Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

by Scarlett Scott

  And then, neatly, and quietly, Hugo crumpled to the floor, disappearing into merciful oblivion.

  Chapter 15

  Sunshine sparkling on a carpet of snow was one of the most beautiful sights Charity had ever seen as she looked through the window of her attic room for the last time while Emily laced her into her dress.

  She heard Madame’s heavy tread on the stairs and turned, but for once her body did not go rigid with fear.

  “Ma cherie, you are a picture of purity!” Madame swept forward and, for the first time in Charity’s adult life, she was embraced in a motherly hug. “I knew this day would come! That you would be my first real success!”

  “You did?”

  Madame nodded as she occupied herself with tweaking the folds and ruffles of Charity’s exquisite wedding gown.

  “From the moment I saw the love between you and Mr Hugo, I knew you’d be my first girl to step directly from my establishment and into the arms of society.”

  Charity didn’t want to suggest that Madame was reviewing the past year through rose-coloured glasses. There had been many times Charity had feared Madame was about to sell her to the highest bidder.

  “Even when Mr Hugo didn’t write for more than six months and Charity had not a bean to live on?” Emily asked as she arranged Charity’s curls, emboldened, clearly, by Madame’s unusually expansive mood.

  “I’ll admit I harboured doubts about Mr Hugo. Not his fidelity, for my dears, I have never seen a young man more desperately in love. Why, I believe he’d even give up his art for you, Charity.”

  “But his art is what saved Charity,” said Emily between a mouthful of hair pins.

  “No.” Charity shook her head. “Hugo’s love did that.”

  She remembered, with emotion, that extraordinary night when Cyril had escorted her to the launch of Hugo’s book.

  When her father had stood on stage, surrounded by paintings and drawings Hugo had created — not just of Charity, but scenes of daily life in India, sweet vignettes of the children, and exquisite pictures of sunsets — she’d never felt prouder.

  That is, until the man she’d never called anything other than Mr Riverdale, the man whose zeal and enthusiasm she admired, whose kindness — not apparent, initially — she’d come to appreciate, had publicly acknowledged her.

  She’d never forget the sense of unreality she’d felt as he paused, indicated Hugo’s paintings, then said to a hushed audience, “It is to this young artist, who cannot be here tonight, that I owe the greatest debt. Not just because early indications suggest that this book will be Riverdale & Son’s greatest commercial success. But because Mr Hugo Adams’ talent has reunited me with someone I had thought lost to me forever. Someone I have grown to love, very dearly. Someone I might never have seen again had his drawings not revealed the identity of…”

  Charity’s pulse had quickened when she heard this. She’d bitten her lip until she tasted blood, releasing her pent-up breath in a cry of disbelief when he’d finished, “my beautiful, kind, ever-forgiving long-lost daughter, Charity.”

  Her body still thrummed with the extraordinary joy of being accepted by her father and being reunited with her lover. Within minutes. Certainly, those few moments had had their problems but, if nothing else, her father had proved himself a magician when it came to turning a potentially disastrous moment of confrontation and sensation into a moment that seemed to have cemented the adoration of a hitherto merely curious and admiring public.

  He’d also artfully whitewashed Charity’s past.

  “Ah, Charity, mon petit chou! You are a sight for sore eyes. Are you ready?”

  Charity nodded at Madame, her hand on the older woman’s arm as she was led towards the establishment’s secret entrance, via a staircase and tunnel that went beneath the cobbled street and exited from an innocuous row of dwellings where Charity knew her carriage would be waiting.

  Indeed, there was Cyril beside the handsome equipage, his reception full of admiration.

  “You look like an angel. Or a princess.” He swept his arm wide. “Can you hear them singing about you and Hugo?”

  Charity put her head on one side to listen to the pure notes of a group of carollers, children mostly, standing just across the road, singing Joy to the World. They’d reached the third verse and the words spoke to her heart:

  “No more let sins and sorrows grow,

  Nor thorns infest the ground;

  He comes to make His blessing flow

  Far as the curse is found,

  Far as the curse is found,

  Far as, far as the curse is found.”

