A Kiss for Christmas

by Caroline Linden

  3

  1812

  War made Christmas somber.

  Frederick was serving as a ensign under General Wellington in Portugal. James had been pleading to buy a commission for a year, and Grace's father had finally agreed to it; James would be off in the spring to fight Napoleon. Oliver was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, patrolling the waters in far-off Scandinavia.

  All the adults spoke anxiously of places like Salamanca and Borodino, and three young men from their small village in Hertfordshire had been killed this year alone. This year so many family members were gone, Aunt Sarah set up only one table, which was bittersweet to Grace.

  But as the roasted goose was brought out, there was a loud knock on the door. Everyone fell silent—it was ominous, that knocking—and Uncle Daniel leapt from his chair to follow the butler. He returned quickly, his face wreathed in smiles. "Look who washed ashore," he cried, and to Grace's shocked delight, Oliver stepped into the room.

  Everyone rushed to embrace him, Mr. Ford leading the way. "Only a short furlough," Oliver explained as everyone wanted to shake his hand. "I must return in a week.”

  "Then you must make the most of it!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah. "Come, we've just sat down to dinner." She motioned to the servants to shift the places around the table.

  "Oh, no, just squeeze me in on an empty corner, Lady Holkham," Oliver told her.

  And quite without thinking, Grace blurted out, "There's room next to my place."

  Oliver's blue eyes swung to her and lit up, almost as if he'd been searching for her among the crowd. "Perfect," he said. "Put me there. By Grace."

  She hid her blush by rushing to help lay the place. "Thank you," he whispered as he took the seat beside her. "If I happen to yawn, please don't tell anyone."

  "Of course not. How long was your journey?" It felt unspeakably special to share this private conversation with him, while everyone in the room was anxious to hear what had happened to him in the Navy and how he thought the war was going.

  "Two days. My captain's family is conveniently near, at Deal." He grinned. "And it's that to which I owe this furlough. I understand his wife is due to have a baby within the month and he was desperate for any excuse to come ashore for a few days."

  Grace smiled. "And much joy to them, since they've caused so much here! It's wonderful to have you home, Oliver."

  "It's wonderful to be home." He ducked his head even nearer hers. "And to see you, Grace."

  It was hard to contain the explosion of joy this statement caused inside her. With great effort she kept her poise and listened raptly as he answered everyone's questions about the Navy. But their hands brushed when she passed him the sauce boat, and he smiled at her with particular warmth, and it set her heart soaring and whirling in her chest.

  After dinner, Aunt Sarah called for dancing. "We must make a little merrier this year," she declared. "To send James on his way, and to celebrate Oliver's brief return."

  The furniture was moved aside in the drawing room and Grace's mother sat at the pianoforte to play. Willa bounced to the center of the room, pulling James with her, and Lizzie and Amelia both looked expectantly at Oliver, tall and handsome in his uniform.

  But he turned to Grace. "May I have the first set?" he asked.

  "Of—of course," she stammered.

  They danced more than once, as it happened. This evening no mother protested that it was growing late, and by the time the candles began to gutter out, even Grace's feet hurt. She sat on the sofa and discreetly toed off her slippers.

  Oliver sat with a thump beside her. "It's good to be home," he declared, "but it's also tiring!"

  Grace, who had never left home as he had done, smiled. "I'm glad you're here to be tired out dancing with all of us."

  He turned to her. "So am I." He hesitated, then laid his hand right next to hers, so their fingers just touched. "I have to leave in a few days. Grace… would you write to me?"

  The air in the room seemed to rush out, leaving her light-headed and gasping. "Yes," she managed to reply, "of course."

  His hand covered hers, only for a moment. "Thank you."

  She wet her lips. His fingers were still touching hers, Oliver's fingers, so much larger and stronger than her own. His one hand could cover both of hers. "Is it very lonely out on the ocean?"

  "It is." His mouth turned up on one side. "We might go months without sight of anything familiar, but when we get supplies and letters from home… It makes any day a good day."

  "I'll write every week," she promised.

