Timeless Christmas Romance: Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “As you wish,” he said, echoing his indifference of earlier in the day. “If you need any thread, ribbons, and so on, you may send to Chester. Which reminds me, it is past time to start thinking of Christmas baskets.”

  “Christmas baskets?” Lizzie asked.

  “For all the villagers,” Richard said. “They’re good people and deserve a festive holiday. I’d like to provide each household with a ham and perhaps a goose as well, and a wheel of good cheese.”

  There was a silence, during which Edwina was sure they all pondered the shadow that had been cast over many Christmases in Rawden. How horrid to wonder, each year, whether it was now the firstborn’s time to die. She resisted the urge to glance at John and hurried to fill the lull. “How very thoughtful of you, Sir Richard. My late husband wanted to be considered a great benefactor but was selfish by nature. I had to persuade him that to appear generous, he had to be generous.”

  “We’ll send to Chester tomorrow and hope the weather holds good for the next while,” Richard said.

  “Might we give them all cakes as well?” Lizzie said. “That’s what I like best at Christmas.”

  “I wish we could, but we don’t have the staff to make and bake for the entire village,” Richard said.

  “You may be able to get fruitcakes from Chester as well,” Edwina said. “When I was married to Mr. White, I ordered cakes for all our dependents, and of course we held a Christmas feast for the entire household.”

  “We don’t have much of a household at the moment,” Richard said, and Edwina wished she had kept her mouth shut. There were ways of getting around the lack of servants, but it wasn’t a governess’s place to offer suggestions or make comparisons to previous households or do anything but remain quietly in the background. She’d hated manipulating her husband, but it was even more tedious to say nothing at all.

  “If we had the necessary help,” Richard said, “I would hold a feast for the entire village, as has been the custom for the past two hundred years.”

  Again there was a lull, during which Edwina pondered the courage of the Ballisters, who had held a feast whether the curse loomed over them or not.

  “But if no one will enter the house except the scullery maid, I don’t see how it’s possible,” Richard said.

  “I do,” Edwina blurted.

  ~ * ~

  Starting afresh wasn’t going quite the way Richard had hoped.

  Hell and damnation, he didn’t even know what he hoped for. He’d been doing his best to believe her a liar, but she’d gone so pale at the sight of John, and her voice had trembled with genuine concern, and…poof, as if a fairy godmother had waved her wand, he was besotted with her again.

  And then there was that bruise. How could he have stooped so low last night as to think her a conniving little slut who would do anything to regain his sympathy? She hadn’t come to seduce him. What a laughable notion that was. They’d been on the way to mending their fences, or so he’d thought, but she wasn’t really letting bygones be bygones—he’d seen the look on her face—and now she would rather dress in rags than accept some discarded gowns from him.

  Particularly a crimson one—but best not to think about that.

  He supposed he would have to believe wholeheartedly in the ghost now, which he didn’t want to do, as it left him—and more importantly, John―utterly at the mercy of the blasted curse. Before now, he’d retained enough skepticism to believe he could pretend to end the curse and get the same result.

  He forced a smile. “Tell us, then.”

  She had stiffened as if she regretted speaking, but now she relaxed a little and said, “Why not get the whole village involved in preparing for the festivities? They can cut greenery and bring it here, and we’ll put it up. They can cook most of the food, too—I’m sure each housewife has her specialties. You would supply the ingredients and pay them for the work, of course.” She colored again. “If that’s all right with you, Sir Richard?”

  “Of course it’s all right. It’s an excellent idea and just what we all need—a festive Christmas.” His eyes rested on John, whose nose remained firmly in his book. Involuntarily, Richard exchanged a glance with Edwina, whose concern mirrored his almost as if she were the child’s mother, not just a governess. She would make an excellent mother—or stepmother.

  Perhaps Fate had taken a hand here, and he should weigh his options, with their positives and negatives, like a sensible man. “Mrs. Cropper, come help us plan the food. Sam Teas can provide ale for wassail, and there’s plenty of wine in the cellar for punch.”

