“Can you do that? She has been less than polite to you.” Mrs. Grey’s face was beet red.
“She just doesn’t know me,” she said, and felt only the slightest twinge of conscience, considering how quick she had been ready to bolt from the place as recently as last night.
Her quietly spoken words seemed to satisfy Mrs. Grey, who nodded and left the room, but not without a backward glance of concern and sympathy as eloquent as speech. She considered Lord Trevor’s words of last night, and the kind way he looked at her. If he can manage eleven years of what must be the worst work in the world, she could surely coddle one spoiled niece into a better humor.
She waited until the raging tears had degenerated into sobs and hiccups, and then silence, before she entered the sitting room. Janet had thrown herself facedown on the sofa. A broken vase against the wall, with succession-house flowers crumbled and twisted around it, offered further testimony of the girl’s rage. Janet is one of those people who needs an audience, Cecilia thought. Well, here I am. She set the tray on a small table just out of Janet’s reach, and sat down, holding herself very still.
After several minutes, Janet opened her swollen eyes and regarded Cecilia with real suspicion. Cecilia gritted her teeth and smiled back, hoping for a good mix of sympathy and comfort.
“I want my mother,” Janet said finally. She sat up and blew her nose vigorously on a handkerchief already waterlogged. “I want her now!”
“I’m certain you do,” Cecilia replied. “A young lady needs her mother at a time like this.” She held her breath, hoping it was the right thing to say.
“But she is not here!” Janet burst out, and began to sob again. “Was there ever a more wretched person than I!”
I think an hour of horror stories in your uncle’s company might suggest to you that perhaps one or two people have suffered just a smidgeon, Cecilia thought. She sat still a moment longer, and then her heart spoke to her head. She got up from her chair, and sat down next to Janet, not knowing what she would do, but calm in the knowledge that the girl was in real agony. After another hesitation, she touched Janet’s arm. “I know I am only a poor substitute, but I will listen to you, my lady,” she said.
Janet turned her head slowly. The suspicion in her eyes began to fade. Suddenly she looked very young, and quite disappointed. She put a trembling hand to her mouth. “Oh, Miss Ambrose, he doesn’t love me anymore!” she whispered.
With a sigh more of relief than empathy, Cecilia put her arm around the girl. “My, but this is a dilemma!” she exclaimed. She gestured toward the letter crumpled in Janet’s hand. “He said that in your letter?”
“He might as well have said it!” Janet said with a sob. She smoothed open the message and handed it to Cecilia. “Read it!”
Cecilia took the letter and read of Sir Lysander’s regrets, and his fear of contracting any dread diseases.
Janet had been looking at the letter, too. “Miss Ambrose, I wrote most specifically that the measles were confined to my sister’s house in York. He seems to think that he will come here and . . . and die!”
She could not argue with Janet’s conclusion. The letter was a recitation of its writer’s fear of contagion, putrid sore throat, consumption, and other maladies both foreign and domestic. “Look here,” she said, pointing. “He writes here that he will fly to your side, the moment all danger is past.”
“He should fly here now! At once!”
Lord Trevor Chase would, Cecilia thought suddenly. If the woman he loved was ill, or in distress, he would leap up from the breakfast table and fork the nearest horse in his rush to be by her side. Nothing would stop him. She sat back, as amazed at her thoughts as she was certain of them. But he was a rare man, she decided. This knowledge that had come to her unbidden warmed her. She tightened her grip on Janet. “My dear, didn’t your uncle tell me that Sir Lysander is an only child?”
Janet nodded. She stared sorrowfully at the letter.
“I think we can safely conclude that his parents are overly concerned, and that is the source of this letter.” She scanned the letter quickly, hoping that the timid Sir Lysander would not fail her. She sighed with relief; he did not. “And see here, my dear, how he has signed the letter!”
“ ‘You have my devoted, eternal love,’ ” Janet read. She sniffed. “But not including measles, Miss Ambrose.”
“No, not including measles,” she echoed. “Surely we can allow him one small fault, Lady Janet, don’t you think?”
