Lizzie grimaced and tightened the hold on her sheet. “My mother is delighted that I will finally be married. I cannot even imagine the gossip that is even now spreading through the household—no, through the entire house-party. I started this engagement with a scandal, and it would appear that I am starting our marriage the same way. People will think I laid a trap for you. They will say that you only married to save face.”
“Nonsense! Lizzie, we started this engagement because I was a drunken fool who had lost a bet. No, do not turn away from me. Those are the facts, as vulgar and rough as they are, it is the truth. But we are not marrying because of a scandal. Lizzie, I am in love with you. I tried to tell you this last night and bungled the entire affair. Listen to me, I want to spend every moment of the rest of our lives together. Any bloody fool will be able to tell how I feel about you the moment they see us together.”
A tear slipped from her eyes and splashed against her cheek. “You really love me?”
Jack kissed the tear away and then the next one as well. “I adore you. I love you, and I am so thankful that I was that drunken fool who barged into your room and demanded that we marry. If I had not you would have gone to London with Ellie and I would have lost you forever.”
“Are you truly happy you lost that wager?” Lizzie asked.
Jack smiled tenderly at her. “Indeed, I am, which reminds me, I do believe that I have won another wager. But I do not know for sure, only you will be able to tell me for certain.”
“What is it?” Lizzie asked, brushing her hair aside.
“The first day I arrived, my father wagered that I could not win your heart before Christmas.”
Lizzie’s lips twitched. “You and your wagering. Well, I suppose I should ask, what were the odds?”
“If he wins, I have to give him my mount.”
Lizzie gasped. “Not Satan!”
Jack nodded solemnly. “Yes, I shall have to forfeit my favourite horse.”
“Well, then. That is grave news. What happens if you win?” Lizzie asked with a hint of mischief in her gaze.
Jack’s eyes twinkled as he answered, “I shall wear my father’s ruby pin to the wedding.”
Lizzie’s eyes widened. “That is a family heirloom. Your father used to get upset if we even went near it when we were children. He must have been fairly sure you would not be successful.”
Jack laughed saying, “It is more, he said I could keep it if I could win your heart. Tell me Lizzie, did I win the bet? You know that you have my heart, body, and soul. I love you, dearest.”
Lizzie bit her lip as if considering. But she couldn’t contain the broad smile that eventually overtook her face. Her eyes shone as she told him the truth of her feelings.
“I fell in love with a little boy that lived just up the lane. I thought that I had loved him my entire life. But something changed that.”
Jack paled a little. “It did?”
“I never really knew what love was. I thought that the feelings I had for you were enough, that we would make a happy marriage on my calf-love. However, I was wrong, so very wrong. Jack, I used to love the boy you were, but I did not really know you. Now, after everything that has happened, I learned something very important. I was infatuated with the boy, but I have come to find out that I am hopelessly in love with the man you have become.”
Jack couldn’t help himself, he swept her up in his arms and placed a warm kiss on her upturned lips.
It was quite a while before they met Lizzie’s parents in the breakfast room. But once they did sojourn downstairs, it was clear to all and sundry that they were a couple deeply and irrevocably in love.
Epilogue
“Tell me again, Mother. When was it that you knew you were going to marry father?”
The yule log crackled happily in the hearth as Lizzie smiled down into her daughter’s droopy eyes. “Dearest, aren’t you ready to go to bed?”
“I am not tired,” Aggie insisted as only a child of nine possible could. There was a small stain on her dress from the Christmas pudding, and her curls had lost the battle and hung in disarray about her shoulders.
It was obvious that Aggie was feeling the effects of their full Christmas day of activities. They had included services at the rectory, a large meal with family and friends, and ending with games and presents in the nursery. The massive house parties of the past had slowly changed into house parties involving families and children.
There would be eleven more days of celebrating until January 5th or Twelfth Night (Epiphany Eve). As tradition dictated, there would be a spectacular masquerade ball, with costumes, an elaborate dinner and games. At Mangrove Manor, it would also hold one additional tradition that had started with Lizzie’s attempt to end her ten-year engagement.
Ten years ago, on this day, Lizzie and Jack had been married in front of their friends and family. It had been the perfect culmination of their ten-year engagement. It was said that it had almost been indecent to watch the way that Jack had watched Lizzie as she walked down the else—positively predatory.
Their love had inspired others to choose this unusual wedding day, and so it seemed that every year they had a wedding on Twelfth Night. In a surprising turn of events, this year it would be her cousin Edward meeting the lovely Lady Diana at the altar. The story they were spreading about was something of love at first sight, but knowing Edward as well as Lizzie did, she knew there was more to the story than what they were disclosing.
Lizzie ushered the little girl forward to sit beside her on the settee. Tucking young Aggie beside her, Lizzie began to weave her story. “There once was a dashing young Viscount- “
“That was father!” Aggie interrupted.
