Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030)

by Layton, Edith; Jensen, Emma

  She could think of nothing to say, beyond the fact that she knew it was better to be silent than to let some inanity tumble out of her face, after his narrative. She glanced at him, and his own gaze was unwavering upon her. She realized he was seeking permission from her to continue. “There must be more,” she said finally. “Tell me.”

  He seemed to relax a little with the knowledge that she was not too repulsed to hear the rest. “Is it warm in here?” he asked, running his finger around his frayed collar.

  “Yes, and isn’t that delightful? I never can get really warm in this country!” she countered. “Don’t stall me, sir. You have my entire attention.”

  He continued. “I could not get that child out of my mind. In the afternoon I went back to Old Bailey, found the magistrate—he was so bored—and went to Newgate.”

  Cecilia shivered. Lord Trevor nodded. “You’re right to feel a little frisson, Miss A. It’s a terrible place.” He grimaced. “I know it must be obvious to you that I am no Brummel. Nowadays, when I know I’m going to Newgate, I wear my Newgate clothes. I keep them in a room off the scullery at my house because I cannot get the smell out.” He sighed. “Well, that was blunt, eh? I found Jimmy Daw—that was his name—in a cell with a score of older criminals. I gave him an old coat of mine.”

  Lord Trevor hung his head down. Cecilia had an almost overwhelming urge to touch his hair. She kept her hands clenched in her lap.

  “My God, Miss A, he thanked me and wished me a happy Christmas!”

  “Oh, dear,” she breathed. She got up then and walked to the window and back again, because she knew she did not wish to hear the rest of his story. He stood, too, his lips tight together. He went to the fireplace again and rested his arm on the mantel.

  “You know where this is going, don’t you?” he asked, surprised.

  She nodded. “I have lived a little in the world, my lord. I’m also no child.”

  “The magistrate met me in my chambers the next morning—it was Christmas Day—to tell me that those murderers, cutpurses, and thieves had tortured and killed Jimmy for the coat that I left for him, in my naïveté.”

  She could tell by looking at his eyes that the event might have happened yesterday. “That is hard, indeed, sir,” she murmured, and sat down again, mainly because her legs would not hold her. She took a deep breath, and another, until her head did not feel so detached. “I did not know about Jimmy,” she said softly, “but I told you that I have read about your work—or some of it—in the papers. I know you have made amends.”

  “With a vengeance, Miss A, with a vengeance,” he assured her. “That frivolous fop I bailed out the day before had the distinction of being my last client among the titled and wealthy. I am a children’s advocate now. When they come in the docket, I represent as many as I can. Yes, some are transported—I cannot stop the workings of justice—but they are not incarcerated with men old enough to do them evil, and they go to Australia, instead of Van Diemen’s Land. It is but a small improvement, but the best I can do.”

  “How did . . . how did you manage that?”

  He smiled for the first time in a long while. “Like all good barristers, I know the value of blackmail, Miss A! Let us just say that I lawyered away a juicy bit of scandal for our dear Prinny, and he owed me massively. God knows he has no interest in anyone’s welfare but his own, but even he has a small bit of influence.”

  It was her turn to relax a little, relieved that his tone was lighter. She could not imagine the conditions under which he labored, and she had the oddest wish to hold him close and comfort him as a mother would a child. “Lord Trevor, I think what you are doing is noble. Why do you say that you are the family’s black sheep?”

  He sat down again and took another sip of his sherry, then looked at her over the rim of the glass. “It is your turn to be naïve. What I do, and where and how I do it, has cut me off completely from my peers. It is as though I wear my Newgate clothes everywhere. No one extends invitations to me, and I am the answer to no maiden’s prayer.”

  “And people of your class are a little embarrassed to be seen with you, and you don’t really have a niche,” she said, understanding him perfectly, because she understood herself. “That life has made you bold and outspoken, and it has made me shy.”

  She looked at him with perfect understanding, and he smiled back. “We are both black sheep, Miss Ambrose,” he said.

