The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

  She didn’t see at first. Then suddenly she did.

  At the far end of the lake a walkway led into the gardens. Some whim of a long-ago gardener had shaped the trees into a row of arching branches. The drifts against the enclosing walls and arcs of snow held by the branches made the walkway into the shape of a perfect heart.

  “Only from this spot,” Nick said. “Only in the winter snow, only sometimes, you can see that. I hoped today might be one of those days.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Nice in summer, too. Will you marry me? Will you come back here with me someday and walk through the gardens in June or July?”

  One last time. One last time she’d try to make him see reason. “We don’t match. Merchant and aristocrat.”

  “No woman in the world is a better match.” He took up her left hand and held it to his right, palm to palm. “Perfect. All we have to do is hold on to each other.”

  “Don’t say that.” Because it was what she felt.

  “If you love me, we’ll launch ourselves into this great hazard.” He took her shoulders, drew her close to him. “We’ll grab the world by the scruff of the neck and make them accept us.”

  She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t make her face show anything but the truth. She whispered, “I want you.”

  “Will you take the risk? Make a life we can share?” He smiled one of his long, slow smiles. “A bed we can share?”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  His careful, knowledgeable fingers twined into her hair. His thumbs caressed the planes of her cheeks, memorizing skin and bone, speaking to her with persuasion and demand. He kissed her forehead. These were the first notes of the prelude to something he did very well indeed.

  “We won’t have an ordinary life,” he said. “Not a quiet one. We’ll solve these little problems England gets herself into, and you will buy and sell and make art of the great jewels of the world. We’ll see ballrooms and the courts of kings, bazaars, the shops of your merchant friends. Maybe even visit a seedy back alley or two.”

  “I would consider it a very dull life without the occasional back alley.” She had so much to look forward to, not least the strong, sleek body she pressed against.

  He’d sneaked his overcoat around her while they were talking. She was warm inside it, with him. So she snuggled close.

  He said, “I can’t give you that heart-shaped diamond filled with fire, alas.”

  “I have the only heart I need right here.” She put her hand flat on his chest. “This heart. This fire.”

  My true love hath my heart and I have his,

  By just exchange one for the other given.

  A SCOTTISH CAROL

  Susan King

  CHAPTER ONE

  Edinburgh, Scotland, December 1815

  “Sir,” a young man called. “Lord Cranshaw—Dr. Seton, if you please!”

  At the steps of the Advocates Library, Henry Seton, Viscount Cranshaw—he preferred Dr. Seton, come to that—paused as one of his students approached. A wintry wind riffled the capes of his greatcoat as Henry grasped his hat brim. He waited as Charles Hay, youngest and brightest of his students, walked, aided by a cane and hampered by a coat far too large for him.

  “What is it?” Henry asked. The lad likely had a question about the arduous task assigned in anatomy class, he thought. Less capable students had already complained, although this young fellow would no doubt complete the task easily.

  He glanced down the street looking for his coachman, arriving soon with the carriage to head south to Cranshaw Castle, Henry’s country estate. In a few days, his sister would meet him to travel down into England to attend a Christmas ball—one Fiona wished to attend, but Henry did not, particularly. Before leaving Edinburgh for Cranshaw, though, he intended to browse the library’s medical collection for texts written by his now-deceased colleague Dr. John Douglas, whose brilliant work would aid a piece Henry was writing.

  “Dr. Seton,” Charles Hay said. “A question about the assignment, sir.”

  “Did you not listen, did you not take notes?” Henry asked brusquely. In the few months since he had replaced Dr. Douglas as medical lecturer, he had needed to establish authority quickly. Just thirty, with a lamentably public reputation as a courageous surgeon who had saved lives at Waterloo while wounded himself, he did not feel like a hero, yet was regarded as one. To distance himself from that while teaching, he relied on his tall, imposing physique, with an added touch of gruffness and a glare that could cow the boldest student.

  “I know the assignment, sir, to read and review some texts.”

  “Yes. Read Bartholin’s Institutiones Anatomicae in French if you have no Latin.”