Lizzie kissed her forehead. “You are indeed correct. This Viscount was terrified of climbing trees.”
“I beg your pardon!” Jack stood in the doorway having clearly overheard their conversation. His expression was stern, but the slight twitch to his mouth alerted Aggie to the fact that he wasn’t really angry. “I was not afraid of climbing trees!”
Lizzie’s eyes danced as she met his. “You are perfectly right. He was terrified of falling out of them.”
They all laughed, and Aggie let out a yawn that nearly dislocated her jaw.
“It’s time for you to go to bed,” Jack said as he picked up his daughter into his arms.
She readily tucked her head against his chest and whispered, “I’m so glad that mother picked you.”
Jack’s heart tightened as he looked from his precious daughter to his beautiful wife. He had often wondered through the years what might have happened if he hadn’t come to his senses. The love and laughter that they had shared together was something that had quickly become his reason for living. He knew that when he looked at Lizzie his heart shone in his eyes, and he didn’t care who saw it.
“Your mother might have picked me first,” he said gently to Aggie, “I wasn’t very bright at the age of nine.”
“Like Anthony?” she asked sleepily.
Jack’s lips twitched. “Give your brother a chance, men tend to need to grow into their wisdom.”
Aggie angled her head to reach her father’s eyes. “He used to eat dirt.”
Lizzie choked. It sounded suspiciously like she was trying to keep the laughter at bay.
Jack’s gaze went to his wife, and he cocked a brow, asking, “Was there something you wanted to add?”
Lizzie grinned at her husband. Coming to a stand, she went over to Jack who was still cradling their daughter in his arms. She pushed the tangled curls back and kissed Aggie’s cheek, saying, “It doesn’t matter who picked who first. What matters is that we choose to love each other, every moment of every day—even little boys who eat dirt.”
Aggie nodded and her eyes began to close, losing her battle with sleep.
“I’ll take her up to the nursery,” Jack whispered his eyes intent on his wife’s. “Give me ten minutes.”
Lizzie blushed, knowing full well what h
er husband’s plans would be. Her face glowed with the love she had for him as Lizzie nodded and followed her husband up the stairs.
Jack was a wonderful father and an excellent husband. These past ten years had been nothing like the one’s previous. She had spent these wrapped in the arms of the man she loved. The man she had always loved.
Lizzie knew that she would always be thankful for the Christmas holidays. With a wistful smile she reminisced. She was thankful for rum infused wassail that incited a rowdy card game that had ended with one terribly wicked wager. It was because of all these things that she had ended up stumbling into her perfect happily ever after.
She wouldn’t have had it any other way.
The End.
About S. Cinders
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Deeds Not Words
by Ashe Barker
Chapter 1
December, 1912
“Clarissa is in Holloway. Again.” Victorine sniffed her disgust and reached for the butter knife. She regarded her brother with a disapproving gaze as she slathered her morning toast. “That girl is a menace, and I hold you responsible.”
She had him at ‘Holloway’.
James narrowly avoided showering his half-sister with coffee and settled instead for a fit of helpless coughing as he fought to clear his airway. When, at last, he felt sufficiently restored to reply, he glared across the breakfast table.
“Holloway? Clarissa? What the devil for?”
“What do you think? She’s been keeping bad company, got in with those monstrous women. The ones who set fire to innocent folk’s property and attack decent, law-abiding people. We could all be murdered in our beds. The girl deserves locking up, along with the rest of them.”
“What on earth are you babbling about? Clarissa wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s too tiny for one thing. And never has her nose out of a book for another.” He checked his copy of The Times for stray coffee stains, then folded the newspaper neatly, relieved to note that he hadn’t made too much of a mess when his half-sister saw fit to drop her ridiculous bombshell. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters requiring my attention.”
He made to rise. Victorine was never especially pleasant company, but this morning she seemed more than usually waspish. James often found it difficult to credit that they had shared the same mild-mannered father.
Victorine’s mother, Sophia, had been Edmund Smallwood’s first wife. She had passed away following a particularly virulent dose of influenza when Victorine had been just seven years of age. Edmund had observed a suitable three or four years of mourning before remarrying. His second wife, Alice, was quickly pregnant, and James had made his appearance within a year of their marriage. For as long as he could remember, Victorine had bitterly resented her father’s second marriage. She made no secret of it. James’ mother had spent most of her married life dealing with the barbs and hostility hurled her way by her stepdaughter. For the most part, she managed to rise above it. She was Viscountess of Smallwood, and there was nothing Victorine could do to change that, however much she might wish to. James, too, had learned early in his life that Victorine was best avoided, and failing that, ignored. As an adult, he barely tolerated her, but blood was blood. She was his half-sister, and in truth, Smallwood Manor was her home, and she had nowhere else to go.
