Regency Christmas Wishes (9781101220030)

by Layton, Edith; Jensen, Emma

  Davy burrowed as close to her as he could, and she tightened her grip. “Davy, what is it?”

  She pulled him away a little so she could see his face, took a deep breath, then pulled him close again. “What’s wrong?” she whispered in his ear, trying to sound firm without frightening him.

  “It’s my uncle,” he said finally, the words almost forced out between his tight lips. “I’m afraid.”

  Cecilia sank down to the floor and pulled him onto her lap. “Oh, Davy, tell me,” she ordered, fighting against her own rising tide of panic.

  Davy shivered. “Miss Ambrose, he just sits and stares at the case files! I . . . I tried to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem to hear me! It’s as though there is a wall . . .” His voice trailed away.

  Cecilia ran her hands over his arms, and rubbed his back as he clung to her. “Tell me, my dear,” she urged.

  He turned his face into her breast, and his words were muffled. “He told me not to look into the files, and I didn’t, until this morning.” He looked up at her, his eyes huge in his face. “Miss Ambrose, I have never read such things before!” He started to cry.

  She held him close, murmuring nonsensicals, humming to him, until his tears subsided. “My dear, you don’t know what he does, do you?”

  Davy shook his head. “No, but I think it really bothers him.”

  “I think you are right, Davy.” She put her hands on each side of his face and looked into his eyes. “Can you get your coat and mittens?”

  He nodded, a question in his eyes.

  “We’re going outside to get some fresh air.” She stood up, keeping Davy close. “Perhaps we can figure out what to do with all that holly you collected yesterday.”

  The coats were in a closet off the front entrance. She helped Davy with his muffler and made sure his shoes were well buckled, then got into her coat. Mrs. Grey and the cook were below stairs with the girls. She could hear laughter from the kitchen now and then. She tiptoed down the hall to the book room and pressed her ear against the door panel. Nothing.

  They left through a side door out of sight of the bookroom windows. She did not have a long stride herself, but she had to remind herself to slow down anyway, so Davy could keep up.

  “We’re not supposed to go to the manor,” he reminded her as they hurried along. “Uncle Trevor is afraid we will be hurt while the repairs are going on.” He stopped on the path. “He might be angry, Miss Ambrose!”

  “I don’t know what he will be, Davy, but I want to see the renovations.” If a judge and jury had demanded to know why she was so determined, she could not have told them. Some alarm was clanging in her brain. She did not understand it, but she was not about to ignore it one more minute.

  On Davy’s advice, they approached the manor from the garden terrace. There was only a skiff of snow on the flower beds, which had been cleaned, raked, and prepared for a long Yorkshire winter. All was tidy and organized.

  Her parents had done extensive renovations once on their Egyptian villa. She remembered the disorder, the dust, the smell of paint, the sound of saw and hammer. When she opened the door off the terrace and stepped inside with Davy, there was none of that confusion. Nothing. The house was completely silent. Nothing was out of place. She sniffed the air. Only the faintest smell of smoke remained; she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the ordinary smell of a household heated with coal.

  Davy stared around him, and took her hand again. “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “No, there isn’t,” she said, keeping her voice calm, especially when she saw the question in his eyes. “Where are the workers?”

  They walked down the hall, holding tight to each other, until they came to the door that led belowstairs. Cecilia took a deep breath and opened it. As soon as she did, they heard voices, the soft slap of cards, and some laughter. She took a firmer grip on the boy’s hand, and they walked down the stairs together.

  The workers sitting around the table in the servants’ hall looked up when she came into the room. The oldest man—he must have been the foreman—smiled at her. “G’day, miss!” he called, the voice of good cheer. “Are you from that dower house?”

  She smiled back, even though she wanted to turn and run. “Yes, indeed. I am a teacher for one of the young ladies, and this is David Chase, Viscount Goodhue.”

  The men put down their cards and got to their feet.

  “Is my uncle Trevor playing a joke on us?” Davy asked her.

  “Let’s ask these men,” she said. “Sir, have you been re-pairing any damage at all?”

