Respect for Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  “She’ll be hungry,” Isabel said, wiping her fingers on a towel. “Give her to me, and you can finish this orange. So will you go to services with us on Sunday?”

  Isabel put the child to the breast while Henrietta took up stabbing cloves into the thick rind of the orange.

  “I don’t know about attending services. I think so. I’ll scandalize the entire congregation.”

  “If they can’t muster a bit of warm-heartedness at Christmas, then they’re not much of a congregation, are they?”

  “I wasn’t much of a courtesan,” Henrietta said, wondering why she’d taken ten years to realize this. “Papa never bade me come home, I was ruined, and I simply didn’t know what else to do.” And there Beltram had been, just full of suggestions and bank drafts, when it was clear that a life in service would mean more Beltrams who wouldn’t bother to pay for the favors they sought.

  Henrietta was abruptly glad Michael had pitched the bloody book into the fire.

  “You’re home now,” Isabel said. “That’s a start. I didn’t realize Thad had taken the sleigh over to Philip’s.”

  Henrietta went to the window, because the rhythmic jingle of bells heralded a conveyance coming up the drive.

  Not Michael.

  “It’s Papa, driving himself, and both Thad and Philip are with him. He’ll catch his death if he doesn’t wear a scarf in this weather.”

  Papa was coming to call at a house where Henrietta dwelled. She did not know what to feel, and now, unlike the past ten years, her feelings mattered. Did she want to see her father when he was being such a pestilential old curmudgeon?

  Did she care that he’d come to call on a house where she dwelled just days after waving her on her way?

  “You’ll have to see to him,” Isabel said with a glance at the baby. “Izzy does not care for the company of her grandpapa, and the squire doesn’t think to lower his voice around a small child. He walks into the room and she fusses. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  Voices and heavy footsteps sounded in the hall above.

  “Henrietta Eloisa! I know you’re here because your coach yet sits in the carriage house at the livery. Show yourself this instant and prepare to go calling with your family!”

  “Has he been drinking?” Henrietta muttered, gathering up her shawl. “I cannot tolerate an intemperate man.”

  “He never drinks to excess. Go see what he wants, and recall that it’s Christmas, Henrietta. Dredge up some charity for a lonely old man, because when you leave here, the rest of us have to put up with his moods and demands.”

  “You don’t have to, actually,” Henrietta said, taking a moment to arrange her shawl before starting for the stairs at a decorous pace. “You never did.”

  * * *

  Michael closeted himself in the library—the last place Henrietta had kissed him—but he couldn’t focus on work. He’d written to Beltram, one sentence informing his lordship that the book had been destroyed by fire before Michael’s very eyes.

  Had Michael’s future with Henrietta been destroyed as well?

  The door opened, revealing Michael’s butler. “You have callers, my lord. Squire Josiah Whitlow and company. I put them in the family parlor because it’s the only one with a fire.”

  Wright’s words held reproach, for a proper lord would expect callers at the holidays and keep the formal parlor heated for the vicar and the second parlor toasty for the neighbors.

  “Thank you, Wright,” Michael said, turning down his cuffs and shrugging into his coat. “Please send up a tray on our best everyday service with a few biscuits or some shortbread. Did the squire bring his sons?”

  “He did, sir.” Wright bowed and withdrew on a soft click of the door latch. Wright would have made a good spy, except a palpable air of consequence enveloped him whether he was polishing the silver or lining the staff up to welcome Michael home.

  Back to Inglemere—not home.

  Perhaps Squire Whitlow was visiting for the purpose of calling Michael out, which occasion would necessitate the presence of the sons, who’d serve as seconds. Hardly a holiday sentiment, calling on a man on Christmas Eve to announce an intent to end his days.

  Would Henrietta care? Other duels had been fought over her, but she was retired, and the last thing Michael wanted was to give her more cause for upset.

  Then too, Michael was a baron now, and strictly speaking, a titled man did not duel with his social inferiors. He paused for one fortifying moment outside the parlor, then made a brisk entrance and stopped short.

