by Lauren Royal
Wasn’t he?
For a moment, he allowed himself to consider other possibilities. What if he didn’t have to marry his friend to save her? What if his mother was right? What if they could send Creath to Wales while they helped her make a good match with another suitable gentleman?
It wasn’t as though he and Creath were in love. If he got her safely married and out of Sir Leonard’s reach, was that just as good as marrying her himself? Or maybe even better? She might prefer being married to a fellow she actually fancied.
“Shall we sit?” Chrystabel suggested.
The musicians struck up a familiar tune, and everyone settled onto the couches and chairs, joining in the first verse of “Here We Come a-Wassailing.” Joseph seated himself between his parents—directly across the circle from Chrystabel—and a footman offered him a steaming mug. Though his stomach objected to the prospect of more wine in view of this afternoon’s excesses, the hot drink warmed his hands, and the sight of an exultant Chrystabel warmed his heart. All the voices raised in joyous song seemed to raise his spirits, too. His chest swelled with hope and faith that everything would turn out right.
It was Christmas, after all.
And somehow, despite his earlier protests, tonight he felt fortunate and grateful to be celebrating. It would have been a shame to miss this. Being here among family and friends on this blessed evening was a gift, and a tradition worth fighting for.
As he sang “Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail too,” he wondered if he might have misjudged Chrystabel’s schemes. Could it be that she wasn’t as irrational and irresponsible as he’d thought?
“This mulled wine is uncommonly good,” Lady Arabel said when the song ended. “You must tell us, Lord Tremayne—what are your secret ingredients?”
He couldn’t help flashing Chrystabel a triumphant smile. “Lemon and orange.”
“Are they imported from Spain?” Lady Arabel asked.
“I grow them in my conservatory.”
“When Joseph suggested the additions, I must own I had my doubts.” A gracious loser, Chrystabel inclined her head and smiled at him. “But he was right. The fruit complements the liquor and spices perfectly. Ours must be the only mulled wine with this flavor in all of history,” she declared grandly.
“And it’s delicious!” When Lady Arabel gulped more, she sloshed a bit down the front of her dress and giggled.
“And you weren’t jesting about the brandy,” Grosmont said pointedly, passing his youngest sister a handkerchief. He raised his cup to Chrystabel and Joseph. “My compliments.”
“Mine, too,” Mother put in. “The fruit is a brilliant innovation. How lucky I am to have such a talented son.”
“And I, to have such a talented…friend,” Creath finished weakly, making Joseph realize she’d been about to call him something else. Had she nearly said ‘betrothed’ in front of their guests? When her wide, worried eyes sought his, he sent her a reassuring smile, and she looked instantly at ease.
He’d always been able to reassure her. Four years younger than he, she’d looked up to him as an older brother and protector since they were children. When her family took ill last year, she’d run to him first and relied on him utterly. When her parents and little brother had slipped away, one by one, he’d held her as she cried and promised her he would always take care of her.
Looking at her innocent, vulnerable face now, guilt hit him like an arrow to the heart.
Puncturing all his fledging hopes and dreams and what-ifs.
Because here was another what-if: What if he took an unnecessary risk with Creath’s future, and she paid the price? What if he broke their betrothal for selfish reasons, and she fell into Sir Leonard’s hands?
How could he have thought there might be other possibilities? There was just one possible way to ensure her safety, keep his promise, and do right by her. Of course anything less wouldn’t be good enough.
Anything less was impossible.
He drained his cup of mulled wine and held it out for a refill.
“What shall we sing next?” Chrystabel asked the circle. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to the musicians. “Do you know ‘Joseph Dearest, Joseph Mine?’ It’s my favorite.”
Lady Arabel hiccuped. “Since when is it your fav—”
The music resumed, and they all began singing.
Joseph couldn’t help his gaze straying to Chrystabel. Couldn’t help noticing she was watching him, too. Couldn’t help wondering if she’d chosen the carol for him.