  “Joy to the world,” Charity repeated, thoughtfully, as she put her foot on the bottom of the carriage steps. “I hope you’re feeling it, too, Cyril. And that your jaw isn’t too sore.”

  “Oh, Hugo was too sick and weak to do much damage,” he said, carelessly, touching the spot where Hugo’s fist had collected with his face three weeks earlier. “Which is just as well. Now that he’s quite recovered, I can see that Mabel might have been peevish if I’d spoiled the wedding photographs for her.”

  “Mabel could never be peevish. She’s too nice for that!” said Charity with a laugh, thinking how marvellous it was that she’d be able to publicly attend Cyril’s wedding in two weeks’ time with Hugo. They’d decided to delay their own wedding trip for the event.

  “And much too nice for me since she’s forgiven me everything. I really don’t deserve her.” He was suddenly too serious for Charity’s liking when Charity felt close to bursting with happiness.

  “Everything?” she asked playfully with arched eyebrow.

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I admitted to the gambling and the cheating. Only on two significant occasions, I might add, though I was guilty of a few threats, having learned early how to make others afraid of me when, really, I was no threat at all. Father was a good model.” With a rueful smile, he added, “The only part I haven’t told her was about Rosetta. And, really, I was paying Rosetta to help me be what Mabel would want. You won’t tell her? Mabel, I mean?”

  Charity laughed at his alarm. “I shall tell no lies but I shall not volunteer anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Now, the carollers have moved on and there’s nothing keeping us here. I suggest it’s time I meet my father if he’s to get me to the church in time. Hugo might think I’m not coming and decide to go away again.”

  For the third time in five minutes, Hugo glanced at his timepiece.

  Cyril patted him on the shoulder. “She hadn’t changed her mind when I saw her half an hour ago.”

  “You definitely deposited her safely with her father?” Hugo couldn’t remember feeling this agitated, ever.

  “I did. And he was as excited as she was at the prospect of coming here.”

  “She was excited?”

  Cyril rolled his eyes. “Lord, Hugo, but you always were exasperating.”

  “Hush! I think she’s here!”

  Hugo twisted his neck, tingles of excitement shooting through his extremities as the door opened and the organ began to play. The church was filled to capacity, but he barely glanced at the rows of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who were here for what had been touted as the most intriguing and anticipated event of the season.

  Two people who were not in attendance, and who would not be missed, were Hugo’s father and uncle.

  Mr Riverdale had not shied away from citing their cruelty towards son and nephew as the reason for denying the two young lovers what they longed for and what they deserved. He’d woven their roles into a tale that tugged at the heartstrings and, with its virtuous heroine, talented, driven and hard-done-by hero, together with the evil, controlling, manipulative relatives, made excellent news copy.

  Didn’t the public love a reason for displaying strong emotion, whether love or disapproval? No, Septimus and Thomas Adams would not have been welcome in church that day.

  Hugo held his breath as Charity stepped into the church,
at first a dark, mysterious figure with the sunlight at her back. A snippet of competing song made his ears prick up. A band of carollers was singing Joy to the World, and his heart swelled before the door closed behind Charity and her father, and Charity became, in the dim light of London’s most fashionable church, a figure of breathtaking poise and beauty as she slowly progressed up the aisle on her father’s arm.

  A young woman whose smile radiated all the love and forgiveness and goodness that was the essence of her being.

  That was what had sustained him through the long, empty year he’d been away from her.

  Briefly, he gripped her hand. “You waited for me.” His voice felt hoarse with emotion.

  “I never doubted you’d be back to keep your promise,” she whispered as she settled herself at his side in front of the parson who cleared his throat, ready to begin the ceremony that would bind them together, forever, as husband and wife. “And a year early, too.” She gave his hand one last squeeze before dropping it, adding the words that reflected the sentiments that had sustained him through such pain and hardship.