  “May we give pennies to all the children?” Lizzie asked. “And oranges! May we order those, too?”

  “Why not?” Richard said, leaping up. “I’ll get pen and paper, and we’ll make a list.”

  And if he sent for something not on that list, just on speculation…why not?

  ~ * ~

  What an orgy of list-making that was, thought Edwina, almost content as she prepared for bed. She hadn’t seen Richard so enthusiastic since the day, twelve years ago, when they had made their plan to elope. And been thwarted…

  She sighed. He seemed willing enough to let her plan the festivities, but why wouldn’t he? She was his employee—nothing more. She would do her best whilst searching for the necklace as well. She intended to enjoy this Christmas before embarking on her tedious life as a governess once again, and to ensure that Richard, his children, and the entire village of Rawden enjoyed it, too.

  That is, if no further ‘accidents’ befell John…

  ~ * ~

  How dare you think I would torment that child on purpose?

  Edwina woke abruptly to a pitch-dark room, braced for another slap. When it didn’t come, she asked, “Why can’t you simply tell me where to find the necklace?”

  I’m doing my best, you fool. Look about you, for the love of God. There’s not much time.

  “Your best is dropping a lantern on a boy’s head?” she retorted, but the ghost was already gone.

  She groaned and sat up. Look about you. Did that mean the necklace wasn’t hidden at all? Or, more likely, that by taking stock of her surroundings, she would realize where it must be?

  That sounded much too easy. She lay down again but couldn’t sleep. What if she could find the necklace, just like that? Richard would be so grateful. He might even smile as if he liked her a little.

  She stifled these unworthy thoughts and got out of bed. The love between her and Richard was dead as the fire on the hearth—deader, since she managed to light a taper on a deeply-buried coal. Very well, if she should look about herself, why not start right here?

  The floorboards were icy cold, so she donned her only pair of warm stockings and went slowly around the room. There wasn’t much to see—the bed, a chest of drawers which held her clothing, a chair over which she had draped her ugly brown stuff gown. The papered walls; the strapwork on the overmantel, its elaborate pattern much like that found in the Great Hall. A painting of a supercilious-looking man with a pair of equally superior hounds at his feet, all staring into a nondescript distance. A rather more pleasant (if excessively sentimental) painting of a little girl with a kitten. Even such a sparse room held hiding places aplenty, such as inside a hollow bedpost or a secret drawer. But none of the furnishings were more than a hundred years old, so how could the necklace be hidden there?

  She would have to search further afield. She parted the curtains slightly to look out the window. By the position of the moon, it was hours till dawn. She really should go back to sleep.

  A man came around the corner of the house, a gun over his shoulder, his shape ominous in the moonlight. Behind him padded a huge dog… She let out a breath of relief—it was only Richard and Felix.

  Richard looked up.

  ~ * ~

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that Edwina haunted his dreams, she had invaded every second of his waking life as well. He needed her help, but otherwise he must take things slowly. He already knew the pain o
f a marriage where the affection was unequal. He wished he could turn away as if he hadn’t seen her, but good manners didn’t permit that.

  Therefore, he raised a hand in greeting and then turned away, whistling to the dog to follow him.

  She opened the casement and hissed, “Sir Richard!”

  He faced her with a sigh. She leaned out the window, her curls rioting about her face. Damn it, he’d already had to deal with arousal once tonight, having woken with an insistent erection; he’d been dreaming of her. “What is it?”

  “I must speak to you.”

  “Now? It’s the middle of the night. Can’t it wait until morning?” God help him, he sounded like an old curmudgeon. Meanwhile, his cock responded like an eager eighteen-year-old boy.

  “I suppose it can,” she said stiffly. “I merely thought that since we’re both awake…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She moved as if to close the window.