  The foreman shrugged. “After Lord Trevor sent all the servants off on holiday, we opened up the windows and aired out the place. Watts, over there—perk up, Watts!—cleaned out the pipe behind the Rumford and seated it again, but that’s all the place really needed.” He scratched his head. “His lordship’s a good man, he is. Said he just wanted us to stay here all week, and get paid regular wages.”

  “Did he . . . did he tell you why, precisely?” Cecilia asked.

  “I don’t usually ask questions like that of the gentry, miss, but he did say something about wanting to keep everyone close together.”

  He said as much to me, she thought, hoping that his young relatives would discover each other again, if they were in close quarters. “I can understand that,” she said.

  “Yes, mum, that’s what he said,” the foreman told her. “This is our last day on the job.” He laughed and poked the cardplayer sitting next to him. “Guess we’ll have to earn an honest wage next week again!”

  The men laughed. The man called Watts spoke up shyly. “ ’E’s made it a happy Christmas for all of us, miss. You, too, I hope.”

  “Oh, yes,” Cecilia said, wishing she were a better actress. “Lord Trevor is a regular eccentric who likes a good quiz! Good day to you all, and happy Christmas.”

  They were both quiet on the walk back to the dower house, until Davy finally stopped. “Why would he want us to keep close together?”

  “He told me that first night, after you were all in bed, that he was worried that you were all growing apart, and were ungrateful for what you had,” she explained. “He had a notion that if you were all together, he could give you what he called a ‘prosy lecture’ about gratitude.” She took his hand, and set him in motion again. “Davy, the people he works with—his clients—are young, and have so little. He helps them all he can, but . . .” But I don’t quite understand this, she thought to herself. He does so much good! Why is he so unhappy?

  The dower house was still silent when they came inside, but the odors from the kitchen were not to be ignored. Without waiting to stamp off the snow upstairs, she and Davy went down to the kitchen, where his sisters were rolling dough on the marble slab. She watched them a moment, their heads together, laughing. Nothing wrong here, she thought. She looked at Davy, who was reaching for a buttery shortbread.

  She noticed that Mrs. Grey was watching her, and she took the housekeeper aside. “Mrs. Grey, there’s nothing going on at the manor. Do you know why Lord Trevor is doing this?”

  “You weren’t to know,” the woman declared.

  The room was quiet, and she knew the children were listening. The frown was back on Davy’s face, and his sisters just looked mystified. “Uncle Trevor’s been fooling us,” Davy said. “There’s nothing wrong with our home.”

  It took a moment to sink in, then Lady Janet sat down suddenly. “We . . . we could have had the Christmas entertainment? And Lysander could have come?”

  “I think so, Lady Janet,” Cecilia said. “He said he wanted everyone here in close quarters so you could all appreciate each other again.” She reached out and touched Lucinda’s arm. “But I don’t think there ever really was a problem.” She smiled at Janet. “Well, maybe a word or two in the right ear was necessary, but that was a small thing.”

  “I know I’m glad to be here now,” Lucinda said. She put her arm around her sister, then tightened her grip as her face grew serious. “I tol
d Uncle Trevor that very thing this morning, but I’m not sure he heard me.”

  “I did the same thing in the book room,” Davy said. “Told him I missed Mama, but it was all right. He didn’t seem to be paying attention.”

  Davy looked at Cecilia, his eyes filled with sudden knowledge. “Miss Ambrose, he was trying to fix us, wasn’t he? We’re fine, so why isn’t he happy?”

  It was as though his question were a match struck in a dark room. Cecilia sucked in her breath and sat down on the bench, because her legs felt suddenly like pudding. She pulled Davy close to her. “Oh, my dear, I think he is trying to fix himself.”

  She knew they would not understand. She also knew she would have to tell them. “Mrs. Grey, would you please leave us and shut the door?”

  The housekeeper put her hands on her hips. “I don’t take orders from houseguests,” she said.

  Janet leaped to her feet. “Then you’ll take them from me! Do as Miss Ambrose says, and . . . and not a word to my uncle!”