Lady Janet thought. “Well, perhaps.” She raised her handkerchief, and looked at it with faint disgust.
Cecilia pulled her own handkerchief out of her sleeve. “Here, my dear. This one is quite dry.”
Janet took it gratefully and blew her nose. “You don’t ever cry, Miss Ambrose?”
It was the smallest of jokes, but Cecilia felt the weight of the world melting from her own shoulders. “I wouldn’t dare, Lady Janet!” she declared with a laugh. “Only think how that would ruin my credit at Mrs. Dupree’s Select Academy.” She touched Janet’s shoulder. “This can be our secret.” She stood up. “I recommend that you recline here again. Mrs. Grey has brought over a cucumber from the succession house. A couple of these slices on your eyes will quite remove all the swelling.”
Janet did as she said. Cecilia tucked a light throw around her, then applied the cucumbers. “I would give the cucumber about fifteen minutes. Perhaps then you might finish the rest of those letters.”
“I will do that,” Janet agreed. The cucumber slices covered her eyes, but she pointed to the letter. “Do you think I should reply to Lysander’s sorry letter, Miss Ambrose? I could tell him what I think and make him squirm.”
“You could, I suppose, but wouldn’t it be more noble of you to assure him that you understand, and look forward to seeing him in a week or so?” Janet’s mulish expression, obvious even with the cucumbers, suggested to Cecilia that the milk of human kindness wasn’t precisely flowing through Janet’s veins yet. “I think it is what your dear mother would do,” Cecilia continued, appealing to that higher power.
“I suppose you are right,” Janet said reluctantly, after lengthy consideration. “But I will write him only after I have finished all the other letters!”
“That will show him!” Cecilia said, grateful that the cucumbers hid her smile from Janet’s eyes. “My dear, Christmas can be such a trying time for some people.”
“I should say. I do not know when I have suffered more.”
Cecilia regarded Janet, who had settled herself quite comfortably into the sofa, cucumber slices and all. My credit seems to be on the rise, she thought. I wonder . . . “Lady Janet, perhaps you could help me with something that perplexes me.”
The young lady raised one cucumber. “Perhaps. By the time I finish writing lists for wedding plans, I am usually quite fatigued at close of day.”
No wonder Lord Trevor remains put off by the topic of reproduction, Cecilia thought. Even on this side of her better nature, Lady Janet is enough to make anyone think twice about producing children. “It is a small thing, truly it is,” she said. “Your younger sister seems to have taken the nonsensical notion into her head that you are too busy with wedding plans to even remember that you are sisters.”
“Impossible!” Janet declared.
“I agree, Lady Janet, but she is at that trying age of twelve, and feels that you haven’t time for her.”
“Of course I. . . . well, there may be some truth to that,” Janet said. “H’mm.”
She was silent then, and it occurred to Cecilia that this was probably more introspection than Janet had ever waded in before. “Something to think about, Lady Janet,” she said.
She was in the book room, folding her blanket and wondering where to stash it, when Lady Janet came in. She smiled to see that the cucumbers had done their duty. “Ready to tackle the letters again, my lady?” she asked.
Janet shook her head, then looked at Cecilia shyly. “Not now. I think I will go fin
d Lucinda and David. Did they mention where they were headed?”
“Your sister said something about the south orchard.”
“Oh, yes! There is wonderful holly near the fence.” She left the room as quickly as she had come into it.
“Someone needs to do these letters,” Cecilia told herself when the house was quiet. She sat down at the desk and looked at the last one Janet had written. She picked up the pen to continue, then set it down, with no more desire to do the job than Lady Janet, evidently. She decided to go below stairs, and see if Lord Trevor had carried out his threat to find silver to polish.
She laughed out loud when she entered the servants’ dining room to see Lord Trevor, an apron around his waist, sleeves rolled up, rubbing polish on an epergne that was breathtaking in its ugliness. He looked up and grinned at her. “Did ye ever see such a monstrosity?” He looked around her. “And where are my nieces and nephew? Isn’t this supposed to be the time I have ordained for my prosy talk on gratitude and sibling affection?” He put down the cloth, and leaned across the table toward her. “Or is this the time when you scold me roundly for abandoning you to the lions upstairs?”