  He sighed again. He had best get used to dealing with his contradictory feelings. “Come down to the kitchen. I’m about to make some tea.”

  ~ * ~

  Did he dislike her so very much? He’d sighed—twice—as if she was the last person he wanted to see. She wished he hadn’t seen her, wished she hadn’t tried to speak to him, but it was too late now. She no longer owned a wrapper to wear over her nightdress, but she couldn’t risk looking like a loose woman again after the way he’d reacted last night. Very well, she would tie her hair back in her usual severe style. That would make her look less in dishabille, and a blanket would cover her as well as any wrapper. She took one off the bed, hugged it around herself, and went downstairs.

  Richard was already heating water in the kitchen. He looked her over, his expression a mixture of incredulity and distaste. “You don’t have a wrapper to cover your nightdress?”

  She bit back a retort and said as mildly as she could manage, “I sold my last one, along with my only other gown, to help pay my coach fare.” How pitiful that sounded. Either she whined like a beggar or scolded like a shrew.

  He scowled. “I don’t understand how you came to be so impoverished. Surely you have relatives to turn to.”

  She put her nose in the air. “A few, but they are stingy and unwelcoming, and one of my uncles tried to make me his mistress.”

  Richard let out his breath on a hiss. “You mustn’t return there.”

  “I shall have no choice, once I leave here. I don’t know how long it will take to find another position, so I must save every penny I can. You needn’t look so appalled. I can take care of myself.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.” Richard turned abruptly away to tend to the fire. “Would you like tea? I can warm some milk instead, if you’re having problems sleeping.”

  “Tea is fine, thank you,” she said. Felix padded over and licked her hand. She scratched him behind the ears, thankful for his easy affection, and wiped his slobber on the blanket. Better that than on her only nightdress.

  “It’s cold out there,” Richard said, “and getting colder. Perhaps that’s why there are no treasure hunters sneaking about tonight.” He busied himself with the kettle and took out the tea chest. “Dash it all, Mrs. Cropper has locked it again. God knows why, as there’s no one here to pilfer the tea.”

  “It’s her habit,” Edwina said, “and a good one. You’ll have servants again soon.”

  “Let us hope so. I’ll be back shortly.” He took a candle and strode away, returning a few long minutes later with a ring of keys. “If you ever need to make tea in the middle of the night, the keys are on a hook behind the library door.”

  “I would never presume to take your keys without permission,” she said.

  “I just gave you permission,” he said, his exasperation clear.

  Perhaps she should get this conversation over with and go back to bed. “You’re right that the falling lantern wasn’t an attempt on John’s life.”

  Richard poured boiling water into the tea pot, swilled it about, and poured it out before glancing her way again, but he didn’t reply. He spooned tea into the pot, filled it with boiling water, and set it on the table. He fetched two sturdy earthenware cups. He set a loaf of sugar and some nippers on the table.

  “Why the change of opinion?” he asked at last.

  “Because the ghost woke me a while ago, sounding very offended. She said, ‘How dare you think I would torment that child on purpose?’”

  “It’s not the ghost who kills the heirs,” Richard said. “It’s the curse—for which, may I remind you, the ghost is responsible.”

  “In the first place, yes, but I’m sure she regrets it. And I’m not saying she didn’t cause the lantern to fall.”

  “Then what are you saying, Edwina?”

  What had she done to deserve such a chilly reception? She was only trying to help. “That she did indeed make it fall, but that she didn’t intend any harm.”

  “So what did she intend?”

  “I don’t know.” Must he be so touchy? Once again she controlled the urge to snap at him.

  He poured two cups of tea and passed one to her. He pushed the tray with the sugar and nippers across to her.

  Edwina thanked him and carefully nipped off a lump of sugar. She dropped it into the steaming tea. “Please let me tell you what else the ghost said.”