  Bravo, Janet, Cecilia thought, feeling warmer. When the door closed with a decisive click, she motioned the children closer. “Do you know what your uncle really does? No? I didn’t think so.” She touched Davy’s face. “You have some idea.”

  He shuddered. “Those files . . .”

  “Your uncle is an advocate for children facing sentencing, deportation, and death.”

  Janet nodded, and pulled Lucinda closer to her. “We do know a little of that, but not much.” She sighed. “I own it has embarrassed me, at times, but I am also proud of him.” She looked at her sister. “I think we all are.”

  “And rightly so, my dear,” Cecilia said. “It is hard, ugly work, among those who have no hope.” She took a deep breath. “Let me tell you about Jimmy Daw.”

  She tried to keep the emotion from her voice, but there were tears on her cheeks when she finished. Janet sobbed openly, and Lucinda had turned her face into her sister’s sleeve.

  Davy spoke first. “Uncle Trevor didn’t mean any harm to come to Jimmy Daw.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Cecilia murmured. “He thought he was doing something kind.”

  “Is Jimmy Daw why he works so hard now?” Lucinda asked, her voice muffled in her sister’s dress.

  “I am certain of it,” she said, with all the conviction of her heart.

  “Then why isn’t he happy?” Davy asked, through his tears. “He does so much good!”

  Cecilia stood up, because the question demanded action from her. “Davy, I fear he has never been able to forgive himself for Jimmy’s death, in spite of the enormous good he has done since.” She perched on the edge of the table and looked at the three upturned faces, each so serious and full of questions. “He probably works hard all year, works constantly, so he can fall asleep and never dream. He probably has no time for anything except his desperate children.”

  “Father does say that when he and Mama go to London, they can never find a minute of time with Uncle Trevor,” Janet said.

  “Does he come here for Christmas?”

  “Hardly ever,” Lucinda replied. She stopped; her eyes grew wider. “He might stay a day or two, but he is always gone well before Christmas Eve. You said Jimmy died on Christmas Eve.”

  “He did.” Cecilia got up again, too restless to sit. “I don’t know what your uncle usually does on Christmas Eve, but somehow he must punish himself.” She started to stride about the room again, then stopped. “I doubt he was planning to stay, in spite about what he said of his ‘prosy lecture,’ that he could have delivered and left.”

  “He was forced to, wasn’t he?” Janet said slowly. “When Mama and Papa went to be with Amelia, he had no choice!”

  “No, he didn’t,” Cecilia replied. “I think he used the excuse of the fire to keep everyone close. My dears, I think he wants to change now—if not, he would have bolted as soon as I got here—but I think he is afraid to be alone. And that is really why we are crammed so close here.” She sat down again, dumbfounded at the burden that one good man could force upon himself.

  They were all silent for a long moment. Janet looked at her finally, and Cecilia saw all the pride in her eyes, as well as the fear. “I love my uncle,” she said, her voice low but intense. “There is not a better man anywhere, even if people of our rank make fun of him.” She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Even Lysander thinks him a fool for—oh, how did he put it?—‘wallowing in scummy waters with the dregs.’ My uncle is no fool.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Miss Ambrose, how can we help him?”

  She mulled over the question, and then spoke carefully. “I think first that he would be furious if he knew I had told you all this.”

  “Why did he tell you?” Davy asked.

  It was a question she had been asking herself for several days now. She shook her head, and started to say something, when Janet interrupted.

  “Because he is in love with Miss Ambrose, you silly nod,” she told her brother, her voice as matter-of-fact as though she asked the time of day.

  Cecilia stared at her in amazement. “How on earth . . .”

  Janet shrugged, and then looked at Lucinda, as if seeking confirmation. “We both notice how his eyes follow you around the room, and the way he smiles when he looks at you.” She grew serious, but there was still that lurking smile that made her so attractive. “Trust me, Miss Ambrose, I am an expert on these matters.”

  Cecilia laughed, in spite of herself. “My goodness.”

  “Do you mind the idea?” Lucinda asked, doubt perfectly visible in her eyes.