  “Though I’d have waited a lifetime.”

  THE END

  Chistmas Charity is book 5 in my Fair Cyprians of London series about a group of enterprising young women enticed through trickery or desire to work for a high-class London House of Assignation in the 1870s. I hope you enjoyed it!

  Thank you again for reading this ‘early eyes’ copy of Beverley’s work.

  Do you have a moment to leave a review? (It’s the best Christmas gift you can offer any author.)

  Find this story within the Once Upon a Christmas Wedding boxed set on Goodreads.

  From mid-October, we’d also love your review on Amazon and/or Bookbub.

  About Beverley Oakley

  Beverley Oakley an Australian author who grew up in the African mountain kingdom of Lesotho, emigrated to South Australia when she was young, and married a Norwegian bush pilot she met while managing a safari lodge in Botswana’s Okavango Delta.

  Beverley writes historical romance laced with mystery, scandal and intrigue. She lives north of Melbourne (overlooking a fabulous Gothic lunatic asylum) with the same gorgeous Norwegian husband, two daughters and a rambunctious Rhodesian Ridgeback.

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  Highland Yule

  A MacLomain & MacLauchlin Hogmanay Tale

  Prologue

  Coastal Argyll, Scotland

  Late December, 1345

  “’Tis all right, laddie.” Rona rubbed her horse’s neck and tried to calm him as they trudged through the wind and snow. “’Tis but a storm, Torin. Nothing ye havenae conquered before, aye?”

  “Aye,” her first-in-command Aaron grumbled, his wary eyes to the dark woodland. “Whilst in battle, lass. This that comes is stealth rather than a fair fight.”

  “Dinnae scare the lass,” Aunt Brighid chastised then shot Rona a grim look that spoke volumes.

  She did, in fact, very much need to worry.

  Someone lurked beyond.

  Raised to defend herself, Rona gripped the hilt of her dagger and scanned the forest. They had come across little strife on their travels from the Sinclair’s holding to MacLomain Castle, but that was just pure luck. Staying true to Scotland’s Auld Alliance with France, the majority of their countrymen were off fighting alongside King David II against England. This left Scotland more vulnerable to miscreants than ever.

  Nevertheless, she wanted to go home for Hogmanay. Even if her betrothed Bróccín would not be there to marry her. She wanted to be amongst kin again. To at last visit her beloved’s grave and say goodbye.

  If they made it home alive.

  Blade at the ready, Aaron’s bushy white brows furrowed. He lifted his hand a mere fraction. That was the signal. Someone lurked in the woodland. They must ready themselves to fight. Rona unsheathed her blade and looked at her aunt. Aunt Brighid nodded, her own dagger at the ready too.

  Seconds later, the forest exploded with activity. They were under attack. Trying to remain calm, she shifted Torin closer to Brighid’s horse and kept her weapon in hand, but it all happened so fast.

  Cries rang out.

  Weapons clashed.

  Blood spattered across the white snow.

  “No,” Rona screamed when she was torn off her horse.

  “Dinnae move, lass,” came a gruff voice against her ear.

  She was dragged backward with a knife to her throat. Worried about the others, she struggled to see through the driving snow.

  Was Brighid all right?

  Torin?

  Aaron?

  Suddenly, a grunt resounded behind her, and the man holding her vanished. Losing her balance, she stumbled back before she fell and hit her head.

  She blinked, trying to see clearly, but everything grew blurry then dimmed.

  Moments later, all swirled away, and darkness consumed her.

  Chapter 1

  “She’s stirring,” came Aunt Brighid’s relieved voice from her left. “Just now. I saw it. Her eyelashes fluttered.”

  “It could be she but dreams,” Aaron grumbled from off to her right. “Ye’ve a way of seeing what ye want to see, lass.”

