The Last Chance Christmas Ball

by Mary Jo Putney

  Lady Holly snorted. “You were a scrawny young twig back then—no bosom or hips to speak of. Now you’ve a fine womanly figure. Besides, I’ve thought of that. Took the liberty of getting a dress made for you—left the box with Meadows. It should fit—got Mrs. Meadows to take your measurements from one of your current dresses.”

  Allie blinked in surprise. “You had a dress made for me? A ball dress?”

  “Now don’t get all stiff-necked on me, Allie Fenton,” the old lady said in a fierce tone that didn’t deceive Allie for an instant. “I was very fond of your dear mother and this is for her, as much as for you. She was so looking forward to your making your come out and was devastated that her illness prevented it.”

  “I’m not being stiff-necked, truly I’m not. I’m just . . . surprised.” There was a lump in Allie’s throat. She was deeply touched by the old lady’s brusque kindness. And thoughtfulness. A ball dress . . .

  Lady Holly reached over and patted her hand. “Now don’t look like that, my dear—I promised your mother I’d see you dancing in the arms of a handsome man, and though circumstances have prevented it in the past—and I quite see that it would have been the height of impropriety for you to go dancing when first your mother and then your father lay dying—there is nothing to prevent you now, and you will come to my ball!”

  Allie smiled mistily. “Just like Cinderella. And you’ve even provided the gown.”

  The old lady chuckled. “It’s my fiftieth annual ball. I wasn’t going to have you coming dressed like a crow, was I?” She eyed Allie’s mourning clothes and wrinkled her nose. “You’ll be putting off your blacks tomorrow, I hope.”

  Allie nodded. It was a year since Papa’s death.

  “Good. Then you’ll come to my ball.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Thank you, I would love to come—I cannot think of anything I would love more, to dance at your fiftieth Christmas ball and to say farewell to all my friends.” Allie hugged the old lady. “You’ve always been such a good friend to me and my family. Thank you, dear Lady Holly, with all my heart.”

  Lady Holly, deeply pleased, said gruffly, “Pish-tush, girl, no need to gush. Come and stay at the Abbey from Christmas Eve onward—the ball’s not ’til the twenty-eighth, but you won’t want to be alone for Christmas.” She stood, ready to leave.

  “Thank you, it’s very kind of you, but I won’t come for Christmas,” Abby said. “It’s my last Christmas here, and I want to spend it at home.”

  Lady Holly frowned. “Here? Alone? On your first Christmas without your father?”

  “I won’t be dismal, I promise you. I know it sounds as if it would be a melancholy occasion, but Papa loved Christmas and so do I, and I want to make this a Christmas to remember—my last Christmas in my own home.” And though there would inevitably be moments of melancholy, Allie would rather be here at home having a small, special, personal Christmas, than with a crowd of smart London people in Holbourne Abbey, where she didn’t belong. And where Christmas would be a noisy, rollicking affair.

  The old lady gave her a troubled look. “That’s all very well, but . . . alone?”

  Allie linked her arm through the old lady’s and walked slowly with her toward the front door. “I won’t be lonely, truly I won’t. I’m very used to my own company. And I want a last precious Christmas at home to remember.” She added with a laugh, “And when I’m in the seminary, surrounded every minute of the day and night by clamoring schoolgirls, no doubt I’ll reflect fondly on the joys of solitude, too.”

  Lady Holly gave a delicate shudder. “Can’t see it, myself, but if that’s what you want . . . But if you change your mind, come on Christmas Eve. Or before. “

  Allie hugged her again. “I won’t, thank you, but I’ll definitely be there for the ball. And thank you again for my dress.”

  Meadows had taken the parcel containing the dress up to Allie’s bedchamber, so the moment Lady Holly’s carriage had driven off, Allie hurried upstairs, consumed with curiosity. And excitement—how long was it since she’d had a new dress? Years.

  She didn’t count the three new dresses she’d ordered from the village dressmaker—she hadn’t worn them yet, and besides, they’d been ordered with a view to her role as schoolteacher, so they were sober in color and cut—a deep blue kerseymere and a sage-green wool for everyday wear, and a dress in amber silk for when she needed something dressier.

