in his favor, marrying him would be social suicide, and Felicity and her children deserved better. Even being courted by him might taint her. Sophia determined to do everything she could to keep Elfingham and Felicity apart.


  Chapter 8

  For the second day in a row, Lady Sophia had left the breakfast room as he entered, ushering her sister ahead of her. She had been closeted somewhere with other ladies of the party for most of the morning, and she had eaten lunch at a table with a gaggle of her friends. James amended the word. Gaggle was unfair; one of the many things he liked about Sophia was that she did not honk and gabble like the silly geese who had beleaguered him since the Winderfields had attended their first Society event months ago.

  Surely they did not believe that total ignorance made them attractive? Lady Sophia’s friend Lady de Courtenay seemed a sensible woman, and he liked Miss Baumann, who was clearly the reason Mr. Halevy was here. But if Lady Stanton had a thought beyond her own consequence he had seen no sign of it, Miss Ellison and her friends appeared to have nothing in their heads but feathers, and Miss de Courtenay was a minx playing with fire, who would be burned if her brother did not rein her in.

  At least Lady Sophia was not spending all of her time with the elegant Lord Jonathan Grenford, although he was in her orbit far too often for James’s comfort. They were old friends, he told James over billiards one evening and then subjected James to a series of searching questions about his intentions, disclaiming any romantic interest in Lady Sophia when James retaliated with a few questions of his own.

  As the lunch party broke up, James tried to follow Sophia, but first Lord de Courtenay stopped him to ask a question about shipping in the Mediterranean, then Miss Ellison begged him to escort her to the drawing room for a cup of tea, and when he eluded her, the Duke of Barnet took him to one side to assure him of his support. Barnet, apparently, disliked Haverford and was in favor of anything that Haverford was against.

  Eventually, he managed to escape outside. He visited Seistan first and checked the stallion was warm and well cared for. Some gentlemen of the party might talk scathingly about his horse’s too-long back, narrow head, and small hard hooves, might question the bi-color eyes and the metallic sheen of the coat, but the grooms knew quality when they saw it. Bellowes, the stable master, his admiration of the horse overcoming any reservations about the master, questioned James eagerly about Seistan’s speed and stamina.