  “How odd.” Another thought occurred to her. “Why are you here?”

  To answer her, he reached in his vest pocket and pulled out a folded sheet. “You may not be aware that my niece Lucinda has been writing to me.”

  “She did mention you in sketching class once,” Cecilia said, and her comprehension grew. She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh! She said you worked with children, and several of the other pupils started to laugh! Their parents must have . . .”

  “I told you I am a hiss and a byword in some circles. I sometimes keep stray children at my house until I can find situations for them.” He hesitated.

  “Go on,” she told him. “I doubt there is anything you can say now that would surprise me.”

  “There might be,” he replied. “Well! Some of my peers think I am a sodomite. These things are whispered about. Who knows what parents tell their children.”

  “Really, Lord Trevor,” she said. “It is warm in here.”

  He crossed the room, and threw up the window sash. “I assure you I do not practice buggery, Miss A! What I do have are enlightened friends who are willing to take these children to agricultural settings and employ them gainfully.”

  “Bravo, sir,” she said softly.

  “I do it for Jimmy Daw.” He tapped the letter. “Lucinda tells me how unhappy she is, and damn it, I’ve been neglecting my own family.”

  “She is sad and uncomfortable to see her sister growing away from her,” Cecilia agreed. “I had wanted to talk to Lady Falstoke about that very thing. I suppose that is why I came.”

  He folded the letter and put it back in his waistcoat. “I came here with the intention of giving them a prosy lecture about gratitude, well larded with examples of children who have so much less than they do.” He rubbed his hands together. “Thank God for a fire in the chimney! Now we are thrown together in close quarters to get reacquainted. Do you think there is silver to polish below stairs?”

  She laughed. “If there is not, you will find it!” She grew serious again. “There is more to this than a prosy lecture, isn’t there? Lord Trevor, when did Jimmy Daw . . .”

  “Eleven years ago on Christmas Eve,” he answered. “Miss Ambrose, for all that time I have thrown myself into my work, and ignored my own relations.” He shook his head. “I see them so seldom.”

  She went to the window and closed it, now that the room was cooler, or at least she was not feeling so embarrassed by this singular man’s blunt plain speaking. “I must own to a little sympathy for them, Lord Trevor. Here they are, stuck in close quarters with two people that they don’t know well. It is nearly Christmas, and their parents are away.”

  He winked at her. “Should we go easy on the little blokes?”

  “Lord Trevor, where do you get your language?” she said in exasperation.

  “From the streets, ma’am,” he told her, not a bit ruffled. “I feel as though I have been living on them for the past eleven years.”

  “That may be something that must change, sir,” she replied.

  He laughed and opened the window again. “Too warm for me, Miss Ambrose! You are an educator and a manager? Did one of your ancestors use a lash on those poor Israelites in Egypt?”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” She went to the door. “And now I am going to bed.” She stopped, and she frowned. “Except that . . .” Be a little braver, she ordered herself, if you think to be fit company this week for a man ten times braver than you. “I have no intention of sleeping on that servant’s cot in the girls’ chamber, not after the snippy way Lady Janet treated me! She already thinks
of me as a servant, and I have no intention of encouraging that tendency. Is the sofa in the book room comfortable, sir?”

  “I don’t know. Seems as though we ought to do better for you than a couch in the office, Miss A,” he told her as he joined her at the door.

  “Are all dower houses this small?”

  “I rather doubt it. Some of my ancestors must have been vastly frugal! What say you brave the sofa tonight, and we’ll see if we can find you a closet under the stairs, or a secret room behind some paneling off the kitchen where the Chase family used to hide Royalists.”

  He tagged along while she went downstairs to the linen closet and selected a sheet and blanket. He found a pillow on a shelf. “You could sleep in here,” he told her. “You’re small enough to crawl onto that lower shelf.”

  She laughed out loud, then held out her hand to him. “I am going downstairs now. What plans do you have, if Sir Lysander whisks Janet away from this?”