He gathered up his newspaper and briefly considered the sanctuary offered by his study. No, with Victorine in this mood he would do better to put more distance between them. He had not intended to go into his office today, but perhaps he might find a reason to drive into Town, after all.
But Victorine was not finished. She fixed him with one of her withering glares and continued her tirade. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly? That’s what you think. You’ve been away too long, James. While you were gadding about in America, your cousin was busy miring the lot of us in scandal. She was thrown in jail for a month last year, but it seems that wasn’t enough. This time it’s to be fourteen weeks, I gather.”
He sank back into his seat. The level of detail provided by Victorine lent an air of veracity to this preposterous tale. Could it really be…?” He raked his fingers through his hair.
“Very well. Tell me what has happened.”
“She was arrested with a bunch of others trying to set fire to the offices of Smalley and Haslewood.”
A firm of lawyers, he recognised the name. Their premises, as far as he could recall, were in Chelsea.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she does whatever that dreadful Pankhurst woman says. Besotted, she is.”
“Are you telling me that Clarissa is a member of the Women’s Social and Political Union? The Suffragettes?”
“Yes, I am. And a more violent, immoral, and lawless crowd of females I have never heard of. They are outrageous, every last one of them, quite beyond the sensibilities of decent society. How a girl of her breeding became mixed up in such wickedness I can hardly imagine, but she has. And it’s your fault.”
“My fault? And how do you arrive at that, Victorine?”
“You should have got her married off three years ago when you had the chance. Mr Rigby was keen enough, and he would have soon brought her to heel. What Clarissa needs is a firm hand, a husband who can curtail her wild ways. Mr Rigby would have been perfect.”
“He’s a brute. His current wife has left him after less than two years of marriage to return to the sanctuary of her family and is petitioning the courts for a legal separation. Clarissa did not wish to marry him.”
“What does that have to do with it? You were her guardian at the time and could have permitted the match. A spot of discipline would have done her the world of good.”
“Perhaps, at some stage, you might see fit to join the rest of us in the twentieth century, Victorine. Gone are the days of forced marriage, of treating women as though they were a piece of property. Clarissa chose not to wed Rigby, and I don’t blame her. Of course I opposed the match.”
“And now look how things have turned out. Instead of remaining at home and behaving as a young lady of this family should, involved in charitable works, perhaps, or assisting in the running of the estate, she ups and goes to London. Takes rooms on her own, and the next we hear, she’s hurling petrol bombs and attacking policemen.”
Surely Victorine was exaggerating. But—fourteen weeks? The courts must have had some cause to take serious issue with his headstrong young cousin. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Now, if you will excuse me, I really do have a busy day ahead.”
Victorine was still not done. “I want you to cut her off. See to it that when she’s released, she doesn’t come back here. I wash my hands of the girl.”
“Cut her off?”
“Yes. She is no longer a Smallwood. We will have no convicts in this household.”
“Clarissa is a Bellamy, not a Smallwood.”
“Do not split hairs, James. She is our cousin—”
“My cousin,” he corrected quietly. “Or more accurately, my second cousin since we share a maternal great-grandmother. Clarissa is nothing at all to do with you, Victorine.”
“Am I the only one with any regard at all for our family’s good name? Your dear father would be spinning in his grave if he knew the scandal that wretched girl had dragged down on all of our heads. I will not have her back here, I tell you. As long as I run this house—”
“My father had a soft spot for
Clarissa. I do not believe he would have wished to see her estranged from her family. And as I recall, he harboured a certain degree of sympathy with the cause of universal suffrage. As do I, for that matter.”
Mercifully, his remark was sufficient to render his half-sister momentarily speechless. James took advantage of the respite. He got to his feet and tucked his copy of The Times under his arm. “I will be late back. Please do not expect me for dinner.”
Moments later, he strode into his study and closed the door behind him. He blessed the decision, bitterly opposed by Victorine on the grounds that these new-fangled gadgets were liable to burn the house down around them, to have the new telephone system installed at Smallwood Manor. He picked up the handset on his desk and waited for the operator’s voice.
“Connect me to Camden two-four-one,” James instructed, then waited impatiently for the call to be answered.
“Good morning. You are through to the offices of Roundhill, Barclay, and Jute, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.” The receptionist’s cultured tones sounded tinny across the telephone system, but James had no complaints. He was too appreciative, and still a little in awe of this new device which enabled him to speak to his lawyer thirty miles away without making an appointment and trekking halfway across London.
“This is James Smallwood. I need to speak to Roger Roundhill, please.” He didn’t bother to mention his title. James, Viscount Smallwood of Rotherdene, was well-known at Roundhill, Barclay, and Jute.
“I’m afraid Mr Roundhill is with another client, Lord Smallwood. Perhaps I could take a message?”
“This is urgent. Get him on the line. Now.” James growled, his usual courteous manner strained to breaking point.
Moments later there was a crackle, then, “James? What’s the matter?”
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