  “I have read Bartholin in the original, sir.” The boy seemed nervous. “And I am researching Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society to find every piece written on diseases and conditions of the heart, as assigned.”

  “Good.” Something quivered within Henry’s own breast. It felt suspiciously like sympathy. Sometimes young Hay looked bewilderingly familiar, yet Henry could not place him.

  A university student, Hay looked an adolescent—slight, beardless, and blond, his voice faintly husky. He depended on a cane, but despite all challenges topped the class. Anyone would feel compassion and respect for the lad, Henry thought.

  But Dr. Henry Seton, Lord Cranshaw—physician, war survivor, and lecturer in medical sciences—did not succumb easily to sympathy these days. The change suited him. He had been too trusting once, too willing to follow his heart.

  “Sir, our papers are due on Christmas Day,” Hay said.

  “A week is time enough. I will not be in my Edinburgh rooms then, so the papers must be delivered to Cranshaw Castle by twilight on December twenty-fifth. My estate is two hours south of here. You and your fellows can hire a courier to bring the whole lot at once, if you wish.”

  “But it is the Yule. People should be with their families that day.”

  Henry hesitated. Had he grown so cold? “Doctors, even in training, must forego holiday privilege. And you know we do not widely celebrate Christmas in Scotland—shops are open, merchants and laborers go about their work. Doctors attend, and students study.”

  “Will you not accept papers after the Yuletide?”

  “I will be traveling then.” On the insistence of his sister, whose husband was unable to attend the ball, Henry would be off to Northumberland. “I intend to read the papers before the New Year. Since Scots celebrate Hogmanay robustly, you will have your holiday, sir.”

  “I plan to be traveling on Christmas Eve,” Hay persisted.

  “Then finish your task early. Good day. I am off to find Dr. Douglas’s treatises on the heart, and I suggest you do the same.” He turned on the steps, ducking into the wind.

  “Dr. Seton!” Henry turned as Hay mounted another step. A burst of wind tilted the slight lad, who stumbled. Henry caught his narrow elbow.

  “All in good order?”

  “Aye.” Hay pulled free. “I am familiar with Dr. Douglas’s work. See.” From a pocket, he extracted a volume to show its title: A New Treatise on Diseases and Conditions of the Heart.

  “His last book! How did you get this? The library does not loan its volumes.”

  “His writings are all—in my father’s collection. I am reading this one again.”

  “Impressive. It is not for the novice. This is one of his later works, after Douglas became convinced that heart disease is as dependent on sentiment as on physical causes. Many thought it rather a medieval theory.”

  “Are goodness and happiness not healing in their own way?” Hay smiled.

  “Somewhat.” The boy’s smile was damned familiar, but how?

  “Sir, please keep this copy. My father’s library is mine now. I want you to have this.”

  “Thank you.” Surprised, touched, Henry accepted the book.

  Hay nodded, but Henry frowned. Somehow the boy affected him, weakened his deliberate gruff
ness. That mysterious resemblance was like the past tapping him on the shoulder.

  “Blithe Yule to you, sir.” Hay touched his hat brim. The wind tore at the overlarge hat, unfurling long, curling tendrils of golden hair, feminine as a girl’s.

  Girl. Dear God. Henry frankly stared. He glanced down, up—down again, noticing curves beneath baggy clothing, long hair tucked under a collar. How had he not seen this before?

  Recognition burst like sunlight. “Clarinda Douglas? How—what—”

  She crammed her hat down and stepped back, lurching with the cane. “My carriage—there—good day!” She hurried toward a waiting chaise.

  Henry stared. Clary! John Douglas’s only daughter had been nineteen last Henry had seen her, seven years ago. And here she was, posing as—Hay?

  Years ago, Henry had been welcomed in the Douglas home as he collaborated with his mentor, sharing family meals—later, sharing a good deal more with Clary, until that came to a sudden end. She was beautiful and shy, with a weak leg from a paralytic fever in childhood. She had intelligence, courage, a soft smile, and he had loved her. But her father had discouraged Henry’s suit—surprisingly, it seemed at the time—and Clary had soon married another.