“I should,” she told him as she found an apron on a hook and put it around her middle. “Now don’t bamboozle me. Did you leave me to face Lady Janet alone when that letter came from her dearly beloved?”
“I cannot lie,” he began.
“Of course you can,” she said, interrupting him. “You are a barrister, after all.”
He slapped his forehead. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“You did,” she agreed, picking up a cloth. “For a man who fearlessly stalks the halls of Old Bailey, defending London’s most vulnerable, you’re remarkably cowardly.”
“Guilty as charged, mum,” he replied cheerfully. “I could never have soothed those ruffled feathers, but it appears that you did.” He turned serious then. “And did my graceless niece apologize, too?”
“She is not so graceless, sir!” Cecilia chided. “Some people are more tried and sorely vexed by holidays and coming events than others. We did conclude that Sir Lysander is still the best of men, even though he dares not brave epidemics. We have also resolved to make some amends to Lucinda.” She dipped the knife she had been polishing into the water bath. “I, sir, have freed you from the necessity of a prosy lecture! May I return to Bath?”
“No. You promised to stay,” he reminded her, and handed her a spoon.
“I’m not needed now,” she pointed out, even as she began to polish it. “Hopefully, Lord and Lady Falstoke will be here at Christmas, which will make the dower house decidedly crowded, unless the repairs at the manor can be finished by then. You will have ample time to get to know your nieces and nephew better, and do you know, I think they might not be as ungrateful as you seem to think.”
He nodded, and concentrated on the epergne again. She watched his face, and wondered why he seemed to become more serious. Isn’t family good cheer what you want? she asked herself.
It was a question she asked herself all that afternoon as she watched him grow quieter and more withdrawn. When the children came back—snow-covered, shivering, but cheerful—from gathering greenery, she watched uneasily how he had to force himself to smile at them. All through dinner, while Davy outlined his plans for the holly, and his sister planned an expedition to the kitchen in the morning to make Christmas sweets, he sat silent, staring at nothing in particular.
He is a man of action, she decided, and unaccustomed to the slower pace of events in country living. He must chafe to return to London. She stared down at her own dinner as though it writhed, then gave herself a mental shake. That couldn’t be it. Hadn’t he told her earlier that both King’s Bench and Common Pleas were not in session? He had also declared that was true of Magistrate’s Court, where most of his clients ended. Why could he not relax and enjoy the season, especially since he had come so far, and met with pleasant results so easily? Even after she told him before dinner that Janet had seemed genuinely contrite and willing to listen, he hadn’t received the news with any enthusiasm. It was as though he was gearing himself up for a larger struggle. She wished she knew what it was.
Once the children were in bed, she wanted to ask him, but she knew she would never work up the nerve. Instead, she went into the sitting room to read. He joined her eventually, carrying a letter. He sat down and read through the closely written page again. “Maria writes to say that my brother is much better now, and will be home on Christmas Day,” he told her.
“And your niece Amelia’s brood?”
“Maria says they are all scratching and complaining, which certainly trumps the fever and vacant stare,” he told her. He sat back in the chair and stared into the flames.
Now or never, she thought. “Lord Trevor, is there something the matter?”
He looked up quickly from his contemplation of the flames. “No, of course not.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t even approach his eyes. “Thanks to your help, I think my nieces and nephew will be charting a more even course.”
Chilled by the bleakness on his face, she tried to make light of the moment: anything to see the same animation in his face that had been there when she arrived only a few days ago, or even just that morning. “We can really thank Sir Lysander and his fastidious parents.”
“Oh? What? Oh, yes, I’m certain you are right,” he said.
She might as well not have been in the room at all. His mind was miles away, oceans distant. “Well, I think it is time for me to go strangle four or five chickens,” she said softly. “And then I will rob the mail coach in my shimmy.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, all affability. “Good night, Miss Ambrose.”