The warmth in her smile gave him his answer. As their eyes held, the air between them fairly vibrated with pent-up emotion and words left unsaid. Pressure seemed to build in his chest until he thought his ribs might crack.
“Joseph dearest, Joseph mine,
Help me cradle my child divine…”
He squeezed his eyes shut against the unbearable truth: he would never be her dearest Joseph. And she would never be his Chrysanthemum.
He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her senseless, and never let her go. He wanted to, but he couldn’t.
He loved her, but he couldn’t.
He had to tell her he couldn’t.
But how could he?
EIGHTEEN
“LADY CHRYSTABEL, you have outdone yourself!” The next morning, Lady Trentingham licked nutmeg and cinnamon off her lips. “A flawless Christmas Day breakfast. This panperdy could change a person's life.” She speared her last bite of the panperdy, fine manchet bread fried in eggs and spices. “I wouldn’t mind having you plan next year’s secret Christmas.”
Chrystabel wouldn’t mind, either. In fact, if her dreams came true today, she’d begin planning next year’s secret Christmas immediately. She’d be happy to spend the rest of her life planning secret Christmases at Tremayne.
“Thank you for the kind words,” she told Lady Trentingham. “I’ve had so much fun that none of the planning seemed like work. Shall we repair to the great room now? I have one more surprise, and then Arabel and I have a few small gifts we’d like to bestow. To be followed by Christmas Day games, of course.”
“Oh, my heavens.” Lady Trentingham looked alarmed. “I didn’t know you were planning gifts. We normally exchange gifts on New Year’s Day.”
“As many families do, I know. But our family tradition is Christmas Day. I dearly hope you will accept our gifts in the spirit in which they’re intended. They’re very small, simply tokens of our appreciation. We’re exceedingly grateful to you and your family for hosting us the past few days.”
“I cannot even imagine what our Christmas would have been like on the road,” Arabel put in. “Spending the holiday here has been such a pleasure.”
“It’s been our pleasure,” Lady Trentingham said, rising to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I shall join you in the great room forthwith.”
When the rest of them entered the great room, the yule log was still burning, casting a merry glow to counteract the dull gray day outside the windows.
“Excellent job choosing the log,” Chrystabel told Matthew.
“I reckon it may still be burning when we leave tomorrow,” he said, sounding proud of a job well done but also somewhat dejected. When his gaze trailed to Creath, Chrystabel suspected he was already dreading saying goodbye.
That boded well. She still had most of a day to talk him into proposing to Creath. With any luck, there might be two betrothals before the day was out.
But Chrystabel was trying not to think of betrothals at the moment. There was no sense making herself more nervous than she already was.
Considering that her whole future happiness would be decided within the next half hour.
When Lady Trentingham joined them, taking the last remaining seat in the semicircle Chrystabel had arranged to face the great fireplace, the footmen were handing out goblets. The countess took one and sipped, then all but squealed with delight. “Warm chocolate! Such a treat!”
“My final s
urprise,” Chrystabel said. “Mrs. Potter kindly offered her little hoard of cocoa. We used every last bean, I’m afraid.”
“I cannot imagine a more fitting use for them.” The countess paused for another appreciative sip. “Thank you, my dear girl. We’ve been leading a very quiet life since the war ended, and you’ve brought such joy to us. To all of us.”
Was it Chrystabel’s imagination, or had Lady Trentingham looked to her son when she’d said to all of us? Joseph’s mother did seem to like her. Would she approve of their betrothal? Or maybe even…encourage it?
Chrystabel could only hope. She thought she could come to love the countess nearly as much as she loved the countess’s son. When she imagined Joseph’s devoted mother becoming the mother she no longer had—barely ever had, really—she felt her heart swell with joy.
“This is for you, Lady Trentingham.” Chrystabel handed her a gaily wrapped package. “From Arabel and me. We made it especially for you.”