  Henry had joined a regiment, determined to let the past go. But he had not been able to forget Clary.

  Yet she had been under his nose these months and he had not noticed. What the devil was she doing in boy’s kit, attending anatomy lectures? She knew more about academic medicine, having edited her father’s writings, than most of his students. Women, even professor’s daughters, were forbidden to enroll in the university—but Henry would have let her slip into his lecture hall had she just asked.

  Stepping into her carriage, Clarinda Douglas paused. Her wide gray eyes met Henry’s intent gaze. Then she all but tumbled into the vehicle, and the coachman slapped the reins.

  What a fool he had been, Henry thought, so preoccupied of late, set on ignoring the world. He had not even seen Clary in front of him. The war, the brutal memories of a battlefield where he had fought to save each life under his care, still shredded his sleep and his concentration and had worn icy ruts in his heart.

  But even before the war, he and Clarinda Douglas had moved on. Henry had never married, did not know if he would. Clary had married a cousin, a Perthshire landowner who had died within the first year. Hay—that was the fellow’s name. Sir William Hay.

  Ten times the fool. He swore under his breath. She was a widow—she was Clary—yet he had not recognized her, had spoken curtly. Loneliness stabbed him. He still missed her.

  Now Clarinda Douglas would never return to his lecture hall for the blazing awkwardness of it, if nothing else. She had pride. Well, he did, too.

  Henry turned to head into the library, shoving open the wide door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Snow whirled from gray skies as the carriage wheels and horses’ hooves shushed along the road. Clary leaned her head against the window, watching the icy trees stream past. Over two hours ago, sky overcast but still clear, she and her coachman had departed Edinburgh for Cranshaw Castle. Her stomach knotted and she fiddled nervously with the packages beside her.

  She would rather walk back to Edinburgh through snow, with her foot-dragging gait, than see Dr. Henry Seton, Lord Cranshaw—especially now. How foolish she had been to attend his lectures, even disguised. Feeling so lonely, she had sought out his lecture hall, watching him, soothed by his voice. She had finally found the courage to approach him, but she should have left well enough alone.

  Today was Christmas Eve and she was bound for a ball, she reminded herself, and the lacy snowfall was beautiful. She would appreciate her luck and make the best of it. As a child she had loved Yuletide—her Highland grandmother had celebrated Yule with songs and special treats, and Clary’s mother had kept those traditions. But her family was gone now, Papa most recently. With no one close to celebrate with this year, Clary had found some happiness in surprising her servants with small gifts that morning.

  But the little maidservant who was to travel with her had contracted a bad head cold, so Clary had decided to make the journey alone—just a trip to Cranshaw Castle to meet her friend, Mrs. Fiona Seton-Graham. What needed real courage, she knew, was the risk of seeing Fiona’s brother, Dr. Henry Seton, Lord Cranshaw, who was also attending the ball.

  A new qualm rippled through her. She was mad to do this, especially after he had recognized her last week. An hour past when the snow began, she had begged her coachman to turn back.

  “Naught to fret over, Lady Hay!” Mr. Kendrick had replied jovially. “I will see ye safe to Cranshaw. My mother lives nearby, so I will be there for supper and the night—won’t she be surprised! I’ll fetch ye back a week from today, as we’ve arranged. Giddyap now!” He urged the horses onward.

  Her rendezvous this afternoon was only with Mrs. Seton-Graham, she reassured herself. With luck, Clary could avoid Lord Cranshaw, even at the ball. They were all invited to a grand Christmas affair hosted by Lady Holbourne, a friend of her father and her cousins, at Holbourne Abbey in Northumberland, to take place in four days. Fiona had kindly offered to include Clary in her traveling party, assuring her—knowing Clary’s misgivings—that Cranshaw would travel separately while lending his larger coach to comfortably accommodate the ladies, their maids, and luggage.