  He laughed. "I won't get letters that often! But Grace…" He angled himself toward her, a great beaming grin on his face. "If you did, I'd treasure every one."

  4

  1816

  The war was over, and this year everyone seemed certain it would stay over.

  James came home with a scar on his face and a Waterloo medal. Grace had never seen her mother weep so loudly as the day he rode his horse back up the drive to their sprawling house.

  Grace's sisters had both married, and she and Willa were the only ones left at home. Amelia had married Squire Bennet's son on the other side of Rochester, and they came to Aunt Sarah's Christmas dinner still. Daphne lived in London, now Lady Cartwright, and she had promised Willa a season in town next year when she was seventeen. Willa, slender and beautiful, was alive with excitement. Grace, shorter and not so slender, was quiet with envy.

  She had gone to London, not for a whole Season but for a long visit to her Aunt Mary. Even though she loved it there—the museums, the concerts, the glorious theater!—she had not 'taken' in the way girls needed to take to be sent for a whole season.

  Willa, on the other hand, was vivacious and pretty and everyone agreed she could make a splendid match if given the opportunity. Grace would stay home with her books and her animals and her sketch books, while Willa would have a new wardrobe and go to London in the spring.

  As if that weren't enough to put a damper on Christmas, Oliver didn't come. He wrote to her still, but he'd been very vague about why he wouldn't be at Holkham House this year as usual. Quite aside from the fact that she was now twenty and feeling very conscious of her unmarried state, she missed him. He hadn't been to Canterbury in months.

  "He's in the Admiralty now, not free to gallivant about the country," said Mr. Ford proudly when she asked how Oliver was. "Quite invaluable to his superiors, you know." He chuckled. "And I might as well tell you—there's a pretty commodore's daughter who might have helped keep him in Portsmouth."

  Grace's mouth hung open for a full minute. "Oh," she said stupidly. "I did not know. He didn't mention her in his letters…"

  Mr. Ford's smile turned gentle, as if he suspected her heart had just suffered a blow. "I understand she's a lively one. He appears quite dazzled, but it may come to nothing."

  "Perhaps," she said numbly.

  "And there," Mr. Ford went on in his bracing but kind way. "He'll be a sorry lad when I tell him you asked about him. Always very fond of you, Miss Finch—one year he told me he wouldn't come unless I promised you would be here. He said you were the only interesting person to talk to."

  She'd tried to be interesting. She wrote to him about the birds she saw and drew in her sketchbook, of the lame rabbit she saved from a poacher and kept as a pet. She sent him a letter every week, as she'd promised years ago. But she wasn't a pretty commodore's daughter, and Oliver hadn't been home in a year.

  There wasn't much that was happy about this Christmas.

  5

  1819

  Grace did not want to go to Christmas dinner at her Aunt Sarah's house anymore.

  As of the previous September, she was the only unmarried cousin of the lot. Daphne, with her baronet husband, had two little boys, and Lizzie had a daughter. Her sister Amelia had four children now, who ran in the Holkham garden as Grace used to do with her cousins. James, George, Willa… Even Frederick had found someone to marry.

  She wasn't unmarried for lack of offers. She'd
had two—well, one reasonable offer and one that might be counted as a mercy proposal. No one had expected her to accept that, although her papa had told her he would have consented, if she’d wanted to marry the fellow.

  Her mother had been hopeful about the other one, though. His family had a very handsome property near Rochester. “You’d be but thirty miles from home, dear,” she’d told Grace hopefully.

  But Grace thought she'd rather be a spinster forever than marry Donald Brewster. He was polite but dull, and she'd never really wanted to marry someone as short as she was. Their children would be elves, she thought morosely. She'd always dreamed of someone tall… kind and friendly… even handsome, with sun-bleached blond hair and bright blue eyes…

  All right, she'd dreamed of Oliver. Since the day he tied her bootlaces so many years ago. She had expected her infatuation would fade and be supplanted by some other attraction, but it never had, no matter how desperately she had tried after hearing about the commodore's daughter in Portsmouth.