  Lady Holly liked lighter, brighter colors. So did Allie.

  The parcel, tied with string and wrapped in brown paper, lay on her bed. She untied the string and under the wrapping paper found an elegant box with a stylish gold emblem on the front. She swallowed. This was no dress from the village seamstress—it was from Lady Holly’s own London mantua maker.

  She eased off the lid, parted the layers of protective tissue paper and gasped. Almost holding her breath, she drew the dress from its nest of tissue. It was beautiful.

  The underdress was a light shimmering lilac shade that she just knew would go perfectly with both her recent mourning, and also her coloring. But the lovely silk underdress was quite cast in the shade by the delicate overdress in some kind of gauzy fabric through which the lilac silk shimmered. Embroidered here and there with tiny rosebuds in silver thread, it was finished with bands of delicately gathered silver lace around the hem and at the elbows of the puffed sleeves, and a line of silver embroidery around the neck.

  In the box, hidden beneath the dress, was underwear—not the kind of underwear that Allie had ever in her life worn—delicate, lacy, flimsy, exquisite underwear—a chemise, a petticoat, the daintiest, most feminine drawers, and even a corset. All were trimmed with lace, and everything but the corset was practically transparent. Almost scandalous.

  She remembered Lady Holly’s comment that she had the figure of a woman now, not a girl. Allie had never really given it much thought. But now . . . these were certainly underclothes for a woman, not a girl. Smiling to herself, she put the lovely, naughty underclothes back in the box. She’d probably die a spinster, but she would treasure these forever.

  She picked up the dress again, held it against her body and turned to gaze at her reflection in the looking glass. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever owned. And it suited her perfectly. The lilac color complemented her pale complexion and her dark hair, and even seemed to make her very ordinary gray eyes look almost exotic. The silver thread gleamed and shimmered in the light. It was a dress made for dancing....

  How many years since she’d danced? And never at a ball.

  Delight bubbled up in her. After what felt like years wearing mourning black and gray, this dress felt like a breath of spring. And yet even the highest sticklers could not look askance at her—lavender and lilac were approved colors for half mourning.

  But would it fit? She stripped off her old black gown and, holding her breath, she carefully slipped the ball gown over her head. And breathed. It was perfect. It was more than perfect.

  She gazed at her reflection, gave a sudden laugh and twirled around and around, as if she were a giddy, carefree girl again.

  She felt just like Cinderella. And she was going to the ball.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Take the horse and gig—I insist,” Allie told Meadows and Mrs. Meadows, her butler and cook.

  “But you’ll be all on your lonesome, Miss Allie.” The motherly cook’s face crumpled with concern. “You can’t stay here without a soul to care for you.”

  “For a few days?” Allie laughed. “I can and I will. There’s enough food to feed an army, sufficient wood to keep me warm for the whole of winter, and you’ll be gone less than a week.”

  She’d given the servants a holiday. Since her father’s death, when Cousin Howard had assumed the reins of control, albeit from Jamaica, they’d had to work doubly hard.

  Cousin Howard had seen no reason to keep on what he called “a horde of servants” to care for one young woman, and he’d put most of them off, instructing Allie to close off all
the rooms of the house except those she herself would need.

  The Meadows family was all that remained of the former staff. They did everything, except for two village girls who came in twice a week to clean and do laundry. The Meadows’s son, Albert, did whatever else was needed, including caring for the one remaining horse Cousin Howard had deemed necessary for Allie’s use.

  Allie had only met Cousin Howard a few times when she was young, but since Papa’s death, the letters that came regularly from Jamaica had given her a fairly clear picture of the man’s character; he was not a man who liked to spend his money on other people’s needs. And since Allie had very little of her own, she couldn’t afford to pay servants herself. She’d had to be content with giving them a small Christmas bonus from her own purse. And a holiday.

  “Maybe Albert should stay, just so as you have someone else here.”