  Nervous about the ball but dreading a lonely Yuletide even more, Clary had accepted Fiona’s suggestion. Her cousins, who lived in Bellsburn near Holbourne Abbey, were also invited to the ball, and Clary would stay with them. Their welcoming reply was tucked in her reticule.

  Surely Lady Holly’s annual Christmas ball would be so grand, so thrilling and crowded that Clary would hardly see Henry—and with luck, he would not see her.

  She patted the packages beside her, small gifts for Mrs. Seton-Graham and her English cousins, and a large packet for Cranshaw containing the papers completed by his students. As Charles Hay, she had offered to send them to Cranshaw via a “cousin,” Lady Hay, visiting there.

  What a kerfuffle this was! Now Cranshaw knew she was Charles Hay. She winced, thinking of the moment the wind had loosened her hair, while he stood glowering.

  But she could not risk his discovering how madly, stupidly, cow-eyed in love she had been with Henry Seton, her father’s handsome, brilliant protégé. Her heart had been sore broken, but that was in the past. She lifted her chin.

  Through a snowy haze, she saw Cranshaw Castle in the distance, a picturesque structure merging a windowed façade and ruined tower. As the coach rolled along, Clary drew a steadying breath. Fiona would be there and they would soon head south. All was well.

  Smile, she reminded herself. As a child, she had learned to hide fears and frailty behind a cheerful, plucky nature. It kept well-meaning sympathizers at bay. Poor little Clarinda.

  Squaring her shoulders, smoothing her gray woolen skirt and pelisse, straightening her bonnet, she rested her gloved hand on the heavy packet meant for Lord Cranshaw.

  May his great burden of reading, she thought, give him no time for anything else.

  Snow fell steadily now, Henry saw, glancing through the tall windows of his study and library, where he sat in an old wing chair. He felt contented in this cozy room filled with high bookshelves and illuminated by hearth flames, content in this old, blessedly silent house, while his deerhound napped at his feet and snow fell peacefully outside.

  No matter that it was the eve of Yule and he was alone; he had never celebrated the holiday much. Besides, he had work to do and now the time to do it, with his sister no longer coming to the house, and his servants gone for a few days as well.

  Butler to housekeeper, cook to coachman, the servants had left that morning, since Henry had planned to be gone for a week. They lived locally, with Cranshaw Castle shut part of the year. But shortly after their departure, a courier had brought a note from Fiona. She wrote that she could not attend the Holbourne ball after all, as her three small daughters had chicken
pox and she would not leave them; she hoped Henry would attend and was not too disappointed. She assured him that she had also sent apologies to Lady Holly and the Edinburgh lady who had planned to accompany her.

  Henry had written back with recommendations for the children: baths with finely ground oatmeal to soothe rash and willow bark for fever, a tincture of which he included in a packet. Suspecting heavy snow was on its way—he sensed it in the air—he had paid the same courier to dispatch his messages quickly, sending his own regrets to the Dowager Countess of Holbourne as well: My apologies, dear Lady Holbourne, but a family matter and winter weather prevent my sister and me from attending the ball....

  He was not disappointed at all, and intended to savor this time to himself.

  Sipping the whisky brose that Mrs. Johnstone, his housekeeper, had prepared before she left, he felt the comforting warmth of the concoction—whisky, cream, oats, and honey—spread through his chest. Settling back, he turned a page in the volume that Clarinda Douglas, as Charles Hay, had given him from her father’s collection. He was determined not to think about the giver, only the thoughtful gift and its important contents.

  Reading Dr. Douglas’s description of angina pectoris, he turned pages, stopping when a folded paper slipped free. Creased and yellowed, it fell open and he saw John Douglas’s handwriting. Curious, Henry peered at the note, perhaps a diary page or part of a letter. The note read:

  Physicians must distance ourselves and yet keep compassionate hearts in our breasts. We know how important the heart is to the body—now, late in my life, I understand how essential it is to life. The workings of the heart and the blood are science, but doctors must remember that the heart and the emotions can create poison or cure.