She was a long time getting to sleep that night.
The next day, Christmas Eve, was the same. She woke, feeling decidedly unrested, and sat up on her cot in the dressing room, where the girls had cajoled her to return. Certainly it was better than the book room, and the reasons for avoiding the dressing room seemed to have vanished. Quietly she went into the girls’ chamber and looked out the window. Although it was nearly eight o’clock, the sky was only beginning to lighten. The workers from York, who were saying at an inn in the village, were starting to arrive, their wagons and gigs lit with lanterns.
I wonder how much work is left to do there, she thought. If the marquis and marchioness are to return tomorrow, then they must be in a pelter to finish. She stood at the window until her bare feet were cold, then turned toward the dressing room. She moved as quietly as she could, but Janet sat up. “Good morning, Miss Ambrose,” she said as she yawned. “Do you want to help Lucinda and me in the kitchen? Mrs. Grey has said we may make however many Christmas treats we want. Think what a welcome that will be for my parents.”
Cecilia sat down on the bed beside her, and Janet obligingly shifted her legs. “You’ll be glad to see them, won’t you, my dear?” Cecilia asked.
“Oh, yes!” Janet touched her arm. “I can only wish they had been here for all of the season, but Amelia needed them.” She sighed. “This is my last Christmas at Chase Hall, you know.”
Cecilia smiled. “You’ll be returning with a husband this time next year.”
Janet drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. When Lucinda moved, she smoothed the coverlet over her sister’s back. “Oh, I know that,” she whispered, “but it is never the same, is it?”
“No, it is not,” Cecilia agreed. “When my parents return from India, I wonder how we all will have changed.”
“Does it make you sad, even a little?”
Cecilia was not certain she had ever considered the matter in that light. “I suppose it does, Lady Janet,” she replied after a moment’s thought. “Perhaps this is a lesson to us both: not to dwell in the past and wish for those times again, but to move on and change.”
“It’s a sobering consideration,” Janet said. “Do you ever wish you could do something over?”
“Not really. I like to look ahe
ad.” She stood up. “My goodness, you have so much to look forward to!”
“Yes, indeed,” Janet said, and Cecilia could hear the amusement in her voice. “Shortbread, drop cakes, and wafers below stairs!”
They smiled at each other with perfect understanding. “Lady Janet, you are going to make Sir Lysander a happy man,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“I intend to,” Janet replied, “even if he is not as brave as I would like. I love him.” She said it softly, with so much tenderness that Cecilia almost felt her breath leave her body. Unable to meet Janet’s eyes, because her own were filling with tears, she looked at Lucinda, sleeping so peacefully beside her sister. You are all so fine, she thought. Lord Trevor has no need of a prosy scold; nothing is broken here, not really. He was so wrong.
“Lady Janet,” she began carefully, not even sure what she wanted to ask. “Do you . . . has Lord Trevor ever kept Christmas here with you?”
Janet thought a moment, a frown on her face. “Not that I recall. No. Never. I wonder what it is that he does?”
“I wish I knew.”
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Lord Trevor ate quickly and retreated to the book room, saying something about reviewing his cases. David had to ask him twice if he could join him and continue alphabetizing the files. They left the room together. Lucinda and Janet hurried below stairs, and Cecilia found herself staring out the window toward the manor. She had tried to ask Mrs. Grey casually how the work was going, but the housekeeper just looked away and changed the subject. She had tried again after breakfast, with the same response. She found herself growing more uneasy as the morning passed, and she didn’t really know why.
“Miss Ambrose?”
Startled out of her disquietude, she turned around to see Davy standing there. “Davy! Are you thinking it would be good to go below stairs and check on your sisters’ progress? It already smells wonderful, doesn’t it?”
To her surprise, he shook his head. To her amazement, he came closer and rested his head against her waist. In a moment she was on her knees before him, her arms tight around him. “My dear, you’re missing your mother, aren’t you? She’ll be here tomorrow.”
Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030) Page 31