  “Mr. Whit… low.”

  Michael remained in the doorway, gawping like an idiot, for Henrietta graced his family parlor. She was resplendent in yards of purple velvet with red trim. Her father and brothers were so many drab grouse compared to her, none of them looking particularly comfortable to be paying this call.

  Michael was pleased. Cautiously pleased.

  “Welcome to you all,” he said. “Squire, introductions are in order.”

  The squire cleared his throat, harrumphed, then stood very tall. “Henrietta, may I make known to you Michael, Lord Angelford, who has taken possession of Inglemere since last you bided in Amblebank. His lordship paid a call on me yesterday, hence our neighborly reciprocity of his gesture. My lord, I make known to you my daughter, Henrietta, and her two brothers, Philip and Thaddeus Whitlow. You can thank the mighty powers that my grandchildren did not accompany us, else they’d be climbing your curtains and breaking yonder porcelain vase by now.”

  Whitlow had introduced her with all appropriate decorum, even knowing Michael was not a stranger to Henrietta.

  The strategy was brilliant, did Whitlow but know it.

  “Miss Whitlow,” Michael said, taking the lady’s hand and bowing. “I am honored by your company.” He bowed in turn to Philip and Thad, who were younger versions of the squire. The tray soon arrived, and much to Michael’s surprise, the squire carried the conversation.

  He inquired regarding crops and tenants, drainage—ever a fascinating subject to the English gentry—and game. Henrietta presided over the tea tray with perfect grace but added little to the conversation.

  What did it mean that she’d come to call? Was her family treating her well, and how could Michael find five minutes alone to ask her if she’d forgiven him?

  He’d watched every crumb of shortbread disappear down the gullets of the Whitlow menfolk and was about to embark on a discourse regarding the construction of a ha-ha bordering a hayfield—about which he knew not one damned thing—when Wright interrupted again.

  “More callers, my lord, and I hesitate to bring bad tidings, but they’ve children with them. Noisy children.”

  “Healthy lungs on a child are always a cause for rejoicing,” Squire Whitlow said. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he went on, waving a hand at Wright. “Get us another tea tray with plenty of biscuits and show the visitors in. You’re in the household of a baron, and company will be a constant plague.”

  “Wright,” Michael said, rising. “Who are these callers?”

  “Your sisters, my lord. All of them. With all of their children, and a husband or two, if I’m not mistaken. Cook will have an apoplexy.”

  His sisters? All of them? And the children and the husbands?

  The cautious joy blooming in Michael’s heart lurched upward to lodge in his throat. “Make them welcome, Wright, or I’ll sack you on Christmas Day. You will make my family welcome, no matter how much noise they bring, or how many vases they break.”

  Wright bowed very low—though not quite low enough to hide a smile—and withdrew.

  “Shall we be going?” Philip Whitlow asked, rising. “Your lordship’s apparently quite busy with visitors today, and we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”

  “My friends are always welcome here,” Michael said, and he was smiling too, because now—finally—Henrietta was looking straight at him and appearing very pleased with herself.

  Or possibly, with him?
/>   * * *

  Michael did not look well-rested, but neither was he being the unapproachable lord. As Papa bleated on about ditches and boggy ground, Henrietta considered that Michael Brenner might be a shy man. She liked the idea and, as she watched Michael draw both Thad and Philip into the discussion, admitted that she liked Michael as well.

  What’s more, Papa liked him.

  “I’ll suggest we remove across the hall to the library,” Michael said, “lest the size of the company exceed the capacity of the parlor. My nephews can be rambunctious.”

  “So can mine,” Henrietta said, offering Michael her hand. Her brothers looked surprised, but then, her brothers had been indulged by wives who’d let manners lapse amid the exigencies of domestic bliss.

  Michael’s grasp was firm, but fleeting. “You’ll find the library a little lacking in warmth,” he said, aiming his comments at Henrietta. “But the room could be gracious with a little attention.”