Joseph’s mother pulled the end of the bow that secured the fabric, which fell open to reveal the bottle of perfume. “Oh, my heavens, thank you.” She uncorked it and sniffed. “It’s exquisite. Is that lavender?”
“Rosemary, actually.”
“How refreshingly unexpected!” Lady Trentingham’s eyes sparkled. “Somehow you figured out just what I like.”
Chrystabel shrugged. “I just seem to know what fits a lady.”
“For you.” Arabel handed a similar package to Creath. “We hope you’ll like it.”
Creath held the package gingerly. “I haven’t offered you hospitality.”
“You’ve offered us friendship,” Arabel said. “Go on, open it.”
Still looking uncertain, Creath slowly untied the bow. As she uncorked the bottle and waved it beneath her nose, her expression of concern changed to one of delight. “Lilac?”
Chrystabel nodded. “And vanilla and a few other sweet things. Do you like it?”
“I love it. Thank you so much.” Creath dabbed a little on her wrist. “I shall make it last as long as I can.”
Chrystabel had to bite her tongue to keep from saying she’d make her more when she ran out. Matthew hadn’t yet proposed.
“Lord Trentingham, this is for you.” Arabel rose to hand him a square package.
“This is unnecessary—and heavy.” He untied the bow, and as the fabric fell away, a smile spread on his face. “A set of books. Dell’istoria civile del Regno di Napoli.”
It was four volumes, bound in vellum over boards. “What does that mean?” Lady Trentingham asked.
“It’s a history of the Kingdom of Naples. Written in Italian.”
Arabel nodded. “Your son told me you’re something of a linguist. I can read only a little bit of it myself, so we hope you’ll enjoy the books more than we can.”
He laughed and assured them he would. “And I’ll teach you some Welsh before you leave, if you’d like.”
“Oh, that would be the best Christmas gift!” Arabel all but bounced back to her seat.
She was soon off her chair again, because when she opened her gift from Chrystabel she danced around gleefully, holding the marigold gown to her front as though she were wearing it to a grand ball. Even though grand balls were forbidden now.
Arabel gave Chrystabel two beautifully decorated hair combs that had belonged to their grandmother. Their fancy scrollwork tops were inlaid with seed pearls and many tiny diamonds. “I hid them when Father took the jewels to sell,” she explained.
“Since you mentioned jewels…” Lady Trentingham reached into a drawstring purse she’d brought downstairs with her. “I hope you girls will wear these in the very best of health,” she said, pulling out three long, lustrous strands of pearls.
Chrystabel gasped. “We cannot accept these!”
“Of course you can,” Lady Trentingham said, rising to hand a strand to her and the others to Arabel and Creath. “I still have a dozen or more strands of my own. Every young lady should own a nice strand of pearls. I wish I could see them on you next Christmas,” she said almost wistfully.
If Chrystabel got her way, she would. “Thank you,” she breathed as she slid the pearls over her head and settled them around her neck.
As Arabel and Creath echoed her thanks, Chrystabel smiled down at her strand. “I will treasure this always and remember how kind you were to allow me to make a secret Christmas.”
It had turned out to be her best Christmas ever. Here, among strangers who had become friends, and who would soon—she hoped—become family.
A whole family, she thought, hugging herself with satisfaction. She’d never really had that, even before the war had turned the Trevors’ world upside down. The Ashcrofts weren’t perfect, of course, but they stayed together and took care of each other.
Suddenly knowing what to give her brother, she all but leapt off her chair.
As she walked toward him, he held up his hands defensively. “I need nothing,” he said. “I have nothing for you. I had plans, but then the Dragoons arrived, and—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, slipping her hand into her pocket and drawing something out. “I want to give you this.”
The silver glinted in the firelight.
“Father’s pendant?” Matthew’s eyes widened. “He gave it to you, Chrys. It’s yours.”
“I was only supposed to keep it until he came back. But then”—she swallowed the lump forming in her throat—“he didn’t.” Moving to her brother, she draped the long chain around his neck. “It’s yours now. As it should be. Passed down the generations from father to son.” She touched the lion one last time.