  Allie shook her head. “And have a Meadows party go without music because Albert’s not there to play his fiddle? I wouldn’t think of it. No, you must all go.”

  She was fairly certain they would not be getting holidays, or even appreciation once Cousin Howard was here in person, so she was determined to give them a holiday before she left. And enable them to attend the christening of their first grandchild.

  “But what if you need the gig?”

  “I won’t—not until the twenty-eighth, to go to Holbourne Abbey for Lady Holly’s ball, and you’ll be back the day before that so—no, don’t shake your head at me like that—I insist. I can walk to church, as long as the weather holds, and if it doesn’t . . .” She shrugged. “It won’t hurt to miss one day. Besides, you’ll need the gig to visit Susan and your beautiful new granddaughter—it’s much too far for you to walk, and you must stay on for the christening. You have the little gift from me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Meadows packed it safe and sound, but—”

  Allie pushed the woman gently toward the door. “Then go. And don’t worry. I’ll be perfectly all right. It’s only a few days. Have a very merry Christmas, and pass on my best wishes to the rest of the family, and in particular to Susan and the baby.”

  Susan was a few years younger than Allie, but they were friends, having grown up in the same house. Susan had been married for five years and had begun to despair of ever having children, but now at last she had her own dear little baby daughter to love.

  Allie waved good-bye, trying not to feel envious.

  The following morning, Allie waxed and polished all the furniture in the sitting room, polished the brass fenders and the fire screen with its old-fashioned sailing ship design, mopped the floor, beat and straightened the rug, and plumped the cushions on the settee. When she finished, the room smelled pleasantly of beeswax and brass cleaner. And of the wood burning in the fireplace.

  Tomorrow, she would go out to cut greenery. In years past, they’d decorated the whole house, but this year it would just be the sitting room.

  Next she went up to the attic and fetched down the Christmas box. Made of oak from a tree grown on the estate, the wood had been sanded and polished until it was silky smooth. She dusted it and set it on the rug in front of the fire in the sitting room.

  It had been made for Allie when she was a child by Old Peter, an elderly workman on the estate. Every year he’d made something new to add to the box.

  Each item was wrapped in tissue; first the stable—just three walls and a roof—then the holy family, carved and painted by Peter, and dressed by Allie and her mother; Mary in a blue cloak and dress made from an old dress of Mama’s, Joseph in a red flannel robe tied around the middle with a piece of string; and the three kings and the wise men in rich robes cut from an old dressing gown of Papa’s and some scraps Allie had begged from the dressmaker one year. The kings were distinguished by gold paper crowns. Then came the manger and the tiny baby Jesus, wrapped in a square of white wool, hemmed in clumsy stitches by an eight-year-old Allie.

  No nativity scene was complete without animals and Old Peter had carved an ox, a donkey, a few chickens, a cat, two tiny mice, a couple of camels—slightly oddly humped, as Old Peter had never seen a camel—and a handful of sheep, along with the requisite shepherds with their ragged striped robes and crooks.

  Allie’s favorite piece was a carved and painted version of her beloved dog, Gippy, a gift from Old Peter the Christmas she was twelve. Every detail was perfect, from the little tan eyebrows on the black-and-white face, to the feathery tip of white at the end of his black tail.

  Gippy was long gone, but his spirit remained in this little carved figure. And on one of the shepherds, whose body bore a clear line of puppy teeth dents. Each year those teeth marks made her smile.

  She arranged the nativity scene on the mantelpiece. The paint was worn, the clothing faded, and the gold of the kings’ crowns was dull now, instead of shiny, but Allie wouldn’t change them for anything.

  After a simple lunch of soup and cheese on toast, Allie put on her warmest coat, hat, scarf, gloves, and boots. There had been a severe frost the night before and it was still bitterly cold outside.

  She fetched a basket and a pair of stout shears and tried not to think about previous Christmases when the collecting of greenery had been laughter-filled events, punctuated with snowball fights. . . . And fingers, toes, and noses all cold, and tingling with the joy of being alive, and coming home to hot drinks and mince pies and soup and toasted crumpets. And the smell of the house filled with fresh fragrant greens . . .