  “Go ahead,” he said flatly, and it occurred to her that perhaps he too was striving to control himself. Perhaps he wanted to snap at her, too. Contrite now, she nipped off another lump and then a third, which was too much, but she was cold and tired and so alone, and in future she mightn’t be able to take as much sugar as she wanted. Most likely Richard wished he could send her away, but he hadn’t been able to toss a destitute woman into the snow—not that there was any snow so far, thank heavens, but the principle was the same. Perhaps he felt it would be too unkind to ask her to leave immediately but regretted being stuck with her.

  She passed the sugar back to him and took a deep breath, reminding herself once again to keep to the business at hand. “I asked her why she can’t just tell me where the necklace is. She said she was doing her best, and that I should look about me.” She paused, stirring her tea. “And that there wasn’t much time.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Richard burst out. “There’s no bloody time.”

  “That’s why I wanted to speak to you immediately. It’s hard to say what she means by no time—she’s been haunting the house for over two hundred years—but it’s easier to discuss this when neither of the children are here.”

  “Is it?” he asked. She had no idea what he meant by that, but he went on as if it didn’t matter. “Doing her best, is she? And how is dropping a lantern doing her best?”

  “I asked her that, but she didn’t answer. She had already gone.”

  “How can you tell that she’s gone? In fact, how do you know she’s speaking to you at all? How do you know it’s not your imagination?”

  “Because it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. I’m just between sleeping and waking when I hear her voice, very clearly, but she never gets more than a few sentences out. I think once I’m thoroughly awake, she can’t communicate with me anymore.” Annoyed at his blank expression, she took a sip of tea, burned the roof of her mouth, and cursed in a most unladylike way. “I don’t understand why you’re so skeptical all of a sudden. A few days ago, you seemed to think the house truly was haunted.”

  “Oh, I do think it’s haunted,” he said. “As to what form the ghost takes, what she can do, whether she can communicate with the living…” He shrugged, making it utterly plain where his real doubt lay—Edwina’s veracity.

  “You’re not obliged to believe me,” she retorted, “but I am obliged to tell you what I hear.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I appreciate it.”

  How polite, but he meant it was worth nothing. She wanted to hit him, to scream and pound his chest and make him believe her. Instead, she clutched the tea cup and c
ontrolled herself.

  He stirred his tea. “If it’s your imagination, she can’t tell you where the necklace is because you don’t know where it is. If she’s really speaking to you, she can’t tell you where the necklace is because that would amount to breaking the curse, which she cannot do. I believe I have to do that.”

  She did her best to be as impartial, as detached as he, regardless of how much it hurt. “Are you saying I shouldn’t look for the necklace?”

  “No, no, I need all the help I can get. I don’t have to actually find the damned thing. I merely have to present it to my wife.”

  His wife. She tried her very hardest not to care.

  “So,” he said after a cold silence. “Dropping a lantern is doing her best, and we should look about ourselves. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing since the day I arrived here?”

  “I’m sure you have, but perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong way.” His expression was scornful, but doggedly she persevered. “Perhaps…perhaps the key to the whereabouts of the necklace is obvious, if only one can see it. Perhaps she is speaking to me because I can see the Grange with fresh eyes.”

  “Perhaps,” he said absently, rubbing his face. Obviously he thought she was wasting her time—or more importantly, his.

  Too bad—she would not give up. “I looked about my bedchamber, but nothing struck me.”

  “Because nothing in your bedchamber is old enough to be relevant.”

  “Yes, I realized that. But I shall go over the rest of the house and make an inventory of everything that is or even might be old enough.”

  “I’ve already done that.” He paused. “But go ahead. It can’t hurt to go over everything again.”

  Did he truly think to placate her this way? She glared at him, read the naked weariness on his face, and her heart twisted. How selfish of her to return always to her own pain, when he was in danger of losing his son. He was tired and discouraged, and no wonder.

  She knew an urge to hug and comfort him, but that would never do. A proper governess didn’t hug her employer, even in sympathy. She curled her fingers around the warm cup and said nothing.