  His library was lovely, though his desk was a bit untidy, as if he’d tried and failed a number of times to write a difficult letter. Henrietta was wandering about, trying to casually work her way to the desk when a herd of small children galloped into the library.

  “I get the ladder!” one boy yelled.

  “First on the bannister!” another cried.

  “I get the bannister,” a small girl called, elbowing one of the boys in the ribs.

  “Reminds me of you lot,” Papa said, taking some book or other from Henrietta’s hands, while Michael went to the front door to greet his sisters. “That man is in love with you, Henrietta. Properly head over ears. I had to see it for myself, and he did not disappoint. If you show him the least favor, he’ll make you his baroness.”

  Papa’s words were offered beneath the pounding of a dozen small feet up the spiral staircase in the corner of Michael’s library. His lordship rejoined the group in the library, bringing four laughing, chattering sisters with him and two much quieter men.

  Pandemonium ensued, with children sliding down the spiral bannister, mamas and papas clucking and scolding, Philip and Thad putting a boy each on their shoulders to reach the higher shelves, and Papa—Papa?—presiding over the bowl of rum punch on the sideboard.

  “You come with me,” Henrietta said, taking Michael by the hand. “We’re seeing to more refreshments.”

  He came along docilely—brilliant man—while one of the girls snatched Henrietta’s serving of punch and nipped up the steps with it.

  “My sisters have come to call,” Michael said. “I’ve been hinting and suggesting for weeks, but they never acknowledged my overtures. Now they’re here, and all I want is to see them off so I can have more time with you.”

  “Where’s the formal parlor?” Henrietta asked.

  “Two doors down, to the right. My staff has doubtless lit the fire there, because they’re certain the vicar will soon be joining the riot that passes for my household at present.”

  Henrietta escorted Michael to the formal parlor, a lovely room full of gilt chairs upholstered in pink velvet, thick carpets, an elegant white pianoforte, and a pink marble fireplace.

  “The quiet,” Michael said as Henrietta closed the door. “Just listen to the quiet.”

  The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth, though Henrietta could feel her heart pounding against her ribs too.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “I don’t like that you stole my book, Michael Brenner. You should have asked me for it.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets, though the parlor was cozy. “Would you have given it to me? I was a stranger to you, a man you had no reason to trust.”

  “Then you should have taken the time to earn my trust.”

  “I should have, and I am profoundly sorry I didn’t. I behaved badly, but Henrietta…”

  From the library came the happy shrieks of children loose for the first time in their uncle’s home. The sound nearly broke Henrietta’s heart, though at least Michael’s family had come, however dubious their timing.

  “But what, Michael?”

  He put his hands behind his back and approached her. “I do not regret the intimacies I shared with you. I can’t, and I never will. If I’d approached you as Beltram’s negotiator, bargaining that book away from you with coin, charm, or threats, would you ever have allowed me close enough to become your lover?”

  She’d wondered the same thing. “I don’t know.”

  He stepped away, and the silence grew to encompass Christmases past, future, and all the years in between. Without Michael, those Christmases would be terribly lonely, even if Henrietta became the doting aunt and spinster daughter her family now invited her to be.

  A revelation, that.

  “I do know,” Henrietta said, “that I treasure those moments shared with you too. I should have thrown that book in the fire years ago, but hadn’t the courage. I wouldn’t be here, calling on you, if my father hadn’t kidnapped me and demanded I accompany him on a holiday call, as a proper daughter ought. He’s gone daft.”

  “He’s apologizing, in his way. He and I had a frank talk the day after you left his household. Will you accept his apology, Henrietta?”

  “You and Papa had a frank talk? What did you and he have to talk about?”

  One corner of Michael’s mouth lifted. “I wanted to ask him if I could pay you my addresses, but the topic didn’t come up. I was too busy lecturing him.”

  Henrietta sat on the nearest reliable surface—a tufted sofa. “There’s too much pink in this room.”

  “Then redecorate it,” Michael said. “May I sit with you?”

