The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

  Lady Holbourne was merely supervising the whist, so when all was settled, he went to her. “A word with you, Aunt Elizabeth?”

  He’d called her that since a lad. She smiled and sat on a sofa a comfortable distance from other non-players. “Are you about to confess a sin, Gabriel?”

  “Would you give me absolution?”

  “Probably. I’ve never known you do anyone harm. The dowager is already brighter for your arrival.”

  “Then I’m pleased, but that leads to my topic. Miss Finch.”

  She pulled a face, sighing.

  “Do you know her background?” he asked. When she frowned, he said, “I’m not digging for gossip. I want to make Lady Holly happier. She’s invited a couple of ladies to the ball with an eye to matchmaking. Might it not serve to add Miss Finch to the number?”

  Lady Holbourne was startled, but quick. “Find her a husband? But who would be interested?”

  “She’s not entirely an antidote,” Gabriel said, surprised by a spurt of annoyance. “Before I meddle there, I need to know who Miss Finch is.”

  “Ah, I see. No, we wouldn’t want to countenance a misalliance. You’ll have to ask Lady Holly. She said a friend had asked her to take in a lady who’d been left destitute.”

  “But of good family.”

  “I assume so.”

  “Herefordshire?”

  “Or Hertfordshire. Does it matter? She has the manners of a lady from birth, but no money. I wish her well, but rate her chances slim.”

  “She’ll present better in a fetching gown.”

  “If one was found, she’d not wear it. I’ve offered to improve her wardrobe and been frozen out.”

  He knew women who lacked taste, and others who chose sober styles for moral reasons, but why would any woman choose to be badly and bleakly dressed when offered an alternative?

  Pride?

  He was sure the offer had been made tactfully.

  “She’s a servant,” he said bluntly. “If Lady Holly and you insist that she dresses suitably for the ball, she’ll have to bend.”

  “Or break. What are you up to?”

  “You think I’m expending this effort in a cruel trick? I want Lady Holly happy, and though I don’t have her blissful view of marriage, surely a suitable one would improve Miss Finch’s state?”

  Lady Holbourne considered, and then said, “Very well. I see nothing wrong with your trying as long as you don’t press her too strongly. You seem to have overlooked a substantial obstacle, however. I’m sure she owns no suitable gown and it’s far too late to obtain one.”

  “Any obstacle is merely a challenge. I have a plan.”

  She rolled her eyes. “When any of you boys said that it predicted disaster.”

  He chuckled. “I can think of many, but this won’t be one.” Sobering, he asked, “Would Kim welcome a visit?”

  Her face revealed the depth of her concern. “I don’t know. He does speak to us, but through the door. I fear he thinks his wounds make him unfit to be seen. It’s as if he’s retreated into a shell, and none of us knows how to break it. Or whether he wants us to. Or,” she added, “if shattering it might do him harm.”

  “I see. I know any number of men left scarred by the war, and not always visibly. I’ll send him a note to say I’m here, but I’ll leave it at that unless he invites me.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps someone new, someone not directly of the family.... As for Miss Finch, I could make it clear to her that she’s expected to attend the ball, but might that not be cruel, given the state of her gowns?”

  “I’ll make sure she’s suitably clothed and presented.”

  “You suddenly have miraculous powers?”

  “Am I not named after an angel?”

  “Not all angels are on the side of good,” she pointed out. She glanced behind him and rose. “I see a footman looking portentous. Probably some problem with supper.” She fixed him with a stern look. “I shall be very angry if you make Miss Finch unhappy, Gabriel.”

  “I promise. I won’t do that.”

  Alone again, Gabriel surveyed the room. Twelve were playing whist, and Miss Minchingham was still at the piano, looking annoyed to be abandoned to the task. Best to leave before she summoned him to her aid.

  Problem with supper or not, Holbourne Abbey was calm and quiet once he’d closed the drawing room door. He remembered how much he’d always enjoyed strolling about the house at night when the servants were mostly below stairs or asleep and family members were in various rooms, leaving the corridors deserted.