  He was still holding her hand. He released it, and handed her the pillow. “I happen to know Lysander’s parents.” They left the linen closet. “He is an only child, and my stars, Miss A, they are careful with him.” He looked toward the ceiling. “Do you happen to know if she mentioned measles in her letter?”

  “You can be certain I was not allowed to look at the letter.” They started for the stairs. “Besides, the contagion is in York, and not here.”

  He only smiled. “Did I mention they are careful parents? Good night, m’dear.”

  The sofa in the book room realized her worst fears, but Cecilia was so tired that she slept anyway. When she finally woke, it was to a bright morning. She sat up, stretched, then went to the window. Lord Trevor had spent his time well in York, she decided. A veritable army of house menders had turned into the family property and were heading in carts toward the manor.

  Someone knocked. She put her robe on over her nightgown and opened the door upon Lord Trevor. “Good morning, sir,” she told him.

  “It is, isn’t it?” He grinned at her. “Miss A, what a picture you are!”

  Her hands went to her hair. “I can never do anything with it in the morning. You are a beast to mention it.”

  He stepped back as if she had stabbed him. “Miss A! I was going to tell you how much I like short, curly hair! No lady wears it these days, and more’s the pity.” He winked at her. “Is it hard to drag a comb through such a superabundance of curls?”

  “A perfect purgatory,” she assured him. “I used a comb with very wide teeth.” She felt her face go red. Mrs. Dupree would be shocked at this conversation. “Enough about my toilette, sir! What are your plans?”

  “I am off to the manor to get the renovation started. Mrs. Grey will accompany me. She has set breakfast, and left one servant, should you need to send a message.”

  “And did she locate a plethora of silver begging for polish?”

  “Indeed she did! There is more than enough to keep my relatives in cozy proximity with each other.”

  “If they choose to be so,” she reminded him. “Sir Lysander . . .”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Miss A, trust me there.” He took his hand away, and she watched in unholy glee as his face reddened. “Sorry! And Janet is to apologize.”

  “Only if she means it,” Cecilia said softly.

  “She will,” he told her, then leaned closer. “I am not her favorite uncle, at the moment, however.” He straightened up. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do carry on.”

  He left, and she suffered another moment of indecision before straightening her back and mounting the stairs to the room where the girls slept. They were awake and sitting up when she came in the room and pulled back the draperies. She took a deep breath, not wanting to look at Lady Janet and see the scorn in her eyes.

  “Good morning, ladies,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Your uncle has gone to the manor to direct the work there, and breakfast is ready.” She took another deep breath. “Lady Janet, there are letters to finish. Lady Lucinda, you and your brother may wish to begin polishing some silver below stairs. Excuse me please while I dress.”

  It took all the dignity she could muster to retreat to the dressing room, throw on her clothes, and then pull that comb through her recalcitrant curls. When she came into the chamber again, Lucinda and Janet were making the bed. She almost smiled. The pupils at Mrs. Dupree’s all did their own tidying, but Janet was obviously not acquainted with such hard service. Her eyes downcast, her lips tight together, she thumped her pillow down and yanked up the coverlet on her side of the bed. Lucy took a look at her sister and scurried into the dressing room. Cecilia stood by the door, not ready to face Janet, either. Her hand was on the knob when the young lady spoke.

  “I am sorry, Miss Ambrose.”

  She turned around, wishing that her stomach did not churn at the words that sounded as if they were pulled from Janet’s throat with tongs. “I know your uncle Trevor meant well, Lady Janet, but I know I am a stranger to you, and perhaps someone you are not accustomed to seeing.”

  “That doesn’t mean I should be rude,” Janet said, her voice quiet. “It seems like there is so much to think of right now, so many plans to make . . .” She looked up then, and her expression was shy, almost tentative. “Lucy tells me you are a wonderful artist.”

  “She is the one with great talent,” Cecilia replied, happy to turn the compliment. She returned Janet’s glance. “I hope Lord Trevor was not too hard on you.”

  Janet turned to the bed and smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle. She shook her head. “I know I will feel better when Lysander arrives.”