  “You wanted to ask Papa if you could court me? You’re a baron, and I’m a…” A woman in love, among other things. Henrietta patted the place beside her. “This is all very sudden.”

  “This is all ten years too late.” Michael came down beside her and took her hand. “Can you forgive me, Henrietta? I have wronged you, but I also hope I’ve nudged things with your family in a better direction. I couldn’t think what else to do.”

  Michael had had a talk with Papa. Henrietta shuddered to think what that conversation had entailed, but Papa had introduced her not an hour past as a proper young miss, which she most assuredly would never be again.

  “Whatever you said,” Henrietta replied, “it opened a door that all of my wrenching and wrestling couldn’t budge. Papa and I will never get back the last ten years, but you’ve given us the years to come, and that’s miracle enough.”

  Michael’s grip on her hand was loose and warm. “You’ll allow me to court you?”

  Henrietta didn’t fly into giddy raptures, though she was tempted to. Ten years ago, she might have. Michael apparently didn’t expect giddy raptures, and that made up her mind.

  “Papa has the right of it,” she said. “You will court me, right down to asking his permission before he leaves here today. You’ll walk out with me, when the weather moderates.”

  “And join your family for Sunday dinner,” Michael said. “Sunday dinners are very important.”

  “I’ll get to know your sisters—I wrote to them, by the way.”

  He kissed her knuckles. “You put them up to this invasion?”

  “You looked so lonely and they hadn’t had a formal invitation, only hints and suggestions. They were waiting for the great baron to do the pretty, never having had a great baron in the family before.”

  “Thank goodness you came along to translate the brother into the baron, then. Will we cry the banns?”

  This discussion was so odd, and so right. This was two people discussing a shared future, not an arrangement. This was solving problems, forgiving, loving, and moving forward, not choosing jewelry or signing a lease on a love nest.

  This was what a happily ever after in the making looked like.

  “We’ll decide whether to cry the banns or use a special license if you propose,” Henrietta said. “First, you must have permission to court me.”

  “No,” Michael said, tak
ing her in his arms. “First, I must kiss you, then I must gain permission to court you—provided you’re willing?”

  Henrietta kissed him with all the willingness in her, and not a little stubbornness, along with heaps of gratitude and bundles of hope. Desire was making the list just as the door flew open, and a small red-haired girl pelted into the room.

  “Can I hide in here?”

  “You may,” Michael said. “But only for a short while. I’ll need this room for a private chat with Miss Whitlow’s father.”

  The child darted behind the sofa. “Good! Don’t tell anybody I’m here.”

  So it came to pass that Michael asked Squire Whitlow for permission to court Henrietta while one of Michael’s nieces giggled and fidgeted behind the sofa. Henrietta fidgeted in the library—but did not giggle—until her Papa returned from the formal parlor to offer her a cup of punch from the nearly empty bowl on the sideboard.

  “He’ll do, Henrietta,” Papa said. “The fellow’s besotted, worse even than I was with your mama. Don’t make him wait too long, please. A man’s dignity matters to him.”

  “So does a woman’s,” Henrietta said. “I want to be married in spring, with my family all around me, and Michael’s family too. You’ll give me away?”

  Michael returned to the library, a little girl carried piggyback. “Nobody found me!” she cried. “I won!”

  Michael found me, and I won too.

  “Of course I won’t give you away,” Papa replied. “I’ll walk you up the church aisle, but don’t ever expect me to let you go again.”

  He passed Henrietta his serving of punch so she held two nearly full cups, kissed her cheek, then crossed the library to pluck the child from Michael’s back.

  Michael joined Henrietta and took one of the cups of punch from her. “If the squire made you cry, I’ll thrash him, and I will not apologize for it.”

  “He made me cry, but don’t you thrash him, not for that.”

  The children were thundering out of the library, every bit as loudly as they’d arrived, and mamas and papas were calling for wraps and finishing servings of punch. A game of fox and geese was being organized, and nothing would do but Uncle Michael must referee.