  Why not? Oil lamps hung in the main corridors at night. They were widely spaced, leaving areas of darkness, but they gave enough light for a stroll. He headed to his right, leaving the hall for a quiet corridor. He paused at the short passageway that led to the solid oak door into the old tower, where Kim had gone into hiding.

  When the first earl had set about building a grand new house to suit his station, he’d wanted it on top of Abbey Hill, which gave a view for miles around. The hill had once held an abbey—a well-defended one, for this area was close enough to the Scottish border to be raided. The abbey had been dissolved in the sixteenth century and the Strettons had been given the land. They’d built themselves a handsome manor house near the river, using stone from the abbey until only the tall watchtower remained, a jagged memorial to the violent past.

  The first earl had brought in men to tear it down, but the local people had been thrown into an uproar. They called it the Lucky Tower, and according to them it had survived because it had blessed properties and protected the area from all harm. Instead of trampling on their feelings, the first earl had persuaded them to let him repair the tower and then he’d incorporated it into one end of Holbourne Abbey. According to the story he’d said, “Only a fool tears down blessings.”

  Sensible people, the Strettons. Kim had been sensible once. Gabriel thought of knocking, even hammering on his door, but it was late and he didn’t know what would help and what would harm. He suddenly wondered if Kim had walled himself off not only to lick his wounds, but to protect the rest of the household from whatever demons weighed him down.

  He climbed the north staircase and then passed the library to go into the long gallery, where family portraits hung along with other fine works of art. Holbourne Abbey was less than a century old, but it had a deep mellowness. It came from excellent design and well-chosen furnishings, but he thought it also came from generations of good and mostly happy people. The place was having its soothing effect, but that made him realize how rattled he’d been by his own family’s situation.

  The Quinfroys weren’t close or warm, and he rubbed along with his brother, Cramp, because they rarely met. All the same, he didn’t like to think of the irritation Cramp’s wife seemed likely to bring. And, he realized, he wished Cramp had married for love.

  He was as bad as Lady Holly! But truly, if people did marry, it was better that they loved. He wondered if part of the reason for his sister-in-law’s vinegary nature came from knowing she’d been married for her money. If so, she’d not have been sweetened when she realized that until the duke’s death she’d be second-in-command to a bullying duchess.

  Was it fair to attempt to push the Finch into marriage for the convenience of others? She must as least find a congenial husband. What sort of man would that be?

  Disturbing to realize he had no idea. He doubted the gray ghost façade was the whole of her. He continued through the gallery and onward, along corridors and up and down stairs, enjoying furniture and paintings that were old favorites, as well as a few that were new.

  Somewhere along the way the odd notion came to him that he might like a home. He had rooms in Town and they housed some objects and art of which he was fond, but he couldn’t say his rooms were truly a home. Perhaps it hadn’t struck him before because the only other home he was likely to have would be Straith and it was a ghastly place.

  In fact, home to him had always meant Holbourne. He rolled that new
idea around in his head as he walked. He didn’t hunger to own Holbourne Abbey, but the idea of owning something of the sort unfurled in his mind.

  He had money.

  He could purchase something.

  A much simpler place, of course. A manor house, close to London and the life he enjoyed there. He didn’t want a substantial estate to run, but a home farm would be pleasant, along with a decent-sized park.

  He paused by a rather primitive painting of Stretton Manor—the modest Tudor house that had been built near the river. The painting was probably Jacobean, judging by the clothing of the three riders approaching the house. A woman stood at the door, and three children ran as if to welcome Papa home.

  He shook himself as if escaping a spell. If a manor house meant wife and children, it was better avoided. And, indeed, why else would any man want such a place?

  He turned away and saw a skirt disappear around a corner. A dull green skirt. He pursued. When he turned the corner she was walking briskly away. He almost ran after her, but came to his senses and called, “Miss Finch!”