  She always loved collecting the pine and laurel, holly, ivy and . . . maybe, she wouldn’t bother with mistletoe this year. With nobody but herself in the house, what was the point?

  The grass crunched under her feet as she set out. Last night’s frost still lay on the ground in some parts. The air was crisp and cold and invigorating. She breathed in great lungfuls of it, feeling more alive by the minute. Her breath coiled in smoky puffs, then dissipated, along with the faint melancholy that had overtaken her earlier. She found herself humming a Christmas carol, and smiled. She loved this time of the year.

  She headed toward the river that bordered the road that passed their front gates. The berries were always reddest on the holly that grew there—she didn’t know why.

  She was almost within sight of the gates when she heard the sound of hooves and a carriage. Then there was a shout, the screaming of a horse, and a loud, sickening crash.

  Allie dropped her basket and ran toward the sound. She reached the road in time to see a yellow traveling chaise tipped on its side, slipping slowly down the riverbank to land half in the river. The two horses pulling it were plunging and struggling to escape, the postilion still somehow clinging to the back of the lead horse.

  A pale gloved hand flailed at the carriage window—there was a woman inside the carriage.

  Allie raced across the road, and skidded down the bank of the river. She had to climb onto the wheel to reach the handle of the door. She wrenched it open and the white, frightened face of a girl looked out.

  “Here.” Allie held out her hand. “Let me help you.” She pulled the girl to safety and as she jumped down, a tall man appeared in the chaise doorway, his face covered in blood.

  He dashed the blood impatiently from his eyes, saying, “Lucilla, are you all right?” The girl nodded, and the man said to Allie, “Thank you. You girls move to a safer place—I’ll deal with the horses.”

  “But you’re hurt—” Allie began, but he took no notice. He jumped down from the chaise and hurried to see to the panicking horses.

  Allie pulled the shivering girl back onto the edge of the road, watching helplessly. The horses plunged and struggled, the postilion yelled—it was complete chaos.

  “Stop that caterwauling, you fool,” the man snapped. “Calm them.” The postilion gave him a fearful look and the yelling ceased, but he did nothing else. He remained clinging to the back of his horse looking frightened.

  The tall man cursed under his breath, produced a knife from his boot, and proceeded to
cut the traces of the panicked horses who, freed of the dragging weight of the chaise, calmed somewhat. He cut the last trace, the horses scrambled up the bank, and the chaise slid farther into the water.

  “Now,” he said grimly, turning to the postilion. “What the hell—”

  The postilion took one horrified look at the sinking chaise, and the furious, bloody face of the tall man and galloped away, taking both horses with him.

  “Come back!” the man shouted, but the horses turned the corner and were gone from sight. The man swore again to himself, pulled out a handkerchief and, wiping blood from his face, turned to Allie and the girl.

  “That’s the last we’ll see of him, I’ll be bound. Blasted fellow was drunk. I could smell it on him when I cut the horses free.”

  “It’s a dangerous corner,” Allie said. “And there was ice on the road.”

  He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, but all his attention was on the girl, who was ashen and shaking. “Are you sure you’re all right, Lucilla?”

  The girl said nothing, but shivered convulsively in Allie’s arms. Allie said, “I think she’s just shocked and wet and shaken up, but what about you, sir—”

  “I’m fine,” he brushed her off. “But my sister—”

  “You’re not fine—you’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” Allie said bluntly.

  He glanced at her then, and his lips quirked. “It’s nothing—a small cut from when the window smashed. Head injuries bleed easily. But I need to get my sister out of this cold. Her skirt is soaked, it’s freezing, and she’s very susceptible to chills.”

  “I live just up there.” Allie pointed to the drive that ran from the big wrought-iron gates. “Come up into the warmth and we can decide what to do when you’re dry and”—she indicated his injury—”I’ve tended to that.”

  The girl called Lucilla gave a little shriek and pointed to the chaise, which was sliding deeper into the water. “John! All our things.”