  Oliver hadn't married that girl, though, and he'd kept writing to Grace, and somehow her heart never gave up hope.

  She told herself that was enough; she was perfectly contented and resigned to being unmarried, trading letters every few weeks with the man of her dreams, even if he would never know how much she cared for him. She'd even created her own sort of employment. Two years ago she had begun selling her drawings of various animals and plants around her family home, and a professor from Oxford had come down to talk to her about illustrating his treatise on the flora and fauna of Kent after discovering her engravings in a print shop. She was not useless, even if her father described her new work as “drawing grasshoppers and daisies.” The professor was paying her, and if it went well, she might become one of those independent women with their own income and their own cottages with a cat in the window. She would be avant-garde, rather than sad and forlorn.

  Still, she didn't look forward to dinner at Holkham House.

  She walked in the door, resigned to being Aunt Grace, who could always be counted on to hold someone's baby because she had none of her own. Perhaps this year she'd start drinking when Uncle Daniel brought out his raisin-wine.

  But that idea blew away like the fat flakes of snow flurrying down outside when Oliver Ford stepped out of the drawing room.

  Her heart seized. Her feet stopped. She hadn't seen him in over a year, and he was even more handsome now than ever. He was still in the Navy, and his uniform was spotless, the braid glinting in the candlelight.

  "Grace." He bowed, an uncertain smile on his face. "I hoped you would come."

  She tried to shake off her grim mood. “I always come," she reminded him lightly. "I didn't expect to see you!" She went to meet him, hands outstretched. As always, a little charge shot up her arms as his fingers clasped hers.

  "I had to invite myself," he confided. "Lady Holkham's invitation was addressed to my father."

  She laughed. "I'm sure Aunt Sarah was delighted to add you to the party." She knew her aunt had invited him every year in the hope he might marry one of her cousins. Grace had overheard Mother tell Papa that Oliver made a tidy fortune in the war. But now all the cousins were married, so that didn't matter.

  "I suspect I threw off her numbers," he murmured. He was still holding her hands, and now he stepped back to gaze at her. "You look splendid."

  She smiled brightly even as his blue eyes made her heart twist. "Thank you. I'm trying to be splendid."

  He grinned. "Ah, I've known you're splendid all along."

  Grace tensed—what did that mean?—but he only dropped her hand and went to greet her parents. She watched him speak to her father, and tried not to sigh. She almost wished he would get married so she could stop hoping. Every time she set eyes on his strong profile, his tanned face, even the way he stood, something inside her grew warm and soft. Hopeful.

  He came back to her after a while. "Are you anxious to see your cousins and aunt and uncle?"

  Good heavens; did he know she hadn't wanted to come? "I see them frequently," she said with a forced laugh. "Lizzie's boy is getting quite tall, isn't he?"

  Oliver didn't laugh. He watched her closely, as if studying her face. Grace fell silent, nervous now. She cleared her throat. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because," he answered slowly, "I was hoping you might agree to take a walk with me in the garden."

  She blinked. "It's snowing."

  "I won't put it down your collar." He winked. "I want to talk to you."

  He knew all about the professor from Oxford and the sketches of grasshoppers and daisies. She'd written to him almost before she'd told her parents. She wrote to tell him about everything that happened to her here in this quiet little corner of Kent.

  “Talk to me about what?" she asked stupidly.

  He looked sheepish. "About… something important."

  Dread clutched at her. "Are you getting married?" she blurted out in a whisper.

  Oliver went still. He was, she knew it. Grace tried to pull free—when had he got hold of her hand again?—but he wouldn't let go.

  "Congratulations," she said, her voice wobbly.

  Oliver cursed under his breath and turned on his heel, towing her behind him out the door, through the arbor, into the garden. There he faced her. "We've known each other a long time." He waited for her wary nod of agreement. "I think we've been very good friends for at least a dozen years now."

  Again Grace nodded.

  Oliver drew a deep breath. "I have never looked forward to anything like I do to your letters, Grace. I feel like I know you, and you know me, better than anyone in the world, even my father."