  “Och, nay, I saw what I saw,” Brighid assured. “Our lassie is coming to.” A cool hand touched her forehead. “She doesnae have a fever. That is verra good.”

  “She hasnae had a fever since he brought her here,” he reminded. “So I dinnae know why ye keep looking for one.”

  Who brought her where? Rona struggled to open her eyes but remained immersed in darkness. Not the best place to be when Brighid and Aaron bantered. They could drive a person mad. She knew the source of it, though. The two had loved each other for years but knew naught how to express it beyond bickering.

  “See, she just fluttered her lashes again,” Brighid exclaimed. “Clear as day.”

  “I didnae see a thing,” Aaron admonished. “She’s as still as dew on morning grass.”

  “Still as dew on grass?” Brighid snorted. “’Tis not still if ye’re trompin’ through it.”

  “And I am nae stompin' through it,” he huffed, “so ‘tis, in fact, verra much still.”

  “And what of the wind blowing the grass?” Brighid scoffed. “It moves the grass and in turn the dew so ‘tis not still then, aye?”

  Please, let her wake up. Or at the very least slumber. Anything but this. The good Lord knew they could go on for hours. In answer to her prayers, a third very masculine voice came to her rescue.

  “Ye should let the wee lass rest, aye?”

  “And ye shouldnae be in here,” Brighid chastised. “’Tis indecent.”

  “No more indecent than getting her undressed and into my bed.”

  Undressed?

  His bed?

  Who was he?

  “Och,” Brighid muttered. “’Twas most certainly indecent, Laird MacLauchlin.”

  Oh, no. Not MacLauchlin Castle. But how could the chieftain be here? The last she knew he and his two brothers were off to war.

  “I am nae laird,” the man replied gruffly. “But his cousin.” He set something down beside her. “Ma mixed a concoction and wants Rona to drink it upon awakening.”

  Cousin? Her betrothed Bróccín had been the chieftain’s cousin.

  But then so was his older brother.

  Could it be? Had he returned? Was he here?

  As if he reached into the darkness and yanked her out, her eyes shot open. She blinked several times and focused on the man standing beside her. The curtains were drawn, and only a few candles burned, but she could see him clear enough.

  Colmac.

  Tall and broad shouldered, he was even more handsome than she reme
mbered. His dark hair was interwoven with small braids and his strong chin lightly bearded. His thickly lashed sea green eyes still possessed quiet wisdom yet now, not surprisingly, sadness haunted them. He had adored his younger brother. Though it had been nigh on a year now, she suspected like her, he still mourned.

  “She is awake,” he said softly. His gaze lingered on her for a moment then he strode out with a slight limp, saying over his shoulder, “See that she drinks ma’s concoction.”

  No, ‘hello, how are ye? It has been too long,’ but then that was Colmac, wasn’t it?

  Once upon a time, she had fancied herself in love with him. She’d been good friends with both he and Bróccín. Colmac, however, made her heart race the older she got, stirring longings with nary a touch.

  He was also the one who eventually paid her no mind and barely glanced her way.

  Bróccín, as it turned out, did the very opposite.

  “Ah, indeed, the laird is right, she is awake!” Ever the mother hen, Brighid fussed with Rona's blanket, needlessly tucking it around her here and there. She tossed Aaron an I-told-you-so look then beamed at Rona, her plump cheeks rosy. “How do ye fare, dear one?” She waved her hand in front of Rona’s face. “Can ye see well enough?” She glanced heavenward and shook her head, tittering along. “Ye took a mighty fall, but by the grace of God, ‘and some braw fightin' men,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth, “ye’re still with us!”

  Since Rona’s parents died when she was young, Aunt Brighid had treated her like the child she never had. A kindly sort with a tendency toward gossip and a wee bit of a temper on occasion, Brighid had always been there for her. Not just during the years Rona remained at MacLomain Castle after losing her parents but the last four winters at Sinclair Castle.