Silently, she bade her father goodbye. Silently, she forgave him for leaving her. Though she would always keep him in her heart, she had a new man to love now. Arabel had been right: she was a woman grown, and she didn’t need her parents anymore. She could rely on Joseph, on her brother and sister, and, most of all, on herself.
And she’d always have Christmas. Each year, for the rest of her life, she would celebrate her father’s memory by honoring the traditions he had loved. And she’d never let anyone—certainly not a big bully like Cromwell—tell her she couldn’t.
The pendant looked right on Matthew, and when he tucked it beneath his shirt as Father had worn it—next to his heart—that seemed right, too. Evidently this tradition had more value than she’d thought.
“I have one gift left,” she said, swiveling to face Joseph. When her nervous gaze met his, his eyes softened. Her heart gave that familiar stutter.
And all at once, she realized looking at Joseph and having Joseph look back at her didn’t seem right.
Because it was more than right.
It was magic.
Her nerves melting away, she smiled up at him with nothing but love. “Will you come with me?”
NINETEEN
“ME?” JOSEPH LOOKED at Chrystabel’s empty hands and back up to her shining eyes. “Where are we going?”
“To your conservatory.” She glanced around at everyone else. “May we be excused for a few minutes? We’ll be right back.”
“Just the two of you?” Father frowned. “Isn’t that rather improp—”
“Oh, let them go,” Mother interrupted. “She said they’ll be right back. In the meantime, what game shall we start playing?”
Apparently taking that as permission, Chrystabel left the room.
Joseph followed, feeling thickheaded as he trailed her through the corridors. How did she always manage to get her way? What could she possibly have for him in his conservatory? And how would he manage to survive the awful conversation that would come next?
Even facing imminent devastation, he couldn’t help noticing the graceful sway of her hips as she led the way toward the unfinished wing. Today she was wearing some sort of shimmery Christmas-green fabric that set off her milk and roses complexion. The gown had another wide neckline that drew his attention to her exposed shoulders. He had to stuff his hands in his pock
ets to keep from reaching for her.
“Here we are,” she said unnecessarily when they got to the door. “Do you want to go inside?”
He wasn’t sure he did. Which mattered not, because she didn’t wait for an answer before undoing the latch and slipping past him into the cavernous chamber.
He would have to remember she wasn’t patient, he thought—
—then chided himself.
There was no need to remember anything about Chrystabel. Her family was leaving tomorrow, probably around the same time he’d be marrying Creath, and it was unlikely he’d ever see her again.
Determined to get the awfulness over with, he steeled himself and followed her inside. Then stopped short when he saw what awaited him in the center of the massive chamber.
Chrystabel stood beside a dozen big pots she’d evidently borrowed from his stash along the wall. Each had a dormant plant stuck inside, not planted but rather just leaning this way and that, their roots wrapped in canvas. Bright red ribbon bows were tied to a few of the thorny canes.
“Roses?” he asked on a gasp.
“Yes,” she said in an excited rush. “I brought them from Grosmont Grange. I was planning to replant them at Grosmont Castle, but I want you to have them instead. You said you don’t have any roses.”
For a moment he just stood there, stunned. And touched. There wasn’t a more perfect gift for him in all the world. He was awed to find she knew him so well after less than three days’ acquaintance.
But he couldn’t take her roses.
Not when he was about to crush her heart.
“Chrystabel.” He was vexed to hear his voice break. “I thank you with everything I have in me. But I cannot take your roses. They’re your favorite flower. Your favorite scent.” Seeing a stubborn look come into her eyes, he had a thought. “Maybe one bush, if that makes you happy, but not all of them.”
“I want you to have all of them.” If anything, the stubborn look only got stubborner. “I’d probably kill them anyhow—I know nothing about caring for roses, and our groundskeeper chose to stay in Wiltshire.”