  She halted and turned, as she must. He strolled to join her.

  “My lord?” she asked.

  The distantly spaced lighting gave her smooth features interesting contours.

  “So you, too, enjoy walking the house in the quiet hours,” he said. When he saw a flicker of alarm, he added, “I don’t accuse you of anything. I’ve always found it pleasant. It’s a comfortable house, despite its grander aspects.”

  She relaxed a little. “It is, my lord. And I enjoy the exercise.”

  “The park is pleasant, too.”

  “Not with inches of snow on the ground.”

  “Perhaps you need sturdier footwear.”

  “And shorter skirts.” The tart note made him smile.

  “Women are unfairly dressed, are they not?”

  “Women are unfairly treated in a great many ways, my lord. Good night.”

  She dipped a curtsey and walked away, leaving him surprised. Was he the sort of popinjay who thought every young woman should blush and simper if he spoke to her? No, but it was generally the case.

  He watched her until she turned out of sight, noting a pleasing vigor that probably meant she was accustomed to enjoying more exercise than she got here. Even when the weather was suitable for outdoor walks, the dowager would merely stroll near the house for a half hour or so.

  No, the gray ghost wasn’t the real Finch. The tart, brisk woman he’d just encountered would be much better off wed, and his challenge was to get her to the ball suitably dressed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gabriel planned his campaign, which would begin with a ride over to Hayward Hall to coax Roxie to help him. As he sat to breakfast, however, she arrived, so he drew her aside.

  “Bad news?” she asked, which was odd.

  “Of course not.”

  “Oh.” She laughed as if nervous, which was most unlike her.

  Roxanne Hayward had never allowed being female to hinder her. She’d shrugged off all limitations imposed on women and lived life to the fullest, so what was worrying her now? He couldn’t imagine, and he had his plan. He was realizing that Roxie was the exact opposite of his gray ghost, which could be a fatal flaw.

  “I need a gown,” he said, “and I hoped you might have one I could borrow. A ball gown.”

  She stared at him. “Whatever jape you’re planning, I’ve nothing that would fit.”

  He laughed. “Not for me. For a ghost. No, I’m not mad. Do you know Miss Finch?”

  “The dowager’s new companion? Ghost. Yes, I see.”

  “She’s to attend the Christmas ball, but has nothing suitable to wear.”

  “Why are you involved in this?” She frowned. “It’s not some trickery, is it?”

  “Why the deuce does everyone assume I’d indulge in cruel jokes?”

  She blinked at him. “I suppose it is unfair. It’s only that you seem so light.”

  “Better than dark, surely.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I have a number of distracting matters at the moment.”

  “Unlikely, I know, but is there anything I can do to help?”

  She smiled. “Probably not, but I’m glad you’re around, Gabriel.”

  It seemed an odd thing to say, for he knew nothing of estate management or any local problems she might face. Best to stick to the matter in hand.

  “I judge that you and Miss Finch are of a size and height,” he said, “so I’m shamelessly asking you to donate a ball gown to her cause. And before you question my motives again, it’s in the faint hope of marrying her off so that Lady Holly can hire someone more in tune with her nature.”

  “Ah, I see. Yes. You’re welcome to any of them except for a few of my newest gowns, but I don’t have time to hunt through them with you. There are matters to do with snow and sheep. But if you want to ride back with me, I’ll have my maid help you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  They were soon walking to the stables, talking of the weather and the chances of the ball coming off as it should, and then Gabriel enjoyed a brisk ride cross-country to Hayward Hall.

  As soon as they were inside, Roxie said, “I’ll summon my maid. She knows which are new or favorites, and there are any number of older ones. I never have time to sift through and decide what to get rid of.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled. “I am glad you’re here, Gabriel. You always make things brighter.”

  “As a talent, that’s not too bad a one.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  In minutes he was following a plump, middle-aged maid to Roxie’s rooms, which he’d never had occasion to visit. Clearly, she hadn’t expended much effort on refurbishment. The decoration and furnishings looked generations old. He rather liked it.