  Did she mind? Cecilia sat down again and considered the matter, putting it to that scrutiny she usually reserved for scholarship. Did she mind being thought well of by a man whose exploits had been known to her for some time, and whom she had admired for several years, without even knowing him? Her face grew warm as she thought of his grip on her waist as they left the smoky manor in the middle of the night. “He doesn’t even know me,” she protested weakly.

  “As to that, Miss Ambrose, I have been writing him about you,” Lucinda said.

  “You have what?” she asked in amazement.

  Her pupil shrugged. “He wanted to know if there was anyone interesting in my school, and I told him about you.” She hesitated. “I even painted him a little picture.”

  “Of me?” she asked quietly. Me with my olive skin and slanted eyes, she thought.

  “Of you, my most interesting teacher ever,” was Lucinda’s equally dignified reply. “He’s no ordinary man.”

  And I am certainly no ordinary English woman, she thought. She reached across the table, took Lucinda’s hand, and squeezed it briefly. “You are the most wonderful children.”

  Janet laughed. “No, we’re not! We probably are as selfish and ungrateful as Uncle Trevor imagines. But do you know, we aim to be better.” She grew serious and asked again, “How can we help our uncle?”

  “Leave him to me,” Cecilia said. “I know he does not want you to know about Jimmy Daw, or he would have told you long before now, Janet. How can I get time alone with him?”

  Davy was on his feet then. “Lucinda, do you remember how fun it was last Christmas to spend it in the stable?”

  “What?” Cecilia asked. “You probably needn’t be that drastic!”

  “You know, Miss Ambrose,” Janet said. “There is that legend that on the night of Christ’s birth, the animals start to speak.” She nudged her brother. “What did Davy do last year but insist that he be allowed to spend the night in the stable! Mama was shocked, but Papa enjoyed the whole thing.” She looked at her younger brother and sister. “We will be in the stable. The footman can light a good fire, and we have plenty of blankets.”

  The other children nodded, and Cecilia could almost touch the relief in the room. Precious ones, she thought, you will do anything to help your uncle, won’t you? No, you most certainly do not require fixing. “Very well,” she said. “Janet . . .” She stopped. “Oh, I should be calling you Lady Janet.”


  “I don’t think that matters . . . Cecilia,” the young woman replied. “I will make arrangements with Mrs. Grey, and we will go to the stables after dinner.” She looked at her siblings. “Cecilia, we love him. We hope you can help him because I do believe you love him, too.”

  They were all quiet that afternoon, soberly putting Christmas treats and cakes into boxes for delivery to other great houses in the neighborhood on Boxing Day, arranging holly on mantelpieces, and getting ready for their parents’ return on Christmas. After an hour’s fruitless attempt to read in the sitting room, Cecilia went for a walk instead. How sterile the landscape was, with everything shut tight for a long winter. Little snow had fallen yet, but as she started back toward the dower house, it began, small flakes at first and then larger ones. Soon the late afternoon sky was filled with miniature jewels, set to transform the land and send it to sleep under a blanket of white. She stood in the modest driveway of the dower house and watched the workers leave the manor for the final time. Some of them called happy Christmas to her. She looked at the house again, wondering why it was that the most joyous season of the year should cause such pain in some. With a start, she realized that her preoccupation with Lord Trevor and his personal nightmare had quite driven out her own longing for her family in far-off India. “Tonight, I hope I remember all the wonderful things you taught me,” she said out loud. “Especially that God is good and Christmas is more than sweets and gifts.”

  Before dinner, she went to the book room, squared her shoulders, and knocked on the door. When Lord Trevor did not answer, she opened the door.

  He sat probably as he had sat all day, staring at his case files, which Davy had alphabetized and chronologized. Everything was tidy, except for his disordered mind. When she had been standing in the doorway for some time, he looked at her as though for one brief moment he did not recognize her. She thought she saw relief in his eyes, or maybe she only hoped she did.

  “Dinner is ready, Lord Trevor,” she said quietly. “We hope you will join us.”