  Well, that is hopeful, Cecilia thought as she went to the next room, woke Davy, then went to the breakfast room. By the time the children came into the room, chose their food, and sat down, her equilibrium had righted itself. Janet said nothing, but Lucinda, after several glances at her sister, began a conversation.

  It was interrupted by the housekeeper, who brought a letter on a silver platter. Janet’s eyes lighted up. She took it, cast a triumphant glance at the other diners, excused herself, and left the room, her head up.

  “I hope Sir Lysander swoops down and carries her away,” Davy said.

  “Do you not call him just Lysander?” Cecilia asked, curious. “He is going to be your brother in February, is he not?”

  Davy rolled his eyes, and Lucinda giggled. “Miss Ambrose, we have been informed that he is Sir Lysander to us,” Lucinda said. She sighed then. “I hope she stays, Davy.”

  “Then you are probably the only one at the table with that wish!” her brother retorted. He blushed, and looked at his plate. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Miss Ambrose.”

  “You don’t,” she said, and touched his arm. “In fact, I think—”

  What she thought left her head before the words were out. A loud scream came from the sitting room, and then noisy tears bordering on the hysterical. Lucinda’s eyes opened wide, and Davy lay back in his chair and lolled his head, as though all hope was gone.

  “Oh, dear,” Cecilia whispered. “I fear that Sir Lysander did not meet Lady Janet’s expectations. She’s your sister, and you know her well. Should we do anything?”

  “I could prop a chair under the door, so she can’t get in here,” Davy suggested helpfully.

  “David, you know that is not what Miss Ambrose means!” Lucinda scolded. She looked at Cecilia. “Usually we make ourselves scarce when Janet is in full feather.” She stood up. “Davy, I have a craving to go tramping over to the south orchard. There is holly there, and greenery that would look good on the mantelpiece. Would you like to join us, Miss Ambrose?” She had to raise her voice to compete with the storm of tears from the sitting room across the hall, which was now accompanied by what sounded like someone drumming her feet on the floor.

  “I think not,” Cecilia said. She finished her now-cold tea. “Bundle up warm, children, and take the footman along. You might ask him to stop at the manor and inform your uncle.”

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sp; Lucinda nodded. She opened the breakfast room door and peeked into the hall. “We don’t really want to leave you here alone, Miss Ambrose.”

  “It is only just a temper tantrum, my dear,” Cecilia said, using her most firm educator’s voice. “I can manage.” I think I can manage, she told herself as the children gave her doubtful glances, then scurried up the stairs to get their coats and mittens. She sat at the table until they left the dower house with the footman. The last person Janet wants to see is me, especially when we have just begun to be on speaking terms, she thought.

  “Miss?”

  Cecilia looked up to see the housekeeper in the doorway, holding a tray.

  “Please come in, Mrs. Grey,” she said, managing a half smile. “We seem to be in a storm of truly awesome dimensions.”

  Mrs. Grey frowned at the sitting-room door, then came to the table, where she set down the tray. “Between you and me, Miss Ambrose, I think that Sir Lysander is in for the surprise of his life, the first time she does that across the breakfast table!”

  “Oh, my,” Cecilia said faintly. “That will be a cold bath over baked eggs and bacon, will it not!”

  Mrs. Grey smiled at her, in perfect agreement. “I am suggesting that you not go in there until she is a little quieter.” She indicated the tray. “Lady Falstoke sometimes waves burnt feathers under her nose, and then puts cucumbers on her eyes to cut the swelling.” She frowned. “What she really needs is a spoonful of cod-liver oil, and the admonition to act her age but . . .” She hesitated.

  “ . . . but Lady Falstoke is an indulgent mother,” Cecilia continued. “I will give her a few minutes more, then go in there, Mrs. Grey, and be the perfect listener.”

  The look the housekeeper gave her was as doubtful as the one that Davy and Lucinda left the room with. “I could summon her uncle, except . . .”

  “ . . . this is a woman’s work,” Cecilia said. “Perhaps a little sympathy is in order.”