  The snow picked up, and plenty of snowflakes hit her bare nape. But somehow Grace wasn't cold as Oliver, dear Oliver, her closest confidant, the object of all her romantic dreams and wishes, reached for her hand again. "I've been away in Portsmouth a long time, and I have to go back in a fortnight. But while I'm here, I would like to see you." She gasped. That dangerous, tempting grin curved his mouth. "I would like to call on you. Your father gave me his permission."

  "That's what you wanted to talk to me about?"

  He glanced at the house, then stepped closer. He leaned down until she could see every tiny fleck of gray in his blue eyes. Almost forehead to forehead, he gazed into her eyes. "No. I wanted to ask you to marry me, but your parents—"

  She flung her arms around him and kissed him. Oliver's arms closed around her and he lifted her off her feet, kissing her back. When he finally lifted his head, Grace's brain could only form one thought. "My parents don't want me to marry you?"

  He laughed. "Your father said I should call first, so we could be re-acquainted."

  She laughed, too. "But we already are." She cupped his cheek with one cold hand. "You were right—we do know each other better than anyone else. My answer is yes."

  "To which question?"

  She smiled, her heart bursting. "To all of them."

  And when he kissed her again, she didn't even feel the snow.

  A Kiss for Christmas

  A Scandals Story

  1

  Somersetshire 1790

  It was agreed by everyone in Wells that Miss Clara Hampton would marry Mr. Johnathan Mortimer, son and heir of Sir Eliot Mortimer.

  After all, it was the ideal match; Mr. Mortimer was the most eligible catch within twenty miles, and Miss Hampton was the acknowledged beauty of that same realm. He was rich and she was beautiful, and what could be more perfect?

  Clara herself was in favor of this arrangement. Her father didn’t have the wealth to sponsor a trip to London, and unlike Agnes Wilson she had no aunt in town who could invite her to visit. Clara had always known she must find someone close to home. Mr. Mortimer was thoroughly respectable, and given the dearth of men with expectations—let alone attractive ones with some wit and charm—he was the best possible choice.

  The man himself also seemed amenable to the idea. For all of last winter and spring he had s
miled at Clara, and made a point of seeking out her company at parties. He danced with her regularly and even called once at Hampton Close, although some unkind gossips pointed out that he had called on Mr. Hampton, and not Miss Hampton at all.

  Clara didn’t mind that. She knew that Mr. Mortimer had contrived to take a turn in the garden with her before seeing her father, and he had been as admiring as could be.

  All was proceeding splendidly…until it was not.

  Mr. Mortimer went away in the summer, as young men often did, to London and then to Bath. But he did not come home until late in the fall, and when he did, it soon became clear things were not the same.

  Mr. Mortimer kept to his male friends; he only rarely came to assemblies and no longer danced with anyone, including Clara. He didn’t come to call. Mrs. Hampton turned to her network of gossipy friends for intelligence, but no one had heard anything out of the ordinary. Mr. Mortimer might have had some high times in town, Mrs. Hampton assured her daughter, but he was home now, and would settle down soon.

  But the days passed and he did not.

  After three weeks of neglect, Clara’s patience ran out. She was soon to be twenty-three, and had thought herself almost engaged. They had laughed together and he had kissed her fingers and called her his dear. She was not about to sit back and allow some other girl to attach him. This year, this Christmas, she would fix Mr. Mortimer’s interest for good.

  “Someone is watching you, Clara,” teased Meredith Holliwell, in the middle of the winter ball at the assembly rooms.

  “Oh?” She smiled in pleasure. “Who is it?”

  “The tall gentleman over there,” said her cousin, giving her fan a swish in the direction. “Not Mr. Mortimer.”

  Clara hid her disappointment. She angled her head, trying to spy out who it was without turning around and attracting any notice in doing so. Merry had gestured at a cluster of gentlemen at the other end of the room. One was Johnathan Mortimer, who was—alas—not looking her way at all. Another, Mr. Hodge, was short, and one of the taller ones had his back to her.