  “The older clothes are in this press, my lord,” the maid said, pulling out the top drawer of five. “I’ve been trying to get Miss Roxie to give some away. I’d be pleased to be rid of dozens.”

  Gabriel was tempted to carry off a whole new plumage for the Finch, but he’d be cautious in the first step.

  “I need a ball gown,” he said and the maid began pulling out muslin-wrapped bundles to put on the bed. He peeled back the wrappings on one and found a confection of rainbow silk.

  “Not so flamboyant.”

  “Miss Roxie does like bright, my lord. Ah.”

  The next shroud revealed ivory and pearls.

  “Too virginal. Not that the lady isn’t,” he added quickly, “but she’s nearer thirty than twenty.”

  The maid replaced the offerings, shut the drawer, and began on the next.

  Gabriel kept out a blue, though he wasn’t sure the vibrant shade would do, and a buttercup yellow satin muted by an over slip of white gauze. It felt too flighty, but perhaps the Finch should take flight. Then the maid unwrapped a green.

  His first reaction was rejection because it reminded him too much of her dismal evening gown, but then he reconsidered. It was a soft moss green and beautifully made, with details of beading and embroidery. All the same, it was quiet.

  “Unusual for Miss Hayward,” he commented.

  “She takes this start to be different sometimes, my lord, but generally regrets it. That one’s years out of fashion. It’d need a lot of refurbishment to be acceptable now.”

  It was indeed old-fashioned, falling simply from the high waist to the floor. The square neckline was modest and the short sleeves would fully conceal the shoulders, but he was beginning to think it was just the thing.

  The green silk was sprigged with green flowers of the same shade, giving a plain first impression, but the rich texture soon became apparent. Neckline and hem were enlivened by delicate beadwork, again in the same shade. Under candlelight or in motion, as in a dance, the beads would shine.

  “It’s perfect as is,” he said, and saw the maid’s thought—that some poor lady shouldn’t have entrusted this task to him. He hoped she was
wrong. A bright fashionable gown would be too much of a change for Miss Finch, but this wouldn’t startle. It could even be something of her own from better days.

  “A pair of long gloves, if you please, and our work is done.”

  Roxie came in then. “Progress?” Then she asked, “That one?” as surprised as her maid.

  “Not one of your treasured favorites, I hope.”

  “I’m surprised it’s still here. I had it made in a low period. It’s beyond hope.”

  “Not at all.” He took the pair of long white gloves and thanked the maid.

  “If you’re sure,” Roxie said. “Tessa, find something for Lord Gabriel to carry the gown in on horseback.” When the woman had gone, she added, “If Miss Finch throws it in your face, you can return to plunder again.” She touched the gown. “Odd how time passes, isn’t it?”

  “Natural, I’d say.”

  “I mean how things change. Fashion. Us.” She glanced at him. “We’re none of us the people we were as children. What nonsense I’m talking.”

  “No. Kim is much changed.”

  “Yes . . .” The maid returned with a satchel. “Ah, perfect.” As the maid carefully folded the muslin-wrapped gown away, Roxie asked, “Have you spoken to him?”

  “No. I sent a message to say I was available, but he hasn’t replied. He’ll come out of it eventually. He has to.”

  “Yes,” she said, but with the same doubts he felt.

  One problem at a time, he reminded himself, and the Finch’s plumage was the more urgent. He thanked Roxie and rode back to Holbourne with his prize.

  He stored it in his room and plotted the next steps. He had two goals—to talk to Lady Holly without the Finch nearby in order to learn more about her, and to get the Finch alone so he could persuade her to wear the gown. Unfortunately, the Finch took her duty to attend Lady Holly seriously, and he couldn’t hover all day hoping they would separate. He was obliged to take part in the amusements provided for guests, and even assist with them. As everyone in the family was busy, he hosted an afternoon billiards party for some of the gentlemen.